Wayward by Dana Spiotta

The premise of Dana Spiotta's new novel “Wayward” really drew me in as it concerns a woman named Samantha in her early 50s who impetuously decides to buy a small house. This plot reminded me of one of my favourite novels “Ladder of Years” by Anne Tyler. It also feels like a kind of wish fulfilment as I've occasionally spent time online dreamily looking at shabby little houses in remote locations that I fantasize about spontaneously buying and moving into. In 2017 Samatha leaves her suburban house as well as her husband and teenage daughter because “What Sam wanted was not a safe house or an escape or even a sanctuary but, rather, a place to be alone, to do some time, to change herself. Whatever she was – the sum total of fifty-three years on the earth in this body – was insufficient to what would come next. She clearly had to change. The only certainty she felt was that she had done everything wrong.” The story hinges on the question: is she running away from her life or running towards it? But the book also gives a broad overview of current American and online culture from the point of view of an individual who feels like she's underrated by her own family and ignored by the larger society.

The house (which exists in a bad neighbourhood of Syracuse) doesn't play as central a role in the story as the premise might make it seem. There's little descriptive detail about her making the house her own beyond: “After the closing, she fixed the house enough for her to move in.” Instead, the story focuses more on the strained relationship she has with her family: her ill mother who won't confide in her about the nature of her illness, her emotionally-distant daughter who doesn't respond to her daily texts and her husband who still provides financial assistant (as well as the occasional booty call.) She also tests the water in making new connections with other women after her despair about Trump entering the White House. Samantha struggles with insomnia or 'The Mids' where she's wide awake in the middle of the night. She makes the perilous decision of spending a lot of time online where she meets some other women who've formed specialised private groups such as one called “The Hardcore Hags”. The individuals she meets feel similarly alienated from the lives and surroundings they've grown into. Though she initially joins in their venting and rebellious behaviour, she finds little of the community she really yearns for.

Rather than being a story about Samantha renovating a house to suit her new life, Spiotta considers the clash between our ideals and the reality of the homes we make for ourselves. Samantha works in a (mostly volunteer position) at a historic house once inhabited by Clara Loomis. This is a (fictional) 19th century figure once honoured as a social pioneer but now considered suspect for her views on race and religion. At one point late in the novel we get some letters from Loomis whose joy at joining a utopian community quickly sours. A man Samantha's daughter Ally becomes romantically involved with takes part in gentrifying a historic building. Samantha's mother Lily becomes reluctant to leave the idyllic house she's come to live in once she realises that her time is limited. Rather than being abodes we can rely upon as sources of comfort and community we've found ourselves psychologically hemmed in because of the state of our current culture – before we physically became housebound by the 2020 pandemic. Spiotta's novel presents a compelling point of view and contains more subtly than is immediately apparent. However, I found myself admiring what this book was trying to do rather than feeling fully invested in the story offered. 

To Paradise by Hanya Yanagihara

Though Hanya Yanagihara's “A Little Life” was a million-copy bestseller, it also sharply divided readers with some hailing it a life-changing triumph and others deriding it as manipulative misery porn. The author's new equally lengthy 700-page novel “To Paradise” is eliciting similarly mixed responses as Alex Preston has already declared it a “masterpiece for our times” in The Guardian while in Harper's Rebecca Panovka criticised the novel's aspiration to be an “epidemiological cautionary tale” and posits that “if the antidote to dangerous ideas is didactic storytelling, I have to wonder (apparently with Yanagihara) whether the cure is worse than the disease.” I'm sure some other readers will similarly overly hail or excessively disparage this new novel in an argumentative fashion. However, rather than making a strident declaration about my overall assessment of “To Paradise” my gut response and balanced opinion is that it's an impressive, thought-provoking epic (especially because it remains so wonderfully engaging for hundreds and hundreds of pages), but its structure also presents some uniquely frustrating difficulties. 

The novel centres around one New York City square, but its three different sections straddle three different centuries with three very different stories. Not only do the circumstances and characters radically change between parts, but so does the style of each section as they move from a Jamesian psychological/social drama couched in an alternate history to a dystopian future where the draconian government takes severe measures to contain a multitude of deadly new plagues. Also the characters between sections share little or no connection to each other (though certain links eventually become clear) these different individuals all have the same names: David, Charles and Edward. At one point a character wryly comments: “that is a lot of Davids”. Though this all sounds extremely confusing as an outline one of the wonders of this novel is that it all becomes quite clear during the actual experience of reading the book. 

I can't help but feel the recycling of names throughout different sections isn't really necessary and is more about a self-conscious statement the author is trying to make. In an interview in The Observer, Yanagihara commented “We're often renaming things in the United States, either to eradicate a bad memory or to try to dissociate it from a person who history has not treated kindly or who deserves to be treated with more respect. There's this idea that naming something changes the fundamental nature of it, but does naming who we are make us more real to others? Or is it simply a way of making ourselves more real to ourselves?” These are interesting questions to ask, but challenging the notion of how we use names by repeatedly using them in a single novel feels needlessly confusing and the effect the author was aiming for didn't really resonate with me.

However, it's to Yanagihara's credit that she skilfully evokes distinctly different worlds and uses such rich detail that I almost always understood what was happening and emotionally connected with the characters involved. Any confusion lay not so much in the characters' identities but in mentally trying to link the sections together. My advice is to not burn yourself out doing this. No doubt some scholar detective might tease out many connections between sections but I don't think it's necessary to do so to enjoy this book. Overall themes definitely emerge regarding privilege, the nature of love, the meaning of freedom, how we strive for utopian ideals, the state of America and questions surrounding national/racial/sexual identity. These are ideas to reflect upon in retrospect as the immediate drama of each section yields numerous pleasures and many gripping moments. It took a little time for me to orientate myself within each new section (and the second and third sections are broken down further into two more distinct parts) but I always became thoroughly engrossed.

Yanagihara does have a habit of pulling the rug out from under her readers. It often felt like every time Jude achieved some happiness in “A Little Life” it was soon squashed. Similarly, every time I became heavily engaged with each part of “To Paradise” the section would end with a nail biting cliffhanger and the story moved on. I'm not a reader who requires a tidy ending but when I'm prevented from knowing the fate of so many characters I've come to dearly care about it's frustrating wondering what's become of them. Small hints are built into some sections when characters reflect upon their pasts, but I think readers should prepare themselves that this novel won't offer a firm conclusion. Nevertheless, the many stories this book contains are meaty enough that I thoroughly enjoyed the ride.

Clearly, I have very mixed feelings about this novel. From the outside I'm not sure if it all hangs together, but when I was actually reading it I was thoroughly engrossed. That's an impressive achievement for such a shapeshifting book. It's wonderful how Yanagihara reimagines a 19th century history for America where homosexuals were free to marry, but also become entangled in all the class conflicts that accompany the state of marriage. Some of the other things I loved most about the novel were David's obsessive and passionate nature in the first section, the complex arguments surrounding Hawaiians who petition for a return to an indigenous monarchy in the second section and in the third section the unintentionally funny detail that Great Britain is renamed New Britain as it becomes a paradise that outsiders yearn to move to. There's a lot more I enjoyed about this book and I'll certainly continue to mull over it in the weeks to come. I'm also sure it will inspire even more passionate discussion amongst readers and I can't help but feel that's always a good thing. 

22 Classics to Read in 2022

There are always classics which I think I'll get around to reading, but somehow I never find the time. So I think the New Year is the perfect occasion to make a resolution to finally get to some of these classic books. I've made a list of 22 classics I'd like to read or reread in 2022 – since revisiting a classic is always a valuable experience and you can watch me discuss all my picks here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzubPftOsLE

Many of these books have a special anniversary coming up concerning their first publication or their author's birth or there's a new film/tv series being adapted from the book. 1922 seemed to be bumper year for Modernist fiction as “Ulysses” by James Joyce appeared for the first time in its complete version as well as the books “Jacob's Room” by Virginia Woolf, “The Wasteland” by TS Eliot and “The Garden Party and Other Stories” by Katherine Mansfield. The final instalment of “Middlemarch” by George Eliot also first appeared 150 years ago in 1872. The oldest book on my list “Moll Flanders” by Daniel Defoe first appeared 300 years ago in 1722.

I'd also like to read some classics from outside of England including “All About H. Hatterr: A Gesture” by G V Desani (which is often called the Indian “Ulysses”), “The Castle” by Franz Kafka, “The Real Story of Ah-Q and other tales of China” by Lu Xun and “Manual of Painting & Calligraphy” by Jose Saramago. I'm not promising I'll get to all of them, but it's a good reading list to start from. Are there any classic books you're planning to read this coming year?

My Top Books of 2021

It's been another year filled with lots of uncertainty and time at home so I've been especially thankful for the consolation of books and all the discussions I've had with readers online. I have also been fortunate enough to have chats with some of the authors of my favourite books this year including Claire Fuller, Joyce Carol Oates and Richard Powers. I've always loved going to author events in person, but since these have been limited by the pandemic I've used the opportunity of having a BookTube channel to interview them myself. Here I get to ask them all the questions I want instead of waiting to raise my hand at the end! After this year's online Booker Prize ceremony I also had the chance to ask Damon Galgut some questions about his winning novel “The Promise”. Recently I also had the pleasure of meeting last year's Booker winner Douglas Stuart at an in-person literary salon. 

I've selected ten books as my favourites of 2021 as they have all broadened my point of view, expanded my knowledge, reinvigorated my love of the imaginative possibilities of fiction and meant something special to me personally. They're also all such compelling stories I completely lost myself in each. You can watch me discuss all these books here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5m4OVH5R8Y

Gayl Jones' triumphant return to fiction takes the reader to 17th century Brazil and follows the episodic journey of a girl born into slavery. The novella “Small Things Like These” is destined to be a new Christmas classic as it poignantly shows a man's dilemma when he realises the dark truth of his own Irish community. The stories in “The (Other) You” describe how our fantasies about other paths in life can quickly turn into nightmares. The brilliant American family saga “The Love Songs of WEB Du Bois” movingly shows how even the unknown aspects of our heritage play an active role upon our immediate present. “Bewilderment” is at once a deeply intimate story as well as one which seriously considers the biggest challenges our society is facing while taking readers to other planets. 

The mind-bending imaginative story of “This One Sky Day” gives insightful social commentary while making the world feel colourfully alive. The riveting story of “Detransition, Baby” is filled with so many tantalizing scenes that are tragic, comic and heartbreaking. “Unsettled Ground” movingly shows a sheltered character's progression towards independence. The epic “Cathedral” follows the stories of a wide cast of fascinating characters in medieval Europe as society's attitudes towards religion and capitalism were rapidly changing. I gained a new view on community life in “A Shock” which explores several different memorable characters' glancing connections with each other. 

I'd love to hear if you've also read any of these or feel inspired to read them now. And I'd be so curious to know the best things you read in 2021! 

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

What makes a classic Christmas story? When I think about some of the most well-known Christmas tales such as “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens or the short story 'The Greatest Gift' by Philip Van Doren Stern (which inspired the film 'It's a Wonderful Life') or the Christmas sections of “Little Women” by Louisa May Alcott, the predominant festive themes concern homecoming and a spirit of generosity. 

Claire Keegan's new novella “Small Things Like These” fits right into this tradition while also providing a stealthy dose of powerful social commentary. It's 1985 in a small Irish town and in the lead up to Christmas, Bill Furlong, a coal and timber merchant is very busy making deliveries to members of the community. Life is hard with the demands of work and family, but he and his wife have a strong partnership raising their five daughters. On Bill's rounds to the local convent - which is one of his best customers - he discovers something extremely distressing about the “training school for girls” which the nuns run there. It leaves him questioning whether he should intervene and how much he's personally willing to risk in order to do what he feels is right.

For such a brief book, this story says so much. It's filled with perfectly-pitched descriptions of physical details and dialogue which bring this humble community to life. There are evocative scenes of preparing a Christmas cake and a festive celebration. At first it feels like a highly supportive environment, but gradually we become aware of the sinister meaning behind what is not said. There's a conversation Bill has with his colleague Mrs Kehoe where she states “Tis no affair of mine, you understand, but you know you'd want to watch over what you'd say about what's there? Keep the enemy close, the bad dog with you and the good dog will not bite. You know yourself.” Though it feels like Bill has a clear moral choice to make there are social and financial pressures which make his decisions much harder.

It's clever how Bill's personal history as an orphan is weaved into the story of the present. He feels extremely fortunate to have had a benefactor who supported him. But there are aspects to his identity which have been hidden from him or not spoken about until an encounter he has while out for a visit. This makes him reflect: “Why were the things that were closest so often the hardest to see?” Keegan brilliantly portrays the way in which we create a narrative about our lives that is strongly influenced by the ideas and values of people around us so that sometimes the truth can remain obscured. But there are moments when it is revealed and this creates startling moments of realisation and ruptures in our reality. This novella dramatises an example of this on both a personal and wider community level.

Keegan's novella does that rare thing of facing the cruel facts of the world and creating a heartwarming story which is in no way sentimental but perfectly justified in its conclusion. It's what makes this novella a genuine Christmas story alongside the fact that it is set around the festive season. “A Christmas Carol” even plays a funny part in the story where Bill remembers the disappointment of being given a copy of the book (which smelled of must.) At the end of the book a note on the text provides some sobering context and information about Magdalene Laundries. Though the facts are shocking, it's even more startling to imagine how many communities must have been quietly complicit with what was happening in these institutions. It's powerful how this story reminds us to be vigilant and care for everyone around us – especially the most vulnerable.

In. by Will McPhail

I don't often read graphic novels so it's a delight whenever I stumble upon one which is not only a pleasure to read but also moving, funny and insightful. “In.” depicts the life of an illustrator named Nick who longs for the kind of blissful solitude he once achieved in childhood within the funnel of a waterpark slide. Now that he's an adult he's crafted a life of independence where he works on his own writing projects while occasionally freelancing for ad agencies (a meeting with one is brilliantly spoofed). He frequents trendy coffee shops and bars (with hilarious names such as 'just give us your money at this point' and 'Your Friends Have Kids') while drifting through the city. The trouble is that this independence is also suffused with loneliness and he longs for meaningful moments.

Nick assists his mother with her renovation of a building and babysits his nephew, but even these encounters are often filled with small talk, superficial chatter or blank silence. However, one day he finds that speaking about something close to his heart breaks through the white noise and establishes a real connection. The black and white illustrations of his daily life suddenly flip to a colour-filled phantasmagorical landscape for a brief time. This is alternately a space of dream and nightmare as we sense the tenor of his innermost being. It's a highly effective technique as we follow his journey establishing a new romance with a charismatic doctor named Wren and facing the facts of a family member's terminal illness. As is often the case with literary graphic novels such as “Sabrina” by Nick Drnaso, blank dialogue-less space and minimalist drawings express much more than what words can say.

This is a story which fully embodies what is termed the millennial problem of “adulting”, but in essence it expresses much more universal issues to do with disconnection and loneliness. Certainly, it's not necessary or at all alluring to have a deep soulful exchange in every encounter we have with every person we meet. This is acknowledged in Nick's fumbling attempts to break through the veneer of everyday life with a neighbour and his mother. But it's true that our daily lives can slowly become filled with meaningless exchanges and that we ourselves can become like automatons voicing what's expected rather than what we really feel. McPhail creatively grapples with these issues in this graphic novel in a way which is refreshing and poignant.

Ghosted by Jenn Ashworth

There may not be any actual ghosts in Jenn Ashworth's novel “Ghosted” but there are many different kinds of ghosting. The story begins when Laurie's husband Mark vanishes and she fears that he might have simply walked out of their relationship or “ghosted” her. But, alongside the complexity of this fading marriage, the narrative explores in many different ways the tension between presence and absence. There's the question of lineage, the condition of dementia, the loss of a child, the textures and patterns physically left in a house from previous inhabitants, the people who perform labour for us that we never see, the mystery of a murdered local girl, a medium who claims she converses with spirits and an awareness of a looming environmental disaster. The author meaningfully explores the lines between what's known and what's imagined and what we project into reality in order to make sense of or embellish it. 

We follow Laurie's point of view in the weeks and months following Mark's disappearance so alongside deeper ideas there's also a tantalizing question about how much we can trust her perspective. She takes a suspiciously long time to report that Mark is missing and easily lies to those closest to him pretending that he's still there. She has a fascination with crime dramas and the reader wonders if she's a fantasist that's had something to do with Mark's disappearance. This makes for a mesmerising tale as well as a subtly moving one. Scenes of domestic drama are shown with refreshingly realistic details which give a sense of how emotional and sexual interactions can be infused with unresolved anger and grief. The language evocatively reflects a Northern English dialect and a point of view not often depicted in fiction. This is richly-involving, multilayered, excellent storytelling.

Learwife by JR Thorp

How many people have watched Shakespeare's tragedy 'King Lear' and wondered 'But... what happened to Lear's wife?' This is a question author JR Thorp embraced as the subject of her debut novel which follows the perspective of Lear's exiled queen in the time immediately following the end of the play when the insane king and all three of their daughters have died. She's resided in a remote abbey for the past fifteen years where she explains “The abbey is the prison Lear made for me, the bridle so carefully constructed for my face. Forcing down my tongue.” Here she finally gets her say as she desires to depart to finally re-enter the world and the kingdom she's been banished from. We gradually understand the story of her life through fragmented memories and interactions with the nuns, but her thought-process is never straightforward as “in me the past and future are eliding, coiling together, thicker than umbilical cord, made of the selfsame substance”. Her perspective contains both poetic ambiguity and searing precision as her intense and justified bitterness is palpable. The author has created a brilliantly-calibrated voice that gives many insights and keeps the reader wondering whether she herself is mad or if circumstances have driven her to insanity or if she is carefully scheming as she cannily asserts “I have always been the kind to turn brutal luck to a better chance. I lie, and plan.” 

This is a narrative worth taking time with as the reader gradually becomes tangled in her thorny meditations. There's a delicious tension to the mental sparring she conducts with the nuns surrounding her who she is cooped up with because the abbey is under quarantine amidst a plague. She gets little compassion from these physical figures as she hilariously explains: “Who would speak to nuns of emotions? Better argue a point on politics with a piece of wood.” However, the nuns are also competing for her favour as a new abbess must be chosen and the narrator has been endowed with the duty of making this decision. Here we see on a more micro level the power at play within any organization and the politics involved which the queen formerly experienced on a grander scale when she lived at court. Through her memories we understand the way she's learned to wield power and rule, but also the way women were constrained by the sexist attitudes of this medieval time. I especially appreciated the way she wryly comments upon biblical stories such as the tale of Lazarus where his wife was forced to readjust to having her raised-from-the-dead husband there again: “perhaps she had become used to sleeping in the thin bed alone... Have you ever shared a bed with a man? It is sweet perhaps for a while but they sweat and stink out all their sins in their sleep.” 

We also see the way the past intrudes upon her present. Perhaps it's her new responsibility and the knowledge of her family's passing which instigate the feverish psychological battles she wages with the ghosts of the past. This is compelling but a difficulty with this novel's plot is that there isn't a great deal of action in the story. The physical drama has already unfolded in Shakespeare's play so that what we're mostly left with is her ruminations. Figuring out the mystery of what happened in her life and the key to her identity (her true name is teasingly withheld throughout the narrative) is highly intriguing however there's not a tremendous amount which actually happens in the story. This novel is more about her melancholy, barely-suppressed anger and the way her intelligence has been underestimated by patriarchal incompetence. Her assertive voice is mesmerising especially when she casts out sinister statements such as “Lear, I will die better than you. My God can do what yours cannot.” There's a dour satisfaction in following this survivor's voice and her steely determination to dominate over the spectres of her past – even if it precipitates her own destruction. 

The Fell by Sarah Moss

How can writers capture the feeling and repercussions of the pandemic in their fiction? As early as May 2020 an anthology called “Tools for Extinction” came out which included work from writers around the world responding to the ongoing crisis and Ali Smith's “Summer” included the pandemic as part of its storyline. It's curious to see how such recent events are embedded in a past which is now being fictionalised – especially as there's the possibility we could return to a state of lockdown and quarantine at any time. Although we usually go through our lives with little sense that we're living through history most people understand that these extraordinary times have significantly and permanently altered the world. Having so many people isolated in their homes has led to enormous emotional, financial and physical consequences. It's often remarked that writers need a sufficient distance from events to fully encapsulate their larger meaning in literature, but that depends on the strategy the author takes. 

In her new novel Sarah Moss' tactic is to embody the immediate thoughts and actions of four different characters in a village. “The Fell” is set in November 2020 during the second national lockdown in England when residents were ordered not to leave their homes. Kate is a single mother who recently lost her job at a cafe because of the pandemic and now worries about how she'll pay her bills. Although she knows she's breaking the rules, Kate leaves her adolescent son Matt at home to go for a solitary stroll across the countryside. She does this despite the threat of government fines and citizens being encouraged to inform upon any neighbours who break the rules. It says something about her state of mind and the pressure she's under that her feet seem to lead her outside and that she doesn't return even when it's getting dark and she knows the sensible thing would be to turn back. Though the risk is small, the stakes are high. And this is the dilemma we've all faced over the past two years when for many people it's more a question of personal responsibility than any outside pressure to follow the rules.

Things go badly wrong for Kate and it changes what's only been a theoretical crisis into a real crisis. The narrative revolves between the perspectives of Kate, Matt, their older neighbour Alice who is shielding at home and rescue worker Rob. It movingly follows the mental process many of us have gone through when confined at home with all the attendant fear, boredom, frustration and self-pity as well as feelings of guilt for reacting like this when we reason that there are other people who are suffering in more severe ways than we are. Moss captures the sense of stasis and how “A person can doubtless live like this indefinitely, the background murmur of dread only a little louder week by week, month by month”. Following these characters' mental states we get a sense of the building crisis as what was formerly abnormal becomes normalised. As they experience an extremely difficult predicament they are forced to consider their own resiliency and ability to cope under these circumstances. In particular, I was entranced by the way Kate is driven to a state of such crisis that she experiences a semi-hallucinatory encounter with a raven that's like a spectre from a Shakespearean tragedy.

There is so much in this novel which feels relatable and there's a solace in reading about characters who have felt many of the same emotions I have during this time. Alice feels inspired to bake batches of cookies, but since she lives alone the dilemma is there is nothing to do with all these cookies but eat them all herself. She also takes a strange comfort in watching rollerskating tutorials from California on her computer. However, Matt reaches a point where he feels like he's seen everything he's interested in online and nothing is being updated anymore. It becomes even more evident that the internet is a receptacle through which people voyeuristically experience the world and it becomes many people's only touchstone to the outside – including awkward video call chats with family members while eating a meal. Everything becomes glazed with a sense of the unreal: “because your mind and memory can't get much purchase on pixels on a screen, because nothing feels real any more.” Moss encapsulates the texture of recent times in this novel while also contemplating the way we handle facing our own mortality and negotiate the risks that we feel are worth taking in life. It's an innovative and effective approach to representing what we've all just lived through.

All the Young Men by Ruth Coker Burks

Recently I went to see a good new production of 'The Normal Heart' at The National Theatre and it reminded me that I meant to read this recent memoir. In the mid-80s Ruth Coker Burks was visiting a friend in an Arkansas hospital when she noticed a nearby patient's door was painted red and the nurses were arguing about who had to go in to tend to the patient. Feeling concerned for whoever was inside, she entered herself and found a man dying of an AIDS-related illness. Rather than succumb to fear as many people did at that time (and especially in that highly-religious, predominantly-conservative part of the country) she was overwhelmed by human sympathy for a man in pain and alone in the last hours of his life. From there she started caring for other young men suffering and dying from the same affliction. 

As her involvement grew, she not only assisted them at the end of their lives and help to put their remains to rest (when some literally abandoned these men's corpses) but she also became an activist trying to source medication, spread awareness, distribute food and sexual protection amongst the gay community and create political change. Her intense dedication to this cause is in some ways astounding because she was a single working mother who was also Christian and heterosexual. By associating with and helping these reviled men she and her daughter were ostracised themselves. But, at the same time, she saw her involvement as the only possible response to help people who were clearly suffering. I admire how she refused to compromise her sense of caring for those in need even when she felt the same fears those around her were experiencing because there was so little understanding at the time what AIDS was or how it is spread. We follow not only her story getting involved in this cause but learn about the many individuals she befriended and lost because of AIDS because these men were never just a number or statistic to her.

Naturally, given the subject matter, there is a lot of heartache and sorrow in this book. But there is also a lot of humour, joy and love as well which is largely driven by Burks' effervescent personality. It's shocking reading about the hatred of certain people who confront her and object to what she's doing, but it's also funny reading her witty responses and bitchy asides about these people. For instance, when a woman is absolutely horrible she remarks how this lady's camel hair coat was expensive at one point but that time had past. Equally, since she worked for a long time selling time shares, it's very funny reading about the clever psychological strategies she employed to get people to sign up. This soft approach also served her well in trying to rally support for the cause she fought for. What comes across in all her interactions with people is a real empathy in trying to understand their position and form a real connection. Although she encountered a lot of blatant hatred and hypocrisy, she also met people who were surprisingly sympathetic and there are beautiful moments of small kindness. There are also many dynamic personalities in the gay community who shine through these pages though the men themselves died long ago.

I'm so filled with admiration for Burks that it doesn't feel appropriate to critique this book's writing style or construction in the way I might other books. The subject matter and people it describes are so engaging and interesting that I was completely drawn into her story and the plight of the individuals caught in this tragic time of history. It's impressive that Burks refused to turn away when some men in the gay community itself preferred to pretend it wasn't happening even while their own friends and lovers were dying around them. I also really appreciated how this account shows a different part of the country since most stories about AIDS in the 80s centre around NYC or San Francisco. This memoir is not only a beautiful memorial to the many lives lost, but also the perseverance of individuals dedicated to doing what's right rather than what's easy.

Dinner Party by Sarah Gilmartin

Family get-togethers are inherently dramatic as they are often accompanied by so much expectation, pent-up emotions and long-held grievances. They often start out with the best intentions but can spiral out of control into feuds. There's an intense familiarity yet often family members can feel like strangers to each other. This is something Sarah Gilmartin understands well as her debut novel begins and ends with a dinner to mark the anniversary of a death in the family. In between these dinners we learn about the history of the Gleesons, a contemporary Irish family of farmers with two sons and twin daughters. The story focuses on daughter Kate as she struggles to reconcile with family tragedies, emotionally connect with the family members who remain and progress forward in her own life. It's an engaging story with many moments of high tension and heartache because it's clear that these people care deeply about each other but also drive each other crazy. 

The routines of family life: games of charade and cards can explode into warfare especially as the matriarch has an emotionally volatile sensibility where suddenly hellfire is released into the living room. She's domineering, highly critical and very concerned about how the family appears to the rest of the community. There's an inherent comedy in the fact that Kate frequently zones out or tries to keep reading a book as the mother is speaking to her and thinks about other things only to realise she's expected to respond and must quickly piece together what was being talked about. Yet, she's also a bridge-builder in the family trying to stop arguments before something is said which will be regretted. At the same time she harbours her own secrets and perilously avoids discussing emotions which are constraining her potential. Ominously, she counts how many bites of food she eats and we see her lack of control manifests into a longstanding eating disorder. She also has an affair with a married man which doesn't give her the emotional satisfaction or security she needs. This leads to another memorably disastrous dinner with her lover where she gets horrifically drunk. This scene is so cleverly written because we understand just how messy things become from the reactions of people around her.

I felt like I grew to know each family member intimately by the end of the book and understand their point of view. Gilmartin skilfully conjures the physicality of her characters while showing their bond to each other with lines such as “He had a similar skin to herself, the kind that flashed up feelings to the world.” At the same time there are many sharp observations which speak more widely to the psychological and social effects of significant events. Though death is a much-discussed and ritualized occurrence in Ireland it's also like a marker which taints the surviving family members: “Death depressed people, and it changed their opinion of you.” The mother vigorously engages in gossip about local people who've died or experience serious illness, but when it occurs within her own family it puts her in an unbearable position within the community. Gilmartin shows how this sense of status and self-image don't matter at all in one sense but in another matter a great deal. The tension of this is movingly played out to show how the bonds of family can both strengthen and destroy us.

The Booker Prize 2021 Winner

I've been following the Booker Prize even more closely than usual this year reading all 13 novels on the longlist. Despite issues creeping up regarding the prize (see my rant video) I still appreciate how this book award highlights some of the best novels of the year. Some of my personal favourites include “Klara and the Sun”, “Bewilderment”, “Great Circle” and “China Room”. This year's finale was held in person but it was a much smaller affair than usual and broadcast online so if you want to watch the entire award ceremony with me in my library I filmed a reaction video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9r4WhDfayg Towards the end of the video I also asked Galgut some questions immediately after his win.

From the moment I finished reading “The Promise” by Damon Galgut I knew this is a very special novel. I filmed a video trying to articulate my feelings and reaction to it, but there is so much to say about this book that I feel there will continue to be debate and discussion surrounding it for many years to come. There's a haunting quality to it which has stuck with me long after having read the book. The characters that loom large in my memory aren't so much the main protagonists of the family we follow, but the voices which are absent. It's extraordinary how Salome who is denied receiving ownership of the home which is promised to her year after year continues to be such a strong presence though we only see her in the background of each section.

Equally, the youngest child of the family Amor who is a kind of moral compass of the story takes such a strong role in the novel. As the years go by she has a better understanding of how both her family and the country are poisoned by racism and this is something she is unable to change. As a consequence she retreats from both while also retreating from the narrative itself. We get few details of her life and though I wanted to know more about Salome and Amor's stories I understood why we're denied them. The reader is trapped in the racist mentality of this family which is slowly dying off as we follow funeral after funeral. We can't escape this point of view anymore than the family members themselves and I think Galgut is saying how these pernicious attitudes can't simply be shaken off no matter how much politics and society progress. It's a bold statement and an emotionally impactful way of conveying this message using an entirely unique style of narrative.

So I'm very happy with the result of this year's prize though my favourite novel from the group “Bewilderment” didn't win. But, for me, this book award isn't about winners or losers. It's about encouraging discussion, closer reading and taking another look at books we might initially dismiss. The award has definitely done that this year and I'm grateful for everyone who has engaged in discussions with me about the books. What do you think about the winner? Have you read it or are you eager to read it now? Did you have a favourite you were hoping would win? Let's keep the conversation going.

Tenderness by Alison MacLeod

It's strange knowing the novel “Lady Chatterley's Lover” was subjected to obscenity trials in 1960 and became the focus of heated public debate. The language and subject matter used in this book is hardly considered shocking today which is probably part of the reason why D. H. Lawrence isn't a particularly fashionable or widely-read author anymore - that and the fact the book contains weirdly paranoid anti-Semitic and homophobic ideas expressed by the character of Mellors. Some people would probably argue that looking down on this novel originally published in 1928 for its outdated attitudes is censorship of a different kind but to me it feels like common sense to rigorously critique any book that makes such statements. Yet, the furore surrounding Lawrence's final novel in 1960 is even more bizarre than it first appears when you know what a special interest the FBI took in the trials. This stirred author Alison MacLeod's imagination as well and inspired her to write the novel “Tenderness” - the title which Lawrence originally contemplated calling what became “Lady Chatterley's Lover”. 

I love novels such as “Arctic Summer” by Damon Galgut and “The Master” by Colm Toibin which reimagine the lives of authors and consider how their writing was produced alongside events they experienced. It's irresistible to wonder about the personality behind a great book with all the intense passion and dedication which must have gone into writing it. MacLeod adds another dimension to this in her novel by inserting some lines by Lawrence within her story about his journey and the fate of his novel to show the interplay between life and text. The novel begins with the final part of Lawrence's life when he was suffering from tuberculosis, bickering with his wife Frieda and living in voluntary exile on the continent. It then moves onto the events surrounding the trials which take place 30 years after Lawrence's death including a FBI special agent who trails after Jackie Kennedy. He photographs the soon-to-be First Lady at a hearing for “Lady Chatterley's Lover”. We delve into Jackie's perspective and follow a young female literature student whose family was satirised in a short story by Lawrence. Amidst this, the novel frequently flashes back to moments in Lawrence's earlier life, his financial/artistic/romantic struggles and his interaction with other literary figures including E. M. Forester and Katherine Mansfield. The novel also includes a short sequel to “Lady Chatterley's Lover” imagining what events might have followed after the end of Lawrence's story.

So there is a lot going on in MacLeod's ambitious novel and it skilfully utilizes its 600 pages to fully integrate all these elements into a coherent and bewitchingly epic story. It's engaging and insightful how it does so with many tantalizing moments of conflict and camaraderie. The question of the morality of “Lady Chatterley's Lover” is swept up into the Cold War politics of the time and attempts made to derail John F. Kennedy's election. Novelist and literary critic Rebecca West emerges as a force to be reckoned with playing and informing on different sides to accumulate power and push her own agenda. There are delicious moments of discussion between Jackie and critic Lionel Trilling about the novel's meaning and importance. Though tempestuous Lawrence sharply critiques and fights with E. M. Forester, it speaks highly of Forester's character that he still expresses admiration for Lawrence's work rather than backbiting. All these elements mix together to say something much bigger about the importance of literature and how it tangibly integrates into our lives and culture. Great books are a reflection of the present moment but they also move us forward by enhancing our sensibilities. “Tenderness” expresses this while telling a complex and riveting story of its own.

Oh William! by Elizabeth Strout

Some literary writers create a character who they continuously return to in a series of books and (because that character is an author) seem to be an obvious foil for the writer themselves. “Oh William!” is the third book in a series after “My Name is Lucy Barton” and “Anything is Possible”. I'm not trying to suggest Lucy is directly based on Strout's own personality and past – I think it's more that she's become a way for the author to chart feelings of what ageing and experience do to a person over time. Since it's been five years since we readers were first introduced to Lucy we're also older and more experienced (if we've been following her story since the beginning). In this new novel Lucy becomes an even more more dynamic and rounded character as we learn more about her history, her point of view and her continuing quest to understand her position in the world. 

This book picks up with Lucy later in her life after the death of her beloved second husband. When her first husband William discovers he has a half-sister Lois whom he's never met he invites Lucy to join him on a journey to Maine where Lois lives and where his mother Catherine had an early first marriage which she ran away from. It's a road trip novel, but it's also about the complex evolution of Lucy's relationship with William over time. This isn't about will they or won't they get back together. It's more about the meaning they have in each other's lives and how the people who know us the best can both support and stultify us. In some ways, it's also about the contrast between Lucy and her mother-in-law Catherine's lives. Both women came from very impoverished families but grew to succeed and inhabit respectable positions in the world yet they inhabit adulthood with very different levels of confidence.

Strout is a master at describing great subtlety of feeling using language and a style of writing that's very approachable and enjoyable to read. A large part of the pleasure of this book derives from having read the first two novels so I'm not sure I'd recommend reading this new book without having read the previous books. However, for me, it's a joy returning to Lucy's voice and disconcertingly existential point of view. She describes how “I have always thought that if there was a big corkboard and on that board was a pin for every person who ever lived, there would be no pin for me. I feel invisible, is what I mean.” Yet her understanding and sense of self grows over the course of this story and ultimately leads her to admit “I am not invisible no matter how deeply I feel that I am.” William sometimes has an abrasive demeanour and this journey reminds her of that and why they separated, but they also share a history and a heightened sense of intimacy. For instance, they still use pet names with each other. It's these interactions and the sense of a longstanding bond with William, her daughters and others which cement her place in the world rather than the accomplishments which come from being a successful author.

This is also a story about the process of memory. Although Lucy is sincere and open we're made to wonder if her memories are entirely true when she makes statements such as “It is easy to recall this now, but in my memory it is true.” There are emotionally painful subjects she often prefers to avoid and self consciously states she doesn't want to talk about or discuss anymore since they were already covered in the first two books by Strout (and the memoirs Barton has written within the story.) But there are moments and experiences she naturally circles back to as they were pivotal aspects of her life which have influenced and haunt her. These can be small details such as Catherine's tangerine coloured couch which takes such a presence in her recollections of her mother-in-law. Or she alights upon striking metaphors for encapsulating more universal experiences of the past. I love how she describes the feeling of “the curtain of childhood” around her when recalling the terror and frustrations of youth. This so accurately captures that feeling of being shrouded in naivety when we're young.

However, despite there being many poignant moments and this being such a pleasurable book to read I don't think it's Strout's best. The story itself is quite meandering and leisurely so it doesn't feel as focused as the previous novels. This is partly due to the style of narrative where we so closely follow Lucy's thought process and reasoning. Some sections end too wistfully with lines such as “But who ever really knows the experience of another?” Nevertheless, I personally enjoyed the experience of reading this book so much because it felt tremendously comforting and contains some poignant reflections. There are also points of reference and in-jokes about the experience of being in Maine such as the fact Mainers eat their meals so early which makes Lucy wonder: “When does anybody in this state eat?” But primarily I appreciate the thoughtful distinction this story makes between inhabiting somewhere and feeling like you belong. I know it will be enjoyable to go back to the previous two books and read this series in order to pick up on more clues and follow Lucy's gradual transformation. So, while this new novel might not be among the best books I've read this year, it is one of the most pleasing.

The Ruins of Contracoeur by Joyce Carol Oates

At this time of year I do enjoy dipping into some dark tales of gothic mystery and sinister horror. Recent collections of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates that fall into this tradition include “Night Gaunts” and “The Doll-Master”. The six stories which are included in “The Ruins of Contracoeur” also encompass these elements, but as they are written by Oates they include many deeper themes such as challenging family dynamics, the resilience of girls, economic division in society and the heartbreak of grief. The line between the living and the dead becomes blurred as we follow the thoughts and actions of individuals who've been wronged or wronged others. While some seek vigilante justice, there's not always a clear moral compass used by the complicated personalities which inhabit these stories. These prose are teeming with emotion, they create an atmosphere of unease in the reader's imagination and a feeling of suspense with each page that is turned. 

The story 'Mr Stickum' is predominantly narrated in the collective voice of a group of teenage girls who carry out deadly revenge upon predatory men. In 'The Cold' we find ourselves disconcertingly aligned with the mind of a grief stricken woman whose experience becomes increasingly hallucinatory. With the story 'Monstersister' we experience an alarming sensation of body horror but we're also left with a melancholy sense of what it'd be like if a distorted version of ourselves were to take our place within our own family. The story 'Commencement' may feel like it's set in the most civilized environment imaginable but it's conclusion is so shocking and barbaric you won't believe what you're reading. 'The Redwoods' is one of the most original ghost stories I've read and the title story 'The Ruins of Contracoeur' builds an environment so menacing I felt terrified for the children trapped in this dilapidated family estate. It also took me back to the territory of Oates' brilliant and wildly imaginative sequence of gothic novels. I found these stories thrilling, complex and haunting.

I hosted the launch for this collection and you can watch Lisa Tuttle, award winning author of science fiction, fantasy and horror in conversation with Oates here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJfglF6Xyp8