The Birthday Party by Laurent Mauvignier (translated by Daniel Levin Becker)

It's been a while since a novel has kept me up reading late into the night because I need to finish it and find out what happens. “The Birthday Party” could definitely be categorized as a thriller because its sense of danger and tension gradually escalates over the course of the book until it reaches a feverish pitch. However, it's structured in an interesting way with elaborate detail and intricate sentences which fully account for the multitude of thoughts, memories and impressions of I ts central characters. This creates a unique in-depth understanding of their points of view. The story is set in a hamlet in the French countryside where Patrice prepares for his wife Marion's 40th birthday party. Their daughter Ida draws pictures to give to her as a present and she's guided by their older neighbour Christine who is a slightly eccentric artist. Although this setting seems peaceful and idyllic ominous uncertainties linger especially as Christine receives anonymous threatening letters and the party which is about to kick off is crashed by sinister uninvited guests. What follows is a slow-building tale which teasingly reveals the motives and secrets of these characters. The tightly wound plot cautiously unravels until the truth is laid mercilessly bare.

This is a novel which requires some patience at first because its pace initially appears so languid. But it becomes increasingly compelling as all the elements which consume the moment to moment lives of these characters reveal how people are overwhelmingly preoccupied by thoughts of the past and projections of the future. At least, this is the case until something disrupts the self-designated line on which they walk through the world. Then they become firmly rooted in the present. The author describes this in the novel as “the surprise giving way to a mute shock so strong that all reality finally dissolves into a sensation of brutal hyperrealism”. Through the domestic drama and tense stand off in this story Mauvignier poignantly shows the perilous uncertainties of life. These persist no matter how firmly people believe in the narratives they write for themselves and it reveals the intense clash which occurs when these narratives are disrupted. The precariousness of self invention is reflected in Christine's method of painting: “you can layer over your life to call it into being, superimpose coats of realities, different lives so that at last only one is visible, nourished by the previous ones and surpassing all of them”. The conflict which occurs between these characters reveals how their sense of being is violently torn apart when it infringes upon the liberty of others. In particular, it exposes how a certain type of hyper-masculine sensibility is remorseless in its determination to dominate and control.

It's clever how the author builds a sense of mystery surrounding his characters and their motives. Many times when I began to feel weary of the convoluted tangle of this situation, I'd be drawn back in wondering what's really going on here and what's going to happen next. Mauvignier certainly keeps the reader guessing and I can see how some might feel information is being artificially withheld for the sake of suspense. But I think as well as building a sense of tension the author is reflecting the reality of daily existence and our relationship with time. In fact, life begins to feel like its composed of blocks of time which are moveable pieces. The present is often overlaid by a future which might never materialize and frequently it doesn't as events mean the characters' plans must be rewritten. The novel is paced to reflect this where experiences move quite slowly until lots of surprising things suddenly happen all at once. At one point Mauvignier adopts a cinematic language to describe how: “Now what happens goes very quickly, and it's as though only a very long slow-motion shot can make it visible.” Action sequences are notoriously difficult to present in novels but I think this story masterfully conveys events which occur quickly. Rather than trying to imitate the visual impact of film, Mauvignier shows in his text how cinema reflects the heart-stopping moment when something calamitous occurs in an instant. It takes a certain style of presentation to show how this decisive moment will change things forever.

This novel could be read simply for its suspense though I can understand why some readers' patience is tested. However, I think its overriding message makes more of an impact than any generic potboiler and this is because of the distinctive style Mauvignier uses to relate this story. It's like Virginia Woolf meets Patricia Highsmith. Though the setting is provincial and it presents only a tiny community it speaks to some of the current concerns of the wider world. It reveals the dangers of group mentalities and an incel-type misogynistic frame of mind. Also, about halfway through the book I felt completely hooked and knew I had to finish it even if it meant I would lose some sleep.

Winter Flowers by Angelique Villeneuve (translated by Adriana Hunter)

I admire a quiet novel that allows emotional significance to arise from the facts of history rather than dramatic or showy events. “Winter Flowers” is set directly after WWI in late 1918 when soldier Toussaint returns to his wife Jeanne and daughter Leonie in Paris. He's been away for years and has been wounded and facially disfigured in battle. Though his much anticipated return is welcome, everyone has been heavily changed by the war, disease and poverty. The majority of the story takes place in the confined quarters of their humble abode where Jeanne spends exhaustive hours painstakingly shaping fake flowers to adorn women's attire in upscale boutiques. This family must slowly readjust to each others' presence. Their interactions are often awkward and Jeanne must guess at the thoughts of the often silent Toussaint. It's a meditative experience following this family as they readjust to each other, grapple with grief and accept what's been lost. It also presents a focused portrait of the state of a country which has been traumatised by war.

It's intriguing how even though Toussaint and Jeanne share a bed again there is still a mental, emotional and sexual gulf between them. Jeanne must mull over his cryptic brief remarks and is reduced to following her husband when he makes unannounced excursions. Her desperation to better understand him is palpable. It's moving how the story delicately presents this example of a couple who aren't able to share their innermost thoughts and feelings. There's also an uncertainty for the characters concerning what's happening in the country. This is presented in an innovative way in one chapter where there is a list of speculations which all begin with the line “Word is...” In this way the author shows how the community is united in their struggle to understand what's happening and how they should best prepare for the future. It reminded me somewhat of the way the author Annie Ernaux is able to simultaneously represent both the individual and the collective psyche in her books through the shifting concerns and preoccupations of a group of people.

Not only is there an aching tension in the relationship between this husband and wife, but also between Jeanne and her daughter Leonie. When Jeanne lashes out against her adolescent girl at one point it's shocking, but also indicative of how they struggle to effectively communicate despite living together in such close quarters. Additionally, there's an absence in this home from a lost family member which is delicately woven into the narrative. The novel presents the continuing impact of many different kinds of loss for both this family and their neighbour Sidonie who once had a large family but is now perilously alone. So even though the central family are lucky to still have each other there are sorrowful gulfs between them. For such a seemingly lowkey story, the author powerfully presents how bereavement creates both barriers and bonds between individuals who rely on one another and the hard-won love between them.

The Book of Mother by Violaine Huisman (translated by Leslie Camhi)

It's a solemn fact of every child's life that they are incapable of truly knowing what their parents' lives were like before they were born. To the child, parents are initially only known for their roles as parents rather than individuals (whatever the quality of their parenting.) In the first part of Violaine Huisman's debut novel the narrator describes her mother's manic behaviour caused by mental illness and societal constraints. Maman could be loving to the point of clinginess towards her and her sister. But she could also be abusive, self-destructive and maddeningly unhinged. She's also beautiful, witty and charismatic. Given her volatile personality it's no wonder she became alienated from many people around her and her daughters grew to have such ambiguous feelings towards her. In an effort to build a deeper understanding of her mother Catherine and “give her back her humanity”, the narrator builds a work of fiction about her Maman's early life based on what she's been told and the (oftentimes contradictory) information about her. It's a loving project which is full of drama and compassionate insight as we come to understand a more dynamic picture of this vibrant woman's life. 

It's striking how the narrator concedes this account of her mother's life is a work of imagination but that she also endeavours to be an impartial vessel to deliver this story. If it was framed differently it might not have as much of an emotional resonance as it's an account of invention and speculation. However, I found this to be a very moving novel and I think it's a balancing act which works so powerfully as a conscious act of empathy. Because it's established early on how challenging it was to grow up with Catherine as a mother, this story she creates becomes both a love letter and a gesture of forgiveness. Any child who has been a victim of parental abuse knows how difficult it is to move beyond the anger and pain felt towards parents that didn't nurture their child in the way they should have done. In this way, this novel is perhaps the antithesis of Avni Doshi's novel “Burnt Sugar” which so powerfully describes an adult child's implacable fury towards a neglectful parent. By contrast, Huisman grants the mother figure a kind of freedom by vividly describing the qualities and faults which made Catherine a fully rounded individual. It's a beautiful and worthy project which builds to a uniquely poignant conclusion. 

Born of No Woman by Franck Bouysse (translated by Lara Vergnaud)

I was greatly anticipating this gothic novel which brings to light the secret journals of a 19th century woman named Rose. She was sold into servitude at a creepy mansion and condemned to die in a rural French asylum. It begins promisingly enough with a priest called upon to bless the poor lady's body. When Father Gabriel is entrusted with her notebooks he's overcome by the story of her plight and seeks to reveal the consequences of her wretched life. But rather than just getting her account the perspective switches between a number of characters including a mysterious man and child whose identities aren't revealed until the end. However, most of the other points of view including Rose's father, the mansion's tyrant and a mysterious labourer who works on the estate all feel like one-dimensional characters. Nor do their perspectives add much to the story which couldn't be deduced from reading Rose's journals. The villains are ridiculously evil and a number of the characters act in a pitifully naïve way. Though Rose is obviously a sympathetic character trapped in a horrific situation and there are some chilling atmospheric details it's like the narrative doesn't trust her enough to convey her own tale. Though this book was a best-selling prize winner in its native France, I sadly found it to be a let down as the structure doesn't do anything innovative and the story isn't groundbreaking or especially engaging beyond its thrilling final twist. 

The War of the Poor by Eric Vuillard (translated by Mark Polizzotti)

There have always been brutal inequities within society and numerous historic harrowing moments of revolt where there's a radical shift in power. One interesting figure is Thomas Müntzer, a German preacher and radical theologian of the early 16th century. Before reading Eric Vuillard's short 65-page novella I'd not heard of this figure who opposed both Martin Luther, a leading figure of the Reformation and the Roman Catholic Church. This book is primarily about this idealistic man's relatively rapid rise and fall in his quest to expose the hypocrisies and abuse of power by the church and royalty. It's a fascinating subject. The trouble is that it's a far too brief and shallow account. It doesn't provide enough information or dramatic flair to make it into a satisfying story. The overall tone is also quite muddled so I often wasn't sure if I was reading fiction, an essay, a poem or a biography. In the end this book felt like little more than an extended Wikipedia entry with a few personalized flourishes. 

An interesting point Vuillard makes early on is how an increased ability to reproduce and distribute the Bible at this time made the text more accessible to the general population. It allowed Thomas Müntzer to read the text himself and find passages which he interpreted as contradicting the actions of the church. Of course, the way in which the leading religious figures hoarded wealth while demanding that the working classes surrender the little money they had to further enrich their treasury was scandalous and Müntzer was someone with enough conviction to call out this blatant injustice. He also inspired others to revolt. But the author doesn't creatively bring his character or the time period to life. Vuillard hints at interesting and complex disputes. For instance he writes, “At the time, three popes were laying claim to Peter's throne: the Pope of Rome, the Pope of Pisa, and the Pope of Avignon. Gregory XII, John XXIII, and Benedict XIII. That's a lot of names and numbers to keep straight; it was complicated.” Perhaps this is his humorous way of brushing over some of the intricacies of this historical period but it felt frustrating that he so quickly dismissed what sounds like a larger compelling story.

The great thing about historical novels is that the writer can imaginatively fill in the gaps when history books can't provide a definitive account. A writer of fiction often makes reasonable assumptions about how and why obscure events played out as they did. “The War of the Poor” feels more like an extended list with some general asides. Therefore I didn't feel in any way emotionally engaged by this book and little informed beyond the few facts I've stated here. Despite it's short length it was a slog to read. It's a shame and a missed opportunity so I hope someone one day writes a genuinely compelling novel about Müntzer. 

A Hundred Million Years and a Day by Jean-Baptiste Andrea (translated by Sam Taylor)

Is it noble to sacrifice the security of a stable life to chase a dream or is it madness? At first it seems utterly foolish for Stan, a middle-aged palaeontologist and professor in Paris, to go searching for the bones of a dragon in a remote cave hidden within an Alpine glacier. During the Summer of 1954 he embarks on this dangerous quest after a chance meeting with a girl who describes the bones of a strange creature to him so he assembles a small eccentric group of men to journey into the mountains and excavate this unpredictable territory. He's convinced they are the remains of a dinosaur and becomes obsessed with recovering this rare prize. As we follow the group's perilous quest into the wilderness we're also given flashbacks of Stan's lonely upbringing as a sensitive, scholarly boy and life under his domineering father the Commander. It becomes evident that his drive to complete this foolhardy quest is largely motivated by his insecurity and a desire to prove his value to an absent father that disparaged him. Andrea balances an increasingly tense adventure story with melancholy reflections about the meaning of self-worth. It also pairs the lifespan of a single man against a sweeping vision of global history to offer a new perspective about time. 

I was interested in picking up this novel because of its connection with notable French-English translator Sam Taylor (who has also translated novels by Leila Slimani) and it comes with a blurb on the cover by excellent novelist Sara Taylor. I also liked the concept which is somewhat similar to the premise of Carys Davies' “West” about a man who abandons his responsibilities to chase rumours of a colossal beast in the American West. However, while Davies narrative provides a counter storyline about the repercussions from such a foolhardy journey back at his home, Andrea's novel is focused solely on an internalised look at a man's feverish willpower and the sobering result of his journey. It feels like a distinct masculine characteristic to set out on such an adventure driven more by self-determination than logic. Though Stan's psychology and descent into near madness is portrayed with a degree of complexity I didn't find him to be entirely convincing or sympathetic. I felt like Davies' novel uses more subtlety in its portrayal of such a figure. Also, though certain characters from the group are given interesting eccentricities such as Umberto's substantial size and Peter's ventriloquist doll, I didn't feel like these figures were fully developed enough to connect with or care about them.

Their journey into such an extreme natural environment present the group with difficult challenges and moments of peril, but these scenes pass too swiftly to register fully. I feel like such moments require a real precision of language to capture the heart-stopping terror which would accompany an experience like dangling off a cliff. Also, the group pass by amazing expansive vistas and an ancient glacier which could have used some more descriptive language to convey the sense of the majesty the characters feel from such encounters. At one point a character even remarks on what an incredible view they have but it's not actually shown in a description to the reader. A writer such as Benjamin Myers is much more accomplished at capturing the awe-inspiring beauty of such nature scenes and Robert MacFarlane gives more acute philosophical insights into the concept of 'deep time' in his recorded journeys. So, while I found this to be an engaging novel in its portrayal of loneliness and a sense of wonder, I felt there were aspects of it which could have been presented a lot stronger.

The Collection by Nina Leger (translated by Laura Francis)

Of the many reading initiatives that occur online, Women in Translation Month (#WITMonth) which happens in August is one of my favourites. So I’ve started the month with “The Collection” by Nina Leger, a slim newly-translated novel from France which has a very attractive cover although it’s most definitely not about mushrooms. It concerns a woman’s anonymous sexual encounters and while this might seem straightforward it’s given me a lot to think about it. So much so I have much more to say about this book than some other much longer novels and that’s not just because of its provocative subject matter. I was surprised by how emotionally engaged I felt with the story as well – especially because the full details of its protagonist’s identity remain pointedly obscure.

I admire fiction which deals frankly with sex because it feels like an important aspect of humanity which isn’t often dealt with in literary fiction in a proportion similar to how often it preoccupies our actual lives. Marlon James has commented in interviews how when sex is portrayed in literary fiction it’s often only referred to in ellipses or portrayed as a shame-filled activity. I think the difficulty a lot of authors have in writing about sex is that they don’t want their prose to come across as indulging in sensual fantasy or titillating for the sake of it. But equally there is a hesitancy when portraying all the awkward reality of people’s bodies.

The writer William Gass claimed readers don’t really want to see under the skirt because “What good is my peek at her pubic hair if I must also see the red lines made by her panties, the pimples on her rump, broken veins like the print of a lavender thumb, the stepped-on look of a day’s-end muff? I’ve that at home.” In “Bluets” Maggie Nelson gives an emphatic riposte to this assumption that readers only want an idealized portrayal of bodies engaged in sex: “For my part I have no interest in catching a glimpse of or offering you an unblemished ass or an airbrushed cunt. I am interested in having three orifices stuffed full of thick, veiny cock in the most unforgiving of poses and light.”

Nina Leger’s novel gives just such a frank view as it catalogues the sexual exploits of its protagonist Jeanne who visits many hotels having sex with anonymous men. Rather than flesh out the lives and personalities of any of these men or Jeanne herself, we’re only given explicit descriptions of the men’s genitals which Jeanne gathers to form a “memory palace” of these encounters. Who she is or why she prefers anonymous sex remains a mystery and Leger even playfully toys with the expectations of the reader that she might be a discontent wife, a trauma victim, a secret lesbian or a nymphomaniac. All we know is that her sexual exploits are an important aspect of Jeanne’s life and they are something she pursues with rigorous dedication.

The hotel rooms she visits aren’t spaces for her to enact a side of herself which she doesn’t show in her ordinary life. It’s stated “There will be no reverse side to the set, as the hotel rooms are not a stage; no concealed wings, in which Jeanne sheds her ordinary self in favour of an extraordinary costume.” Over the course of the novel it’s not Jeanne’s actions which feel performative, but the routine of ordinary life which reveals itself to be a façade. Hotel rooms are dressed to be as mundane and interchangeable as possible. People she encounters go about their days keeping sex a hushed and secretive activity. Society teaches people to keep their social identities and sexual identities completely separate.

In one hilarious scene Jeanne is on public transport and her bag which contains sex toys hangs open. A child tries to grasp one of these toys and its mother sharply remonstrates Jeanne demanding she close her bag while the other passengers gaze at her with amused disapproval. The awkwardness of this situation is acute, but Jeanne is entirely unapologetic about it because the difficulty is not with her; it’s the people around that have the issue as they are projecting their own insecurities and fears upon her. They are the ones that feel any open expression of sexuality is a transgression that must be kept behind closed doors.

Leger seems to comment on the way literature generally handles sex in novels when she describes Jeanne’s frustration at not being able to find someone like her in what she reads, “At one time, she looked for her alter ego in novels and sometimes thought she had found her there... In each new text, she hoped to find what the previous had lacked. At the beginning the heroines were bold and immoral; the first pages blazed, the lines throbbed with subversion. Then, this heartbeat diminished, became a miniscule pulse which dwindled little by little, until vital functions shut down completely; halfway through, the heroines had been irrevocably transformed into psychological composites devised for the purposes of explication and the novel, which had appeared free and wild, preferred to frolic in an enclosure of highly limited significations where sex could be nothing other than a symptom, the sign of a void that needed filling, of an anguish to be appeased, of a slowly healing wound.” The way Jeanne’s indulgence in sex is, of course, portrayed exactly opposite to this as being about unapologetic pleasure and the purpose for it is solely her own.

That’s not to say sex is portrayed as an unproblematic activity in this novel. Men treat her in many different ways so she experiences their repugnance, gratitude, embarrassment, indifference or emphatic attention. There’s a kind of violence in how men project their desires upon her and also explicitly reveal their fears and insecurities in ways they scarcely realise. She also finds the more she engages in sex the more her desires evolve. Desire can suddenly well up within her to be expressed in unexpectedly bizarre ways such as the impulse to lick rain water off from a stranger’s wet anorak. Leger also considers the weird mental space we often enter into when engaged in sex so there is a charged interplay between reality and fantasy. So we see from Jeanne’s perspective how “The room rhythmically disappears and appears” in a way which is surreal.

For some time, rather than seeing men she uses a range of sex toys and pornographic videos as she explores the different contours of pleasure. There’s a risk that sex will become such a habitual activity it becomes entirely meaningless. Some sections take on a hallucinatory feel as her physical surroundings meld into an anonymous mass: “Jeanne watches and the details blur; colours wear away; sounds lose their meaning; the volume flattens; movements fragment; bodies exist no more”. In this absence we feel Jeanne’s emotional strife as the activity of sex turns into sheer chaos and she comes perilously close to becoming no one at all “no more memories, no more body that belongs to her, no more reasons or causes”. We’re left wondering if this is liberation or a nightmare.

There’s an old adage that novels need their characters to overcome a conflict and change during the course of the story for it to be successful. Jeanne doesn’t change in that by the novel’s end she’s engaging in exactly the same kind of practices that she is in the beginning. But what’s changed is that she and the reader are more aware of assumptions being made about her and the expectations that are placed upon a sexually active woman. We can feel the will for her to stop this activity and concentrate on being a wife or mother or business professional. We’ve become so accustomed to sex being used as a tool or a means to move into a different stage of life that it’s very difficult to view it as just another instinctive human function. The reader is given no insight into Jeanne’s life outside her sexual pursuits or the meaning of her activity because it’s nearly impossible for us not to ascribe her actions to a larger false narrative about her being.

Jeanne repeatedly views a Bearded Dragon in a pet store she passes.

It really surprised me how this novel brought me to this conclusion and made me feel so emotionally engaged. Quite often when reading novels which intentionally withhold details about their central characters’ identity or shield us from the heart of the protagonist I’m left feeling cold and dissatisfied. As much as I admired the intellectual engagement found in novels such as “Outline”, “Satin Island” or “First Love” I didn’t feel as much as I wanted to from them. But this novel made me feel a lot because I sympathised with Jeanne’s struggle to maintain a sense of integrity alongside her sexual proclivities. The novel also challenged a lot of my own assumptions and the way I might feel inclined to ask someone who engages in casual promiscuous activity if they will ever “settle down” – as if it’s natural or necessary for everyone to eventually become domesticated.

There’s a fine tradition of literature that considers sex in a frank and often shocking way – especially in France. Georges Bataille’s “Story of the Eye” self-consciously broke every sexual taboo by portraying almost every perversion imaginable. But the world has changed a lot since that novella was written almost one hundred years ago. Now every kinky sexual impulse can be viewed online in a quick keyword search. Leger’s novel says something much larger about how both our desires and our bodies are segmented and compartmentalized. No doubt “The Collection” will immediately put off a lot of readers because of its explicit content and its refusal to straightforwardly reveal Jeanne’s emotions. But this novel is saying a lot more about how we live now than other modern literature which shyly skirts around such inflammatory subject matter.

Lullaby by Leïla Slimani (translated by Sam Taylor)

Basing a psychological thriller around a nanny who murders the children she cares for makes for a terrifyingly effective sensational story, but where “Lullaby” by Leila Slimani really excels is in its sophisticated take on classism, privilege and isolation in modern-day Paris. The novel opens with the discovery of young children Adam and Mila who have been slain by their nanny Louise. How Louise came to become an integral part of this family’s life and felt driven to this gruesome end is deftly explored throughout the story. Busy professionals Myriam and Paul grow increasingly distanced from the care of their children and the upkeep of their home once they hire Louise. The tension between the couple’s personal and professional relationship with the hired help is tested over time until the nanny’s position as an intimate familiar within the household becomes untenable. This is a fast-paced gripping tale that raises a lot of provocative questions.

It’s interesting how when a horrendous tragedy like the one depicted in this novel occurs one branch of public opinion will inevitably ask “How could the mother let this happen?” Obviously this a judgemental and loaded question, but if it’s going to be asked why don’t people also ask how the father could let this happen. It points to a continuing misogynistic view that it’s the mother’s position to care and protect for children. Slimani sensitively portrays how Myriam finds her passion at being a talented and skilful lawyer outweighs her desire to participate in the daily parenting of her children. Since Louise is so talented and capable in her domestic work eventually “Myriam lets herself be mothered.” Since Myriam’s husband Paul is equally ambitious in his career it presents a dilemma that many parents must face when trying to balance family life with their professions. Yet, the reality is that many hired child minders come from low-income or impoverished backgrounds where nannies have to abandon caring for their own families to work caring for other children. This creates a conflict where both the parents and the child-minders are driven into an emotional quagmire.

I had the wonderful privledge of having lunch with Leila Slimani.

I found it particularly effective how Slimani portrayed the struggles of the circle of nannies who Louise encounters. Her friend Wafa who works as a child-minder is in such a desperate situation she’s basically been reduced to indentured servitude or slave labour. She remarks to Louise: “They pay my rent, but in exchange I can never say no to them.” This power dynamic is complicated by the intimate relationships which develop between the carer and the children/parents. Nannies are treated in some ways as part of the family, yet they are also an employee. Louise’s purportedly liberal-minded employers are only prepared to extend their empathy for Louise’s particularly precarious situation to a certain extent. At the same time, it’s entirely understandable that these hard-working parents don’t comprehend Louise’s situation and it’s believable that Louise tries to hide the reality of her situation. The tragedy at the heart of this novel is that we live in an imbalanced capitalist system where the privileged want to believe they’ve hired a Mary Poppins, but nannies are obviously real and complicated individuals.