Time Shelter by Georgi Gospodinov (translated by Angela Rodel)

When I was younger I loved stories such as H.G. Wells' “The Time Machine” which not only imagined a fantastic scenario where a person could travel through different periods of time, but poignantly described how civilisation continuously strives towards utopian ideals (and inevitably fails.) In the novel “Time Shelter” Georgi Gospodinov asserts “There is no time machine except the h uman being.” However, the narrator befriends a mysterious person named Guastine who seemingly inhabits different periods of time simultaneously. The story introduces a scenario where individuals stricken with dementia find comfort in Guastine's clinic which meticulously reproduces environments from the past. As the idea catches on the general public seek refuge in living as if the past were the present. Eventually most of Europe holds referendums to revert to a specific decade from history. Alongside this outlandish tale, the book seriously ponders matters to do with mortality, memory, the nature of reality and the power of nostalgia.

As the narrator gets involved in the clinic and recreating the past, he's struck by certain sensations which inspire a trip down his own memory lane. It was moving how even though these recollections were obviously specific to him I was equally swept into the narrator's longing for the past. I feel like nostalgia is something so many people experienced more intensely during the pandemic since lockdowns meant we weren't allowed to see familiar people and places in real life. During this time I once passed by a fountain near a grocery store and the smell of its chlorinated recycled water evoked strong childhood memories of being taken to Disney World with its elaborate fountains. This resulted in some shameful hours I spent watching POV videos of Disney rides and old park vlogs on YouTube. There's an undeniable power to how certain sensations (especially scents) can instantly transport us to the past. Even if it's not a happy recollection, we can suddenly feel like we're re-experiencing all those emotions from a bygone era with a mixture of memory and the imagination. The novel describes both the pleasures and dangers of harnessing this effect in the lives of individuals and nations.

Guastine's ambition grows from wanting to reproduce different decades on different floors of his clinic to wanting to recreate whole cities from different times. Similarly, as nations engage in public debates about what eras they want to revert back to there are disagreements and issues which make such plans practically impossible. Of course, this is an absurdist story but the value of indulging in such concepts is that it offers a more clearsighted view of the influence that history and nostalgia has upon us. Gospodinov artfully shows how it's easier and more comfortable for people to harken back to the past than look to the future which is unknown. This is something that politicians and marketers are aware of and they use this to manipulate the public. We can easily see evidence in this from political campaigns to commercials. And quite frequently it works. Ironically, we can even feel nostalgia for the ads we were constantly fed in early life: “But what is going on with the ads? The ones we passed over with annoyance back then have now taken on a new value. Suddenly the ads have become the true news about that time. The entrance into it. A memory of everyday life”. These ads from the past have become testaments to the ideals and styles which were fed to us in a particular time period.

In recent years populist leaders have proclaimed that they'll make a country great again and that they want to take a country back. By taking such notions of reverting to past times literally this novel creatively shows how this isn't only a fallacy but a dangerous impossibility. Inequity has always existed so no one would be able to agree what period of time was best in a nation's history. Also, this nostalgia for a purer better era is more about our fantasies of how things used to be rather than the reality of history. Gospodinov states: “The past is not just that which happened to you. Sometimes it is that which you just imagined.” Alongside expressing universal ideas about the function of the past and memory, it feels like this novel is making a timely statement because we can so often be swayed into making decisions about the future based on nostalgia rather than recognizing the reality of the present.

As much as I appreciated the overall message of this novel, there were some elements of the book I struggled with. It has so many interesting ideas to chew over and it really helped me re-frame my understanding of history and the effects of nostalgia. However, I felt it was a bit of a slog getting through this story as I struggled to emotionally connect to it. The nebulous figure of Guastine flits in and out of the novel making statements and providing quotes which sometimes felt too self conscious. Though the narrator gradually reveals elements of his life I never felt like I could fully grasp who he was as a character. He also sometimes goes off on tangents such as a chapter which feels like a one-sided polemic against euthanasia and in another section he seems to dismiss all recent literature: “if nations go back to the '70s and '80s, what will happen to the poetry and books that are not yet written and which are forthcoming? Then I tried to recall what great things I had read from the past few years. I didn't think I would have regrets about any of it.” In my opinion, these sassy simplistic asides detract from the larger meaning of the book. So, while I admire the larger meaning of this novel, the experience of reading it was both enlightening and frustrating.

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

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

The Hummingbird by Sandro Veronesi (translated by Elena Pala)

Sometimes a new novel is accompanied by so much advance praise it seems like a sure winner. So it can feel disconcerting to discover that after actually reading the book it hasn't worked for me. Jhumpa Lahiri states that Sandro Veronesi (winner of multiple literary prizes in his native Italy) is “long considered one of Italy's leading writers” and that “his latest novel 'The Hummingbird'... has already been hailed as a classic.” High praise for this book also comes from Ian McEwan, Howard Jacobson, Michael Cunningham, Richard Ford, Edward Carey and Edward Docx. It's described as a “reinvention of the family saga” and generally I really fall for multigenerational stories. So all the elements were in place for me to fall in love with this book, but I didn't. This naturally makes me wonder if I'm missing something or if my expectations were set too high. But generally I've found that no amount of overarching high praise will spoil my enjoyment of a book if it's actually good and “The Hummingbird” is a novel that I keep finding faults with the more I think about it. 

It traces the story of Marco Carrera by moving backwards and forwards in time from the 1970s all the way through into the future in 2030. He's a doctor who specializes in eye and vision care. Though he's married and has a daughter, he's had to keep at arm's length the true love of his life Luisa who he maintains contact with over the years but, for complicated reasons, they can never be together. A crucial opening section recounts dialogue between Marco and Daniele Carradori, his wife Marina's psychoanalyst. Though their conversation breaks the trust a doctor should maintain with his patient they discuss Marina and continue to discuss her in the years following after Marco and Marina divorce. It made me really uncomfortable that Marina is described as suffering from severe mental health issues, yet we get little about her story beyond Daniele dismissively stating years later that he always knew she was a “lost cause”. Of course, Marina might have caused a lot of destruction and pain for those around her but the narrative doesn't grant us access to her position. It feels like the reader should only sympathise with Marco and the fact that life has trapped him in a situation where he can't be with the woman he truly loves.

Marco's life is beset by several tragedies which makes it feel like he's a victim of fate who persists despite the chaos swirling around him. The novel raises questions about the amount of free will we have to decide our own destinies. Although there is personal tragedy in his life, Marco has an unparalleled lucky streak as a frequent gambler who, against all odds, always comes out ahead. The eternal question of determination as opposed to the influence of human will is certainly a compelling one especially when looking at the course of a life over great swaths of time, but the way it's presented in this story feels too manufactured and forced. The novel is told in fragments of different forms: letters, dialogue and snapshots of particular periods that leave a number of gaps for the reader to imaginatively fill in. That's an interesting structure but it feels like it's built to arouse the maximum amount of sympathy for Marco at the expense of all the other characters. Additionally, certain dramatic scenes in the novel feel directly taken from films such as 'Force Mejeure' and 'Final Destination' as a way of further demonstrating the question of fate vs free will. This felt more hackneyed than meaningful to me.

Finally, Marco's granddaughter Miraijin is presented as a great beacon of hope for the future who he laboriously invests with attributes which will allow her to triumph over traditional sexist and racist notions. He pompously claims “this creature is my gift to the world.” These idealized notions seem very naïve and the positive note the author seems to be reaching for in the final section is subsumed by the sense this is really just an extended hymn to the “beloved” figure of Marco. Every character in the novel we've been prevented from getting to know in any meaningful sense because of the way the story is structured is paraded up to his bed during Marco's final hour to pay tribute to him. Given I didn't feel endeared to Marco, I didn't shed a tear. I'm only emphasizing my reaction to the end of this book because Edward Docx's review makes a point to “commend and celebrate The Hummingbird's last scene, in which Veronesi achieves something transcendent”. If you feel attached to Marco and Veronesi's method of storytelling which funnels all empathy exclusively towards this main character the book's conclusion will probably feel poignant, but all it made me do was sigh with relief that it was over. 

The Performance by Claire Thomas

Watching the news it's difficult not to be consumed by an ever-present level of anxiety about the state of the world as it suffers from innumerable economic, political and environmental problems. Though it feels like the planet is on the brink of catastrophe, no metaphors for impending disaster are necessary when the ongoing bushfire crisis in Australia means the world is literally burning up around the people who live there. Melbourne writer Claire Thomas has brilliantly dramatised this in her novel “The Performance” where three women from different generations watch a performance of Samuel Beckett's 'Happy Days' while a bushfire increases in ferocity not far from the theatre. The narrative revolves between the perspectives of professor Margot, theatre usher Summer and philanthropist Ivy as they watch the play and contemplate the past. Though we get snippets of the performance which is occurring and their reactions to it, what's so engaging is how Thomas captures the real experience of being in the theatre. Of course, this novel takes on an added poignancy and even more meaning reading it now that the global pandemic has caused most theatres to shut over the past year. 

Most of the time the audience is focusing on everything except the play whether it be the self-consciousness which comes from coughing in a quiet theatre, the snores of a nearby audience member or the fleeting thoughts which flash through their minds. This gives a wonderful humour and relatable quality to the story as well as grounding the reader in these characters' moment to moment experiences over the course of the play. It also highlights how we ourselves perform whenever we're in public or interacting with other people whether that be following the conventions of social interaction or making sure we're projecting the correct political values. As the fretful character of Summer who is a 20-something biracial woman in a lesbian relationship reflects: “Performing in the right way each day is exhausting her.”

In the play 'Happy Days' a cheerful woman describes her daily routines and narrates her thoughts while gradually being buried in a mound and this is the perfect vehicle through which to compare these women's experiences. They are each dealing with their own personal crisis while also being aware of the larger environmental threat occurring outside the theatre, yet they are most often preoccupied by what's happening in the moment. It's observed how “The earth is deader and harsher now. We humans, all of us, are stuck on a dead planet with extremes that are more extreme. We humans, all of us, have to distract ourselves with denial and busy business.” Since these women's stories are refracted through the play they're watching the novel makes an artful and moving statement about our impending mortality and how these swirling anxieties give the sensation that we're all steadily being buried alive.

While “The Performance” poignantly expresses this existential threat, the book is also wonderfully playful and oddly comforting as I became increasingly involved in these unique women's compelling stories and their relationships to each other. I was also so impressed with how Thomas cleverly structures the novel as its story neatly takes place over the course of the play and when the intermission occurs the text switches to a dramatic script where the women mingle in the lobby. There's a pleasurable irony to how the only interaction which takes place between the characters is presented like a play at the only time they're not actually watching the play. There's also a quiet beauty to how the author shows that (though we can often get lost in apprehensive mindsets) small moments of kindness and human interaction can make a world of difference: “There have been times in Ivy's life when a single warm sentence from another person has made the difference between wanting to die and not wanting to die that day.” Following these women's affecting moments of connection and disconnection is riveting experience. I'd highly recommend this excellent novel to anyone who is a fan of “Ducks, Newburyport” or “Weather” by Jenny Offill.

Small Pleasures by Clare Chambers

If you hate the ending of a novel after really enjoying the majority of the story is it still a successful reading experience? It's a tricky question and one I've been left pondering after finishing “Small Pleasures”. Set in the late 1950s it follows Jean, a journalist at a local paper in the suburbs of London. Though she's around 40 years old she still lives with her mother whose cantankerous and overbearing manner leaves little room for Jean to have a personal life. Jean is assigned to write a feature about Gretchen, a Swiss woman who claims her daughter is the result of a virgin birth. During the process of researching this curious case Jean gradually develops a personal relationship with Gretchen, her husband Howard and their daughter Margaret. The author skilfully evokes the atmosphere of mid-20th century England alongside a compelling mystery which plays out in such an interesting way. It's a delight how Jean's fluffier news pieces about domestic matters are interspersed throughout the novel. Most of all, I grew to feel strongly emotionally involved with Jean whose quiet but painful loneliness is assuaged by her growing affection for this family. It's also very intriguing how this personal story intertwines with the facts Jean uncovers surrounding Margaret's birth. But the novel ends with a dramatic event which feels entirely disconnected from this gentle and beautifully immerse tale and it's left me feeling betrayed.

I'm not someone who needs a happy ending in novels. Even if I come to feel so attached to characters that I hope to see separated lovers reunited, good individuals rewarded and villains get their just deserts, I can accept it when things don't work out for the best because that often happens in life. But I think the conclusions of novels ought to be consistent with the tone of the story and stay true to the integrity of the characters I've come to care about after following them for hundreds of pages. It's true that disasters occur and the chance of being caught in such a horrific circumstance is a reality we wake up to every day. At any moment the narrative of our lives can be horrifically thrown off-kilter by such an occurrence. However, in a novel such unexpected events should be integrated into the story in a way that allows the reader to emotionally process a calamitous occurrence alongside the characters. That's why novels plotted around dramatic events often follow the aftermath so we can see how people survive or falter when confronted with tragic loss.

The way “Small Pleasures” ends simply left me feeling cold and manipulated because it's like the trust I'd formed over the course of the narrative had been broken. The afterward of this book made matters worse because the author describes how she wanted to self consciously incorporate two historical incidents into one novel. But the way she did this felt tacked on rather than artfully blended into the story. I'd rather not have spent so much time focusing on these final pages because I truly feel the majority of this book is moving and well done. It's poignant how there are storylines about suppressed same sex desire, the way family members can become overly burdened with becoming their relatives' carers and issues to do with untreated mental health problems. But I feel like the conclusion of this novel taints the overall experience of the story which is very unfortunate.

Betty by Tiffany McDaniel

As I get older I've naturally become more curious about my family history and I've felt the urge to record this personal lineage before it's lost or forgotten. Of course, everyone's family story is unique to them but Tiffany McDaniel's is one that felt wholly new and bracingly honest to me. She's fictionally reimagined her mother's story in the artfully composed and extremely moving novel “Betty”. With her mixture of white and Cherokee ancestry, Betty has darker skin so stands out from the crowd. She's frequently teased and tormented in the rural area of Appalachia she grows up in during the 1960s. Additionally, she's made aware of the perilous vulnerability of women and girls who are frequently the targets of sexual abuse within their community. In telling her mother's story, McDaniel has memorialised not only the creativity, resilience and spirit of her direct lineage but also the conflicts and struggle of a whole community that's not often represented in literature, television or the media. She poignantly shows the way prejudice and a culture of silence is passed down through generations and thus perpetuates abuse and violence. But she also evokes the particular personalities of Betty, her siblings and her parents in such a compelling way that I felt intimately drawn into this family and fell in love with their story. 

One of the most affecting aspects of this novel is the way storytelling itself is woven into the lives of the characters. Betty's father relates the mythological traditions he's inherited to his children while also conjuring his own stories about their place in the natural world. Some characters scoff at these considering them to be simply tall tales, but Betty surmises their deeper importance: “Dad says so. That means it's true... I realized then that not only did Dad need us to believe his stories, we needed to believe them as well. To believe in unripe stars and eagles able to do extraordinary things. What it boiled down to was a frenzied hope that there was more to life than the reality around us. Only then could we claim a destiny that we did not feel cursed to.” The way that the larger community diminishes their family (Betty and her father in particular) means that these stories form a more meaningful and substantial reality than the one they exist in.

As Betty interacts with more slighted and marginal figures in the town she discovers many more people have their own hidden stories and legacies. This hits closer to home when she discovers the way her mother and sister have been secretly abused. The fact of their rape is shocking but so is the way it darkly affects their personalities. While her father is naturally gregarious and loveable, I found myself initially angry at the mother for the rough way she treats Betty. But I developed more sympathy for her as it becomes clear this is a consequence of the way the mother hasn't been able to deal with or voice the trauma she's experienced. Equally, I found Betty's sister Flossie such a compelling character as her vanity is initially charming and then takes a darker turn as her pretensions make her turn her back on her family. But, ultimately, it's tragic the way Flossie is unable to reinvent herself in the way she desires. The way McDaniel shows how private suffering is often turned inward and forms self-destructive behaviour in a variety of individuals is very powerful.

This novel is both a reckoning and a testament. When we begin to realise the challenges and strife our ancestors suffered (and sometimes didn't survive) the fact of our existence can feel like a kind of miracle. “Betty” is a very special personal story that speaks to this in the way it skilfully evokes a lost world and distinct individuals that shouldn't be forgotten.

Exciting Times by Naoise Dolan

Multiple friends of mine who’ve read Sally Rooney’s phenomenally popular novel “Normal People” have asked me for suggestions of what they can read that is “just like Normal People”. I think “Exciting Times” by Naoise Dolan might be the answer. Of course, to say that this debut novel is “just like” Normal People does a disservice to the originality of Dolan’s tale and the uniqueness of the authorial voice. But there are several similarities. It’s a contemporary novel about young people new to adulthood. Although it’s set in Hong Kong, it’s by an Irish author and the narrator is Ava, an Irish woman who moved there to teach English to rich children. There’s a difficult romance at the centre of the novel and a suspenseful element driving the story is about whether or not they’ll get together. Factors such as social class and money play into the tension of the central relationships. It concerns a lot of miscommunication or failed communication which is muddled by the medium of modern technology. It’s a poignant and oftentimes funny story. There’s also the fact that in the acknowledgements Dolan thanks Sally Rooney alongside a couple of other contemporary Irish writers. These aspects all mean that if I were an algorithm I’d offer up “Exciting Times” as an if you read and enjoyed Normal People suggested purchase. Thankfully, I’m not an algorithm so I have a bit more to say about what makes this novel great.

The novel fits into a tradition of Irish books which explore the subject of emigration. Ava seems to have moved so far away from her native country because she feels like an outsider and she’s not entirely sure what to do with her life. This distance gives her a unique perspective on her own sense of nationality and the way she’s viewed by others. Given that she teaches English as a foreign language, there’s a lot of wry commentary on language itself: the limitations of it but also the cultural significance of how and where it’s used. She meets an English banker named Julian whose upscale apartment she moves into and they have sex but they are not “together”. This is another fascinating way the novel tests the limitations of language. Everything about their actions fit into the definition of a romantic relationship, but neither Ava or Julian will label it as such. But, also, Ava makes a lot of pointed commentary about how Julian uses the English language verses how she uses it as an Irish person. This shows a tradition of cultural imperialism and also a grotesque snobbery on the part of the English. Growing up with the influence of English culture in Ireland leads her to observe “The English taught us English to teach us they were right.” And the self-consciousness she feels teaching English prompts her to sardonically reflect “Sometimes I wondered if I was actually a native English speaker.”

The crux of the story concerns a romantic triangle Ava becomes caught in when she enters into a loving relationship with Edith, a lawyer looking for the sort of emotional commitment that Julian denies Ava. For a while, Ava tries to maintain both relationships separately but the pressure gradually builds forcing this ambivalent individual to make some tough decisions. I often found myself very sympathetic to Ava while also being very critical of her actions and choices. So it’s engaging how Dolan treads that line and it’s refreshing to see a sympathetic portrayal of bisexuality in a novel. I can’t think of many books that have successfully done this other than Rooney’s first novel “Conversations with Friends” or Rowan Hisayo Buchanan’s “Starling Days”. It’s also noteworthy the way Ava looks with a somewhat critical eye at how Ireland has been changing in recent years. She comments how on social media many of her old school mates publicly supported the 1995 referendum on same-sex marriage, but these are also the same women who ostracised her by labelling her a lesbian when they were girls in school.

One of the most relatable things this novel does is describe the dynamics of online culture/social media etiquette and the feelings of self-consciousness this medium evokes. So much of Ava’s time and energy is invested in browsing the online history or status updates of the people she’s most interested in rather than trying to communicate with them directly. The novel also shows how a lot of exchanges or interactions are made indirectly through this medium. Ava is intensely aware when her stories on Instagram are viewed by Edith and she’s very nervous about viewing Edith’s stories because then Edith will get a notification that she’s viewed it. It reflects the absolute absurdity of this world but it also shows how difficult it is for people to be emotionally open and how they can grow dependent on the ambivalence romance offers. When Edith tries to confront Ava about this she notes how “she asked if I thought I'd gone for unavailable people because I knew I'd never have to face the reality that being with them would not solve all my problems. I told her she had no business saying something that perceptive.” This perfectly summarizes how Ava is an intelligent and funny, but flawed individual. “Exciting Times” is the kind of relatable and modern story that I hope to see in more new novels and (aside from obvious comparisons) Naoise Dolan is definitely a unique new voice in fiction.

Augustown by Kei Miller

How do we read about characters so radically different from ourselves without bringing our own assumptions into the story? It’s the same challenge we face walking down any street and encountering someone who appears to be from a different class, race, gender, sexual orientation, social group or religion. It’s something I loved about reading Petina Gappah’s novel “The Book of Memory” earlier this year. In this book she challenges the lazy way we divide people up into categories as if they must inevitably be one particular thing. It’s these very categories which reinforce structures of imbalance in our society and prevent us from seeing people as infinitely more complex than any one aspect of their identity.

In his novel “Augustown” Kei Miller also asks us to question the assumptions we make about people. Central to this book is the story of an over-zealous teacher who cuts off a boy’s dreadlocks in his classroom. This is in a poor neighbourhood school in the fictional city of Augustown in Jamaica and this incident sparks off a dramatic event that gets the whole town marching. Built around this story are stories characters tell each other. These tales span back many years and involve a range of dynamic and vividly-realized characters from a cleaner prone to delusions to a pot-bellied Governor to a down-and-out man locked up in a madhouse who goes on to lead a revolt as a flying holy man. Using poetic language and a rigorous intelligence, Miller builds layered, intriguing, interweaving tales of the people from Augustown showing how the past is linked with the present. The effect is utterly absorbing for the secrets that are revealed and fascinating for the way his ideas make you stop and think.

The novel shows how highly politicised gradations of skin colour are in Jamaica. Some people attempt to attach themselves to individuals of a higher class and/or lighter skin colour to elevate themselves out of a perceived lower class skin colour. One man reasons “Marriage to her would be an exaltation at last out of the blackness to which some unobservant people thought he belonged.” The story also shows how Rastafarians rebelled against this and the character of Alexander Bedward initiates a movement to fight against connections between class/social status and skin colour. The popular Bedwardism mantra is “there is a white wall and a black wall, but the black wall is growing bigger and will crush the white wall.” The stories show how the external and internalized racism becomes untenable at certain points of history causing emotional acts of rebellion.

Although there are many characters and stories being told, the overarching story is always tightly controlled by a narrator who guides the reader through this community and its history. It’s only near the end of the novel that the narrator’s identity is revealed. At some points through the story the narrator’s voice comes to the forefront actively commenting upon how the reader might interpret the story. One of the most memorable instances is when the narrator references times where characters in the story fly and it’s stated: “Look, this isn’t ‘magic realism’. This is not another story about superstitious island people and their primitive beliefs. NO. You won’t get off so easy. This is a story about people as real as you are, and as real as I once was before I became a bodiless thing floating up here in the sky. You may as well stop to consider a more urgent question, not whether you believe in this story or not, but if this story is about the kinds of people you have never taken the time to believe in.” It’s true that the literary style of magical realism has become entwined with notions of folklore and underdeveloped nations. Reading certain stories and branding them with this classification can dilute the power literature has to connect us with other people’s real experiences.

Later this notion is reiterated when commenting upon the storytellers of a community: “The great philosophical questions goes: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound?... If a man flies in Jamaica, and only the poor will admit to seeing it, has he still flown?... Always – always – there are witnesses.” There are aspects of history we remain wilfully deaf to because they occur outside of our own socio-economic circle. Stories that come from people within other circles might be dismissed because the teller can be discounted as invalid or irrelevant. This novel encourages us to really listen to and respect the testimonies of individuals whose stories we are prone to dismissing because of difference.

It’s artful the way Miller balances his powerful ideas with a plethora vibrant storytelling. “Augustown” is an elegantly written and engrossing book.

The Maker of Swans by Paraic O’Donnell

In the past year, I’ve been captivated by a series of impressive new books by Irish authors. There has been powerful fiction from debut authors like Danielle McLaughlin and Gavin McCrea as well as exciting new novels from established voices like Edna O’Brien, John Banville and Anne Enright. Not only have novels by writers such as Gavin Corbett, Belinda McKeon, Kevin Barry and Sara Baume delivered powerful stories, but these books meaningfully break form to fashion a new kind of writing. Paraic O’Donnell’s writing in “The Maker of Swans” is also resolutely its own thing. I wouldn’t exactly categorize it under that flabby moniker ‘experimental’ – nor would I categorize it as anything except a novel. A grand rural house presided over by a mysterious man may sound like a set up straight out of classic fiction, but the way O’Donnell tells it makes this story so strikingly compelling.

The master of the house is Mr Crowe who possesses rare indeterminate skills, a substantial library and a pen that once belonged to Shelley. He is attended to by a faithful butler named Eustace whose duties extend beyond that of a normal servant as is made clear in the novel’s dramatic opening. Mr Crowe arrives home very late after an evening of indulgence with a sultry singer in his car and a jealous man in pursuit. The jilted lover soon lies dead on the lawn and it’s up to Eustace to take care of the body. This is a tale of murder, kidnapping and mystery, but it’s more about art, language and literature. What sacrifice is needed to create a beautiful work of art? Do words have the power to really codify experience and the physical world? How do great books help us straddle the line between the conscious and unconscious? Is the life captured in art true or false? None of these questions are raised overtly within the story, but rise subtly within the narrative and the labyrinthine path it takes to a strangely unsettling climax.

Central to the story is a mute girl named Clara who (like many of the house’s residents) is seemingly ageless and lives there under Mr Crowe’s guardianship – although she is much closer to Eustace. She treads lightly between the real world and dreams making her an avid recorder of fantastical tales. Her abilities for recall are unparalleled making it is a favourite game in the household to pick any book from Mr Crowe’s large library and Clara will write down the opening lines from memory. This is how her passion for reading is described: “The books she loves most are those that seem somehow complete, their worlds proximate and habitable. There is an ease in entering those other lives, in feeling herself enclosed by another consciousness. It is strange, that unruptured intimacy, like possessing a second skin.” This is certainly anyone’s ideal reading experience!

Eustace keeps an orrery in his room which demonstrates the motions of the planets

The novel takes many divergent paths including a heartrending back story of Eustace’s origins and a tense section where Clara is incarcerated by a sinister figure named Nazaire and his ailing employer Dr Chastern. Yet, the story always circles back to Mr Crowe, his mysterious abilities and the seemingly sacred position he holds. Crowe is simultaneously a progenitor of the world’s best writing and the embodiment of fiction’s greatest characters from Mr. Rochester to John Silver to Ted Hughes’ trickster Crow. He’s rambunctious, lustful and charismatic. Both artist and muse he believes that we should “Never leave a void where something may be written.” It’s as if his ability to perfectly encapsulate the beauty of life can give meaning to all that is seemingly meaningless.  

The experience of reading “The Maker of Swans” is something like that hypnagogic state of consciousness where the familiar world is slightly bent and it feels like anything can happen. There appears to be an overriding logic although it never becomes clear. Unlike other cerebral writers such as David Mitchell who feel it’s necessary to show the mechanics behind their fantastical schematic landscapes, O’Donnell thankfully never lays out the nuts and bolts of his story. He is very good at creating intrigue so even if I didn’t understand what was happening I wanted to know what was going to happen next. What also drives the story are bursts of humour and some truly beautiful figurative writing where wet “cobbles have the muted gloss of eel skin.” This is a fantastically inventive novel that purposefully builds new paths for fiction and it’s also another fine example of the exciting new writing coming out of Ireland.