I was greatly anticipating this gothic novel which brings to light the secret journals of a 19th century woman named Rose. She was sold into servitude at a creepy mansion and condemned to die in a rural French asylum. It begins promisingly enough with a priest called upon to bless the poor lady's body. When Father Gabriel is entrusted with her notebooks he's overcome by the story of her plight and seeks to reveal the consequences of her wretched life. But rather than just getting her account the perspective switches between a number of characters including a mysterious man and child whose identities aren't revealed until the end. However, most of the other points of view including Rose's father, the mansion's tyrant and a mysterious labourer who works on the estate all feel like one-dimensional characters. Nor do their perspectives add much to the story which couldn't be deduced from reading Rose's journals. The villains are ridiculously evil and a number of the characters act in a pitifully naïve way. Though Rose is obviously a sympathetic character trapped in a horrific situation and there are some chilling atmospheric details it's like the narrative doesn't trust her enough to convey her own tale. Though this book was a best-selling prize winner in its native France, I sadly found it to be a let down as the structure doesn't do anything innovative and the story isn't groundbreaking or especially engaging beyond its thrilling final twist.
There's something so moving about stories concerning a strong intergenerational bond – in the case of slender novel “What Willow Says” it's between a grandmother and her deaf granddaughter who spend time in nature developing their own unique form of communication. It's composed of 29 journal entries which follow their excursions in parks and forests as well as their encounters with schools, hearing specialists and the deaf community. In doing so we come to understand their beautiful relationship and get an insight into a language formed for just two people. Subtle issues arise about the way society strives to “normalize” deaf people: “Her specialists may hear her not, because her ears are not working for them.” The story raises questions concerning the limitations of what speech can do and how the hearing community's ways of using language are so institutionalized we don't always acknowledge different forms of communication. There's also a tense element to the story as we're aware the grandmother's time is short and she wants to do what she can to ensure her granddaughter's security while cherishing the special bond they share.
I felt immediately sympathetic to the grandmother as each entry begins with a description of the weather and my grandmother kept a journal in a similar way where the weather is always mentioned. As the book goes on, these brief observations about the weather come to reflect much more her psychological and spiritual state of being. She's someone who stands somewhat outside the mainstream like an ageing hippy (at one point she notes going to an Irish ashram) and I think this makes her especially attentive to the limited ways her granddaughter is treated. Because of her own hearing issues and advanced age, she finds it difficult to learn the sign language which her granddaughter fairly quickly picks up. So they need to invent their own way of speaking and they do this by spending time in nature developing unique ways of conveying an observation, feeling or question – especially as it's related to the movement of trees in the breeze or signs which can be gleaned from closely observing life in the natural world.
The grandmother is forming a catalogue of the trees in their area by drawing them and she refers to her process of attempting to do this - though it's cut short by her physical limitations. I wish some of this artwork had been reproduced in the text and it's interesting to hear in an interview conducted by Shawn the Book Maniac that following this novel's publication Lynn Buckle (who is also an artist) has created some pictures based exactly on what the grandmother describes. Though I found this story very moving, I felt the text sometimes got too poetic and abstract so I struggled at points to understand exactly what was happening in both these characters' lives. But its central message is conveyed in a powerful way. Out of necessity the granddaughter must constantly invent new ways of speaking: “She rewrites dictionaries for all who meet her.” Of course, on some level, creating a particular language is something we all do in the close bonds we form with other people as we all develop a shorthand or way of communicating which is special to that relationship. It's beautiful how this story emphasizes such a distinctive bond while alluding to larger issues concerning our perceptions of deafness and the environment.
I'm grateful I've been reading Trollope's Barsetshire series in order because – although the central protagonists of this fourth book “Framley Parsonage” are new – there are a host of familiar characters in the background who are also integrally involved in some of the novel's side plots. Though I'm sure readers unfamiliar with the previous books would still enjoy this novel the experience is greatly enhanced by a knowledge of these established characters. It's a wonderful pleasure to again meet the domineering Mrs Proudie with her weak-willed bishop husband who were first introduced in “Barchester Towers” and confident, clever Miss Dunstable who we first met in “Doctor Thorne”. In this new novel we even get a new generation as Griselda, the eldest daughter of Dr Grantly and Susan Grantly (who we first met in “The Warden”), is now looking to marry and there are a couple of suitors in contention. In fact, there a number of marriage plots in this new novel which all spin in the wings amidst the book's central story of Mark Robarts, a young vicar who gets drawn into the glamorous lives of the county's aristocracy and unfairly burdened by a debt attached to the cunning Nathaniel Sowerby. Mark's patroness Lady Lufton is deeply saddened by how he's seduced into this faction of the upper class and she serves as a fantastically intimidating foil to the set of characters that revolve around the Duke of Omnium.
Like a soap opera, the book is perhaps a little overburdened with plot lines as there are also the stories of Harold Smith's short-lived time as a cabinet minister and Mr Crawley, an impoverished clergyman who needs assistance as his wife is stricken with typhus. It makes sense that Trollope had so much going on since this novel was written in serial form for a magazine edited by William Thackeray. However, for the most part, the abundance of story lines balance well and come together to present a fantastically entertaining and compelling portrait of a community. It's a tale rich in themes surrounding ambition, money and marriage. As always, Trollope's characters are so dynamic that even more “villainous” figures such as Mr Sowerby are presented in a semi-compassionate way. But that doesn't stop the author poking fun at the foibles of several characters and playing them against each other. Nor is the author an invisible puppet master working in the background as what really makes Trollope's novels rise above typical stories of scandal and romance is the way the narrator frequently intervenes to converse with the reader on the issues at stake, the choices the characters make and the nature of society.
One of my favourite scenes is when the characters indulge in a social fad which they label a “conversazione”. Though it's really just a party with a pretentious name it's hilarious how it leads to discussions about what should and shouldn't be allowed to occur at a “conversazione”. There are several interactions which occur at this party concerning certain characters' marriage prospects. It also culminates in a confrontation between the novel's two most politically opposed characters Lady Lufton and the Duke of Omnium. As I know from reading “Barchester Towers”, Trollope writes truly captivating and uproarious party scenes. But he also beautifully describes moments of great tenderness such a discussion concerning the nature of grief between Mark's sister Lucy and Lady Lufton's son Ludovic. I also adored the dynamic between Mark and his loving wife Fanny who must not only serve as an intermediary between Mark and Lady Lufton but loyally stands by Mark when the debt collectors come knocking at their door.
Though Trollope doesn't often create much dramatic tension concerning the conclusions of his plots, I was surprised by the fate of Miss Dunstable in this novel. I despaired for her having to fend off yet another scheming suitor intent on marrying her for her money and I love how she relishes “ridiculing the world's humbugs.” So it was satisfying to see her finding comfort and happiness in this story. Certainly, there are some uncomfortably telling moments about the attitudes and values of mid-19th century society from the way certain characters refer to Jewish people or some characters describe their colonialist plans to “civilize an island in the South Pacific”. Yet, there are also many wonderful scenes and keen observations Trollope makes that his books continues to be an absolute delight to read and I'm looking forward to the next two books in the Chronicles of Barsetshire.
The older I get the more I contemplate what I can never know about past generations of my family. Even as I've tried to outline the facts and piece together story fragments, I know that there won't ever be a way to truly understand what my ancestors went through or why they made certain decisions. This is a subject Maria Stepanova rigorously contemplated as she sifted through family mementoes and records in her fascinating and extensive book “In Memory of Memory”. One of her conclusions seemed to be that whatever narrative we construct about the past doesn't necessarily give us any substantial insight or meaning. Equally, David Grossman rigorously questions the intention and value of documentation when it comes to examining family history in his compelling and moving puzzle box of a novel “More Than I Love My Life”.
The book opens with a narrator recounting the story of her parents and grandparents' lives on a kibbutz in the 1960s. It doesn't occur to this narrator to introduce herself as Gili until we're deep into the complicated relationships of her immediate family. She's enthralled with their stories (even though they occurred long before she was born) and they give the sense of having been told and retold so many times they've developed into a personal mythology. After the death of her grandfather Tuvia's first wife he married a Yugoslavian immigrant named Vera. Tuvia's son Rafael also falls for Vera's daughter Nina, but it's an unequal love affair as Nina is hampered by the violent circumstances of WWII and life under President Tito. Gili feels a deep anger towards her mostly-absent mother Nina as she's led a promiscuous life full of wanderlust. However, Gili is also aware that Nina's problems stem from something which happened when she was a girl – an unaddressed betrayal by Nina's mother Vera.
The second half of the novel takes place in 2008 when Gili and her father Rafael decide to record a documentary about Vera who has just turned 90 years old. Nina has returned for her mother's birthday and also reveals she's suffering from an illness which will cause her to prematurely lose her memory. In order to memorialise Vera's life and create an account which Nina's future self can use as a reference point, this family of four embark on a journey back to Vera's homeland as she recounts the horrors she endured during wartime. Many secrets and revelations emerge which lead to emotional confrontations. All the while, Gili and Rafael endeavour to film and interview Vera to better understand her life. It becomes clear that no matter how rigorously or honestly they try to document her account they won't ever fully understand what she lived through or why she made choices which put both herself and Nina at risk. Interestingly, in some sections the narrative slips to Vera's intensely gruelling imprisonment at Goli Otok, a barren island known as the “Croatian Alcatraz” that was used as a political prison when Croatia was part of Yugoslavia. In their earnest attempt at preserving Vera's memories and forming a reconciliation, they are left with more questions than answers.
I greatly appreciated how this complex and entrancing story explores issues to do with family, self-worth, the past and truth. The way it dramatises its characters yearning for understanding and a sense of belonging made me deeply feel for them. Though some scenes that occur in the present felt needlessly melodramatic I still got caught up in the intense feelings involved. This novel painfully shows that love doesn't necessarily allow for justice – especially when under the intensely pressurised circumstances of national upheaval when life is lived “on the edge of a knife”.
Claudia, the narrator of “Strangers I Know”, begins her story by describing her unusual situation as the daughter of deaf parents who've never taught her sign language. They can speak to each other because her parents read lips, but they still establish a very unique form of communication as Claudia invents imperfect hand gestures to convey what she wants to say. Her parents aren't necessarily trustworthy as they tell her contradictory stories about how they met. Nor can she rely upon them for stable parenting because of their erratic behaviour and tendency to leave: “I missed my mother when she disappeared, but she was a nebula and my father, the blackest of galaxies that neutralized any theoretical physics: my brother was the first matter I could gather around.” Claudia's sense of national identity is also divided as she grows up amongst relatives in both America and Italy. From this perspective we see how Claudia has a special relationship to history, truth, language and the ways in which experience is codified. This curious novel is part coming of age tale and part essay collection as we see her life and ideas filtered through her unique position.
In a way I wish the novel had continued in a similar vein to the first half of the book which is primarily concerned with describing the narrator's parents and extended family both in New York City and a small village in Southern Italy. The details and description of their habits are intriguing and playful, but a fully rounded understanding of their lives gets lost as the narrator goes on to analyse their circumstances and conveys her theories about various subjects. Though the book progresses largely in chronological order it becomes increasingly fragmented with ideas trailing off into metaphors and logic that trips over the narrator's limited knowledge. While a lot of fiction is “autobiographically inspired” there seems little point to the confusing blur here between narrator as author and Claudia as a character. The structure of the book seems to reflect the narrator's assertion that “The story of a family is more like a map than a novel, and an autobiography is the summation of all the geologic ages you've passed through.” However, this way of presenting Claudia's experiences left me with a very patchy understanding of her life as a whole and interesting concepts get quickly dropped before they can be fully explored.
Certain impressions from this book have stuck with me such as the way Claudia develops a love of reading when she moves to Italy and also begins to lie about how much she's read. It's compelling how she expresses the disconnect she feels between her sense of place and the actual experience of living there. There are also several emotionally charged descriptions which are memorable including her sense of alienation from the other children at her school: “I was still an island at my desk in the middle of the room, with stagnant water all around.” But these aspects of the book don't add up to a very satisfying picture of her life because so many details are used as reference points to larger ideas the narrator expounds upon rather than telling a more complete story. Later scenes in the book such as time living in London, a conflict with her first employer and a friend who suffers from drug addiction pass too fleetingly and allude to situations more complex than the author allows space for. While I admire fiction that resists sticking to the conventions of genre, I feel like the structure Durastanti has created for this book mostly amounts to a series of interesting suggestions rather than forming a fully realised and completely satisfying picture.
As a reader who loves perusing bookshops to chance upon a book I wouldn’t have come across otherwise, it’s been frustrating over the past couple years of the pandemic not being able to physically visit many bookstores. After they reopened in London after the first lockdown ended I headed straight to some of my favourites in the city to have a wander amongst the shelves and you can see the results in a video I made in June 2020: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0MFLk0O3LA
That video now feels like a curious time capsule. Certainly “normal” life hasn’t fully resumed but thankfully bookshops have been open here in England for some time. Hopefully this year international travel will become easier again and it’s inspired me to think about some of the beautiful bookshops around the world I’ve been able to visit in years past - including Lello bookstore in Porto. Recently I came across a list in Conde Nast Traveller about some of the most beautiful bookshops in the world so I made a new video discussing these shops such as Boekhandel Dominicanen in Maastricht, Netherlands and Libreria Acqua Alta in Venice, Italy and showing pictures as I hope to visit them someday: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkb6PeKxH0U
I’d love to hear about the most beautiful bookshop you’ve ever visited in the comments.
Why would someone walk away from the life she's built and everyone she knows? That's the haunting question which hangs over the delicately-paced story of Sara Freeman's debut novel “Tides”. Mara arrives in a seaside American town just as the busy tourist season is waning. It's achingly appropriate that she chooses to go somewhere in a season out of sync with the pattern of most people's lives. She's fallen out of time's rhythm and now she's in a dangerous free fall. Though this community is affluent she is terrifyingly aware of her limited funds and she doesn't want to use any credit cards because she might be traced. She gets by on scraps of food, sleeps rough, swims in the sea at night and takes a menial job in a local wine shop. A connection she forms with a man who appears similarly adrift is less about starting a new relationship and more about acknowledging their parallel disconsolate realities. Though her existence seems perilously reduced “This is exactly what she wanted, she must remind herself: to slip into a blind spot, to run out on her life.” Written in a spare, emotionally-charged style, this novel gradually unfolds to reveal the aching truth of her past and raises stirring questions about the narratives we use to shape our lives.
What's so moving about this story aren't the sombre facts of Mara's life, but the way it patiently lays bare the psyche of its protagonist. Ample blank space is allowed on the page between passages as if to represent the vacant spaces of time Mara's new wayward existence gives her. Her motives aren't necessarily to rebuild or to start afresh as with most characters who've experienced a devastating loss, but to disentangle her ego. Does her mother really resent her? Is she really inferior to her brother? Did she really fail her husband? These are issues which plague her and it's difficult to know whether this was her actual position in relation to those closest to her or if she's brutally recasting her role in their lives as a form of self punishment. There's a sense that she wants to lose her former self and become someone new but she's unable to shake her personal history. “She can feel it, the past, grabbing, pulling... It takes her wherever it wants her to go; this is the mind's undertow.” Physical encounters with the sea and imagery about the ocean are poetically built into the narrative. It's poignant how this suggests a daily pace to the world which Mara can no longer keep up with because of the enormity of her grief. Though this novel has an undeniably melancholy tone it's not devoid of hope and I appreciate how its extreme example shows how self doubt has the potential to utterly devour us if we don't meet society's expectations or reach the milestones set before us. It gives the reader a lot to quietly consider and reflect upon.
There's a particular reading pleasure which comes from getting lost in a great family saga and “The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois” certainly counts as one of the greatest. Part of the resonance of this form of writing comes from the question: how much can we ever know about the lives of generations who've proceeded us? There are unique challenges associated with African American genealogy due to the slave practices of the Antebellum South and North which resulted in a lack of birth or death records, name changes and a conscious erasure of family histories. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers' triumphant debut is in part about directly facing this struggle as the story's protagonist Ailey grows up to be a student researching Indigenous, Black and White generations past who've inhabited the small town of Chicasetta, Georgia. This is her own family and her study is a process of gathering tales and uncovering the truth about the betrayals, triumphs and savvy reinvention individuals from the past experienced while enduring the injustices of the past. Scenes from previous generations are interspersed with Ailey's coming of age tale in a way which shows how the past bleeds into the present. This novel gives an entirely new view of history while also telling an exquisitely detailed, enthralling, inventive and utterly immersive story.
The novel engages seriously with the ideas of the great sociologist and historian W.E.B. Du Bois, but the reader doesn't need to be aware of his work to appreciate and enjoy Jeffers' story. However, it does help and add to the meaning of the book to understand his concept of double consciousness in subordinated or colonized groups. Du Bois himself plays a small part in the novel through anecdotes told to Ailey. This serves as a remind that seminal figures such as Du Bois were only human despite their significant contribution to society. In fact, Jeffers' story is a critique as well as a tribute to Du Bois as she brings a more modern and feminist perspective to his important concepts. Similarly, Jeffers takes to task the way the past is perceived and interpreted by current academia and at historic sites. There's a dark humour as well as a rigorous seriousness to the way in which the author takes to task the way African American history can be wilfully misrepresented and dangerously disassociated from issues to do with racism today. But Jeffers shows in her story that reckoning with the past doesn't mean that we need to be trammelled by guilt as we proceed into the future. As the character of Uncle Root states: “The truth can be both horrible and lovely at the same time... It's important to know what the truth is even if you only say it to yourself.”
There's a tremendous momentum to the novel which is built over hundreds of pages as the past is revealed alongside Ailey's discovery of it. Though I know many people are hesitant to read a book that's so long its length does feel necessary to show the full complexity of this epic tale. There are many surprising twists which develop over the generations as well as in Ailey's own immediate tale – especially to do with her relationship with her two sisters and the secret they share between them. It's meaningful how Jeffers shows that though the same trauma might occur for multiple people it will inevitably affect them all differently as everyone has their own methods of dealing with it. The way this plays out in the story is so insightful and meaningful. At the same time, this tale is infused with such warmheartedness and humour. I found certain scenes so endearing such as when Ailey drinks too much orange juice before going to church and then struggles to sit still as she needs the toilet, but the ladies around her assume that her fidgeting means she's possessed by the spirit. Similarly, it's amusing how disappointed she is at being given a first edition of “The Souls of Black Folks” for her teenage birthday. It's only natural a teen would rather receive anything other than a dusty old book for her birthday, but it's touching knowing how it will go on to inspire her. Similarly, I hope the importance of Jeffers' novel is something we will continue to recognize in the years to come.
It's impossible to know how we'll react to losing a loved one until it happens. Similarly, it's difficult to predict how an ongoing pandemic and environmental crisis will shape our society's future. But these are issues which Sequoia Nagamatsu movingly examines on many different individual human levels within his imaginative and absorbing debut “How High We Go In The Dark”. The novel opens with the discovery of the preserved remains of a prehistoric girl who is found amidst the melting permafrost in the Arctic Circle and, with her, a deadly virus is reintroduced into human civilization. By following the many lives of a number of linked individuals across hundreds of years we see the way our society splits apart, comes back together and grieves for what is lost.
In some ways, this book functions like a group of interconnected short stories. The different chapters focus on subjects as varied as a theme park for terminally ill children, a pig grown for organ transplants that develops an ability to talk, a mechanic that no longer has the parts to repair families' beloved mechanical dogs, a scientific breakthrough that's implanted in one man's mind and an artist who paints murals in the corridors of a spaceship that seeks a new planet for humans. Yet the ending of the book circles back to the beginning in an innovative and surprising way. With its emphasis on themes of technology, space travel and a dystopian future this novel might appear like standard science fiction from the outside, but the story's real world resonance and psychologically complex characters feels more resonant of inventive hybrid novels such as “Bewilderment” by Richard Powers, “Station Eleven” by Emily St John Mandel and “XX” by Rian Hughes.
This is a narrative driven by deeply human stories centred around love, the painful experience of letting go, the ways we memorialise each other and our ability to persist through challenging circumstances. Certainly there are some characters which I connected with than others, but I enjoyed the way some more peripheral characters come to the forefront in different sections while also letting us know about the fates of other characters we know well. This not only gradually gives the reader a deeper understanding of certain people but shows how these individuals exist in a rich network of various different experiences. It's alternately horrifying and inspiring following how Nagamatsu imagines the evolution of humanity amidst dramatic global changes. But, just as one character chooses to name her own constellations in the sky, this story ultimately demonstrates how we can each form our own destinies.
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.
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.
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?
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!
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.
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.
