A Flat Place by Noreen Masud

In this memoir Masud describes how flat landscapes have always been supremely comforting to her. Ever since she was a girl growing up in Pakistan's capital she's yearned for these barren vistas and frequently mentally travels to these empty spaces. She recounts the challenges of growing up in cloistered difficult circumstances, the process of moving to Britain to establish her independence and how she deals with complex trauma. Through this she convey a sense of establishing her unique cultural and national identity. She was raised to primarily speak English rather than Urdu and her domineering father placed an emphasis on a British education. So this makes up much of her frame of reference, but she's also highly conscious of the racial stereotypes and colonial history which come with this. These issues and fragmented memories of her early life are considered as she recounts journeys to a number of British locations such as Orford Ness, the Cambridgeshire Fens, Morecambe Bay and Orkney. It's an elegant and moving meditation on finding nurturing environments and methods of reconciling the past.

Something that immediately endeared this book to me is that the opening of the first chapter begins with a quote from my favourite novel Virginia Woolf's “The Waves”. The lines capture the sharply different perspectives and personalities of the story's central characters. I think it resonates with Masud's sense that everyone has a unique way of emotionally translating their view of the world. Some may view empty landscapes as bleak, but Masud finds them nurturing. It's beautiful how she describes the experience to travelling to a number specific location, the interactions she has there and the memories which are raised. Many of these memories come in fragments and remain incomplete. So, rather than seeking a complete picture, she allows them to remain obscure. Thus the past doesn't necessarily define her and she's able to fill her life with what she finds most fulfilling. In this way, this beautifully written memoir delivers an empowering and unique message.

The Bee Sting by Paul Murray

I've been somewhat hesitant to pick up Paul Murray's new novel – not because of its 600+ page length – but because his previous novel “The Mark and the Void” was a disappointment to me. It had an interesting concept but I felt it didn't have much heart. Conversely, “The Bee Sting” is filled with so much emotional tension I was riveted. It also has an increasingly suspenseful story and explores a number of meaningful issues. And Murray makes a very bold choice with the ending which has got a lot of readers talking! My online book club spent the past month discussing it and it's so interesting reading everyone's point of view.

This novel is a big contemporary family saga set in a small Irish town. We follow the perspectives of the Barnes family from their different points of view during a specific period of time. They are going through a crisis as a family as well as having their own serious individual issues which might take them over the edge. It deals with economic instability, environmental decline, the sometimes repressive nature of community, infidelity, internal and external homophobia, and the silences which exist within the home when family members aren't honest with each other or themselves. This is all couched within a very dramatic plot with many mysteries and misdirects which make it increasingly thrilling to read.

It's so clever how Murray focuses on the perspectives of all the family members in turn to sympathetically portray their different points of view. I was convinced by each version of this family's story which moves from teenager Cassandra to adolescent PJ to the mother Imelda to the father Dickie. Even when I had something like a complete portrait there were still lots of gaps and misunderstandings which are dealt with in the final section of the novel. As well as creating suspense, this gives such a strong sense for how so many conflicts and contradictions occur within one family. Though this appears to be a normal family from the outside and they broadly support each other, there's a lack of emotional openness and there are an increasing number of lies which fill their household. Even the title of this novel is a lie. It begins to feel absurd that they can live within such close physical proximity but have so much psychological distance that they don't really see each other anymore. There's also a tragedy to this because knowing what we do about each family member's inner life we know if they were honest with each other they could help each other in meaningful ways. The novel shows how this is such a common state of affairs for families to fall into and how it can lead to great heartache and potential tragedy.

There are so many details within this novel which could be discussed at length, but one of the most striking things about it which any reader who completes the book will want to talk about is the ending. I'll get into spoilers here because it's impossible not to if I'm going to explain my own theory about it. The noteworthy thing about the ending is that it gives no conclusion. Dickie and his friend Victor are hidden in the forest preparing to shoot the man who has been blackmailing Dickie. Meanwhile, his children and wife Imelda are separately trying to find him though it's night and there's a torrential rain storm. Just as there's a click where Dickie might shoot one or all of them the novel ends. Though this later section has switched to a second person narrative with lines attributed to different characters the final line of the book simply states “You are doing this for love.” Which “you” and what “this” is remains unknown. The ambiguity of this ending is in many ways the point of this book. It prompts reflections about our own family life and why honest communication is difficult but necessary.

I can't help speculating on what happens in the moment after this book ends. Having grown to intensely care about these characters and intimately know their lives, I can't help wondering about what happens next in their story. Here are the two likely scenarios I envision: Dickie and/or Victor unintentionally or intentionally shoot one or all members of the family prompting Dickie to shoot himself and/or Victor OR that a shot is fired and misses the family creating a moment of nearly averted crisis and the beginning of an open communication/reconciliation that Imelda, PJ and Cass were hoping to start by finding Dickie. There are an infinite number of variations and mixture of these events which could also occur. However, we can speculate about likely outcomes given details and foreshadowing which have come before.

To start with, there's the very first line of this novel: “In the next town over, a man had killed his family.” This local tragedy casts a shadow over the story as this unknown family and their now empty house have become the subject of gossip and morbid intrigue. It's poignant thinking that if things also end in tragedy for the Barnes' family they'd also likely become just another subject of gossip for the community. In fact, they already are with their failing business and the corruption surrounding it. However, this local legend also conveys the sense that Dickie might shoot his family as well as himself. This is reinforced by Dickie's later conversation with Victor where Victor says the only way to be sure to keep Dickie's secret from his family is to kill them.

Eilish, a member of my online book club, pointed out that at the beginning of the novel Cass feels very anxious about climate change and when the entire family becomes lost in the forest during a storm it's like the environment itself is threatening their lives. There's also the character of Imelda's Aunt Rose or her adopted Aunt who apparently has psychic abilities and in her delirious state seems to express warnings of a forthcoming tragedy. She stresses to Imelda that Cass shouldn't return and makes reference to a squirrel which could be PJ. Additionally, when Cass and PJ were younger they'd play a game in the forest where they were squirrels being hunted by their father. Cass makes reference to this in the very last line from any of the characters.

So, every sign seems to be pointing to a tragic conclusion which is about to occur. However, I have a theory that things might actually continue in a more positive direction for this family. Murray has structured this novel in a way that many sections end with a cliffhanger. Chapters that focus on a particular character end with the sense that something really bad might be about to occur. This is partly what makes this book such a compulsive read despite its considerable length. But when we finally find out the result of these suspenseful moments it often turns out to be okay. The threat Murray has created dissipates and the story continues. In doing so, I think the author is saying our lives can veer towards tragedy but we don't often go over the edge of the cliff. I think Murray has been steadily preparing us for this final moment of crisis and if we continue with this line of logic, no one would be fatally shot. There might be panic; someone might be wounded, but I'm guessing that being pushed to the brink of destruction would cause these family members to finally start being honest with each other and hopefully move towards positive changes in their life together because, after all, they are connected by love.

We'll never know for certain how their story ends and I think the lack of resolution is poignant. I believe Murray made the right decision in not giving us a definite conclusion. But I know some readers have found this too frustrating. There is a whole other level of discussion to be had about this ending. Does it rely too much on coincidence? Is it believable that Imelda, Cass and PJ would all suddenly have a change of heart and care about Dickie when previously they'd mostly ignored or dismissed him? I think like a lot of dramatic plots it relies on some contrivances. But personally I can forgive that because it made the story so engaging and ultimately it produces a powerful message. Like all the best epics it was both a pleasure to read and increasingly engrossing so that I didn't want it to end.

The Fraud by Zadie Smith

Zadie Smith's new book “The Fraud” is many things. It's a historical novel primarily set in 19th century London and Jamaica; it's a courtroom drama; it's about an unusual love triangle; it's about the ambition of novelists with some delicious appearances by Charles Dickens who makes bad jokes; it's about the end of slavery in Jamaica; and it's about what happens to truth when viewed through the lens of politics, the media, public debate and the craft of fiction. The story concerns a now semi-obscure historical novelist William Harrison Ainsworth (some of his titles outsold Dickens at the time) and The Tichborne Case, a famous trial that ran from the 1860s to the 1870s concerning a man who claimed to be a missing heir. Though this legal battle captivated the public at the time it's also now nearly forgotten. Between the author and the trial there is this novel's central character Eliza, a widow who is in some ways financially dependent upon Ainsworth. She is his housekeeper and reader. She's an abolitionist who forms a bond with Andrew Bogle, a man born into slavery who is one of the trial's key witnesses. Also, Eliza is fond of a long walk during which she observes Victorian London in tantalizing detail.

Eliza is a shrewd observer sitting in on discussions amongst prominent literary circles and watching the statements made in the courtroom by men whose demeanour often says more than their words. In this way we get a sly view beyond the surface of these interactions and the male dominated society surrounding her. However, as the novel progresses Eliza becomes a figure of intrigue herself. Between her intimate bond with William's deceased first wife Frances, a one-time intimacy with William himself and her late husband's illegitimate family, we get flashes of the truth Eliza either can't or won't openly accept. As the novel moves backwards and forwards in time we follow her journey towards acknowledging the reality of her personal life as well as the larger politics of her society. However, it's challenging to do this when there is so much unconscious misunderstanding and wilful deception surrounding her. She observes how “We mistake each other. Our whole social arrangement a series of mistakes and compromises. Shorthand for a mystery too large to be seen.” With so much confusion concerning what's true about other people's lives, acting in an ethical way can be extremely difficult.

In part, the novel is about how fiction comes to eclipse reality and how public consensus can eclipse truth. William writes historical novels which are based more in his imagination and stereotypes than facts. In this way readers come to know figures from the past through his distortion of the truth. Equally, “The Claimant” at the centre of The Tichborne Case achieves a large following that believes and partly funds his legal defence. Their faith in his claim is partly supported by Andrew Bogle's staunch conviction that “the Claimant” is the heir who went missing at sea. But how can Andrew's understanding of the truth be comprehended without knowing his own backstory or the legacy of slavery that was part of the British colonial empire? Eliza becomes the lynchpin towards seeing through the sensationalism of the case – partly because she has empathy enough to try to get to know Andrew himself. As his fascinating backstory is divulged, Smith shows the more complex personal realities at play within the more prominent public debates.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Smith about her new novel at a pre-publication event.

It's intriguing how this is a historical novel which seems to be critiquing historical novels themselves, the profession of writing and literary circles in general. At the beginning of one chapter, Eliza hilariously reflects: “God preserve me from novel-writing, thought Mrs Touchet, God preserve me from that tragic indulgence, that useless vanity, that blindness!” She sees how William's ambition to write removed him from being more fully involved with his family life (his first wife and his daughters) and his romanticisation of historical events distorts many people's understanding of history. Sitting in on their literary salons she's also privy to the pretensions and backstabbing which occurs amongst authors. In particular, Dickens is shown in quite a critical light. Smith seems highly attentive to the shortcomings of her profession and colleagues while also attempting to show in this novel what the best kind of fiction can do: expand readers' empathy and broaden their point of view to see the larger complexity of things. It's a tricky tightrope to walk and, for the most part, she gets the right balance.

Though Eliza is a highly sympathetic character who exhibits a lot of goodness, by the end of the novel it's shown she has her own shortcomings and areas of blindness. I enjoyed the way the story even gives a rounded view of such side characters as Sarah (the second Mrs Ainsworth) and Henry (Andrew Bogle's son). Their lives are fully fleshed out in many different scenes with witty dialogue and sharp observations. However, the structure of the novel is perhaps a bit too ambitious as it covers a lot of ground over a long period of time. It comes to feel a little unwieldy as the reader is continuously pulled into the past while the narrative also tries to delineate the complex events of the present. However, overall the story contains many moments of pleasure and it's a tale which leaves the reader with a lot to ponder. Like all the best historical fiction, it sparks a curiosity to want to read and understand more about some forgotten corners of the past.

August Blue by Deborah Levy

Though I enjoyed this novel it confirms my personal preference for Levy's “living autobiography” over her fiction. “August Blue” follows the story of famed classical pianist Elsa M. Anderson during a period of time when the disruptions caused by the recent pandemic are gradually winding down. She was a child prodigy raised by a gay teacher who is now old and frail. She longs for a connection with her lost mother. After dying her hair blue and scandalously flubbing an important concert, she bounces around Europe giving private lessons to troubled privileged children and having glancing encounters with a woman she views as her double. She imagines clipped exchanges of dialogue with her and their relationship is teasingly antagonistic. This novel is definitely interesting and fun, but I didn't love it. I think this is because there's often a strong conceptual aspect to Levy's fiction which makes it like an intellectual puzzle. It feels satisfying to complete. However, it doesn't have enough of an emotional pull for me to feel as involved as I'd ideally like to because the characters are more like pieces of that puzzle rather than real people.

Maybe it's inevitable with a writer who moves between autobiographical books and fiction, but there is a blending between the two forms. Levy might or might not be cognizant of this. Fans who read “Real Estate” will recall Levy had great trouble remembering the code to get into her Paris apartment and in “August Blue” there's a scene where Elsa struggles to remember the correct sequence of numbers to get through the front door of her temporary accommodation in Paris. I could cite more examples and there's no problem with reusing details such as this, but it makes me more conscious that the character of Elsa is like classical pianist cosplay for Levy. Elsa has a slightly bohemian, shabby glamour to her with her penchant for chic cocktails, scented hand cream and casual sex. Her characteristics and attitude feel so strongly aligned with the spirit of Levy as described in her memoirs. Again, this isn't necessarily an issue especially if the reader of this novel hasn't also read her autobiographical trilogy. But personally reading it makes me constantly aware I'm sitting in a theatre watching Levy's actors rather than feeling so immersed I forget the artifice.

Despite all this, there is truly a lot to enjoy in this novel. Levy creates delicious imagery such as scene where a man removes the spines of a sea urchin from Elsa’s fingers while she can feel that man's erection through his shorts. There's a vivid sense of atmosphere created of what life was like during this period of the pandemic as mask wearing became sporadic and the after effects of getting the vaccine shot created a worry that the recipient had caught the virus. Levy exhibits a wonderful sense of humour in several scenes with near slapstick-like situations such as when Elsa loudly discusses her potential sexual relationship with a man while they meet at a noisy brasserie or when a man sarcastically misquotes Walt Whitman at someone over FaceTime. The author is also highly adept at satisfying putdowns towards particularly unsavoury figures such as a sexist bigot Elsa and a Rastafarian encounter in a London park where she observes “The white man's head was so infected with anger and self-pity it made his eyes stupid and small.” Conversely, there's a sweet affection shown towards the adolescents she teaches.

Overall, I grew to really like Elsa as a character. There's a cumulative poignancy to the brief conversations in her head with her doppelgänger who questions and chides Elsa about her insecurities and fears. Forms of doubling are shown in other aspects of the story as well but the symbolism didn't add up to saying anything that meaningful. I reckon these issues would feel more powerful if Levy discussed them frankly in memoir form rather than mediating them through the cipher of this character. I fully respect Elsa is a fiction and that her history and preoccupations probably differ from Levy's own. Maybe it's an unfortunate byproduct for an author who slides between two forms of writing that there will be a confusion between the two. But I feel the blending of autobiography and fiction in “August Blue” doesn't have the same expansive imaginative power as it does in recent novels such as “Solenoid” or “Still Born”.

Cursed Bread by Sophie Mackintosh

When a narrator begins a tale stating “I could say a lot of things, but perhaps it's best to be honest, now” how much can we really trust her? Regardless of how straightforward or truthful she's being, she is certainly earnest in her bitterness. Elodie is a dowdy self-effacing individual from a provincial French town where the painful reverberations of WWII are still felt. In this short but eerie tale she describes her formerly humble existence as a baker's wife. Life irretrievably changed when she developed a twisted relationship with a glamorous ambassador's wife named Violet. At the same time, unsettling things occurred amongst the increasingly hysterical residents of her town. An undertone of violence and resentment fills her account as she reveals small pieces of the puzzle that is her past. Policemen who periodically come to interview her in the present don't get any clear answers and I'm not sure I entirely understood what occurred, but I don't think Mackintosh is interested in solutions. Instead we're offered a novel that possesses a perverse charm as its central character's debasement becomes the self-lacerating tool she uses to discover her own agency.

This story is saturated with Elodie's insatiable hunger - for sex and love but also a life beyond the boundaries of what she's been offered. She declares “I have always been a sort of archivist, glutting myself on what has been left behind.” Memories are presented as sour stuff which she has chewed, swallowed and regurgitated multiple times. She made increasingly desperate attempts to sexually entice her husband and what appeared to be his sweetly earnest desire to produce the best bread in the country was more about his withdrawal of affection. Elodie wanted to simultaneously be intensely close to and become Violet. However, it becomes evident that Violet didn't see her so much as a companion or a confidant, but someone to manipulate for her own churlish amusement. The enigma of who is the perpetrator and who is the victim is teasingly drawn out even after the book's thrilling conclusion so I was left wondering what really happened. Elodie masochistically clings to and inhabits the past commenting that “Pain becomes an animal, walking at your side. Pain becomes a home you can carry with you.”

Though I appreciated the Jean Rhys type mood of this story, I'm not sure it's entirely satisfying in its splicing of fable (in the mode of Mackintosh's debut “The Water Cure”) and fictionalised history. The circuitous nature of the structure became a bit frustrating at points when I wanted to be more enticed by the mystery. Details which might have been clues quickly evaporated as the narrative gradually detached itself from a clear timeline. I enjoyed this book most at points when the private obsessions Elodie nurtured are revealed to be fully known to those around her and used as something they can manipulate. This poignantly shows the vulnerability of someone so fixed in their own perspective they aren't aware of how they can be drawn into a trap. Given how little empathy is extended to Elodie it's no wonder she became so acidic and her testament is effective in demonstrating how the sweetest things in life can so easily turn rotten.

Companion Piece by Ali Smith

Amidst the tumult of the past four years it's been a balm when a new Ali Smith novel has annually appeared to herald in a new season, a new story and a new encounter with this author's inspiring imagination. “Autumn”, “Winter”, “Spring” and “Summer” have provided an invaluable frame for our recent times. So I felt worried when I read the beginning of her new novel “Companion Piece” which is described as being adjacent to the quartet or in the same family as this recent group of books. A character named Sandy states how “I didn't care what season it was... Everything was mulch of a mulchness to me right then. I even despised myself for that bit of wordplay, though this was uncharacteristic, since all my life I'd loved language, it was my main character, me its eternal loyal sidekick. But right then even words and everything they could and couldn't do could fuck off and that was that.” Oh no! Is Ali feeling so discouraged by the ongoing chaos in the world that she's feeling depleted? Well, frankly, who isn't? But, of course, the wondrous and surprising tale which continues on from this point shows that this author's creativity is still very much engaged and vibrantly active. 

Sandy Gray is an artist whose elderly father is unwell and in hospital but it's “not the virus.” Visiting him is difficult as this takes place in 2021 while the pandemic is still causing restrictions when entering hospitals and what contact is allowed. She's also desperate not to get sick herself and inadvertently pass it onto her father so Sandy is limiting her interactions with other people. However, an unexpected call from an old classmate that she never even liked provokes a series of events leading to Sandy's house being colonized by a family that disrupts what's become her cautiously reserved existence. Those familiar with Smith's work will know that unexpected guests frequently appear and this novel is partly about what it means to let other people enter your life even when you don't want to interact with them. Given how isolated and distanced we've been from each other over recent years, this notion of letting others in is a challenge we all need to think about. 

The invaders are not only individuals, but ghosts from the past. At one point a medieval girl and her bird come to steal Sandy's boots. Does this actually occur or is it a dream? That's not the question which this narrative is concerned with because “If any of this ever happened, if either of them ever existed. One way or another, here they both are.” Many more fascinatingly strange things occur over the course of the story as we're led to question not only the boundaries between people, communities and nations but between one period of time and another. A clock smashes and forms back into a whole. People are being categorized, shepherded into confined spaces and branded in different ways today just as they were hundreds of years ago. The shape and form may change but it's the same old story. This book is partly about that constancy, but also the light and dark which can be found in all these experiences. We may call the leaves of a tree green but they encompass a range of shades and an infinite variety of colours. This is what Smith's fiction celebrates. 

We follow Sandy's development as disruptions in her life cause her to open up, consider new possibilities and have new encounters. Meeting someone can entirely change someone's point of view. Companionship can be found in a simple “hello.” Sprightly dialogue is interspersed with poetry analysis in a way which sparks unanticipated connections and new meaning. If we're attentive enough to the world around us we can see the mechanisms at play in language, in the ways we are governed and in nature. As in the Seasonal quartet, there are also references to specific political and social events to not only testify to what occurred in 2021, but remind us of what really happened because so many news stories are headlines one day and forgotten the next. Sandy's journey doesn't only bring her to one destination but allows her to see all the doors which are open to her. The novel beautifully shows that it's okay to take time to be alone just as it's okay to reach out to form a new connection, but we mustn't allow ourselves to become numb to what's occurring around us or the possibilities available to us every day. 

Manifesto by Bernardine Evaristo

It was such a thrill to be at the award ceremony on the historic night of Bernardine Evaristo's Booker Prize win for her novel “Girl, Woman, Other”. At the time I was a great admirer of the book and was aware of her reputation, but I had no idea how many years of hard graft and dedication the author had devoted to reaching this point. Now, reading her memoir “Manifesto”, I also have such an admiration for this creative individual who has fused her experience and imagination to produce a body of literary works which artistically reflect the breadth of our culture and celebrate individuality in all its wondrous forms.

In concise sections Evaristo lays out how she got to this point by describing her diverse family background, the places she's lived, the relationships she's had, the community and politics she's engaged in, the development of her distinct form of fiction, the writers and figures who've inspired her and the ambition to persist as a creative person. She describes her experience with such charm, wit and wisdom it's extremely enjoyable to read. Evaristo wholly embraced the platform which winning the Booker Prize gave her and I've been in awe seeing how busy she has been chairing this year's Women's Prize, speaking on panels, providing endorsements for books and curating the 'Black Britain, Writing Back' series which included the excellent novel “Bernard and the Cloth Monkey” which I read earlier this year. This memoir is subtitled 'On Never Giving Up' and the book is really a wonderful testament to how the creative individual must persist and express themselves no matter what hardships are encountered. 

While Evaristo poignantly describes her fluid sexuality engaging in affairs with men and women, one of the most arresting things about her story is learning about the abusive relationship or “torture affair” she had with a woman she calls “The Mental Dominatrix”. Here she found herself in a dynamic where she was mentally and physically abused in a way which sapped her creativity and spirit. Not only does this testify to how we can become trapped in such a destructive dynamic, but it sheds new light on the section of “Girl, Woman, Other” concerning the character of Dominique who was in a very similar situation. Knowing now that Evaristo was writing from experience makes this part of her novel all the more heartrending.

I also greatly appreciated her many pithy observations about how aspects such as gender, race, nationality as well as sexuality all play a part in who we are and how we exist in society but don't define us. In an ideal world these things wouldn't even need to be defined but because of the various imbalances and prejudices which persist they still play an important role. For instance, she describes how “Men and women live in the same world, but we experience it so differently.” It means that fiction and art play such an important role in expanding our point of view to really see how other people see the world. I admire the dedicated way which Evaristo has persisted in doing so over her life no matter the peaks and pitfalls of her profession as a writer and how she will continue to reflect the world back at us in exciting new ways.

Real Estate by Deborah Levy

It's easy to get drawn to looking at a real estate agent's window and dream of the ideal home you might inhabit. In this book Deborah Levy muses upon how she's done this too especially because her “crumbling apartment block on the hill” is far from ideal. But, rather than planning to acquire bricks and mortar, Levy more often muses upon what shape her “unreal estate” might take as well as the homes and possessions which might be included in her “portfolio”. This playfully allows her to imaginatively craft and mould a fictional space and habitation that's not anchored to reality. Moreover, it leads to more searching thoughts upon what it means to inhabit a life through a particular lens; in Levy's case as a writer, a daughter, a mother, a friend, a divorcee and a woman who is about to turn sixty. These autobiographical meditations obviously have a deep personal meaning for the author but they also speak to what it means to be human and the troubling question: how do we inhabit the present moment when we can so often be preoccupied by what we've lost and what we wish to have? 

There's a delicious exuberance to Levy's journey as she moves between temporary residences in Mumbai, New York, Paris, London, Berlin and Greece. This takes place over the course of 2018 as she's working on her novel “The Man Who Saw Everything” and it's so compelling to read about the images, themes, places and influences “David Lynch, one of the film directors who had most inspired my approach to fiction” which helped shape that book. The same was true of the previous instalment of Levy's memoirs “The Cost of Living” when she was writing her novel “Hot Milk”. The three volumes of what's been branded Levy's 'Living Autobiography' thus make up a fascinating commentary on the writing process and an invaluable exploration of the influences which fed into the creation of her unique novels. However, I have to admit, I favour reading Levy's memoirs more than the fiction itself which I admire and appreciate but don't love as much as reading about her thought process and endearing experiences. Deep issues to do with art, feminism and humanity are paired with humorous wit and flights of fancy which make the 'Living Autobiography' a delicious and richly enjoyable experience.

Somehow Levy makes the mundane and embarrassing things in life seem wonderfully glamorous. She collects an eclectic range of objects “Electric bikes, wooden horses and silkworms would be part of my property portfolio”. She makes drinks when people visit her by chilling glasses or squeezing oranges and she goes to great lengths to recreate a particular guava ice cream. She's the ultimate eccentric aunt whose party I want to crash as a shyly curious Patrick Dennis. Towards the end of the book Levy herself crashes a London literary party and has an unsavoury encounter with “a male writer of some note, but not in my own hierarchy of note”. It's delectable how she puts him in his place. Equally, she hilariously mocks the way we project images of our lives and habitations on social media: “Look! Look on Twitter: our ducks are sleeping under the willow trees!... Look! Look at you looking on Instagram! Here we are, setting off on our country walk with Molly, our sweet-natured Burmese python!” She rightly identifies the physical accumulations and projections of our lives as flimsy illusions disconnected from any true sense of security or happiness. She brilliantly describes how “If real estate is a self-portrait and a class portrait, it is also a body arranging its limbs to seduce.”

There's something deeply consoling about following Levy's non-conventional approach to living, creating art and establishing a constantly-evolving amorphous sense of home. I drank deeply from this book and savoured every drop, but I'm still wondering what filthy rhyme she invented to remember the code to get into her Paris apartment. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, she'll one day sing it for me. More seriously, although this is labelled as “the final volume” of the ‘Living Autobiography’ I don’t see any reason why it should end and we shouldn’t hope for further instalments detailing Levy’s life and valuable insights.

Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi

Can a child ever really know their mother and can a mother ever really know her child? Though we're made to feel there should be a natural, inextricable bond here it's seldom ever so simple. It certainly isn't for Antara, the narrator of Avni Doshi's heart-aching and intensely thoughtful novel “Burnt Sugar”. As an adult she finds herself in the tricky situation of caring for her mother Tara who is showing signs of dementia. But Antara seldom felt cared for as a child when her mother abandoned her unhappy arranged marriage, joined a religious commune, had a passionate affair with an unpredictable artist and spent some time living as a beggar on the street. Given their turbulent history together, Antara naturally feels ambivalent about being her mother's carer and confesses in the novel's opening line “I would be lying if I said my mother's misery has never given me pleasure.” Painful emotions run deep throughout this narrative where Antara is haunted by her past and because of this burden struggles to negotiate her relationships with her husband Dilip, her often absent father and her mother in law. I felt intensely involved in this novel which asks poignant questions about the bonds of family and the nature of memory.

I appreciate how this tense mother-daughter relationship becomes deeper and more complex as the novel progresses. It's easy at first to label Tara as a villainous “bad mother” but, as her daughter probes into the past and considers the strain of familial expectations and society, Tara's rebelliousness feels in some ways justified. That's not to ignore the abuse Antara sustains, but it shows how there are many factors at play. Nor should Antara's point of view be taken as the whole truth since we as readers only see things through her perspective. I like how Doshi incorporates a mystery through the novel concerning a portrait of an anonymous man. As an artist Antara reproduces this figure in a series of drawings until he bears little resemblance to the original, but the question of who he is eventually becomes a crucial factor between the mother and daughter.

Antara's artwork is also one of the many intriguing ways in which this story approaches the question of memory. Like many people, Antara's touchstone to the past is through photographs which she peruses but the real circumstances of this history remain semi-clouded. One of Tara's doctors comments to the daughter how “memory is a work in progress. It's always being reconstructed.” Tara's perspective may be unreliable because she might be experiencing dementia, but Antara's memories seem to clash with the recollections of others at some crucial points. The question of who to trust remains throughout the novel. But Antara's trauma is clear and it's moving the way Doshi writes about how Antara learned to mentally distance herself from the present and her methods of self-preservation: “I disown so I can never be disowned.” This might ensure her survival but, of course, the tragedy is that relationships can't function if there isn't a healthy degree of trust.

As I get older I sometimes mull over how my childhood and upbringing have moulded my personality. Naturally I can dwell on the ways I might have been hurt or neglected at various points, but I also try to question how honest I am with myself about the memories that I mull over. This is difficult to do. No one can have a perfect childhood and I appreciate how this novel shows how “Humans grow up flagrantly, messily and no one was afforded the choice of looking away.” If we allow ourselves a degree of self-scrutiny we must own how we were participants rather than simply a victim of our past experiences. It was heartrending following Antara's journey in confronting her mother about the past, but it's even more touching how the narrator must radically confront herself in order to move forward.

Summer by Ali Smith

What a strange, tumultuous journey it's been over the past four years, but I'm so grateful that I've had Ali Smith's Seasonal novels by my side! Who could have predicted the many unsettling transformations that would take place in our social and political landscape when she began this ambitious writing project back in 2016? The highly contentious Brexit vote described in “Autumn” resulted in the UK officially leaving the EU this year. The conservative ex-mayor of London who was mocked in “Winter” has now become the Prime Minister. Some of the immigrants being detained under the watchful gaze of a correction officer in “Spring” have now been released because of the Covid-19 pandemic. It's so unique how the stories in these novels have been shaped by our immediate times and thus captured the sensibility, fears and divergent opinions of the country in its state of constant flux. As Iris remarks in this novel: “We're all walking the line now, the line between one era and another.” This makes these novels invaluable documents as they reflect this turbulent era. But they also join together to form a tapestry of relationships between specific characters introduced over the course of the previous novels, many of whom reappear in this final book in the series “Summer”.

This novel primarily focuses on the stories of Grace Greenlaw, a single mother and former actress who lives next door to her ex-husband Jeff, as well as their two children Sacha and Robert. As with the other novels, there are multiple conversations and oodles of pleasurable witty dialogue between the characters which results in a lot of humour and fun wordplay. Grace is also visited by Arthur and Charlotte from the novel “Winter” who are continuing their 'Art in Nature' online project. They all go to interview Daniel Gluck from “Autumn”. He's now 104 years old and still being visited by Elisabeth who is reading a novel she describes as “Sub Woolfian” about Rilke and Katherine Mansfield which was referred to in “Spring”. Although there are multiple references to events that occurred as recently as May and June of this year, the novel also looks back to previous seasons and periods of time such as the Hutchinson Internment Camp of WWII, a facility on the Isle of Man where German refugees and English residents with German or Italian heritage were held under suspicion throughout the war.

The way Smith threads pockets of history throughout her novels shows how no period of time stands in isolation from the past. Just as the seasons change in ways that we come to expect so do the machinations of society which alternately supports or suppresses its people. But, while larger events and the victors get their stories cemented in the history books, many of the casualties of these periods and their unrecorded stories are entirely forgotten. Smith's novels give a nobility to their perspectives as they show the opinions of people commenting and reflecting upon the changes occurring around them. Jeff's new younger partner Ashley has been working on an Updated Lexicon to trace the path between how words were initially used and how their meaning has been altered by politics. However, Ashley ominously goes silent.

As with the previous novels, “Summer” also meditates upon the life of a now relatively obscure female artist. In this case, she writes about the life of writer and filmmaker Lorenza Mazzetti. Smith also notes many lost attempts at communication between her characters with postcards, letters and text messages which never reach the intended recipient. Whether we are heard or not, Smith seems to suggest the solution to help guide and support one another is sincere open dialogue which bears witness to what's happening around us. In an exchange between Art and Charlotte it's stated: “I'm phoning because listening and communicating and staying in touch with each other is how we're going to get through this time for sure / Not that this time's going to be over for any of us very soon, she says. I have a feeling this time's here to stay, one way and another.” Though our society goes through cycles there are certain events and changes which permanently affect our lives.

from Lorenza Mazzetti’s film K (Metamorphosis)

Naturally coming to the end of this series of novels and reflecting on the progression of their stories has made me think back on how I've spent the last four years of my life. There have been so many small personal triumphs as well as failures I've lived through. I've sent many letters, marched in protests and cast votes in various elections. So much energy is expended trying to achieve a certain end and even more energy can be spent in frustration because the outcome isn't what was desired. But, as Grace reflects when embarking on a journey, “that's summer for you. Summer's like walking down a road just like this one, heading towards both light and dark. Because summer isn't just a merry tale. Because there's no merry tale without the darkness. And summer's surely really all about an imagined end.” There's no real finality in having made it through to this point and there's no stop to our stories even if this isn't the future we hoped to be living in. Smith shows how even the smallest action results in consequences which reverberate through time. The coming months will be very challenging with an upcoming US election, the fragile state of Ruth Bader Ginsburg's health and the continuing pandemic upturning the entire world. The story will continue and there will certainly be more disappointments, but there will also always be more moments under the sun.

Spring by Ali Smith

The more I read of Ali Smith’s seasonal quartet, the more poignant and meaningful this magnificent artistic project feels. Although each novel has a self-contained story concerning a group of characters, an overarching fictional family is being built with small references connecting characters between the novels. This adds a little frisson of pleasure for attentive readers who spot the connections (one such link is explicitly made to “Autumn” at the end of this novel.) But, most of all, a portrait of our time period is being exquisitely encapsulated in Smith’s yearly novel account of recent events, society’s wildly divergent opinions and current political debates. The author also prompts us to ask important questions about the way we live now – one tenacious character in this novel continues to ask questions that need to be asked even when no answers are forthcoming. Moreover, Smith emphasises the importance of dialogue to better understand each other’s positions.

“Spring” primarily focuses on the story of Richard Lease, a down on his luck filmmaker mourning the loss of his good friend and former colleague/lover Patricia (Paddy). He contemplates a film project that playfully imagines a fictional relationship between the writers Katherine Mansfield and Rainer Maria Rilke. When his life comes to a crisis point he encounters a group of people he embarks on a journey with that includes Brittany (Brit), a correction officer at an immigration centre/prison; Florence, a mysterious girl who can freely enter forbidden spaces; and Alda Lyons, a librarian involved in a secret operation to assist detained immigrants. They engage in a number of conversations and relate stories to each other. Even when these characters try to avoid revealing themselves or step away from the stories of their lives they find themselves in a new story: “He was a man on a railway platform. There was no story. Except, there is. There always fucking is.” Smith reminds us that we’re always part of a larger narrative no matter how isolated we feel.

One of the fun tricks in this novel is that there are several short self-contained sections written in a collective or distinct narrative voice - in the way past books in the seasonal quartet have also done. These playfully mimic the voice of social media or represent an explosion of arguments. It’s revealed at one point that these are story sketches in Florence’s notebook making her a chronicler of our times in her own way. This is similar to the other characters in Smith’s previous books such as Elisabeth or Lux who are led by a bold curiosity and a wish to capture the spirit of an era through creative means. In addition to her fictional creations and as she’s done the previous novels, Smith also invokes the personality and artwork of a real female artist. In this novel she describes the artwork of Tacita Dean who tries to capture a cloud. It’s moving how Smith shows in these examples how there is a continuous artistic dialogue that runs alongside and intermingles with broader social and political dialogues taking place in our society.

‘Veteran Cloud’ by Tacita Dean

One of my favourite books by Smith is her novel “Artful” where she so beautifully depicts a character’s grief while contemplating a number of subjects. The way she wrote the character of Richard in this novel when his life grinds to a halt amidst the loss of Paddy made me recall how powerfully Smith depicts someone who experiences immense loss. She also touchingly describes his feelings of estrangement from his daughter who he hasn’t seen since she was young. He’s come to form frequent conversations with an imagined version of her in his mind and this underpins his sense of isolation. Yet, just as Spring brings with it a rejuvenation of hope, Richard finds his sense of engagement and prospects renewed in fresh connections and by giving voice to the refugees rendered invisible behind secure walls. However, there’s also the presence of the sinister firm SA4A (which also appears in some form throughout all the seasonal novels) that Brit maintains a dogged faith in. This seemingly immovable opaque system is an ominous backdrop to these novels.

I’m now more curious than ever to see how Smith will incorporate the recurring elements and themes of her series into the forthcoming final book/season. It’ll be a pleasure to finally fit together all the pieces of the puzzle – even if it’s a puzzle that doesn’t form a complete whole because one of the extraordinary things this project shows is that there are no borders when it comes to stories and there are always more pieces to add.

The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Ta-Nehisi Coates has an inimitable reputation as a journalist and writer of nonfiction about cultural, social and political issues. So his first novel comes with a tremendous amount of expectation and it's wonderful to see those expectations have been met. I've been eager to read “The Water Dancer” since it was first published in America a few months ago and received such rapturous acclaim. Many have likened the book to Toni Morrison's fiction which is very understandable. The story concerns a man named Hiram who is born into slavery in the pre-Civil War South and possesses a magical ability to transport people over long distances using a power known as “conduction” (a talent which the Underground Railroad movement is eager to utilize.) The way the novel considers issues to do with memory, grief and history regarding African Americans is so reminiscent of Morrison's writing it feels directly descended from the late great writer. 

But it also reminded me of Charles Dickens' fiction in the tone and character of its story. Hiram is born into bondage, but his father is the plantation owner. He's tasked with serving and caring for his half brother Maynard who is entirely white so viewed as the natural successor. Hiram is far superior to Maynard in his intellectual and social abilities, but because he's mixed race can never inherit Lockless, the family's Virginian estate and tobacco plantation. So there's a dramatic tension in this injustice and it's riveting to follow how a gifted young downtrodden man might supersede his circumstances by utilizing his talents and exhibiting tremendous resilience. It feels like a very Dickensian trope to show how the progression of time results in miserly defeat for those who shore up their power and abuse the vulnerable. The way Coates traces Hiram's changing relationship to Lockless over time and the complexity of his birthright is so movingly portrayed.

What really emotionally drew me into the story though was Coates' meaningful depiction of a multitude of characters who must contend with excruciating effects caused by the manifold evils of slavery. I could feel a range of conflicted relationships to the past in each individual person Hiram meets along his journey. That Coates makes each of their experiences feel so distinct through subtle characterisation is really powerful. With lineage and familial relationships torn apart, each individual wrestles with different processes of reclaiming their heritage, trying to remember the past or consciously forgetting in order to suture the emotional wounds caused from such trauma. And at the heart of this story Hiram provides a fascinating counterpoint of someone who possesses a photographic memory but whose memories of his mother remain painfully obscured. The process he goes through as he grows into adulthood and finds a place he can claim as his home is described so intensely. It's brilliant storytelling that reinforces the immediate importance of stories themselves.

Underland by Robert Macfarlane

It can be so easy to get caught in the here and now of life when most of it consists of a routine path between home and work. I’ve certainly found that where day after day I take the same trains while passing by the same trees and buildings. After a while I barely notice them because I’m so fixated on looking at my phone or a book. But reading Robert Macfarlane’s “Underland” gives a radically new perspective on time and space as he describes his various journeys to subterranean landscapes. From ancient caves in England and Norway to the bottom of glaciers near Greenland to the subterranean chambers of London and Paris, Macfarlane explores terrain that few people have tread but which has always existed under our feet. In doing so he explores the concept of deep time where he can see the marks of many past centuries inscribed upon the rocks and ice hidden here. This is where resources are extracted from, bodies are buried, waste is disposed of and treasure is hidden. It’s also where scientists can detect changes to the environment and archaeologists can study the oldest traces from human history. Macfarlane recounts his experiences in these places, sympathetically describes the colourful individuals who guide him through them and meaningfully reflects on our hidden relationship to these subterranean regions.

It’s interesting how many people that he meets who either work, study or inhabit these spaces under the land have a strong sense of character. Many are devoted to a particular cause such as preserving the environment, snubbing the law to form a culture of undercity dwellers or mining resources for the good of society. It’s often just as interesting learning about his companions as it is about the underland spaces they’re exploring and Macfarlane shows what a deeply empathetic person he is in how he interacts with them and recounts their perspectives. One of the most compelling people he meets is a boisterous and fiercely independent fisherman named Bjornar who lives on a remote island in Norway. He’s the descendent of generations of such men and this deeply entwined relationship with the sea and landscape have given him a deep understanding of this environment far more meaningful than the oil companies scanning it for resources and the environmental impact of extracting them. I appreciate how Macfarlane gives voice to a plethora of points of view showing how battles over the land are such a complex social issue. However, the crisis of climate change is made absolute clear in the transforming landscapes he explores.

What elevates Macfarlane’s account above a standard travelogue is the beautifully poetic language he uses to evoke these varied subterranean spaces as well as his own state of being when passing through them. He also makes poignant connections referencing different poetry, novels and music so the book functions as a way to philosophically define our relationship to the natural world. But it never comes across as pretentious as he frequently feels humbled by what he finds. In fact, there are points where language is utterly defeated because it cannot describe what he’s seeing such as the glacial ice in Greenland: “Here was a region where matter drove language aside. Ice left language beached. The object refused its profile. Ice would not mean, nor would rock or light... a terrain that could not be communicated in human terms or forms.” This book gives a powerful sense of being humbled before the vast expanse of our world’s history and invites the reader to recall our part within it.

Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo

I’ve mentioned in the past how novels which are more like books of interconnected short stories are my favourite kind. “Girl, Woman, Other” by Bernardine Evaristo invents a new slant to this form of prose and it does so in a way which poignantly relates to the novel’s overall meaning. The stories in this novel revolve around particular groups which are usually composed of a daughter, mother and friend/lover/important familial figure. They focus on twelve central characters in total whose lives touch upon each other either glancingly or in a dramatically important way. Most centre around the lives of black women (many of them queer) in modern-day London, but their lives branch out across the past century as well as to rural life and other countries such as America, Barbados and Nigeria. There is no overarching story although a focal point is a new theatrical production at the National Theatre by one character named Amma, a lesbian socialist playwright. The play focuses on a reimagining of great African female warriors. The women in this novel provide an interesting counterpoint to the dramatization of this ardent reclaiming of the past. The lives and experiences of these modern day women are varied and incapable of being classified. Each forms their own unique sense of identity which is black and female, but also so many different things. It’s really powerful seeing how they variously connect with each other or sadly misunderstand one another amidst their varied and compelling stories.

Some readers scoff at new fiction which self-consciously considers issues to do with current highly politicised issues such as the diaspora, economic inequality or racial/sexual identity. But what I think is so clever about this novel is that it speaks about these themes so overtly you can see how they are a part of the everyday lived experience of women who came of age in the wake of feminism, black consciousness and/or queer rights. Because they are often made to feel marginalized this is a dialogue these women have with themselves, each other and the communities they live in as they seek better ways to articulate who they are and what they want. It’s clever how Evaristo attunes the reader to her characters’ quest to self-identify. When characters pledge unconditional love, rename themselves or reinvent their lives we feel a sense of foreboding rather than celebration because we’ve become all too aware that their principles are likely to eclipse their more complex individual identity and multifaceted needs. Unsurprisingly, there is a lot of friction in this quest to define and understand one another especially between different generations. It’s why I think the dynamic of grouping their stories together works so well because you see things wholly from each woman’s perspective before getting a very different point of view from another woman on the same events, people and situations. It shows how there is no one clear way of understanding their lives or a singular truth about who they are.

There’s also an immense pleasure in seeing how these women’s stories intersect at various points and how certain mysteries within different plotlines are only solved by following each individual story. It creates a panoramic view of groups of people and lives through the past and present. To reign in so many different tales within one cohesive whole takes considerable talent and it’s clear Evaristo is an experienced and talented writer. Of course, the many pleasures that such a construction gives also means we miss out on the joys found in some other more traditionally plotted novels. Inevitably, some of these women’s stories will engage readers more than others. At times, just when you form a powerful attachment to one character the novel will move onto the stories of other women and we won’t see that character again except in passing. Part of me would have loved to read a whole novel about 93 year old Hattie or city worker Carole who is haunted by a sexual assault or Dominique who finds herself dangerously drawn into an abusive relationship on a woman’s commune. However, it’s a tribute to Evaristo’s power as a writer to leave you wanting more. At some points I felt tested trying to keep straight all the many different stories and characters in my mind. But this also means I’d be very eager to reread this novel because I think this would make me see the individual threads of their lives much more clearly. I’m sure a rereading would also allow me to pick up on some details I’m sure I initially missed about how their lives intersect. Nevertheless, my first reading of this novel was an immensely pleasurable experience filled with drama, sharp humour and compelling characters whose stories are a joy to read about.

Where Reasons End by Yiyun Li

“Where Reasons End” is an imagined conversation between a mother and her 16 year old son after his suicide. The aching feelings of grief at the centre of this novel are made all the more intense knowing that the author herself lost a child to suicide. Yet their dialogue isn’t necessarily about why he ended his life and it’s not even about directly memorializing his life; it’s more an exchange about the nature of being and the way language gives structure to relationships. This tone isn’t surprising given Yiyun Li’s recent memoir “Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life” where the author discusses her own depression and suicide attempts. Like in her autobiographical writing, Li doesn’t cut to the heart of emotion but shades in its edges so you feel the bleeding heart of the matter more profoundly. The more their conversation persists the flimsier language feels: “None of the words, I thought, would release me from the void left by him.” As sobering and serious as all this seems, this mother and son make a perfect balance. When the mother’s musing becomes too lofty the son quickly and humorously brings her back to reality. In this way Li captures a beautiful dynamic which persists even after the son’s death.

Something which has always puzzled me is why teenagers typically express feelings of hatred for their parents. Even if it’s only fleeting and there’s an undeniably loving bond there, a parent is likely to hear from their child at some point “I hate you.” But midway through this novel the son (referred to as Nikolai even though that’s not his real name) describes his insurmountable feelings of inner conflict: “I’ve found a perfect enemy in myself.” Realizing how her son ultimately defeated himself, the mother dearly wishes he’d directed that hatred at her instead. It made me realize what a sadly necessary act of rebellion it is for teenagers to turn upon the parents who’ve nurtured them. Usually it’s not until a child’s teenage years that they become fully cognizant that they aren’t the centre of the world and life is full of insurmountable conflicts. How can an individual not feel angry realizing this? And how poisonous it is if the accompanying sense of defeat is directed only inward. Li captures this struggle so poignantly it reduced me to tears.

Many books have been written about grief and it’s often commented how an inner dialogue persists for the survivors. Li doesn’t try to explain the magical thinking that allows this conversation to continue, but simply presents it. The significance comes not from the fact of it but the circular logic which means it will always continue: “I’m muddleheaded, I thought, because I could go on thinking but would not reach any clarity: Which between hope and fear, had made life unliveable for him?” There’s a belief in the power of language which transcends the tragedy of the mother’s circumstance and though it may feel ultimately futile she continues to connect with him through this dialogue. Yiyun Li’s writing achieves a rare kind of honesty I’ve felt in few other writers except maybe Ali Smith and Max Porter. It’s the sort which is best read in private early in the morning when you have no distractions and are ready to have a frank conversation with yourself.