Caledonian Road by Andrew O'Hagan

“Caledonian Road” is a dramatic and epic novel about modern London. It presents snapshots of many different levels of society which mostly circle around this area of the city to the northeast of King's Cross. It gradually forms a grand portrait about how people and the issues they face are interconnected. There's a sense that the economic disparity in this particular area persists despite decades of reforms and that this is representative of imbalances throughout the nation as a whole. From the plight of immigrants, the dangers of criminal gangs, the workings of the media/politics and the immorality of the elite/super-wealthy, Andrew O'Hagan utilizes his journalistic experience to harness many of the most pressing news stories of our day and distills them into a Dickensian tale replete with virtuous and comically repulsive characters.

Though the point of view often switches between many different individuals the most central figure is art historian Campbell Flynn. He's undergoing an artistic and financial crisis having published a respectable biography on Vermeer but now he's written a self help book about men which is projected to be a huge bestseller. He comes from a humble Scottish background but now inhabits the upper echelons of society. Various dealings have left him desperate for money and led him to compromise his integrity and talents to take lucrative jobs ranging from fashion industry write-ups to an inspiring podcast series. He's also an academic that has recently formed a strong connection to his student Milo whose vociferous cultural critiques tap Campbell into something real and modern. However, Milo has his own designs to utilize his skills as a hacker to become a whistle blower reminiscent of Julian Assange (O'Hagan once attempted to ghost write an autobiography for this activist.)

Despite his privilege, Campbell is surrounded by a number of people who regard him with contempt from some of his academic colleagues to the sitting tenant in the apartment of his building. Campbell's good friend Sir William is also going through a crisis as his financial and sexual affairs come under scrutiny. His prosecution and some other dramatic events unravel the secrets and corruption underpinning many of the lives of this large cast of characters – so large that there is a list of the dramatis personae at the start of the novel (a handy reference I frequently flipped back to keep track of who is who.) Although many of the characters are arrogant, corrupt and distasteful (especially amongst the upper set) I enjoyed how O'Hagan reveals their flaws through scenes where they demonstrate how self-justified they feel in their opinions and positions. They're well aware what others think of them but they stick to their guns as they believe they are in the right. A lot of humour emerges from this and keeps the story rollicking along as Campbell moves between the cast. I'm impressed with O'Hagan's ambition to not only present many levels of society and a broad social landscape of contemporary London but to actually inhabit a number of these different characters' voices through dialogue and their mental process. It's brave of him and I couldn't testify to the authenticity of the many different people he portrays but it's handled with confidence. Sometimes it does feel like characters embody certain issues and communities that O'Hagan wants to discuss in a way which makes them feel more representative than authentic. Nevertheless, there are scenes where a psychological complexity and emotional levels develop with certain characters so that I grew to care about several of them and I was intrigued to follow their storylines.

I know some readers have felt somewhat alienated from the book when they're not as intimately familiar with London as a city or British politics, but O'Hagan's evocative descriptions give a strong sense of the environment, people and issues at stake. It's difficult for me to judge how effective this is since I have lived in the city for over twenty years so I've observed how it's changed and I'm more familiar with what's being portrayed. I've even met some people who feel very reminiscent of some of the novel's characters. There's also a pleasure for me recognizing certain aspects of the cityscape in the narrative even when it's something as casual as Byron Burger (a once large food chain which diminished considerably after the pandemic) or Google's enormous new building which is still being build in King's Cross. Many of the characters' routes can be physically traced and followed through the city. I also appreciated how O'Hagan links some characters' experience of the capitol through different imagery (such as swans) and their individual interpretation of these reference points.

The many individual stories of these characters feed into a larger entangled tale of criminal activity, exploitation and economic disparity. It makes sense that “Caledonian Road” is frequently described as a state of the nation novel since so much of the story questions how the country's character and politics is being dictated by greed and a desire to maintain the appearance of power/dominance/being a first world nation. A character comments at one point that the English will do anything for £1million and it's been well reported how much London property is being held as an investment by international tycoons making the city more into a shell rather than a living metropolis. It feels effective how the overarching story is gesturing towards these larger issues and their complexities.

Overall, the story felt consistently engaging to me although I was interested in some characters more than others (Elizabeth, Moira, Jakub being amongst the most sympathetic to me.) However, other characters were intriguingly monstrous such as Yuri, Jake and Antonia. Still others were fascinating in their denial of the truth about what's happening because they are so fixated on their version of reality like Mrs Krupa, Candy and Mrs Voyles. Milo is one of the most contentious characters in the novel. For much of it he feels simply like a counterpoint to Campbell. As a computer wiz who is morally righteous and driven by the loss of his mother/friends, he's intent on disrupting the system and exposing corruption. Rather than feeling invested in his storyline itself I was more interested in how he is one of the few characters not willing to compromise his values in any way. Many characters (gang members, truck drivers, models, pot growers, politicians, writers) set aside their moral sense for the time being as they expect to soon be financially independent enough or socially powerful enough to live by their own code, but the day where that happens keeps getting extended into the future until their actions catch up with them. Campbell seems to be the supreme example of this as his underlying financial crisis/reliance on substance abuse means the more he tries to get himself out of this mess the more he becomes entangled in it until it reaches an absolute crisis point.

I think O'Hagan is effective in demonstrating how difficult it is in this day and age to wholly live by certain moral standards because we're often shielded from how we're involved in a much larger system. The characters' actions show how many of us want to retain our own personal comfort as a priority. Maintaining the status quo is also very appealing. There are certain characters such as a Russian oligarch whose status and actions come across like something directly extracted from a news story - as do many of this novel's plot lines. That's not bad necessarily as the novel uses satire to paint a large canvas with what concerns the English sensibility at this period of time. However, it does add to the sense that some characters come across more like symbols or stereotypes and this feels more problematic for those individuals that come from other nations: the wealthy/criminal Russians, the Polish immigrants, the Irish drivers. Nevertheless, there are moments where I felt emotionally involved with them so I keep going back and forth about how I feel about this novel as a whole. It's one I'd like to return to at some point as I think I'll be able to pick up on the nuances better now that I'm familiar with the characters and overall plot as a whole.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

This novel is narrated by an Irish mother describing the extremely difficult experience of raising her son. She addresses these reflections to the son and refers to this boy as Sailor. Though the narrative is directed at him it's left ambivalent whether she's writing this down as a letter or merely composing this monologue in her mind. We follow roughly a year or so in her life during which Sailor turns two and then three years old. She's deeply exhausted, frustrated and depressed. This state of mind is infused into the narrative itself which veers from sharply realistic and disastrous scenes of daily life to hazy waking dream like states to periods of deep contemplation.

The story puts out into the open a lot of the harsh reality concerning parenting which is often swept under the carpet. Early on she wonders: “Would you have had a baby if they told you that stuff?” Yet this isn't simply a story about the horrors of parenting which would scare anyone away from wanting to have a child. It is just one woman's perspective – it's not trying to be universal although I'm sure many parents will greatly relate to particular moments in this book and there's a lot to learn here. It's very raw and emotional and down to earth, but also finely written (almost poetic in places) and occasionally funny (often in a tragi-comic way). A small detail I found very funny early on is when she says “I unstrapped my prize marrow” as if the baby were a vegetable she's bringing to the country fair.

There's a real crispness to Kilroy's prose which can so neatly sum up her experience: “I was so tired and you were so hungry. But you wouldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. Mother and child.” Even though the story of the difficulty of raising a child has been told many times before and we all know a lot of what she describes (whether we have direct experience of it or not) it's never been told quite like this before. So it felt very original to me. At it's heart this book feels like a desperate cry to be heard and understood and a plea for people to stop being dicks. This is something she states a number of time in the way people react to her or dismiss her in public when she's clearly going through a tough time. In reference to a cashier she remarks “To him I was yet another clumsy housewife who couldn't keep up with him. I know this because I used to think that way too. I used to be a dick. There's a spectrum. I was on it. But you won't be a dick because I have enlightened you. Be an astronaut, be a nurse, be a postman, be whatever. Just don't be a dick.” One of the biggest dicks in her life is her husband. She's the main caretaker as he has a demanding job and is often at the office. But even when he is home the duties of parenting are still placed upon her. So she doesn't have the time to work herself or express herself creatively. Again, it's well known that high expectations are placed upon a mother at home while the father works but this novel really shows the ins and outs of that experience.

The husband does often come across as a villainous dick. He says and does some horribly dismissive and neglectful things. But because it's entirely from her perspective we only get her side so undoubtably it's very difficult for him as well. I feel like the novel acknowledges this in some of her extreme actions and the way she can dismiss his good intentions and questions when he's trying to understand her. Yet I primarily felt on her side because she's often wrangling with the child while he's there but he's just on his phone or watching tv.

It's very interesting that she also occasionally meets someone she refers to as her friend. This is a man she's known since childhood. He now has three children and they sometimes run into each other at the playground. As the primary carer since his wife works a demanding job he can really sympathise with her because he's going through the same thing. This has such a positive effect because part of the trouble is how isolated and lonely she is. He's a counterpoint to her husband and she remarks at one point: “my faith in masculinity was at stake and my friend redeemed it”. But I feel like there's a compelling ambiguity about whether the friend is even real or someone she's just imagined as a companion. This aspect really reminded me of the film 'Tully' where Charlize Theron portrays a highly stressed mother. I think the novel does leave it up to interpretation. The friend could be real and his life has coincidentally run parallel to hers. For part of the book I wondered if there was a romantic tension there but I don't think it's as simple as that because she also states at one point “I didn't want my friend to be my husband. I wanted my husband to be my friend.” And that seems to get at the crux of why she's relating her experience like this.

She understandably feels like she's losing her mind and that she's losing her connection to the people most precious to her: her husband and her son. So this account is a heartfelt attempt to solidify that connection and create an understanding between them. Even though it's almost definitely an internal monologue it raises interesting questions about whether it's right for a parent to be this open about the struggles they face. Is it damaging and placing too much guilt upon a child to let that child know the pain its mere existence has caused? Or is it better to have total honesty so there can be real understanding within a family? I think these are questions this novel is consciously raising and there aren't any easy answers. Certainly there have been points I've wondered what my parents really went through raising me but would I really want to know that full truth? It's hard to say.

There are a couple of brief poignant moments in the story where she recalls her own parents. There's the memory of being taken to a beach as a child and wanting to return to that beach but realising it's not the beach she misses but the parent and a connection to that parent. At another point she acknowledges the lineage of motherhood she's entered where she writes “I had sighed like my mother had sighed before me and hers before her...” So she seems to be relating this story so her son will feel this connection too. But, again, it's also ambiguous about whether Sailor actually hears or reads what his mother is telling him. It's more likely that she's silently directing her thoughts towards him and he'll never know how she really felt going through this often hellish experience. This adds another tragic element to the story. So I found reading this book a moving and eye opening experience especially since I don't have any children myself.

Parasol Against the Axe by Helen Oyeyemi

How would a city respond if it were being trolled online? That's what Oyeyemi presents at the beginning of this curious, inventive and mischievous novel. Prague cannot be contained in a weekend but by following the experiences of three old friends who venture there for an uncommon hen party we see how their lives intersect and meld with the city's past. It's a riotous adventure travelling with them through the winding streets. Like anyone who attempts to take an idealistic stroll through a place which is new to them, things rarely go to plan. There are some especially funny scenes involving petty conflicts and bickering with the people they encounter.

The chequered pasts of these characters catch up with them while the metropolis' history and living present impresses itself upon them. Their colourful biographies reveal many surprises involving criminality, artistic differences and alternative names. It made me think about how we like to imagine that our identities are robust and fixed things that can slotted into an online profile. But really we're susceptible to changes as the world around us – especially a bustling city with a lively persona - demands attention.

The story about a bookstore which doesn't accept currency but works through an exchange of titles was extremely appealing. I was intrigued by the shapeshifting book Paradoxical Undressing which accompanies them. It shows how every story cannot be contained just like every personality cannot be classified. The way in which Hero engages with its text reminded me how any book which I take on a journey becomes a part of my travels as I dip into reading it at various points while experiencing new landscapes, meeting fresh people and learning about local tales. “Parasol Against the Axe” feels baffling at times but I was dazzled by the originality of its style and charismatic oddity. Oyeyemi's writing can be likened to Ali Smith and readers who require a strong plot should be cautious, but if you're in the mood for getting lost in a tangle of idiosyncratic stories her books are a joy to discover.

Bright Fear by Mary Jean Chan

It's difficult to ever feel entirely comfortable in one's own skin. Following on from the excellent debut “Flèche”, Chan's new collection of poetry continues to describe the tension between self expression and belonging. Some poems deal with the struggle to find acceptance within the family and the bravery required to present oneself authentically. Sage advice is offered in the line “refuse to be a bomb shelter for your mother's fears.” But the book also suggests the surprising love and approval that can be found when there is honesty. Other poems reference the recent pandemic and startling moments of bigotry that are experienced. Not only do belittling words and actions create fresh lacerations but they're a reminder of all the different levels of abuse one has experienced throughout life and “How the body endures the toll of another's glance.” Over the course of three sections, this collection presents a life in constant flux and how we search for moments of solace and potential connection within our shared language.

One of the standout poems for me is titled 'Hindsight' which follows a path of logic considering one's position of privilege in relation to the suffering of past generations. Then the lines of the poem are reversed to give a whole new meaning and perspective on this issue. There's a natural guilt which accompanies living with a knowledge about the struggles our ancestors contended with and knowing that we wouldn't exist if they hadn't persisted through them. But that doesn't mean we should minimise the perils we face in our present times alongside the opportunities that have been provided. This poem poignantly expressed this through its structure and helped clarify my understanding after grappling with this issue for a long time.

Just as the author meaningfully articulates the challenges of navigating the world, there's also a deep consideration for the difficulty of finding which form this writing should take. This is addressed playfully at one point where it's noted “The poet opened a clean Word document, titled it POETRY, then saved it in a folder titled NONFICTION, then saved it in a folder titled FICTION.” Chan admits a preference for the poetic mode because “I want my reader to understand my protagonist and their feelings without my having to describe them in detail”. Poetry also comes across as the best refuge when confronted with the judgement of others: “I left home for the poem: inscrutable house, constructed space, blue room, how the poets have named a heaven in which lonely meanings sit companionably beside lonely children.” Many beautiful moments of connection can be found through the poems in this excellent book.

England's Green by Zaffar Kunial

The poetry in “England's Green” describes not only the natural world in this country but the personal and national history embedded in its flora and language. Kunial is so attentive to the construction of words as well as their sounds. In several poems he takes certain words apart to give the reader a unique three dimensional view of them demonstrating how “Words have pockets. Small, deep pockets that go on for ages. We put words on a page and they preserve infinitely more than we mean or guess”. Through this attention to linguistics the author delves into his family's past and converses with writers from Chaucer to Shakespeare to the Brontës. As many authors do, several poems begin with an epigraph however Kunial adds a touching personal resonance when quoting from Iris Murdoch's “Flight from the Enchanter” as he notes the underlinings were made by his mother in her copy of the book. This imaginative and playful collection is awash with emotional resonance which shines through in each carefully constructed and beautiful line.

I also enjoy how alongside the actual past Kunial considers potential alternative paths in life and spaces in time when things could have gone differently. He states “We all have lives that go on without us. Unwritten... a realm between weathers, where losses and times fold, at the crease – clueless as to what it was. Or for whom.” This so wonderfully encapsulates the influence of chance upon our lives as well as the ambiguity of different possible outcomes. Through our ability to recall and reimagine amidst our individual linear narratives he posits how “Life is wider than its page. And days are a cut field, clipped and made to run on.” The resonance of these larger themes coupled with the metaphorical force in these poems makes them utterly arresting to read. I especially enjoyed the way he incorporates nature and at one point describes “the snow drops – tiny tongueless bells – the quietness is still ringing”. With great intelligence Kunial allows us to re-view words and the world around us. This book also has one of the best endings I've ever read in any poetry collection: “The very last thing poetry is is a poem.”

The Golden Mole by Katherine Rundell

It can be easy to forget just how astonishingly wonderful and weird animals can be. Rundell has created a collection of short essays focusing on an array of creatures whose characteristics and histories are so extraordinary their very existence seems like a miracle worth preserving. Some such as the pangolin and narwhal are more exotic and some such as the bear and crow feel more commonplace. But the author teases out fascinating facts about all their behaviour and makeup which make us re-view the true beauty of these beings. From burrowing marsupials to ancient sharks that dwell in the depths of the ocean, we learn intriguing information about them as well as how many face destruction because of humans and the effects of climate change. There are also often details about the way these animals have held a certain place in our culture and politics leading us to either fear, harvest or revere them. Rather than attempting to give comprehensive accounts of all these creatures, Rundell consciously takes an idiosyncratic approach to alight upon curious information which sparks the readers imagination and sense of wonder.

As a way of winding down at the end of the day I'll often read aloud to my husband before bed. This collection made an excellent book for this routine as each section is usually only four-five pages long (the perfect amount before either or both of us grow too sleepy to continue.) It also made a delightful surprise to reveal what would be our “animal of the night”. There were many instances where we'd exclaim aloud at facts such as how “wolves are one of the very few animals who convey information with facial expressions” or how mating seahorses “dance” by changing colours, entwining tails and clicking at each other. I was particularly delighted to discover the first animal discussed in the book is the wombat since it's a favourite creature of mine. The beginning of each chapter comes with a beautiful custom illustration of each animal by Talya Baldwin which adds to the overall exquisite beauty of this edition which is adorned with gold foil. Such a level of attention rightly makes Rundell's nature book feel like a sacred text. Given that half of the author royalties are going to charities to push back climate change and environmental destruction, hopefully this publication will also do a little to help the creatures within it survive.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

Barbara Kingsolver uses the same structure and moral imperative of Dickens' “David Copperfield” to tell the enthralling and utterly convincing fictional story of Demon Copperhead, a charismatic boy born into an impoverished area of contemporary rural America. His real name is Damon Fields but he bears the nickname of the title which is what people called him as a boy because of his absent father who had a snake tattoo and copper-wire hair. But also it's a moniker he proudly adopts as a way of asserting his individuality and “You can't deny, it's got a power to it.” In a charmingly conversational and evocative manner he recounts the story of his life from his birth up through to his adulthood having survived an abusive stepfather, a mother grappling with substance abuse, foster care where he's forced into farm labour and drug addiction borne out of America's surging opioid crisis. There's a physicality to the language of this narrative which evokes the feel and texture of this adolescent boy's existence. His fiery spirit, wicked sense of humour and rational ability to navigate the challenges of his circumstances make his narrative mesmerising. Through his eyes we witness the state of a country where individuals in Demon's position can fall between the cracks and suffer from the stereotypes made about people in rural and low income areas.

It was especially meaningful reading this novel after having previously read Patrick Radden Keefe's searing nonfiction account “Empire of Pain” concerning the Sackler family's involvement in the pharmaceutical industry. This background knowledge of the financial drive to prescribe the drug OxyContin despite its highly addictive nature was useful as a large portion of the novel is concerned with characters unwittingly caught in this system – although I don't think it would have prevented me from appreciating the story if I hadn't been aware of it already. The way in which Kingsolver has dramatised this conflict and crisis powerfully shows the social and psychological implications of health services which are driven by profit rather than the welfare of patients. Demon is part of a whole generation whose early lives were stymied or cut short because of this drug and its addictive effects. The tragic way this plays out in the story makes this far-reaching issue intensely felt and it's utterly heartbreaking knowing this is merely one of countless examples of this drug's virulent influence.

I also appreciated the way this novel gives a complex picture of its hero's ethnicity. Demon knows he's from Melungeon heritage, but he only understands the real meaning of this over the course of the story. It taps into a whole history of citizens who experienced prejudice but were excluded from legal protection as their mixed racial heritage meant they didn't fit into a legally defined category. As he becomes more aware of the past and his position in the world, Demon comes to understand why some people react to him in the way they do and call him certain names. Through slurs to do with his race and regionality he comes to understand “A thing grows teeth when it's put into words.” Yet he also learns that terms intended to wound can be reclaimed and used to empower those who experience the deleterious effects of bigotry. This leads Demon to artistically harness satire as a means of counteracting the stereotypes inflicted upon him and those he loves in a cartoon series he draws titled “RedNeck”. Through his humour and intelligence, he's able to emerge from his perilous circumstances and fraught journey as a survivor with an important story to tell.

Girls in their Married Bliss by Edna O'Brien

Has there ever been a more ironic title for a novel? In the third book of O'Brien's 'Country Girls' trilogy we pick up with Cait and Baba to discover they have separately married. Despite the prospect of her independence in London at the end of “The Lonely Girl”, Cait has actually married the problematic older man Eugene, given birth to his child and is in the midst of an affair when the novel begins. Baba has also married a prosperous but dull-witted man who is a poor match for this highly social and sexually forward woman. Neither of these women are content with their lives, let alone feeling anything close to bliss. Along with learning about the developments in these girls' lives which occurred between the novels the most striking thing about this latest instalment is that O'Brien has changed the narrative so it alternates between Cait and Baba's perspective. (Previously, we've been firmly locked in Cait's point of view.) It's quite emotional following the dramatic events of this novel as I've grown to closely know and care about both these girls as they've struggled to achieve their desires while developing into independent women.

At first it's a great novelty getting Baba's brashly unfiltered perspective. However, it soon feels a bit too chaotic as events unfold and it ultimately detracted from my enjoyment of following a story which had previously engrossed me. I'm not sure why O'Brien chose to change the narrative in this way as Baba's voice and point of view always came through clearly enough in the dialogue of previous books. Of course, it's also more gloomy following the girls into their adult lives as all the promise and prospects they enjoyed when they were younger and rebellious have dwindled as they've made certain life choices. It previously seemed like there were educational and professional prospects for them but those have seemingly been put aside. Far from finding personal contentment in motherhood, each woman differently struggles with parenting while being embroiled in relationship difficulties. There's the sad fact that these girls have become bound by the same struggles which inhibited their mothers' livelihood. So it's depressing seeing the cycle continue.

Nonetheless, the novel makes a striking statement about how we all get caught in the “rut of human existence” because of conflicts to do with romance, friendships and living in a community. However, because of the conservative attitudes and the dominant religion in Ireland at that time, these women aren't equipped to deal with and productively discuss the challenges that they face. There's no support network for their issues which are universal but the patriarchy expects them to silently abandon their desires and submit to what's expected of them. They are locked in a perpetual state of “girlhood”. While their difficulties are partly circumstantial they also have personalities which compel them to make some unfortunate choices and they end up perpetuating damaging behaviour. This trilogy also includes an afterward by the author which is really more like a novella and from what I understand O'Brien wrote it several years after completing this third book. Sadly, this only reinforces the sense that rather than being beacons of progress these girls end up damaging those around them and find no fulfilment. It's realistic that things work out this way, but it does make these last instalments relentlessly depressing to read. Previously it felt like the novels achieved a good balance between humour and seriousness. All this meant that I enjoyed this third novel the least of all the books, but O'Brien is such a skilful writer and this trilogy is truly a modern classic in the forthright way it presents the perspective of the young Irish female experience.

The Lonely Girl by Edna O'Brien

It's such a pleasure following this continuing drama about two Irish country girls who are now young women dealing with very adult problems. The story picks up two years after the end of “The Country Girls” when Cait and her spirited friend Baba are living in rented accommodation in Dublin. Both are working and enjoying their status as independent women in the city free from the constraints of family and the religious school of their youth. But, while Baba is consumed with flirting and partying, Cait has recovered from her misjudged romance in the first book and now embarks on a perilous new relationship with Eugene, an older man and documentary filmmaker. They grapple with intimacy and move into his house together though it's still crowded with memories of his first wife (reminiscent of “Rebecca”). Meanwhile, a series of anonymous letters makes Cait's father aware of the perceived inappropriateness of her relations with Eugene. Suddenly she finds herself in danger of being trapped in the constrained family life she thought she'd been freed from. It's a story filled with tense conflict and complex emotions as it charts Cait's continuing development. There are also numerous deliciously funny scenes and heartbreaking moments as Cait struggles to maintain her autonomy and articulate her desires.

While the narrative is primarily concerned with Cait and Baba's current issues it's touching how Cait continues to occasionally reflects upon her childhood and lost mother. There's a tragic moment when she recalls how she never saw her mother happy or even laugh. It adds to the sense of what dreary circumstances her poor mum endured and compounds the sense of grief Cait carries about her loss. She's confronted by blatant hypocrisy from conservative members of society including a priest who excuses her father's excessive drinking because of the climate. While we spend the majority of the story with Cait we also get some interesting insights into Baba's life and how startlingly blasé she is about a pregnancy scare. It's clever though how the narrative hints at more tender emotions beneath her hard exterior especially when it comes to how desperately she wants Cait to accompany her to London. There's also the intriguing mystery of who sent the anonymous letters to Cait and her father. I'm curious if this will ever be resolved or if it will remain a malicious act from the shadows.

There's a very dramatic confrontation at Eugene's house when Cait's father and his friends attempt to retrieve her. More than the tense scene this creates, it feels like a clash between two different factions of Irish society with results which are violent and absurd. The father's cohorts express distinct nationalistic sentiments and paranoia about “foreigners”. It's also telling how both sides seem more concerned with their own self righteousness than Cait's actual welfare. Cait's continuing feelings of guilt and her sympathetic uncertainty about what she really wants in life seem only natural. Her emotional seriousness is counterbalanced so well with Baba's freewheeling attitude. Every time Baba appears her cutting dialogue, eye rolling impatience with Cait and odd pretensions are always hilarious. There are eerie parallels between the ends of the first and second novels where Cait longingly waits for a man's arrival, but this new instalment ends on a much more hopeful note. It leaves me eager to find out where their lives lead next.

Fight Night by Miriam Toews

Nine year old Swiv lives at home with her mother and grandmother after being suspended from school for fighting. Her grandmother Elvira has taken on the responsibility of her education though her methods of teaching are certainly unconventional, idiosyncratic and funny. Swiv's mother is frequently overwhelmed as she's heavily pregnant, struggling to find work as an actor and grappling with her own mental health issues. Since Swiv's father is absent, this novel takes the form of a letter she's writing to him (although most of the book settles down into a more standard account of events as she experiences them.) Each of these women write their own letters – not so much to communicate with someone but to try to articulate what they want and understand their own experiences. Their personalities vibrantly come to life as we learn about the intimate details of their days, the story behind the father's disappearance and their opinions of the world around them.

I developed such an affection for these three characters. Each is fiery and feisty in her own way. So the way they bounce off from each other is often hilarious. It's particularly moving how the narrative is mediated through Swiv's perspective. She's still a child but on the cusp of maturity so her choice of words often mimics her mother and grandmother. Equally her point of view is heavily influenced by them while also showing her own unique disposition. Given the big personalities around her there is a certain amount of grandstanding just to make herself heard. It's not surprising she's always determined to win King of the Castle when playing with her contemporaries because for her it isn't just a game. It's clever how Toews shows the way that each character may be called daughter, mother, grandmother because of their ages and positions in life, but these roles become interchangeable as they alternately nurture and educate one another. In this way none of them fit into a neat category so Swiv is naturally resentful when figures in authority at a hospital treat her dismissively and tell her to get a doughnut. At the same time, we see how she's undergoing an important stage of her development and maintains a naivety especially when meeting a cool older boy she wants to impress.

Though the circumstances are quite different from Toews' previous novel “Women Talking” this new book is a natural follow up. It poignantly shows the particular conversations which arise between women in an all-female space. Internal and external conflicts arise, but there is a genuine sense of bonding and love present as well. Though the trio in this story sometimes bicker and must negotiate how to co-exist in a single household they also have a fierce loyalty to each other. In a sense, it's them versus the world. Toews shows the way each of them are involved in their own particular fights with themselves, certain individuals and different institutions. The struggle is real and it's a daily challenge just to muster the spirit to keep going: “Fighting is so hard and yet we're never supposed to stop.” This novel movingly demonstrates how life is worth the battle and how family can inspire you to tough out the hardest challenges.

The Country Girls by Edna O'Brien

It's exciting reading such an influential book for the first time, but it's also a curious experience since radical elements of the story can already feel familiar. I've read a good amount of recent Irish fiction. So a novel about an Irish girl coming of age, experiencing the oppressive forces of the patriarchy/conservative religion, moving from the country to an independent life in the city and engaging in a romantic relationship with an older man doesn't feel that revolutionary now. But, at the time of its initial publication in 1960, the story presented in “The Country Girls” stirred a lot of controversy as it was condemned by some politicians and religious leaders who even went to the extreme of burning copies of the book.

I can only admire how Edna O'Brien broke boundaries at the time to represent young female experience in her protagonist of Caithleen “Cait” Brady. It's arrestingly portrayed how she must live with a father prone to violent alcohol-fuelled outbursts and amongst a community of men who expect kisses (or more) in exchange for favours. Though her academic prowess earns her a promising scholarship to a convent school she discovers she must contend with mean-spirited nuns and stomach-turning meals (stringy meat and sodden cabbage). Caithleen also develops a romantic infatuation with a figure nicknamed Mr. Gentleman who is married and grooms her for a future affair from the age of fourteen. Together with her longtime friend (frenemy) Bridget “Baba” she moves to Dublin to live for the first time as independent young women. These experiences are vividly conveyed throughly sharply-rendered details and emotional descriptions. So, even if such a storyline may no longer feel entirely new, it remains an utterly captivating tale that's brilliantly written.

Part of the magic of this book is in the minutiae of Caithleen's recollections whether it's glimpsing a woman in a striking sequin dress, carrying a cherished tea service or kindly receiving an iced bun when she's experiencing despair/grief. These are the kinds of small things which resonate with deep personal meaning and serve as important memories so that in turn they also feel special to the reader. Something such as a layer of dust on a cup of milk can feel so real it's like I've experienced it myself. The characterisation is equally as vivid in how even characters who are vile come across as complex and like someone we're likely to encounter on the street. I found it informative the way O'Brien describes the hierarchy amongst the nuns at the school based on their relative education and family status so even these predominantly overbearing figures came across as well rounded. Though Baba is snobbish and acts cruelly towards Caithleen their friendship feels real and layered. Both girls have distinct personalities with positive and negative traits. Baba's relationship with her parents hints at her motivations and why she might act so mean. Most poignantly, like all long standing friendships, their companionship runs hot and cold over the course of many years.

It's also completely understandable why Caithleen would be so enamoured with Mr. Gentleman who seems to be going through something of a mid-life crisis, but their secret affair is very ominous since it's unlikely this pairing will end in happiness. I found myself simultaneously swept up in Caithleen's young romance and extremely nervous about where their passion might lead. The way in which a tenderness builds between them and the awkwardness of other dates Caithleen goes on is so involving that I raced through reading this story. It's a testament to her power as a writer that O'Brien can make characters and subject matter that now feel well-tread feel entirely new and gripping. The only other novel I've read by her is the relatively recent “The Little Red Chairs” and the fact that O'Brien continues to break new ground by writing about politically-contentious subject matter is so impressive. I'm now eager to read the next two books in 'The Country Girls Trilogy' as well as her other work.

Bolla by Pajtim Statovci (translated by David Hackston)

It's challenging to read about a protagonist who does absolutely despicable things but who still comes across as sympathetic. Like many young gay men living in a predominantly homophobic society, Arsim gets pressured into entering a passionless marriage with a woman to appease his family. In the city of Pristina during early 1995 he has a fling with a handsome aspiring-doctor named Milos. This gives him a taste of a life separate from his poor neglected pregnant wife Ajshe. However, sexuality isn't the only thing preventing these men from openly declaring their love. Arsim is Albanian and Milos is Serbian. With xenophobia and open aggression towards Albanians on the rise, Arsim is painfully aware the country is reaching a crisis point. This breathtaking novel depicts his troubled journey grappling for an independent life beyond his dire circumstances and actively harming people along the way.

Statovci takes an interesting approach to showing the consequences of The Kosovo War not by portraying the battle itself but characters affected by it before and after the conflict. Where the novel “At Night All Blood is Black” powerfully portrayed the process by which a soldier can be dehumanized on the battlefield, “Bolla” shows how individuals come to lose their empathy for others from the strain of living under horrifyingly tense circumstances and living with shell shock in the aftermath of war. The author does this through three narrative strands which alternate between an account of Arsim's life, a series of cryptic journal entries (whose author and meaning becomes clear as the novel progresses) and short fable-like passages about negotiations between God and the Devil. This third strand poignantly emphasizes the grey line between good and evil. Though this novel begins as a tale of forbidden romance it gradually morphs into something more complex and sinister showing how the urge for survival can totally corrupt an individual.

There are many deeply thoughtful and poetic passages in this book. For instance, amidst Arsim and Milos' intimate conversations it's remarked how “reality follows the lies we tell ourselves.” Amidst the larger conflicts, this statement applies on both a personal and national level. I was also taken aback by several shocking moments in the novel which emphasize the pernicious danger which exists for gay men in both liberal and conservative countries. The risks come from both outside and inside the gay community as well. Statovci takes care to show not only the painful consequences and isolation felt by gay men but by other characters such as Arsim's long-suffering wife.

Yet, for all the deep meaning and emotional draw of this tale I did question some inconsistent aspects of the story. At one point a character goes to prison for quite a serious crime. However, a year spent in jail is basically portrayed as a relaxing reading holiday. Certainly some prisons are rougher than others but it seemed unrealistic that it was such a tranquil experience. Similarly, once this character leaves prison having spent a year in a solitary cell, it's noted that “It takes me a while before I get used to the lack of things to do, the absence of human touch”. Would this really be a new sensation after having spent so long behind bars? Perhaps details such as this have more to do with Hackston's translation from Finnish but I do wish some aspects of the story had been developed more. Nevertheless, the originality and complex pathos of this novel are so impactful and striking. Statovci is clearly an extremely talented young writer and I'm eager to read his previous two novels as well as anything else he publishes in the future.

The Colony by Audrey Magee

On a small, sparsely-populated and remote Irish island there is an ageing population that still speaks their native Irish language, but they are steadily dying out. One of the remaining youngest island residents is James who prefers to speak English and be addressed by his English name rather than his Irish name Seamus. Two foreigners separately travel to this island for their own purposes. There is irascible London artist Lloyd who wants to create paintings that capture the island's beauty and its inhabitants. He hopes to produce great works that will establish him as the “Gauguin of the North”. There's also Frenchman Jean-Pierre, a linguist who has been making excursions to the island for many years to record how the “purity” of this spoken language is slowly changing with the increasing influence of English. He wants to write an account of whether true Irishness can be preserved and Lloyd's presence is mucking up his plans. The two bicker and clash over their right to be on this island. The actual residents of the island grudgingly tolerate both of them as they are paying guests who bring in much needed capital as the native fishing industry has also been dying out – quite literally as both James' father and grandfather died at sea. 

This is a slow burning drama that builds to say something much bigger about notions of national purity and colonialism. I admire how Magee approaches this on a very human level – as she did in a very different set of circumstances in her powerful debut novel “The Undertaking”. This new novel opens with a very funny scene where Lloyd insists on being ferried out to the island via an outmoded form of boat transport that's so rocky he's frequently sea sick. However, the heart of the novel is with the character of James who is caught between two worlds and whose opportunities are very narrow. He desperately wants to avoid following the family tradition of becoming a fisherman and finds a new passion in painting from his interactions with Lloyd. It's so moving how he develops an affinity for the spiky gentleman and what he can offer him as Lloyd suggests the boy's natural talent might go down well in the London art scene. Conversely, James is repulsed by the attention of Jean-Pierre who tries to get James to use his Irish name and preserve his native language. This all raises such strong questions about the meaning of national identity and who decides the fate of individuals and a distinct group of people.

Interspersed with the narrative about life on this island are short - almost journalistic - accounts of victims of The Troubles. These brief glimpses into lives that have been destroyed have the sobering effect of showing how ordinary individuals and families suffer while issues to do with Irishness and colonization are being more violently fought over. Even on the remote outpost of this island this longstanding war touches its citizens. Though Lloyd and Jean-Pierre believe their presence is benign or altruistic, they have a pernicious impact on James who finds himself left in as hopeless a position as before they arrived. The same is true for James' mother who (against the wishes of her family and the community) models for Lloyd and expresses her desire for a sense of permanence in Molly Bloom-esque soliloquies. The effect of this story is haunting. Its writing is so finely tuned with dialogue which fully brings to life these characters and their points of difference. Magee conjures a sense of tragedy that is very moving and impactful. 

They by Kay Dick

Who can resist a story about a literary editor chancing upon a copy of a novel that's been out of print for over three decades and hails it as a lost dystopian classic? That's the seductive tale which accompanies the recent republication of “They”, a 1977 novel by a notorious figure from the 20th century literary scene. Though Kay Dick is barely remembered now, an obituary written for The Guardian in 2001 by Michael De-la-Noy makes her sound infamously unreliable, cash-strapped and vindictive. It's an ignominious end for a woman who was once George Orwell's editor and is called by Carmen Maria Machado “a trailblazing queer author.” This new edition of the novel is also covered with a string of endorsements from Margaret Atwood, Eimear Mcbride and Claire-Louise Bennett. If I'm focusing more on the author's reputation it's because I found myself more interested in the author herself than the content of her novel. 

By Machado's account, “They” is an unusual volume amongst Dicks' slender oeuvre as its cryptic stories describe a series of artistic individuals being intimidated by an unnamed group who are watchful, destructive and intensely creepy. The painters, sculptors, musicians and writers who populate this novel revel in nature, thrive in having intellectual exchanges and delight in friendship. However, their individuality and desire to express themselves makes them a target for the menacing figures who hover in the distance. These figures don't seem to belong to any one organization, but represent a homogenized bullying group. The artists realise that “We represent danger. Non-conformity is an illness.” They endeavour to find ways to cultivate their individual expression and exist on the margins of this repressive society even if some of them are punished, pillaged and have their memories wiped.

Though I appreciated the creepy tone to these stories and the eerie sense of being hemmed in, it was difficult to become emotionally invested in any of the characters because so few details are given about them or the nameless narrator(s). Instead we're just given snapshots of their behaviour wandering through the countryside walking their dogs or holing up together in places of refuge. The artists resent the figures in the distance not only for the way they terrorize them, but for their conformity in watching television and listening to pop music: “I could not endure the 90 dB intensity of pop music that street megaphones related at such times.” Equally, children generally rove around in marauding groups to torture animals. From reading about the author's life and the way in which the society outside this civilized circle of friends is represented makes me feel that this perception is coming more from a curmudgeonly author's point of view rather than an invented character's. Perhaps that's an unfair assumption, but I came to feel as critical of the pretensions of the artists as I did about the vicious figures that intimidated them.

I think reviews which came out when this novel was first published describe this book as a fever dream. That feels like a much more apt description than calling it a dystopian novel. Perhaps because I came to it with that expectation I was more disappointed because it felt quite different from any dystopian story I've read before. Perhaps that's a good thing and perhaps the dystopian novel now comes with expectations which are too limited. Nevertheless, the style of “They” left me with little to grasp onto or remember. There are some lovely evocative descriptions: “The damp sharp smell of newly mown grass stirred areas of childhood memories.” I admired the writing but it didn't build to a satisfying whole. The story could certainly be interpreted in many ways, but it felt too cryptic for me to feel impacted by it. Overall, I was left longing to read more about the author's life than to read more of her fiction. 

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

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

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

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

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

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