A physically and emotionally scarred man returns to his hometown after many years of having lived away in the city. His mother has died and he's there to clean out her home. He also reunites with his first lover, a man who has stagnated rather than thrived in this town. There is so much tender feeling packed into this slim melancholy novella which describes the actions of his days. The tenderness is primarily sore, but it's also warm and sensual. How is it possible to describe the rollicking mixture of emotions for someone who escaped a violent childhood and has now returned to this location packed with personal significance? How can someone feel nostalgic and long to return to somewhere that was the wellspring of fathomless hurt? The narrative moves between his second and first person account as memories invade his present day experiences. There's a moving familiarity he shares with his old lover but also the strangeness of time that has passed while separated and the acknowledgement that their sexual reunion won't lead to a renewed relationship. Tijssens admirably lets the reality of the situation speak for itself and the bittersweet truth of life gradually emerges. The author is also a filmmaker and I great admired the movie 'Close' which he co-wrote. His narratives resist the impulse for confession and instead subtly present ambiguous relationships and conflicted human experiences.
This is a gripping legal drama set in the early 1990s as a young lawyer named Grace takes on a pro-bono case for her law firm in Zambia concerning a young individual named Bessy who is persecuted for his homosexuality and wearing women's clothing. Bessy is beaten by the police, his family visits the station every day but aren't allowed to see him and the police don't follow the proper procedures for processing Bessy's case making it impossible for Grace to help him. Nevertheless, she's determinedly seeks justice. Bessy himself appears only briefly in the story. However, through Grace's investigation and interviews with people who know him, there's a strong sense of his life as a sensitive and romantic individual who longs for love and wishes to move somewhere he can live openly.
Grace also emerges as a spirited and determined individual born into very humble circumstances and whose mother who tried to sell her into marriage. Instead of capitulating she flees her village in order to earn a law degree and live independently. Though she's ambitious she has a strong sense of justice – especially for those who are marginalised because she's very close to her late father's gay best friend. I appreciated how the story contrasts the sharp division between the rich and poor. Grace encounters some privileged individuals at her university and through her law firm who are accustomed to plentiful amounts of fine food. But Grace grew up literally starving at some points so has a persistent appetite and grateful appreciation for any food available. Equally she must become accustomed to the dress and manners of a society far from the village she grew up in. I also found it moving how Grace retains a strong connection to the spirits of her ancestors and how her religious identity works alongside widespread Christian practices.
At this time in the 90s and still today in Zambia, same-sex sexual activity is illegal for men and women. More than the laws there's a terrible social stigma for anyone who is LGBT. These notions are partly the result of legal and religious systems of belief which arrived with colonization. Of course, this means that many gay or trans individuals feel compelled to conceal their identity and risk being blackmailed. Anyone who bravely lives openly faces alienation, threats, longterm imprisonment or death. I'm glad this story encouraged me to read more about the historic and current state of queer life in Zambia to make me more aware of this ongoing struggle. Though it wasn't easy growing up gay in a relatively rural area of America in the 1990s, it would have been much more challenging to have grown up in Zambia at this time.
The novel had a powerful impact for this reason but it was also gripping to follow the developments of this case and Grace's journey. This story is a testament to the bravery of people who stand up for what's right against nearly insurmountable odds. But it also shows the complexity of trying to enact substantial change and achieve justice for marginalised individuals when causes gets swept up into party politics.
It's tricky trying to summarize how I feel about Alicia Elliott's debut novel as the experience of reading it was often frustrating, but the power of its voice and the complexity of the many issues it raises have inspired me to engage in a lot of discussion with my bookclub about it. There's also a very clever narrative twist a long way into the book which helped me to emotionally engage with it in a way I struggled to up until that point. The story focuses on narrator Alice's experiences grieving the loss of her mother and living in a predominantly white Canadian neighbourhood separate from her familiar indigenous community. She's a writer endeavouring to compose an updated version of the Haudenosaunee Creation Story, a wife to a kind-hearted white man who is academically researching her culture and a new mother to an infant she feels she's failing. Increasingly she senses that inanimate objects, creatures and strange visions are speaking to her. This introduces the question about whether she's suffering from mental health issues, the disorientating effects of sleep loss or whether she's deeply communicating with spirits/ancestors from her culture (or perhaps some mixture of all of these things.) So there is quite a lot going on and it's not surprising that Alice feels continuously overwhelmed!
It's quite a surprise in the prologue when Pocahontas (or Matoaka) begins speaking to Alice through the television screen. This feels both comic and playful, like something from a horror story. It's also meaningful in how there is a darker truth to indigenous history/experience than what non-First Nation groups acknowledge in popular culture. I feel like Elliott tries to balance these three modes throughout the novel's narrative which is a difficult thing to pull off. The novel uses a very conversational style of writing which makes it very personal and immediate. I appreciate how this conveys a strong impression of Alice's point of view and state of mind however, to me, it can sometimes feel too much like a rant where Elliott hammers through messages rather than letting them arise naturally within the story. Alicia Elliott wrote a very interesting personal essay about perceptions of mental illness: https://www.thestar.com/entertainment/books/the-power-of-alicia-elliott-how-the-indigenous-author-embraced-the-unreality-of-fiction-and/article_b0e3c11d-7092-5c59-ac2a-07c83b34a815.html It's really challenging not to dismiss someone's perspective when they've been categorised as suffering from “madness”. At the same time, there are so many practical difficulties which accompany this experience especially when clear and honest communication becomes nearly impossible.
Alice's daily physical interactions seem fairly benign – being gifted dvds, buying alcohol from staring shop assistants and being pounced upon by a hyper vigilant neighbour. Certainly there is unacknowledged prejudice and micro aggression within these encounters but Alice's reactions often feel out of proportion to what's occurring. I understand she is frustrated that the white community she's surrounded by can't understand her perspective and that she desires to exhibit positive representation to deflect stereotypes about Native people and feels the need to keep up appearances – especially to her husband Steve. This poetic line from the novel seems to really encapsulate her experience: “I'm a puddle pretending I've got shape and form.” However, it feels like her increasing panic about her predicament would be tremendously eased if she were to speak honestly with others about what's happening and her state of mind. Instead, she constantly covers this up and keeps an increasing amount of “little secrets” from Steve. Though we don't get much backstory about the formation of their relationship this seems to be a consistent aspect of it: “I've kept so much from him from the very beginning. Edited my life to make it seem a little less tragic and a lot more functional.” Of course she wants to present herself as capable/confident but a big part of any successful long term relationship is allowing a partner to see your vulnerabilities. Instead, Alice seems to be trying harder to cover them up so the truth of how she's feeling can only come out in erratic or paranoid behaviour.
Perhaps this is part of the point of the story. However, it makes it frustrating and difficult to empathise with Alice when she's not willing to let others into what she's experiencing except through this narrative and her rewriting of the Creation Story. I'm aware my reaction might be biased because this character's life is very different from my own. I want to listen to what this book has to say and I'm not trying to minimise the impact of her cultural heritage, position in this society and the difficulty of new motherhood. I was really struck by the lines: “Motherhood is sacrifice. Not metaphorical sacrifice. Literal sacrifice. Every day I feel like I'm destroying pieces of myself to win the favor of this insatiable demigod who wants and wants and wants.” It must feel devastating to rapidly lose yourself in this way and feel like this baby is the antagonist while also loving your child. I've found it really interesting to compare Elliott's novel with “Soldier Sailor” by Claire Kilroy since there are parallels in how new motherhood causes such a terrifying physical and mental breakdown and sense of isolation. What's clear from both is that it's a tremendous strain no matter the circumstances and support/lack of support from one's family/spouse.
It was a complete surprise to me how the story switches its nature later in the novel just as Alice's manic energy and all-consuming paranoia become too much to bear. By getting an outside perspective of Alice (and getting a heartrending peek at the many directions her life might have taken) I suddenly understood the tragedy of her plight better. I'd previously felt sympathy for how overwhelmed she's been with the grief for her mother, the responsibilities and sleeplessness of new motherhood, separation from her Indigenous community, wavering mental health, semi-reliance on drugs/alcohol and frustration trying to honour her heritage by rewriting its stories. But being locked in her point of view also made me feel like a therapist listening to a hopelessly tangled diatribe and this made the reading experience increasingly laborious. It's not often that it seems worth it to read through hundreds of pages to get to a pay off like this. But, in this case, I am very glad I read until the end. It felt necessary to see Alice's increasing frenzy from the inside in order to really know how she got to this point of absolute despair. There's a pleasure in re-viewing the events that have come before given that the nebulous voice is given a personality. It's also quite playful and inventive how the author has structured the book as if self consciously drawing upon the kind of popular culture films she frequently references. I was reminded of the films 'Get Out' in the dinner scene, 'Interstellar' in the family reunion across time – as well as the numerous movies which have drawn upon concepts of alternate realities/the multiverse. Some might see this as derivative but I think it felt natural for this story and a way to show the tension Alice experiences as someone whose identity is a blend of both Indigenous and colonial culture. I found this concluding section really heartwarming and moving, but I'm sure not all readers would agree.
The title of the novel is taken from the story of the Sky Woman being dropped by The Great Spirit into a hole so that she falls towards the Lower World. But I like that it also has a popular culture meaning in how Alice connects to Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka because she thinks if she makes the wrong choice the floor will fall out from beneath her. There's also some “Alice in Wonderland” influence given the protagonist's name, that Sky Woman falls (or is pushed) down a hole and at a disastrous dinner party Alice believes that guests shout “Off with her head” at her. I'm glad to have read this book and to have received Alicia Elliott's point of view. I do question whether she might have been able to use a different writing technique or structure to better tell this story. It's really difficult to say because Alice's mindset is so messy it feels like the narrative needs to emulate that and if it'd been more formalised it might not feel so authentic. So it's difficult to know how to rate this novel or whether I'd recommend it. I'm continuing to mull it over and I'd be very keen to hear reactions from other readers about the book as a whole.
I've been greatly anticipating Sinéad Gleeson's debut novel having read her powerful book of essays/memoir “Constellations” and the enlightening collections of stories by Irish women writers she edited “The Long Gaze Back” and “The Glass Shore”. Gleeson is highly attuned to the ways art, songs, writing and storytelling not only capture a place and the different personalities who inhabit it, but stand as a testimony for those whose narratives are often ignored, erased or suppressed. Therefore it's fitting this unique and captivating novel evokes the lives of a community and individuals who reside on the margins.
“Hagstone” follows artist Nell who resides on a remote rocky island. She's highly independent enjoying swims off the coast and occasionally takes lovers. Both she and the small populace there rely on the income from tourists who arrive during the warmer months. To make ends meet, she acts as a guide to these visitors who hunger for salacious stories of shipwrecks and tantalising folklore. So Nell is cognizant of the way true stories can become sensationalised. Her artwork reaches for a more subtle understanding and connection with the past. The pieces she creates are often meant to be ephemeral and work as touchstones to the lives of women who were maligned or misunderstood.
She receives an unexpected invitation to make a specially commissioned artwork for a reclusive commune known as the Iníons. This is a group formed of diverse women who have moved here from all over the world and, until now, their lives have been shrouded in secrecy. But Nell's presence isn't welcome by all who reside there. She gradually becomes familiar with several members and the uneasy structure of their commune in the lead up to a celebration – a climatic event with unintended consequences. A strange feature of the island is that there is a mysterious sound which emanates from the landscape and the Iníons have a reverence for it. Not everyone can hear this sound, but it drives some to madness and other to a kind of spiritual awakening or connection with this singular location.
This is a story which wrestles with the tension between independence and community. It asks what advantages can be found in building a life in relative isolation and what is sacrificed by removing oneself from the larger society: “Solitude can be its own kind of loss.” It especially focuses on the plight of women and those who understandably want to escape from the patriarchy. However, any group inevitably forms its own hierarchy and involves power struggles. The novel cleverly feels out the levels of compromise required when seeking to achieve a truly peaceful existence. It’s also fascinating how it explores the relationship between artist and subject. In what ways does art memorialise the lives of others and how does it intrude upon their privacy? Nick, a famous actor visiting the island, seeks to make a film about the Iníons and becomes another suspicious presence in this commune. Tensions mount from both inside and outside this community resulting is a horrific clash.
I deeply connected with this novel's story and appreciate the complex way it engages with these issues while also delivering a highly entertaining, compellingly gothic, occasionally sexy and meaningful tale.
It's refreshing that there's a wave of contemporary fiction which is actively working against a confessional mode of storytelling. Many novels present the inner life of characters with all their history, memories, preoccupations and hopes for the future. However, Binyam challenges the reader with a nameless narrator who returns to his nameless native country in sub-Saharan Africa after living for many years in a nameless Western country. His purported mission is to locate his ailing brother who has been writing him letters entreating him for money, medicine, property and support. But really this journey is a reckoning with the place he left behind and with himself. However, he actively withholds personal information and his emotional state as he becomes reacquainted with this place, its people and their politics. This unashamedly draws influence from Rachel Cusk's “Outline” to build upon it. Binyam's novel even begins with its narrator conversing with someone on a flight. I greatly appreciated the absurdist and slyly surreal nature of this book with its flashes of wicked humour and his account becomes surprising emotional.
This style of writing may seem confusing and frustrating, but the narrator is highly suspicious about how tales such as his can be used to falsely frame people. At one point he emails a friend about his progress and instantly refutes that message's content “It wasn't accurate, but it didn't need to be accurate, because emails were just a mode of storytelling. In the case of the so-called immigrant returning to his home country, the story should be a good one.” Such a homecoming with all its conflicted feelings of estrangement and belonging can't be neatly contained. Nor can his personal past and the circumstances of his emigration. Any such attempt to convey them in a straightforward way would lead to interpretation and they'd become politicised so that any nuance would be ironed out. Much of the novel concerns his conversations with those he encounters as they eagerly describe their backgrounds and positions: “People liked to talk, because talking made them feel like their experiences amounted to something, but usually the talking turned those experiences into lies.” By withholding his own story, the narrator seeks to maintain a greater degree of honesty.
Nevertheless, details about his past and frame of mind gradually emerge. Through suggestions and hints the abstract gradually solidifies, but it can never be fully defined. It becomes increasingly poignant how people and places that he initially identifies as one thing are suddenly revealed to have great personal significance to him. A stranger becomes a relative. A building turns into a home he was forced to vacate. In this way the present world shifts around him and becomes realigned with history. Yet everything has changed and he's a different person from the one who left this place many years ago. Unsurprisingly, the consequences and ultimate result of this homecoming are ambiguous. Though the immediate experience of this book is befuddling it's developed more resonance the more I've thought about it. It's certainly not a novel that will be everyone's cup of tea but those who patiently engage with its larger meaning will most likely find it impactful.
I was instantly drawn into this story of Alva, a teenager living in Shanghai in 2007 whose American mother Sloan marries a successful Chinese businessman named Lu Fang. For many years Alva and Sloan have lived hand to mouth. They've been less mother/daughter and more a team trying to survive – a relationship emphasized by how Sloan refers to Alva as “partner”. So this marriage prospect finally affords them some stability, but Alva disapproves of Lu Fang. She assumes Sloan is marrying out of convenience and Alva also resents being tied to Asia. She's lived there her whole life and knows nothing of her biological Chinese father as her mother simply describes him as “an unnamed squirt of sperm”, but she aspires to live in America and reveres Western culture. Alva frequently watches illegal dvd copies of American films and scrutinizes the landscape of US neighbourhoods on digital maps. She increasingly rebels against her parents and her public education in her determination to fully inhabit the Western side of her identity.
But that's just half the story. The narrative alternates between Alva's coming of age tale and an account of Lu Fang's troubled life. His story begins in China in the 1980s as he's trying to establish a family and a business amidst the country's economic boom. Though he's haunted by the difficulty of his early life, the horrors of his country's past and those who continue to propagate Mao's propaganda, he reasons “Maybe amnesia was the only way to go on in the new China.” Lu Fang longs for more than the circumstances he's born into and also partially falls for the lure of a Western lifestyle. However, both Alva and Lu Fang discover that cultural imperialism and racial prejudice run deep. An unlikely connection is formed in their joint alienation and the mystery of Sloan's past is gradually revealed. It's moving how this novel depicts each character's transformative journey and the way these conflicted individuals build a new form of family.
Imagine being constantly asked by strangers “What are you?” as if your existence isn't valid until you can be properly categorized within a particular ethnicity and racial identity. Of course, many people don't need to imagine this because it's a daily reality. 'In Flux', the opening story of Jonathan Escoffery's debut book of fiction, conveys how demoralizing and exhausting it is for a boy named Trelawny to grow up in America being persistently quizzed about this. It's especially frustrating for him because he doesn't know the “correct” answer since his skin tone and accent don't fit into any one group or people's common conceptions about individuals from his background. Neither his family, friends or a blood test are able to provide a definite conclusion which will satisfyingly answer this question. With sharp-toothed wit and tremendous feeling, the story reveals the truth of his experience using the second person. In doing so, it's as if Trelawny is condemned to not only be plagued by this question but to internalize it and turn it outward. Though this book branches out to sympathetically portray other members of his family, it's bookended by this viewpoint and rooted in his experience.
Family dramas often involve siblings battling for favour and the inheritance of property, but this book gives such a uniquely structured and vividly personal view of one such struggle. It revolves around Jamaicans Topper and Sanya whose move to Miami in the late 1970s eventually results in a self-built home and the birth of sons Delano and Trelawny. However, the lives of these characters are related in pieces showing how their experiences and perspectives leave them physically and psychologically distant from each other. It also builds a larger plot concerning patriarch Topper's dream house which is plagued by hurricane conditions, subsidence issues and an ackee tree whose growth has been stunted by his axe-wielding progeny. Along the way it traces Trelawny's pressing economic struggles as he lives out of his car while finding various work teaching, raising rent for elderly individuals in subsidised senior housing and catering to the masochistic/narcissistic fetishes of people from classified ads. The struggle for money and acceptance often leads to exploitation and violence. It's impactful how these stories show the barefaced reality of racism which becomes something to be weaponized in plays for power while the lived experience of it must be passively accepted.
In consciously choosing not to write a more traditionally structured linear tale through a single voice, Escoffery allows the reader to imaginatively build a larger story and meaning. I understand why some readers find it an uneven book as being offered such slivers can feel jarring and not all its sections have the same powerful effect. But personally I enjoyed following the surprising pathways this fiction takes to explore a variety of points of view and the growing tensions between these family members. Individual characters often fail to understand the challenges and disappointments the others face leading to conflict. I only wish there had been a story focusing on the mother Sanya whose progression we learn about in bits and pieces, but it would have been interesting to get her own perspective and how she is also unaware of aspects about her family's struggle – such as Trelawny's desperate circumstances which he conceals from her. However, it makes sense that this series of interconnected short stories focuses primarily on Trelawny himself as he feels like the heart of the book. Though he's sympathetic he has his own prejudices and shortcomings. There are also a number of peripheral characters whose fleeting presence is distinct and memorable. Together these stories build to a larger portrait of a unique multi-cultural landscape at a particular time. Though oppressive issues weigh heavily upon the inhabitants' daily lives, survival is achieved through cunning, compromise and a wry sense of humour.
I was initially a bit apprehensive about how much I could connect with this novel's story as I knew it centres around a girl who plays squash. Since I have zero interest in sports I approached it cautiously. But I instantly felt involved in this tale which has a wonderful quietness to it. Beneath the surface action there is a lot of subtle power which arises through finely crafted descriptions of this family's life. It gradually shows how there are silences which can grow between family members until they become monumental. At the beginning the narrator, Gopi, informs us that she was 11 years old when her mother died and we follow the aftermath of her loss. She's left with her two older sisters and brooding father living in a town on the outskirts of London. Instead of dealing with or discussing their grief, the father trains his girls to play squash in a sports centre called Western Lane stating to them “I want you to become interested in something you can do your whole life.” In other words, this is an activity that can potentially stave off the void that's been created because of the loss of their mother.
Gopi develops a passion and talent for playing which her Pa fosters leading up to a local tournament. She spends so much time refining her technique in this empty box of the squash court repeatedly hitting a ball against the wall. It turns into a space which has a timeless quality to it where neither her adolescent development or the loss of her mother matters. The story traces this period showing no matter how much we'd like to remain suspended in the present moment change is inevitable. This becomes apparent through gradual shifts which occur in the family's routines between work, school and home life. Their restrained interactions are charged with an aching sorrow because of the loss of Gopi's Ma and all the emotions they're suppressing. What her sisters and father are truly feeling can only be guessed at in brief moments of overheard conversations or uncharacteristic behaviour. At the same time, the prospect of Gopi's own displacement becomes more probable as her aunt and uncle offer to take her into their home to relieve her father of the burden of raising three daughters on his own. It's heartrending following Gopi's lonely journey as she becomes more and more disciplined in her training while the conspicuous absence within her family grows larger.
I admire Maroo's pared down narrative style which builds precise details of action and dialogue to give an intricate portrait of Gopi's world. As time moves on and their lives necessarily progress without Ma there are reminders that she's gone. Gopi attends a Gujarati school in addition to her English education. This was her mother's primary language. There are moments when one sister still tries to speak to Ma using it or when their father seems to see Ma in a living room chair. While each member of the family mourns in their own way, the aunt and uncle as well as the Gujarati community hurriedly move in to provide instruction for the motherless girls and fill their kitchen with food. The narrative gracefully moves between tender private moments of family life and more public demonstrations of being a functioning unit. While it's definitely a melancholy story there's also a lot of warmth and joy to it. The sisters share such a close physical bond often climbing into each other's beds but they all have distinct personalities. There's also a sweetness to how adolescent Gopi invests so much energy and focus upon this tournament when we know in ten or even five years time the result won't matter to her because she'll have grown and moved beyond it.
It's also a story of an immigrant family and community in Britain who have connections between India, Kenya and Pakistan. While there are subtle tensions which arise from this such as a wariness about Gopi and Pa developing close relationships with a white woman and her son Ged at Western Lane, it's not dramatised for the sake of the plot. It's simply there in the background as part of their lives and I appreciate how this is presented so naturally. Though the family possesses a strong sense of self through their place in the community there's still an ambivalence about how to interact with each other given the tremendous loss they've sustained. Equally, Gopi is so uncertain in how to communicate openly with Ged though there are strong feelings between them: “We were shy and afraid because there was all this feeling between us and we didn't know who we were.” It's beautiful how moments like this capture all the awkwardness of adolescence where so many emotions are present but can't be adequately expressed. At the beginning of the novel her sister Khush assures Gopi that “Things are going to be okay” and we know this will be true despite the depression which could overwhelm them. But it's very touching how this novel shows the way Ma's absence will always be a part of their lives but it won't be the main thing which determines their future.
I imagine some readers might grow impatient with this novel or feel its plot is too slight, but I felt very moved by the gentleness of its story. It's interesting that Chetna Maroo worked alongside author Thomas Morris in The Stinging Fly's workshop program. He's a writer that similarly writes about scenes of contemporary life in a way which stirs a lot of subtle emotion. “Western Lane” feels like a promising debut and I hope Maroo writes more.
This novel is awash with so much sexual anticipation and sensuality it perfectly encapsulates the heady experience of falling in love. It's that feeling when passion becomes all consuming it infuses everything and time is measured by encounters with the desired individual. At the beginning of K Patrick's debut novel its Australian narrator has just arrived in England to work as a matron at a rural girls' boarding school. As she gradually acclimates to the environment and traditions of this old institution, she develops a deep attraction for the Headmaster's wife known simply as Mrs S. The story follows their interactions while building tantalizing suspense with the question of “Will they or won't they?” But it's also an excellent invocation of this emotionally charged environment with the budding egos of the girls and cloistered routines. As more is revealed about the narrator's difficult history with her family and her own discomfort within her own body, her yearning becomes movingly layered with a rich level of psychological complexity. Desire is truly shown in a new light which is both very specific and universal.
The writing in this novel shines with straightforward prose which are so precise and perfectly encapsulate the emotion and personality of the narrator. It's also satisfying how classic the story appears in its texture but how revelatory and new it feels in its meaning. The setting of the boarding school is filled with so many antiquated procedures it's groaning with centuries of routine. Details such as radiators which can't be turned off even when it's hot outside and soggy breakfast toast add to the all-consuming atmosphere of this place. There are also uptight figures such as the Nurse and the local Vicar as well as the doddering Headmaster. Everywhere are the tender personalities of the schoolgirls who sometimes cluster into antagonistic groups and other times drift in melancholy isolation. Their fiery energy is directed at boys, each other and sometimes the narrator: “The girls know about humiliation. They trade in it.” Other than Mrs S, perhaps the narrator's only true point of connection is with the Headmistress who becomes an ally in being a confirmed lesbian. However, their friendship is tinged with the resignation of knowing they only really have each other to rely upon being the most outwardly queer people at the school. Rising above all these other figures is Mrs S whose canny wisdom and prestige allows her to freely move throughout this environment. But she also has a mystery and air of dissatisfaction about her circumstances which adds to the total charm she casts over the narrator.
The narrator's infatuation with Mrs S becomes clear not only through the focus placed upon her, but in the way she describes her relationship with time. She details encounters with Mrs S and how she knows she will compulsively mull over them while mourning for any small detail of that experience which has been lost. This reminded me of Annie Ernaux's book “Simple Passion” in which the author recounts being so swept up in the heat of romance she is thrown out of the present. The mind becomes consumed with memories of past meetings and the anticipation of when they might meet next. Also, certain objects become laced with significance. At one point the narrator furtively conceals a portion of a smashed stained glass window depicting the figure of a woman which she makes a gift to Mrs S. This is filled with unspoken meaning about giving someone's independence back to themselves which may be misjudged by the narrator or misunderstood by Mrs S. Throughout the school there are also reminders of a deceased famous author who once attended this institution. Her strong presence is everywhere but she's essentially unattainable.
Though the novel functions as a romance, its deeper impact is about the question of how fully someone can inhabit themselves in such a location. It's a place which is intended to allow individuals to grow but only within the confines of certain borders. Though there's little opportunity for the kind of self expression which would allow the narrator to test out different ways of being she nevertheless finds opportunities to transcend the limitations of how she might be seen. When Mrs S takes her swimming at one point she remarks “If I could choose a different body, I choose this water”. Her expression of self is indelibly linked to her sincere desire and wish to completely envelop Mrs S. Many other characters such as the Headmistress, the girls and Mrs S struggle to find any such outlet so rebel in small and large ways against the constraints of their circumstances. It's a conflict which is thrillingly teased out in this story which is so compelling that reading it becomes its own kind of obsession.
In an era that's often dominated by confessional “tell all” fiction it's refreshing, in a way, to read a novel that makes a dilapidated cinema the protagonist of the story and the journey we follow is this dying movie house's last hurrah. Each chapter is headed by the title of a different film and the subsequent events frequently play upon the style or subject matter of these movies. We know little of the narrator at all. She calls herself Holly after a character from 'Badlands' and just arrived in the country, but beyond that we know nothing of her past or future plans. She happens to see a movie house advertising “We're hiring” and quickly gets the job. After orientating herself around its strange interior and working there long enough, she's gradually drawn into the sub-culture of film enthusiasts who are her stand-offish colleagues.
This group doesn't just work in the cinema; they stay after hours drinking the dregs left by customers in glasses of alcohol, taking any drugs which customers drop on the floor or stash in the toilets and screw each other on the stained seats of the movie hall. However, they could hardly be called a collective or a united clique as their tastes in films vary wildly and their piling together to share unhealthy snacks while watching countless movies is more a convenience. Instead, it's the actual film house which has more of a body than any of these people with “the building's gaping mouth, a sparkling marquee teeth grin” and a lit chandelier “like a skeleton hanging there”. The single scratched screen plays mostly old films while a river of sewage runs in the concealed depths underneath. There's rumoured to be a mysterious secret screen which reveals itself in surreal moments to the curious narrator.
The Paradise cinema is the oldest in the city and it's definitely seen better days, yet the employees are devoted to it as a living artefact and beacon of culture. I related to this scenario as in my teenage years I worked at a haunted house in an amusement park. The employees had a cultish devotion to the place and often spent time there even when they were off the clock. It's endearing how a group of people who could be classified as misfits find solace in gathering around a place of employment whose days are clearly numbered. Equally, the bizarre owner of The Paradise and its patrons continuously return with religious devotion. This endows the cinema with a strong personality and Grudova relates in great detail the remnants of its glory days as well as the excruciating way it is steadily falling apart. Although I can understand why some readers are put off by the way it almost revels in the grotesque, there's a perverse pleasure in following the farcical events of this novel as it veers into absolute absurdity. For me, the story unraveled somewhat towards the very end as enforced changes to make this old independent cinema conform to a large cinema chain's designs go badly wrong. The narrative dwindles and feels less significant as all we're left with is the insubstantial narrator gazing in wonder at another lost institution.
The unnamed protagonist of “I'm a Fan” isn't really the protagonist of her own life as she spends much of her time following online (and borderline stalking) two individuals. There is “the man I want to be with” and “the woman I am obsessed with” who is also having an affair with this man. Both the narrator and the man she wants to be with are in longterm relationships with other people that are pushed to the periphery of this toxic love triangle. It's a messy state of affairs and the narrator relates her (seemingly) unfiltered thoughts and feelings about this situation while commenting on the nature of social media/the internet as well as issues to do with class and race dynamics. In many ways the frankness of her voice discussing these subjects in short punchy chapters is very refreshing. The dedicated documentation of such a doomed love affair reminded me somewhat of Annie Ernaux’s “Simple Passion”. It’s also tantalising to observe how a private obsession can be poisonously fostered by the act of online following as small details are seized upon as clues to be scrutinized in detail. This is partly because Instagram updates from “the woman I am obsessed with” aren't so much capturing fleeting aspects of her daily life as they are glib public pronouncements of her values, aesthetics and commercial products since she is an influencer. While the narrator severely critiques and abhors this woman she also covets her status and following. It's compelling and challenging how Patel describes this modern conflict.
My issue with the novel isn't, as some readers have complained, that all the characters are “horrible” people – the most likeable people being the man's neglected wife, the narrator's neglected boyfriend and the narrator's mother whose marriage is a compromise. Rather, I became frustrated that in the narrator's rigorous analysis of power dynamics no room is left for genuine human interactions. Every in real life (IRL) meeting with both the woman and man are part of a ploy towards some goal of simulated closeness or strategy for achieving an advantage in this dynamic. This is partly because of the narrator's fragile self esteem which is partly the product of all these larger historical and social issues. It's meaningful how the novel shows this isn't just theoretical: part of the reason the man desires the narrator is because of the colour of her skin and the woman she's obsessed with blithely lives in luxury while the narrator struggles to buy a home. But there's no growth in her character which allows her to progress in her own life or establish any sort of meaningful connection with these figures she obsessively fangirls.
Perhaps Patel is saying in this story that the state of our society and the poisonous effect of social media mean that no true interaction is possible. But such pessimism is stultifyingly glum and not true to life where such borders between very different individuals can disintegrate when moments of honest connection form. Certainly such a relationship might not be possible with the figures that the narrator is fixated upon, but the story would have felt more radical if she could have found someone who she could establish a bond with that wasn't defined by division. It's a sad effect of relationships that are mediated through social media that so much is left unsaid (even though it's a medium which is all about making pronouncements.) I appreciate how this tale looks through the screen to focus on someone who is viewing and calling out virtue signalling. She also finds herself haplessly playing into a system that grants more advantage to those who are already advantaged. Instead of being able to progress she instead finds herself circulating in the vacuum. It's a position which will hopefully become quickly dated as more and more people eschew platforms that are all about hollow interactions. I'm (obviously) not against social media or the internet in general, but I hope there's a future where the major fallibilities of these platforms can be changed and more honest interactions can occur to bridge our differences.
One of the things I love about following book prizes is that they sometimes highlight books which weren't on my radar that I probably wouldn't have read otherwise. When the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023 longlist was announced it was the first I'd heard about “Black Butterflies” but this debut novel certainly packs an emotional punch and I was enthralled by its harrowing story. It begins in the Spring of 1992 as tensions are rising in the city of Sarajevo. Zora is a teacher and respected artist whose elderly mother is poorly. When she asks her older husband to accompany her mother to the English countryside to stay with their daughter, Zora plans to eventually join them. She's reluctant to leave this diverse and beautiful city she loves. However, when the Bosnian War escalates and conditions turn dire she and her friends and neighbours find themselves trapped in a metropolis which is continuously bombed while essential utilities cease and resources dwindle. This personal tale shows the first year of the Siege of Sarajevo from the inside. It contains heartfelt moments of humanity and instances of vicious cruelty as the resilience of these survivors is severely tested in brutal circumstances.
Though its narrated in the third person, this novel presents the world fully through Zora's perspective. So the city is shown to be full of superb architecture, surrounded by a gorgeous environment and rich with delicious food. As a historic crossroad and European centre it's also filled with people from many different cultures and backgrounds. But dramatic political changes mean that distinctions in nationality and religion which didn't matter before now mean everything. Nearly every ordinary citizen is either a target or under suspicion. It's horrifying how conditions deteriorate so quickly as the city turns into a war zone. The novel powerfully captures the way this creates a surprising juxtaposition of normalcy and desolation. It also produces odd intimacies with strangers on the street and neighbours. Sometimes this sudden closeness is fleeting as people shelter from an attack and other times it forms bonds which last. We witness how communities can come together and how strangers often argue about possible misinformation while waiting in long lines for water. I felt so drawn into Zora's experiences it made these conditions feel increasingly palpable and frighteningly real.
Amidst so much death and destruction, it's very moving how the novel presents art as not just a frivolous respite but an essential testament. Zora became famed for her paintings of bridges not only as a symbol which connects people to each other but as magnificent objects. The story traces how her attitude toward her art and its practice are changed by larger events. While she continues to teach her remaining students, she takes a neighbour girl under her tutelage and they create pictures with what materials are available. This relationship and the desire for people to still experience beauty comes to feel so precious especially as the assault reaches the city's most sacred landmarks and the meaning of the novel's title becomes clear. A community art show which might seem quaint in other circumstances here feels like a last string of humanity which people desperately cling to and it becomes a poignant celebration.
I don't know a lot about the Bosnian War and reading this powerful story has prompted me to want to learn more. But it also shows how even many of the civilians caught in the crossfire or forced into military service didn't understand what the fight was about which adds to an understanding of the absurdity and senselessness of war. It's a timely reminder that even the most robust civilizations become terrifyingly fragile when fear and hatred are allowed to create divisions. So I became thoroughly emotionally invested in Zora's struggle. The book grows increasingly tense in a way which kept me gripped but also woke me up to the reality of how such assaults on ordinary citizens has happened and continues to happen in other parts of the world today. It's an accomplished work of fiction and I'll be eager to read anything Priscilla Morris publishes next.
In the past several years there have been many nuanced novels describing instances of displacement and migration. Some examples of moving stories about families in transit I've read include “America is Not the Heart”, “Kololo Hill” and “The Hungry Ghosts”. However, especially after the heated public debate about the novel “American Dirt”, there's a heightened awareness concerning the sensitivity needed when portraying the lives of people forced to leave their country of birth. This is an issue author Cecile Pin is conscious of in her exquisite debut novel “Wandering Souls” which describes the fates of a Vietnamese family who embark on a perilous journey to flee persecution. The most central character is Anh, the eldest sibling who must suddenly take on a great deal of responsibility. Although it's a relatively short book there are different narratives which are all deftly handled and combine to form an affecting complex tale. One strand is an authorial voice who struggles to decide how such a chronicle should be told and declares “I am trying to carve out a story between the macabre and the fairy tale, so that a glimmer of truth can appear.” What emerges is a unique form of fiction which is both joyous and tragic and it shines with heartfelt sincerity.
The novel is so carefully calibrated to include historical and political accounts ranging from the tragedy of The Koh Kra massacre to Thatcher's policies to American military tactics. However, this doesn't distract from the emotional power of this being a story about family life. I think the balance works so well because of the evocative details used which leave a memorable impression. There are moments of pure happiness such as the siblings sledging during their first English snowfall and the lingering taste of caramelized braised pork which the family shared on their final meal together before departing Vietnam. And there are feelings of fear, grief and trauma which emerge in different ways through the distinct personalities of the siblings. Alongside the story of the children who survive and find a new country to call home there's also the voice of their sensitive younger brother Dao who died in transit. His charismatic spectral presence is very touching while also being a reminder of how fate is so cruelly fickle. The lives that the survivors build for themselves is hard won with a melancholy awareness of the family they've lost.
It feels like some debut novels have been building up in an author's mind for their entire life. This is certainly the case with “Fire Rush”. In the bio for Jacqueline Crooks on the dust jacket it describes how she was involved in the music and political scene of migrant communities in 70s and 80s London and that she was “immersed in the gang underworld as a young woman.” This novel follows Yamaye through this same period of time. She spends her nights clubbing with friends at a venue which caters for the emerging dub music scene. But when a promising relationship is cut short because of a racist attack by the police, she's thrust into a movement of protest and criminality which eventually leads her to Bristol and Jamaica. At one point she muses “I wonder if one day I'll write a song, a sound memorial for the times we had. Those winter nights of music and heat, Asase, Rumer, Moose and me.” This innovative novel is that memorial because although it's fiction it is rich with the feeling of perilous young adulthood and prose which are infused with the music of British African-Caribbean culture. Reading it is a mesmerising, revelatory and utterly immersive experience.
What's immediately striking about this book is the voice of Yamaye which strongly captures her perspective as a creative young black woman in London. Both her narrative and the dialogue build a powerful sense of her personality and worldview. She resides in a housing estate with her emotionally-distant father, works a tedious job and longs for a connection with her absent mother. What gives her life is going to a club with her friends and chanting lyrics in her head which eventually burst out in public improv sessions when she takes to the mic. Although she finds inspiration and support from this community there's also an element of animosity. It's striking how she frames the slender options available to her when unwanted men grind against her in the club or when the police come knocking on her door. Also, her strong-willed close friend Asase is an ally but she also belittles Yamaye. On top of this is the larger threat of “Babylon” or the British establishment with police who target and spy upon both her and her community. It's inspiring witnessing Yamaye's growth over the course of the dramatic story. Although she experiences tragedy, heartbreak and violence she channels this into artistic expression. She also courageously fights to establish a space where she can feel at home.
There's a mural of black protest near to where I live in south London and its message really came alive for me when reading a section of this novel which features a march through Norwood that turns into a riot. These scenes are filled with evocative physical details and convey the emotional atmosphere of this confrontation in the streets. A visceral pain and anger for the way minorities have been systematically discriminated against and marginalized in this country is powerfully expressed throughout the story. Yamaye is deeply aware of the way her ancestors were subjugated on a day to day basis from the sugar she consumes to the nightmares that plague her. The story also meaningfully deals with the complexity of how to move forward as a society with options that range from complicity to flight to extremism. By following Yamaye's heartrending journey we experience the personal impact and difficulty of these larger events and debates.
The ongoing story lines of who might be snitching to the police in their local community and what happened to Yamaye's mother add compelling elements of mystery to the novel. Although I was fully engaged by this book, there were some elements of the plot that felt a little clunky to me. Circumstances surrounding a friend's incarceration are handled a little too swiftly, some encounters rely too heavily on coincidence and the ending came across as melodramatic. Also some of the short dream sequences dealt a bit too literally with the novel's central subjects. But these are minor quibbles considering the overall vibrancy of the utterly unique prose. It's a moving experience following the way Yamaye grows and transforms over the novel. This story may be set in the past but there is an urgency to Crooks' writing which successfully pays tribute to a movement and music scene which isn't part of mainstream history but whose influence is still strongly felt today.
Before I read “The Rabbit Hutch” I was very drawn to the story because the synopsis describes how teenage central character Blandine dreams of becoming a female mystic. This instantly made me think of the 1990 film 'Mermaids' and the pious Charlotte Flax played by Winona Ryder. However, once Blandine's appearance is described in the book I couldn't help picturing her more like the actress Anya Taylor-Joy. Film references aside, I was instantly delighted by the structure Tess Gunty chose for this narrative which alights upon the stories of several residents of a low-cost apartment complex in the financially depressed town of Vacca Vale. We witness different individuals' preoccupations watching television, struggling to care for a baby and performing naked on a webcam for money. Though the many characters are in close proximity to each other and can hear each other through the thin walls and ceilings they have little or no physical interactions. Blandine herself lives with three teenage boys who are also products of the state foster system. They are attracted to her but know little about Blandine as she is mysterious in her habits and what she divulges about her past. She is a complex and damaged character who also possesses an ethereal beauty and high intelligence. The novel describes a series of events one summer leading up to the ominously foreshadowed event where “she exits her body”. Whether this is through spiritual transcendence or death is left tantalizingly unclear until the story's dramatic conclusion.
It's interesting how the novel presents larger issues going on in the community as reflected by the individual perspectives of different residents. A controversial renewal plan is disrupted by creepy protest actions. The motor industry which employed many of the area's residents has departed and left behind unemployment and pollution. An egocentric actress dies in old age but is still remembered as the beloved child star of a schmaltzy sitcom. I enjoyed how these subjects touch the characters' lives like all the ambient noise in the apartment complex so they are involved but at a remove. It's intriguing how a larger picture of life gradually unfolds through this constellation of points of view. However, the primary figures Gunty focuses on throughout the novel didn't feel as compelling as the potential of this narrative design. Both Blandine and a figure named Moses who is the son of the deceased actress Elsie are imbued with a lot of eccentricities which begin to feel more grating than endearingly quirky. I felt much more invested in the relatively down-to-earth figure of Joan whose job is to monitor public comments on a memorial website. But even her character becomes slightly burdened by overtly idiosyncratic detail such as her ability to consume limitless amount of watermelon, the freckles on her eyelids and her penchant for eating jars of maraschino cherries in bed. These descriptions come to feel more whimsical rather than realistically building upon the circumscribed world of Vacca Vale.
I did appreciate the way in which Blandine's near other-worldliness is gradually deflated as we come to understand the truth about her background and a tumultuous affair she had with a former teacher. Given the way in which she's been used and manipulated her flirtation with fervent religious practices begins to feel entirely natural and logical. However, the larger plot in regards to animal sacrifice, obstructions to redevelopment plans and Blandine's radical intervention felt a little contrived. So I was left feeling somewhat unsatisfied. Where this novel really shined for me were in the small moments in the lives of individuals as viewed through Gunty's prismatic lens: a couple's indignity at finding a mouse corpse which has been dropped on their balcony, a woman named Penny who plants herself outside a convenience story with a shopping cart full of Beanie Babies and a young man whose online self exposure leads to empty connections. Our brief time with these characters lead to small glimpses into experience which is both unique and relatable. This is Tess Gunty's debut and it's won the coveted National Book Award, but I get the feeling she'd be a much better short story writer than a novelist.
