The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell

With her latest novel “The Marriage Portrait” Maggie O'Farrell proves that she's one of the finest historical novelists working today. The basis of her inspiration comes from using that classic trick of plucking a semi-obscure figure from the distant past along with a bit of gossip to conjure a tale from between the pages of history. The subject is Lucrezia de' Medici, a noble daughter from Florence who was married to Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara in 1558 when she was only thirteen. A year later she died from what was labelled as “putrid fever” but it was rumoured that she had been murdered by Alfonso. Although this new novel is set in the mid-1500s (only a few decades prior to her previous novel “Hamnet”) the stories are worlds apart. We follow Lucrezia's life as she is born into a busy privileged Italian household and ostracised for being the strange daughter of the family. O'Farrell imaginatively transports readers to this era with sumptuous, lavish, gorgeously-rendered detail of palace life with its many ornate rooms and hidden corridors, trysts and shady dealings and a menagerie of exotic animals kept for Cosimo, the Duke of Tuscany's amusement. When Lucrezia ventures into the depths of the palace to spy upon her father's new acquisition of a tigress she feels a momentary connection with this wild beautiful animal that stirs her spirit.

The narrative alternates between the story of her upbringing and her time at the remote “hunting lodge” of her husband Alfonso when Lucrezia is suddenly convinced “that he intends to kill her.” Is this true? Is she delirious from illness? Is she paranoid? Is there any way she can survive? These questions remain tantalizingly suspended throughout the story until the exhilarating and clever climax. There are so many compelling characters: vain sisters, bratty brothers, a wise nursemaid, seductive suitors, mysterious artists and scheming friends. As heads of the family, Eleanora and her husband Cosimo provide a model example of rulers of the region in their productivity and determination to educate all their children – both the boys and girls. However, their great flaw is underestimating their daughter Lucrezia. Here she is placed at the centre of the novel as the consummate outsider and forgotten child whose artistic talent leaves her teachers in awe. Though this position naturally makes her somewhat lonely, it's also advantageous as she can see the workings of things more clearly from a distance. Lucrezia's keen skills of observation and ability to discern power dynamics serves her well. She probably would have remained sidelined by her siblings if her elder sister Maria hadn't died from illness which means Lucrezia is ushered to take her place in marrying Alfonso.

I felt so drawn into the dynamics of palace life. O'Farrell is very skilful at evoking this period as well as creating a mystery around Alfonso who comes across as so charming but secretive. It's a tribute to the author's ability that she can build such a strong sense of hope while also making readers dread an impending doom. I was kept in suspense throughout while being spellbound by the heady experience of Lucrezia's wealthy but cloistered life. What's especially intriguing about this historical novel is the way the author allows you to see how things could have played out so differently if fate had blown in a different direction. If Maria hadn't died from disease and married Alfonso her outcome would have been very different from Lucrezia's. If Alfonso hadn't been so ruthless in his desire to produce an heir and allowed Lucrezia to become his equal partner, they could have ruled in as harmonious a way as Lucrezia's parents. O'Farrell shows how certain events dictate history, but they don't determine the future. And through the inspiring conclusion she establishes an ingenious way for us to re-view the past.

The Sweetness of Water by Nathan Harris

It's difficult to visualize how a monumental shift in society such as the end of the American Civil War changed the ways in which people related to one another in their communities, but Nathan Harris has imagined one such story in his debut novel “The Sweetness of Water”. Brothers Landry and Prentiss were born into slavery at a Georgia plantation. Though they have left as free men they don't yet have the foundation to build independent lives for themselves and dwell in the forest of a nearby farm owned by a kindly rotund white man named George. While on the plantation Landry suffered immeasurable daily abuse which left him with injuries so severe he can barely speak. Both he and Prentiss also still suffer from the loss of their mother. Since George and his wife Isabelle are also dealing with their own grief and planning how to manage their property for the future, they invite these men to work with them so that they may all prosper. But the brothers' former owner still thinks of them as his property, the locals are wary that the newly freed slaves will take their work from them and a secret love affair threatens to disrupt the social order of this community. The novel follows a series of heartrending events which result from these conflicts and how individuals struggle to insist upon their rightful place in this newly reformed society. 

Though the central characters are sensitively drawn with many quiet, contemplative moments and evocative dialogue, there's something about this story which failed to fully capture my imagination. I think it's to do with how the high drama of the plot felt so tightly controlled in a way that seemed more manufactured than logical. I felt very sympathetic with the story which describes the lives and struggles of people not often portrayed in fiction. The lag between emancipation and the freedom to live as truly equal citizens is a struggle which carries on to this day so although it's a historical novel it feels extremely relevant. It's necessary to consider why this transition is so slow to occur and to realise that there are so many individuals throughout history who've suffered and continue to suffer as a result of the established caste system as described in Isabel Wilkerson's influential book. “Conjure Women”, another debut novel published last year, also imagined the uneasy transition in the years immediately following the Civil War or “FreedomTime” as she labels it in her novel. Nathan Harris presents another compelling point of view but the reach of its story feels too restrained by author's need to tidily bring about a conclusion for the compelling main characters.

I'm always interested in fiction set in the distant past which imagines how queer people would have negotiated intimacy within a social environment which condemned such relationships. Harris presents an example of such an interesting situation, but the gay couple didn't feel entirely believable to me as their interactions often seemed staged for the story. Sections of the novel I absolutely loved were scenes where Landry is able to find rare moments of respite in nature. Harris vividly describes the liberation Landry experiences in a space removed from the expectations and judgements of the community. Unfortunately, we're jolted out of this and other such moments in the novel a little too abruptly. This jostling pace combined with some unnecessarily simplified minor characters detracted from the subtly of emotion found in the author's otherwise excellent writing. Though it always sounds condescending, I think this is a very promising first novel. It's brilliant the author has achieved such success with the attention it's received from Oprah, Obama and being listed for this year's Booker Prize. I hope there's more to come.

How the One-Armed Sister Sweeps Her House by Cherie Jones

The beach in Barbados where this novel is set may be promoted in tourist brochures as a holiday spot known as Paradise, but the reality is anything but idyllic. On the other side of high-walled expensive houses the real residents of this area dwell in much more ramshackle accommodation and many barely make a living by working as cleaners, hairdressers, drug dealers or prostitutes to visiting foreigners. Economic disparity couldn't be any more evident and the way this is so sharply described shows how it underpins much of the horrific violence in this novel. The story mainly switches focus between two characters. There is Lala, a young wife, mother to a newborn baby and island resident who is the victim of persistent domestic abuse. And there is also Mira Whalen, a woman who married into wealth and whose husband is shot dead during an attempted robbery of their upscale holiday home. The novel explores the way their stories intersect alongside a group of characters surrounding them and frequently tunnels into their backstories. However, events primarily revolve around dramatic crimes which occur in the late summer of 1984. 

As in many instances of extreme poverty and desperation, violence against women is prevalent in this community. The novel shows how this physical and sexual brutality persists through generations. Lala's husband Adan vocalizes his justification for beating his wife and makes her feel like she deserves what he's doing to her. This is infuriating and frightening to read about, but one of the most shocking things about this story is the sense Lala's grandmother Wilma gives that women are to blame because men can't help their lust which leads to aggressive and sexually abusive behaviour. Therefore, she turns against her own daughter and granddaughter. This meaningfully shows the way a patriarchal sensibility poisons the minds of everyone who lives here. So, while it's difficult to read about the many kinds of abuse and violence portrayed in this novel, it's also powerful how it conveys the deeply ingrained sexist dynamic of this particular society. There's also a strong element of suspense running throughout the book. I read it compulsively as I had to know what was going to happen to Lala, Mira and Lala's longtime flame Tone. The ending is suitably explosive! The one-armed sister of the title refers to an allegory which Wilma tells Lala as a girl and I enjoyed how the conclusion of the novel makes an ironic statement which undermines the moral of Wilma’s tale which was meant to keep Lala in check.

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

Why Shakespeare? In Maggie O’Farrell’s “Hamnet” the author uses her considerable talent for mapping the emotional terrain and intimate relationships of her contemporary characters over a long period of time to write a historical novel about the plague-ridden reality of late 16th century England and the death of Shakespeare’s adolescent son Hamnet. Four years after the boy’s death the Bard wrote ‘Hamlet’, a name that was used interchangeably with Hamnet at the time. Given we know only a slender amount about Shakespeare’s life and he wrote nothing of his personal grief, it’s irresistible to speculate on what motivated him to immortalize his son’s name in a play which went on to be one of the most quoted literary works in the English language. However, rather than portray Shakespeare’s thoughts and feelings, O’Farrell instead focuses on the lives of his family: Shakespeare and Agnes’ hastily arranged marriage, the illness of Hamnet’s twin sister Judith, Hamnet’s sudden death and the devastating grief which followed. This is powerfully rendered, beautifully written with evocative historical details and I enjoyed it immensely but…

I felt like something was lacking. A problem might be in my expectations for this novel which has been much-hyped and lauded. It’s been shortlisted for the Women’s Prize, tipped for the Booker and a prominent review ended by simply stating “this is a work that ought to win prizes.” Publicity for the book describes it as “the heart-stopping story behind Shakespeare’s most famous play.” But the novel tells us very little about Shakespeare’s motivation or influence for writing the play beyond what I’ve already described. So I feel that if O’Farrell uses this as a premise her fiction needs to converse with and expand our understanding of Shakespeare’s writing and his literary stature by imaginatively inhabiting his reality. However, Shakespeare is very much a periphery character who is emotionally and physically absent from his family in Stratford while he pursues his dramatic work in London. Of course, this was no doubt the reality. But if we’re not going to get Shakespeare’s perspective or a feeling for the man himself why include him as a character or focus on this central storyline?

Instead, O’Farrell inventively and movingly imagines the life of Agnes as someone with healing powers and quasi-psychic abilities who frequently gathers flowers and herbs to concoct healing mixtures for many of the locals. It’s remarked that “Agnes is of another world. She does not quite belong here.” She’s an entirely-convincing, fully rounded character who is strong and full of heart. I found it very touching how she’s hampered with feelings of guilt about her son’s fate even though she couldn’t have predicted the outcome of his illness or prevented his death. Also, her ambivalent feelings about her husband are a poignant and realistic depiction of a relationship. She’ll never want to see him again one moment and then another moment will feel achingly close to him. She also recognizes that his family and life in Stratford could never be enough for him: “She can tell, even through her dazed exhaustion, even before she can take his hand, that he has found it, he is fitting it, he is inhabiting it - that life he was meant to live, that work he was intended to do.” All of this detail and characterization is excellent but it could be about any family with an absent husband/father.

Shakespeare looms large in our esteem as probably the greatest writer in Western literature and there’s a prolific amount of biographical literature based on relatively few facts making the Bard seem more mythical than historical. Therefore, O’Farrell’s novel feels somewhat like fanfiction that imaginatively and powerfully builds a domestic universe out of the slenderly-known central players in his life. It makes an important statement by naming these figures and conspicuously not naming Shakespeare at all in the novel – he’s only ever referred to by his status as either “the husband”, “the tutor” or “the father”. Perhaps it is partly O’Farrell’s purpose in writing this book to state that the man was merely mortal and his reality was probably as ordinary as his stark and plain writing room that we get a glimpse of late in the novel. That’s perfectly fine. But…

While reading this novel I kept thinking of “Lincoln in the Bardo” and how much Saunders dynamically builds on both our historical and imagined understanding of Abraham Lincoln as a legendary political figure from American history. As with any prominent figure, it shows how he had to balance his personal reality with his public reputation. But “Hamnet” shows us almost nothing about Shakespeare’s conflict except why he’s almost entirely absented himself from family life: “He sees how he may become mired in Stratford forever, a creature with its leg in the jaws of an iron trap, with his father next door, and his son, cold and decaying, beneath the churchyard sod.” But even before Hamnet’s death he rarely visited his family. A writer who feels like they can’t simultaneously maintain a family and professional life is an interesting subject, but his feelings on this aren’t explored either. The most moving portrait of Shakespeare in this novel comes when he tries to engage Agnes in talking about the flora she gathers rather than discussing their son’s death and Agnes resolutely ignores him. Otherwise, I was left as surprised and confused as Agnes about why Shakespeare named his play after his son – other than a fairly obvious psychological interpretation for his motivations. This left me feeling somewhat deflated at the end of the novel.

Given our current circumstances, I also have to note the bizarre coincidence that this novel focuses so much on the effects of a pandemic. It describes in detail the symptoms the plague has on the body and the way measures were taken to try to contain the illness. There are references to theatres needing to periodically close because of it. There’s also an imaginative and impressive section which describes the journey of the illness and how is spreads through fleas from a young sailor to a glass craftsman and how it finally comes to infect a member of Shakespeare’s family. It’s a strange experience reading a novel whose central subject matter becomes surprisingly topical. I also want to stress how much I enjoyed this excellent novel and I’m not surprised it has many enthusiastic fans, but I just wasn’t as impressed as some other readers have been.

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins

It’s a strange coincidence that within the novel “American Dirt” there’s a scene which takes place in a bookstore where a character remarks: “Sometimes the experience of reading can be corrupted by too many opinions.” Since this novel’s publication last month it’s been beset by heavy criticism from the Latin community, Latinx writers and the wider literary world. It’s also had defenders such as writer Sandra Cisneros and Stephen King (who, incidentally, gets name-checked in the novel when the central character finds one of his books which “transports” her to fondly-remembered better days from her past.)

A balanced look at some of the debates about this book was given in this NPR programme which I’d recommend listening to: https://www.npr.org/2020/01/29/800964001/digging-into-american-dirt?t=1582044209799

I wanted to make up my own mind about this novel but because I’ve been following how it’s been so widely debated and discussed in the media I couldn’t read it without these warring opinions in mind. Normally I prefer to read a book before looking at any reviews however with inflammatory accusations such as writer/critic Myriam Curba who calls it “trauma porn that wears a social justice fig leaf” and Luis Alberto Urrea who calls it a “minstrel show” it felt right to consider many different opinions alongside reading the novel itself. That’s not to say critics don’t get it wrong sometimes, but because the novel is partly Cummins’ self-conscious exercise to raise awareness about the migrant experience (as she explains in the afterward) it felt both useful and important to also listen to voices from the actual region it portrays.

I know this has probably unfairly influenced my reading of the novel and I certainly didn’t read it just to bash it, but it also made me vigilant about the self-conscious mechanics of its construction. My overall impression is that it is primarily a straightforward thriller where a mother named Lydia and her eight year old son Luca are on the run from a dangerous entity which frequently comes close to catching up with them. It could be any sinister force which is following them but here it is the cartel who has decimated her family and actively searches for Lydia. The story is set over a perilous migrant trail between Mexico and the United States. In other words, it’s a somewhat generic plot placed within a politically-charged setting.

I can understand the accusation that this is a novel about Mexican immigrants written for a white/American audience. Lydia is a middle-class owner of a bookshop: a sympathetic character who is probably very similar to the novel’s (presumed) reading audience. During her journey she devises a means of escaping the cartel by hiding amongst groups of migrants and has a startling moment of realisation that she won’t just be posing as a migrant but has actually become one. I think this is the point which is intended to transform the reader from being sympathetic to the plight of migrants to knowing that anyone can become one under certain circumstances. While this is an effective technique to draw the target audience in it also feels heavy handed.

The situation is also given a ridiculously heightened melodramatic element where the head of the cartel was formerly a customer in Lydia’s bookshop. Because she and this criminal leader developed a strong intellectual and emotional relationship, the chase after Lydia and her son is deeply personal. I felt this forced emotional element really pushed this book more into the generic thriller realm. It detracted from an ability to feel like this is a situation that could really happen. Likewise many of the people Lydia meets along her journey came across more like pieces in the puzzle for the migrant experience Cummins sought to portray rather than having their own integrity. They often come across as voice boxes self-consciously explaining the mechanics and terrain of being a migrant.

In terms of the writing, Cummins sometimes has awkward ways of translating emotional experience into the physicality of her characters. For instance, she describes how “Lydia funnels gratitude into the slow blink of her lashes.” I felt some laboured passages like this strove too hard to capture a visceral sensation. Again, I didn’t read this novel simply to criticise it. And there were moments when I felt emotionally engaged with Lydia and Luca’s characters. The way in which grief sometimes burst into moments of their gruelling ordeal and how they had to supress these feelings or memories in order to deal with the present was meaningfully portrayed. But overall I felt like I was being taught a lesson through a form of suspenseful entertainment rather than being presented with a humanized portrait of the migrant experience.

I think the debates surrounding this novel have raised some important issues surrounding publishing, the question of fiction’s intention and the degree to which literature can inspire empathy or complacency. However, I have to say, the whole furore has left me with a sour feeling. The excessive vitriol and hate heaped upon Jeanine Cummins feels unwarranted, but the content of this novel and the manner in which it’s been published is certainly not above critique. Cummins definitely didn’t see herself as writing in isolation about this subject matter and thanks a number of Latinx writers in the afterward of her novel. One of the good things that has come out of all the debate surrounding the book are lists of other authors that have written about this experience including this Guardian article, an article in the Texas Observer and countless social media threads giving shoutouts to other books about immigration. I look forward to reading some of these books and was glad to recently read Mexican author Fernanda Melchor whose novel “Hurricane Season” has just been translated into English. All these lists of books reinforce the fact that literature is at its best when it includes a plethora of voices rather than just one book which is hyped as “the book” about a particular subject matter.

Take Nothing With You by Patrick Gale

Patrick Gale's new novel “Take Nothing With You” is a refreshing new take on a coming of age story. At the beginning we first meet the protagonist Eustace in his later years. At this stage of his life he's begun a promising new relationship with Theo, a fairly senior army officer stationed far away, and, though their connection has progressed from a dating app to regular Skype conversations, they've not yet met in person. But Eustace has also been diagnosed with cancer and needs radiation treatment which requires him to remain in temporary solitude within a lead-lined room where he can take nothing with him that isn't disposable. It's the first example of how the title of this novel resonates so strongly throughout a life marked by stages which require abandoning physical things and one form of identity to progress onto another. The bulk of this tale is concerned with Eustace's childhood and adolescence as he discovers a love of music and other boys. The story poignantly demonstrates the courage that is required to declare your true desires and to express your creativity even if it goes against the grain of the majority. It also shows the importance of role models to foster young people’s creativity and to assist in helping them to grow and flourish.

Eustace discovers a love of playing the cello during his childhood and he’s lucky enough to come under the tutelage of a passionate musician named Carla Gold. She serves as an important mentor in training him to develop his natural skill and passion. But financial pressure and discord in his parents’ marriage creates problems for Eustace in realizing his full potential. Although the story is focused on Eustace I appreciate how Gale takes care to sympathetically refer to the struggles of his parents as well. They face their own challenges and must sacrifice things to move forward in their lives or make compromises. Another example of this is the father of Eustace’s friend Vernon who is struck by a paralyzing illness. Here is another example of someone who must cruelly progress in life without things which feel like an essential part of his identity. I also appreciated how Eustace’s relationship with his mother is depicted in such a complex way. Gale writes some startlingly lines to describe the realms of what remains unknown between mother and son: “He had never seen his mother naked and never seen her bank statements.” Considering the dramatic things which occur in their relationship with each other, I imagine rereading this novel will make reading earlier scenes between them feel even more impactful.

Detail of a painting from 1671 by Abraham van den Tempel

The story also sympathetically shows Eustace’s sexual development and how he gradually comes to terms with his homosexuality. Two male friends of Carla serve as mentors in a very different capacity, not just in how they educate him about gay culture, but from the fact of their existence living openly as a gay couple. Without this kind of example in his life, Eustace would have certainly found it difficult to imagine relationships other than the ones he forms in his early sexual experimentation with boys only interested in homosexual acts as a form of physical gratification or a power game. It’s also interesting to note how in one section Gale gives a survey and critique of gay fiction at this time of the late 20th century. Writing by Thomas Mann, Gore Vidal, EM Forster, James Baldwin, Gordon Merrick and Edmund White were crucial in openly bringing the stories of gay men into novels, but they had their limitations and only represented a narrow scope of experience: “The men in all these seemed to be uniformly handsome, virile, rich and expensively educated but they came to believe in their right to happiness and the stories ended with them neither punished, unhappily married nor dead. The novels had about them a strain of self-mythologizing breathlessness, full of precious feminine references which confused him.” Gale’s writing feels to me like an additional crucial voice in gay fiction for the way he poignantly describes the varied ways gay men can survive amidst oppression without compromising essential parts of their identities – as he did in his moving novel “A Place Called Winter”.

Beyond the detailed and captivating descriptions of Eustace’s growth as a musician and a gay man, this novel is an evocative account of the experiences of childhood and the different methods we use to piece together how the adult world works in our own way. In one section it describes how Eustace tries to visualize the different counties in England based on a map he had in a game when he was younger. It’s these sorts of references which we mentally go back to in order to make sense of the physical and emotional landscape in front of us. I thoroughly enjoyed this touching and captivating novel.

See What I Have Done by Sarah Schmidt

Like many people I was always aware of the infamous rhyme about Lizzie Borden (giving her mother forty whacks), but knew absolutely nothing else about her or the brutal murder case. So it was fascinating naively plunging into Sarah Schmidt's dramatic fictional version of this twisted family tale. “See What I Have Done” begins right in the middle of that blood-soaked day on August 4, 1892 where Andrew Borden and his second wife Abby are found dead in their home having been hacked repeatedly with an axe. The story revolves between the perspectives of Lizzie, her older sister Emma, the household maid Bridget and a young man named Benjamin. Their accounts surrounding the days before and after the horrific murder gradually piece together to form a complex puzzle. The tension builds as we come to understand this strained household environment and broken family. This was such a wonderfully atmospheric story that teases the senses and drew me into this chilling murderous situation. 

It’s extraordinary the way details about the scent of rotting pears or mutton soup are described to add to the sinister air of the story. The Borden household came to feel fully realized in my imagination as I not only became very familiar with how the property looked, felt and smelled, but also understood the difficult dynamic between everyone who lived there in the days running up to the murder. Lizzie is an combative young woman often desperate for attention and affection. Her sister Emma grew tired of attending to her and was filled with regret about opportunities she’s missed out on because of her loyalty to her sister. She tries to make a new life for herself by leaving but this has caused Lizzie to grow even more unstable. Her domineering father and uptight mother-in-law take increasingly brutal measures to assert their authority, but only succeed in antagonizing Lizzie and Irish servant Bridget. This is a household situation that builds to an explosion.

I was engaged in this story not just because of the tense mystery about who committed the murders, but also the emotionally touching way Schmidt wrote about the complicated arrangement of the Border house. It’s a place so saturated with frustration and tragic miscommunication that each character is left feeling very isolated. Equally, Benjamin’s family situation provides an interesting parallel where neglect leads to a tragically desperate situation. Before the crime ever occurs there’s a sense of untenable loss concerning the girls’ deceased mother and feelings which have never been resolved. The story describes not only the grizzly consequences of a home that is severely emotionally broken but gets at the tenderness of “That grief inside the heart” of the characters. In many ways, this makes “See What I Have Done” a haunting and memorable novel.

This Must Be the Place by Maggie O'Farrell

A novel about a reclusive ex-film star may sound like it will focus on sensational glamour rather than an emotionally-effective story, but “This Must Be the Place” is engrossing and extremely moving. Maggie O'Farrell creates a woman named Claudette who walks away from her famous director husband and a successful acting career to live in the remotest possible Ireland retreat and weaves her tale into the stories of many other fascinating characters. Most notably it charts her relationship with Daniel who deals with the complicated family he had with his first wife, an unresolved secret from his past and a growing substance abuse problem. Each chapter focuses on a specific character related to this couple. It leapfrogs back and forth through time to form impressions of their dramatic and tumultuous lives. The cumulative effect of this very readable novel is a kaleidoscopic portrait of the way chance and coincidence influence the most important decisions of our lives.

In one section, Daniel and his son Niall travel to the eerie and unusual salt flats of South America.

O'Farrell has a fascinating way of mapping out the lives of her characters in this novel. Each chapter is sub-headed by a name, year and location so you know with certainty where you are, but only through the course of the narrative do you understand why this point matters so much. The focus varies from stories about Daniel’s son Niall’s painful struggles with a severe eczema condition at a special dermatological clinic to Claudette’s sister-in-law Maeve’s journey to China to adopt a daughter. Through these fascinating individual stories we gain impressions of what’s happening in Daniel and Claudette’s lives as well. My only quibble is I wish the author had included a section on Daniel’s first wife rather than so many peripheral characters towards the end. It felt like she was the only major character that remained sketchily drawn where the others were fully rounded. Multiple sections are told from Daniel’s point of view as he seems to have the most trouble finding where he really belongs. However, the only section which focuses on Claudette’s perspective is narrated in the second person so, although we’re entirely with her, we remain outside her consciousness. This distancing effect from her character is mirrored in another section where we’re given photographs of vital objects from her film career that are being auctioned, but which cleverly tell the story of her relationship with the cerebral Scandinavian film director Timou.

I think people who enjoy Anne Tyler’s books would also really appreciate this novel. O'Farrell has a similar way of realistically portraying the quirks, humour and heartache of family life. She also touches upon the complex way we come to define ourselves through the perspectives of others. In particular, she beautifully describes the way those who love us see us in an idealistic light which in turn reinforces our own self confidence: “What redemption there is in being loved: we are always our best selves when loved by another.” The story meaningfully shows how complex relationships can be and that we’ll inevitably follow lots of indirect paths in life, but how powerfully changed we are when honest connections are made. “This Must Be the Place” is a skilfully written novel with a lot of heart.

A Year of Marvellous Ways by Sarah Winman

It’s been some time since I’ve been instantly beguiled by writing as beautiful as Sarah Winman’s. There is a lush, enchanting way she uses language that lulled me and drew me into this strange other world she creates. A ninety year old woman named Marvellous Ways lives in a near-deserted town in Cornwall. She goes for nude swims every day and tells tales of how her mother was a mermaid. This all sounds very whimsical, but as the novel progresses it shows how it is grounded in a much more serious reality. It’s 1947 and the country is still recovering from two world wars: “The triumph of two years ago hadn’t gained access to wallets or purses or homes. People were poor and the city was crumbling.” A soldier named Francis Drake returns from France with a letter from a dying soldier that he promised to deliver. Marvellous and Drake strike up an unlikely friendship which feels something like the pairing in the film Harold and Maude. They tell each other stories, riffle through the past and establish a warm kinship.

One of the most fascinating characters is named Missy Hall, the romantic love of Drake’s life. She remained in London throughout the war and her perspective of surviving through the blitz is strange and new. She developed a deep friendship with a woman named Jeanie. Together they find liberation through the upheaval in society and explore new sexual experiences in the dark corners of bomb shelters. There is a blunt handling of the emotional repercussions of sexual encounters: “Shame’s shame no matter what perfume you spray on it.” When the war ends its back to reality and Missy finds it hard to readjust or slip into the pre-war relationship she started with Drake. It’s a shame she doesn’t appear throughout the entire novel.

The central character is, of course, Marvellous herself whose radical perspective frequently disarmed me. She’s someone who prizes the stripped-down simplicity of the world over heedless progress: “Some things are best left untouched, she said. Tides rise and tides fall. That is perfection enough.” She communes with inanimate objects which sounds fanciful but comes across as a deep, meaningful conversation she’s having with herself more than the world around her. Over the course of the novel, we learn about the three great loves of her life. Her first lover was a woman, but rather than dwelling upon trying to define sexuality its refreshing how she moves from that to relationships with men without ponderous reflection or attributing any meaning to it. She’s also someone dealing with dementia and her struggle with the loss of memory is meaningfully related.

From the cover, this isn’t the kind of book I’d normally pick up because the title and artwork make it seem frivolous. I was drawn to it more because of the endorsement from Patrick Gale whose writing I adore and respect. But there is something very interesting and meaningful going on in this novel. There are times when Winman’s writing does get too florid. While she’s mostly good at simultaneously giving the hard facts of reality alongside ornate musings upon life, there is a short section of wartime France which feels too fleeting and scantily-written to give the impact it needed. However, overall I was charmed by this novel and intrigued by Winman’s unique perspective of the world. “A Year of Marvellous Ways” is a refreshing read whose story I completely sank into.