The Empusium by Olga Tokarczuk (translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones)

I've had mixed experiences reading Tokarczuk's work in the past. I didn't get on with “Flights” but loved “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead”. So I was curious to see what I'd make of “The Empusium”, especially just after reading “The Magic Mountain” as the bones of this story heavily inspired Tokarczuk's novel. This follows 24 year-old Mieczysław Wojnicz who is suffering from TB and another initially mysterious condition as he journeys to a “health resort” in the Silesian mountain range. There he encounters a number of highly opinionated men who take him on rambles through the countryside, drink a hallucinogenic alcohol named Schwärmerei and engage in conversations on a range of topics from politics to religion to the nature of reality, but most of these discussions devolve into horrifically misogynistic statements. The narrative follows Wojnicz's increasingly unsettling experiences as rumours of ritual killings in the forest and witches abound alongside persistent unsettling noises around the property. However, we also get frequent memories from Wojnicz's past as he lived under his imposing father (who is also a massive misogynist.) The story leads to a scene of intense crisis and an opportunity for new possibilities for Wojnicz.

The title of the book comes from Empusa or Empousa (who was a shape-shifting female from Greek mythology who seduced and fed on young men) but the name is combined with the word symposium. I enjoyed the chilling atmosphere of this novel where we're almost immediately presented with a body on a dining table! Threats abound from devils, the town's working class, women and even the landscape (according to his friend Thilo.) There's the question of who Wojnicz should really trust – the doctors, the gentlemen residents, terminally-ill Thilo with his cryptic warnings, the local women or the strange noises/voices that surround him. There's some gore especially surrounding food (there's a duck soup scene which is utterly stomach-churning) and the novel considers the cruelty towards/consumption of animals which is strongly reminiscent of Tokarczuk's “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead”. One of the most unsettling images are some creepy dolls (tuntschi) which are made from natural material by locals and used for sex before being left in the forest. Though the novel is subtitled as a “horror story” it's not so much about nail-biting terror, but it's fairly effective at creating a persistent eerie sensation.

It gradually becomes clear that the true horror comes from prevailing attitudes and systems of thought concerning a hatred towards women. Not only that but Wojnicz is frequently under pressure to conform to stereotypical notions of masculinity. I grew up in rural Maine where I was forced to spend time amongst groups of men on camping and hunting trips. Though they weren't outwardly misogynistic there was pressure to fit into this high-testosterone atmosphere, rise to physical challenges and submit to men's need to be “right” in whatever argument they were making (whether I agreed with them or not.) So I definitely felt for the pressures Wojnicz experienced among such men.

Interestingly, the narrative switches between a past-tense 3rd person following Wojnicz and a collective first person account in the present from some undefined entities (labelled in the opening cast list of the novel as “Nameless inhabitants of the walls, floors and ceilings”.) I liked how this later narrative voice added to the creepiness of the story as it felt like I was travelling amongst ghosts, spirits, nature or some other unknown entity. It adds to the sense that although misogynistic men control the social order of this location there's a perspective outside of this judging, undermining and wryly commenting on the proceedings. But it was also such a curious way of shifting focus from the larger action to the micro: the chinks between the slate roof tiles, droplets of water, clumps of grass, etc. To me this felt very cinematic like in David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the view of a seemingly idyllic neighbourhood narrows down to creepy undergrowth.

The novel’s story has a superficial relationship to Thomas Mann's “The Magic Mountain” with its hero newly arrived at a sanatorium, plot structure centred around conversations between gentlemen and setting prior to WWI. Tokarczuk has commented that she rereads Mann's novel every few years so it's in some ways a homage and in some ways a corrective or, as she describes, a way of “sparring” with that classic. Having just read Mann's novel, I was immensely relieved that the diatribes from different gentlemen were greatly condensed since there were so many long essayistic chapters in “The Magic Mountain”. Nevertheless, there was a meandering sense which remained in Tokarczuk's story which meant the plot felt a little lethargic in places: another day, another stroll that descends into misogynistic nonsense. However, I enjoyed how Tokarczuk explored issues surrounding Polish nationality/independence and a new take on time/space by considering both a 2 and 4 dimensional reality. I also liked that Tokarczuk reproduced the odd homoerotic imagery of pencils being stroked in adolescence which was also in Mann's novel. There are several other parallels in imagery/ideas between the two books. I certainly don't feel it was necessary to have read “The Magic Mountain” as Tokarczuk's text doesn't play off from that original in the same way that the recent novel “James” worked in parallel to “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”, but I'm still glad I read Mann's book because it is its own strange beast.

There's a surprising twist in the story and the final sections of the novel are quite thrilling. These reinforce Tokarczuk's message that reality doesn't exist in simple absolutes but in different perceptions and in-between spaces. Overall I think this was a fascinating and through-provoking read. Though I definitely wouldn't want to harken back to this time of more rudimentary medicine/treatment I did like the idea of champagne being prescribed as a cure. There are certain odd images which will stick with me such as a toad sitting on a pile of potatoes. Though the finale is gripping I felt it played out a little too quickly with the narrative summing up afterwards for all the characters. In this case I kind of preferred how Mann concluded his novel in a way which was haunting and ominous regarding the advent of WWI. The really bracing thing to me was the author's afterward where she states how the misogynistic views expressed by her characters were paraphrased from texts by some of the foremost Western thinkers/writers from the past including Charles Darwin, Sigmund Freud, Shakespeare, Yeats, etc. It shines a light on how the core of our culture is threaded through with misogynistic ideas and thus calls into question our very foundations.

Playground by Richard Powers

At the centre of this story is Makatea, an extremely remote atoll in the Pacific Ocean. The mayor and its residents (who total less than a hundred people) are presented with a proposition that their island can become a base for a large company's seasteading plans. The novel begins with Powers' short reworking of the French Polynesian myth of Ta'aroa, the supreme creator god. I assume this is a myth which is known to the people of Makatea since it is a real island. This myth comes to have a new relevance to the present day – especially because of the reference to how humans multiplied so much that they came to inhabit all 7 levels of the world that Ta'aroa created – thus connecting to the novel's overarching story about civilisation's expansion into floating islands through seasteading.

However, there's much more going on in this novel and the connections between all the elements Powers presents aren't immediately obvious. It primarily follows four characters: Evie, a French Canadian oceanographer who prefers dwelling under water; Rafi, a black lover of literature from the south side of Chicago; Todd, a white tech geek from a once privileged background who has now made his own fortune; and Ina, an artist who resides on Makatea while raising her children. The narrative slides back and forth in time. There's the immediate concerns of Makatea as they come to a democratic decision about the island's future. However, Todd is also preoccupied with the knowledge that he's suffering from a degenerative illness and might not see his ambitious designs play out having amassed an enormous fortune creating a social media platform similar to Facebook called Playground.

It's notable that at one point during her underwater exploration Evie also thinks of the ocean floor as a playground because of the colour and variety of life found in this eco-system whose workings are little known or considered. The back stories of all these characters are explored alongside scenes set in the present. I loved the passages where Evie observes the wondrous workings and interactions of sea creatures. It's one of my favourite pastimes to watch nature programs – especially about ocean life – and to snorkel myself in the less colourful waters of the Mediterranean. So I also felt enraptured by the mystery and beauty with this vast area of the world that we have little access to. There's a wonderful moment when a huge manta ray passes over her and she engages in a kind of play with it. It's impactful how she experiences first hand the large scale damage to the environment because of pollution and individual suffering, but also how sea life builds itself around the detritus and wreckages left on the ocean floor.

My favourite sections of the novel concern Evie who struggles to establish her desire to work in oceanography because of the sexism she encounters but is able to get a break when an all-female team of scientists embark on an ocean expedition. Her desires are gradually revealed, not just for wanting to spend as much time in the ocean as possible but also for other women. It's moving how she and her husband come to reconcile their marriage more as a partnership where they each find fulfilment in their individual work and their love for their children so it's a much more complex portrayal of a relationship which isn't necessarily romantic. I also appreciated the way in which Ina comes to express herself as an artist and the emotional section where she presents a piece to Todd and Rafi thus revealing her perspective/inner life. Some analogies and descriptions came across as somewhat laboured to me such as a line where Ina's eyes are likened to the Pacific and a poem by Rafi is reproduced. The competitive nature and friendship break between Todd and Rafi comes to feel like the key to the whole novel.

The geeky side of me also enjoyed following the development of Rafi and Todd's friendship – primarily through playing games. I think Powers makes veiled references to the games Risk and Civilisation which I enjoy playing. I've never played the game Go which originated in China but I'm now curious to. It also tickled me realising that the satirical trading cards which Rafi witnessed becoming a fad at school must have been Garbage Pail Kids cards because I remember how popular they were at school when I was growing up. One of my most vivid memories is when I was around 9 years old opening a fresh pack during recess one day, accidentally dropping all my cards and watching in sorrow as a swarm of children grabbed them from beneath me and ran away. Anyway, I liked how Rafi doesn't just see the games he plays with Todd as a pastime but as a way of playing out life's drama similar to what he admires in novels. It's moving how Rafi develops a passion for the humanities in general and reading literature. He follows this despite the expectations placed upon him by his father in particular. The moment where he first visits a library and can't believe that he's able to take a book out for free is so touching. I was also very moved by the section which describes how his progress was impeded before everyone realised that he needs glasses.

As the members of the island come together to make a decision about proposals for its future development and use we see the various central characters coming together with Rafi as a teacher on the island and a now elderly Evie as a resident. Though I feel sympathy with Todd whose personality means he's a kind of outsider, I was less engaged by his sections. It's interesting how Powers describes in this interview with Barnes & Noble that he wanted to establish empathy for Todd despite this character being a tech bro. I was glad to hear what Powers has to say about the various things which inspired and informed him in writing this book. The layered meaning of the title and the novel's themes about playing to win vs playing to keep playing really come through as he discusses it. Also interesting that he thinks of “Overstory”, “Bewilderment” and “playground” as a kind of trilogy.

It's extremely compelling how the final sections of the novel seem to turn the entire story on its head. I had to read it a few times to wrap my head around what it means. It forces the reader to think back and question what has come before. I discuss more of my thoughts about the ending with spoilers in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSM4VZA7Fv0 Overall, I appreciated how Powers complexly develops the concepts of games and playing as something integral to life/development, but also as something where this upping of the stakes comes to be destructive to our welfare and the environment. It's an important message for today where a small group of tycoons and powerful companies seem to be steering the future of both our planet and society. However, I didn't find this novel quite as impactful as “Bewilderment” though I think it's very original. Even though the way he develops characters is somewhat similar to “The Overstory” these individuals are varied and unique. And I do appreciate books that end with a surprise twist!

Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner

I was initially thrown by the description of this book as a spy novel. Instead of the moody suspenseful tale I was expecting I was surprised to find large portions of the book concern a philosophical treatise pondering the early years of Homo Sapiens and Neanderthals. The novel is told from the point of view of a very confident and cooly guarded woman who uses the undercover name Sadie. We follow how she gradually infiltrates an anti-capitalist eco commune through the old friend of its leader and her movements around an agricultural area of France. Presumably the year is 2013 since the sounds of Daft Punk’s song ‘Get Lucky’ can be heard everywhere Sadie travels. A large portion of the narrative concerns her reading and commenting upon the emails of Bruno Lacombe, a reclusive mentor to the commune who lives in a cave and believes he hears voices. His musings are curious to read about but initially I found the overall mode and conceit of this novel disorientating and overly ponderous. Nevertheless, I steadily got into its deliberation about our origins as humans and where our motivations come from. It's also fun to follow Sadie who is supremely judgemental but also a fallible individual who gets tipsy on wine and meets a new gay bestie named Vito.

The reader doesn't know much about this narrator since her profession requires that she remain anonymous. However, she refers to her jobs from the past and why she had to stop working undercover for a US government body after romantically entrapping a young man by convincing him to commit acts of eco-terrorism. Even before the examples were specifically referenced in the novel I recalled the UK undercover policing relationship scandals from the past couple of decades. It's outrageous that there have been numerous cases such as this where officers used a false identity and became romantically involved with the subjects they were spying on and, in some cases, had children with them. So it's logical that Sadie must be a steely individual only concerned with executing her job even if this includes emotional manipulation and morally bankrupt behaviour.

She indicates at one point that she doesn't even have an opinion about the issues at stake because she is simply performing her duty. Sadie believes this justifies her actions but I get the sense that she enjoys feeling superior to those around her. Additionally, Kushner has fun with inhabiting such a judgemental voice as Sadie freely makes catty comments about other people's appearance and French life. At one point she likens terrines to cat food and observes that the older/more rural the Frenchman the higher his pants will be belted. She also points out that only in France will you find talk shows with famous writers as guests because it's the only place where people think writers are interesting. These sly observations provide some levity amidst the more ponderous passages of the novel. Sadie is also extremely confident about her appearance as being attractive but not having any especially remarkable features which will make her stand out and thus she can remain relatively anonymous. However, she does have artificially enhanced breasts which she refers to multiple times and takes pride in and which I assume she had done to aide her in seducing the subjects she's spying on.

Bruno can be a bit of a windbag in his messages and he has eccentric ideas, but I found some of his diatribes pondering the origin of humans and our motivations interesting. Though she's reading these messages looking for clues about potential acts of sabotage, it seems like it's also forcing Sadie to think more in depth about deeper issues. Kushner repeatedly refers to the image of lines of poplar trees as it seems to connect with this long view of history or successive generations of humans stretching back to our most primal form. Bruno's earnestness is also endearing as he's desperately seeking an alternative for the path our civilization has taken. I also have a natural sympathy for people who form intentional communities and different ways of organising themselves. In my early adulthood I even visited a number of communes and considered joining one. However, I eventually realised that it's incredibly difficult to successfully organise a community along new lines without repeating the same mistakes as mainstream society. This certainly seems to be the case with Le Moulin, the commune Sadie enters into where there is a lot of talk and ideals but little practical action. Sadie joins them under the pretence of translating the group's co-written book opposing Capitalism. However, she is really there to report on and monitor their activities in the lead up to a planned demonstration at an agricultural fair and try to provoke one member to take the protest to even further extremes.

Sadie expresses the view that people's belief systems are merely a superficial way to “shore up their own identity.” She goes on to say “The truth of a person, under all the layers and guises, the significations of group and type, the quiet truth, underneath the noise of opinions and 'beliefs,' is a substance that is pure and stubborn and consistent. It is hard, white salt.” This image of the salt at the core of our being becomes quite significant to her and recurs especially towards the end of the novel. Is this a cynical view by an embittered person who has chosen a profession of necessary loneliness with no fixed identity? Are the beliefs that people hold so dearly really only superficial and fleeting? Or does our unique make up and system of beliefs form who we are? I think Kushner is raising all these questions with no certain answers but offers them through the lens of an individual who positions herself outside both mainstream society and the counterculture of this commune.

It's endearing that Sadie comes to feel so fond of Bruno and protective towards him – even remarking that the commune doesn't deserve him. I think she recognizes a kinship with him in his extreme isolation and rejection of society. They seem to have come to the same conclusions but have different approaches to navigating life. They're also both keen on considering deep time by staring into a dark cave of great depth or gazing into the stars in the night sky. This touchstone with history draws them out of the present moment, the present circumstances of our civilization and the (to their minds) tragic trajectory of Homo sapiens. Sadie also seems to want to take the place of Bruno's deceased daughter – however, he doesn't know her and has no idea that she's been reading his messages. So the only connection she can have with him is to engage with his system of beliefs and look to the stars (even if they aren't really stars but satellites.)

As you can see, this novel's spy story is somewhat secondary to the larger questions it raises regarding humanity, individual motivation and the trajectory of our civilization. Those looking for a plot which adheres to the genre conventions of spy novels might be disappointed by this. However, I heartily enjoyed Kushner's creative take on this sleuth's tale as its increasingly dramatic story ponders many prescient issues from a unique point of view. It's also a fascinating character study about an individual with no regard for the people she deceives. Yet cracks begin to show as she is prone to drinking, popping pills and ocular migraines. Kushner also incorporates a good deal of humour in how she presents Sadie's perspective. Additionally, there's an increasing complexity to this spy whose self-interested stance is muddled by the missives of a mysterious guru. There is a slow build up in the story as the first half of the novel is top heavy with Bruno's emails, but “Creation Lake” develops a good momentum as it leads up to the dramatic resolution and a potential reckoning for Sadie.

The SafeKeep by Yael Van Der Wouden

What “Call Me By Your Name” did for peaches, “The Safekeep” does for pears. I do love a good historically set novel with lots of twists and turns in its plot. So I found this very pleasurable and moving to read as it's a story that has multiple levels. It's a creepy tale with almost gothic “Rebecca”-esque undertones about the claustrophobia of being stuck in a house with someone you resent and feel a growing animosity towards. It's about sexual repression and the transformative experience of all that pent up desire being released. And it's about the weight of history, the calamitous after-effects of war and how to reconcile what has been lost and displaced.

There are a number of reveals in this story so I'll do my best to avoid spoilers. The novel initially centres around Isabel who seemingly has little motivation other than maintaining her deceased mother's house and its contents. It's the 1960s and Isabel lives a severely self-contained existence in a rural Dutch province. Isabel is a real piece of work. She's nasty and rude to almost everyone she meets. There is a special kind of humour and pleasure in reading about a character who so unapologetically brushes aside social conventions because she's someone I'd never want to meet but it's fun to read about her dismissive attitude towards everyone. I did feel this became repetitive at times in this first section of the novel, but overall she's a compellingly unlikeable character. Isabel fiercely guards both the house and its contents and finds it hard to keep a maid because she continuously lashes out at them with judgements and accusations. However, Isabel is little more than a caretaker for this building which belongs to her uncle and it will be passed on to Isabel's older brother Louis when their uncle passes. I enjoyed how small details about both her family life and the contents of the house are dropped into this early section of the novel hinting at a larger story and adding to the complexity of her character.

Other than the maid the most human contact she has is with her younger brother Hendrik who has a teasing rapport with his uptight sister. Hendrik has lived away from this location since coming out to their mother who is now deceased. But Isabel studiously ignored the reality and reasons behind his leaving. It describes how “she could sometimes blur her eyes when looking at something – decide not to see it in full focus, decide to disengage.” This explains a lot about Isabel who uses self-denial when it comes to things that are emotionally difficult – both external and internal. Near the beginning there's a scene which sets this novel's plot into motion. Isabel's older brother Louis arranges a dinner for both Isabel and Hendrik to meet his new girlfriend Eva. (Interestingly in interviews the author has described initially writing this scene as a short story.) There's all the tension of the new girlfriend wanting to make a good impression and trying to get to know her partner's adult siblings, but in return the brother and sister are dismissive towards her because they see her as merely their brother's latest squeeze since he is a notorious womanizer. But there is a difference with Eva because Louis needs to travel for work and he informs Isabel that Eva will be staying with her in her carefully guarded house. Of course, Isabel is vehemently against this plan but she's not given a choice. So when rambunctious Eva moves into the family home it's like she is entering a powder keg ready to explode.

The house itself is like the central character in this novel. It is the safe keep which contains many possessions which are filled with meaning and it has witnessed many people and events passing through it over the years. I do like novels such as “North Woods” by Daniel Mason or “The Dutch House” by Anne Patchett or, indeed, “Rebecca”, where a house is itself a protagonist that possesses emotion. We're shown how The Safekeep has persisted throughout WWII and maintains a lot of secrets from both the personal lives of these characters and larger historical events. Isabel is a fascinating character who possesses a fierce determination to remain independent. There are small glimpses of her early family life and details strewn throughout her abode which I found intriguing as I wondered what the real story is behind Isabel and this house. It also builds a highly-pressured and stifling atmosphere where something eventually needs to break. But I never got a full sense of why Isabel is so fiercely attached to this house and its objects. I know she was following the direction of her deceased mother to maintain the house and she's extremely repressed so this was all she had, but as the full story of the novel is revealed this came to feel more like a plot device rather than something which would naturally occur.

Many readers have been debated about the very end of the novel is too saccharine. I guessed very early on where the novel was going. Part of why I had a strong sense about this is because I knew the author is a big fan of Sarah Waters' “Fingersmith”. I'm sure anyone who has read that novel can see the strong influence it's had upon “The Safekeep”. The books are obviously set in very different time periods and contexts, but I couldn't help feeling like Van Der Wouden's novel is somewhat slighter compared to Waters' impressive yarn. The ending certainly didn't surprise me, but I think the author did a good job at showing how the conclusion for these characters is hard won. There was naturally a lot of mistrust and animosity because of their respective pasts and the lack of transparency between them. I don't think the ending is the main point of this novel as it's more about the tension of the story and what goes unspoken in our personal lives and the political workings/social attitudes of a nation in the aftermath of war.

I really appreciated Hendrik as a character and enjoyed the section where he and his partner Sebastian come to stay at the house. This loosened Isabel up which felt like a relief since her life with Eva was so stifling up to this point. I found it really moving learning of the conflict of Hendrik's early affair with the teacher and how he left the family home to be able to live honestly as a gay man. I wish there had been more about Hendrik and Sebastian's story, but I appreciate that the novel was necessarily centred on Isabel and Eva. If you've not seen this already, I'd strongly recommend reading Van Der Wouden's essay from several years ago 'On (Not) Reading Anne Frank'. It's really fascinating to discover she was never a natural reader and, even more so, her family history when she was an adolescent moving from Israel to the Netherlands and the anti-semitism she experienced there throughout her teens. It's interesting how this personal history could be interpreted as feeding into the underlying conflicts and simmering tension of “The Safekeep”. Overall, I really enjoyed this often gripping and atmospheric novel.

Caledonian Road by Andrew O'Hagan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long Island by Colm Tóibín

A striking thing about reading Toibin's novel “Brooklyn” was how much its emotional power slowly crept up on me. The story follows Eilis Lacey, a young Irish woman who is coaxed into moving to America in the 1950s to find work. While this book was engaging and beautifully written I didn't understand the point of it until Eilis gradually became caught in an unbearably tense dilemma. Suddenly the overwhelming heft of its meaning hit me and I was both utterly engrossed and very moved by it. Since “Long Island” is a direct sequel to “Brooklyn” many readers will wonder whether its necessary to read this earlier book first. This new novel certainly stands on its own and it cleverly keys readers into the drama of the first book in case they're not familiar with these characters. However, there's also a great pleasure in already intimately knowing these characters so I think it's advisable to read “Brooklyn” first and it's certainly worthwhile.

Unlike “Brooklyn”, “Long Island” immediately has a gripping plot as we meet Eilis again twenty years later. She's living a seemingly content life with her Italian-American husband Tony and their two nearly adult children when an unexpected visitor arrives at her home. This stranger tells her that his wife is pregnant with Tony's child and when the baby is born he will leave it on Eilis and Tony's doorstep. The news not only makes Eilis question her marriage and the choices she's made, but brings into sharp focus the limitations of her position. Tony's family close ranks and Eilis is expected to support her husband (and this new child) even though he's betrayed her. Since her mother back in Ireland will soon be celebrating her eightieth birthday, Eilis has a convenient excuse to return to her native country and take some time to think about how she wants to handle this painful situation.

When she embarks on this journey the narrative point of view begins alternating between Eilis, her lifelong friend Nancy who is now running a chip shop whose fumes and rowdy customers disrupt the locals and Eilis' old flame Jim who now runs his family's pub. Nancy and Jim have been through a lot in the intervening years. They've made tentative plans for the future but the reintroduction of Eilis creates new possibilities and problems. In this story Toibin cleverly reproduces the central drama of “Brooklyn” that made it so thrilling while bringing a new spin to the story following the lives of these characters who are a little older and more world-weary. Their options for making big life changes seem to be shrinking, but there are still unexpected possibilities. While this trio are the heart of the story there are a host of brightly rendered individuals from Nora Webster, the protagonist of another novel by Toibin, to Eilis' irascible old mother to Tony's brother Frank who is obliquely referred to as “one of those men”. The communities of a New York Italian/American quarter and a small town in Ireland are brought vividly alive with interfering family members, gossiping neighbours and charismatic banter.

However, Toibin also has a masterful ability to suggest much more through what's left unsaid between the characters. There's the painful silence between a married couple lying in bed together who are awake in the dark. But there are also acute gaps in dialogue between characters. For instance, in one scene a character asks another “Can you say you love me?” and the other character replies “Yes, I can.” But this isn't the same as actually saying aloud “I love you.” Some characters exhibit hilariously blatant contradictions claiming not to be gossips but eagerly spreading rumours. The narrative also seamlessly moves between these characters' thoughts of an imagined future and the actual reality of what they want or need or what's possible. Toibin expertly describes how people keep each other in check and control each other while intending to be supportive. He shows how people want to know each other's business but not openly communicate with them. The story demonstrates the ways communities and families support one another, but also inhibit individuals from realizing their potential if their identity and dreams don't align with the values of the majority.

“Long Island” is a wonderful addition to the ongoing tale of these characters and I hope Toibin continues to write about them from new angles and introducing new drama to this beautifully realised fictional world.

Night Watch by Jayne Anne Phillips

I was greatly anticipating the announcement of the 2024 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and made a video speculating what books might be listed for this year's prize. When “Night Watch” by Jayne Anne Phillips was declared the winner I was highly intrigued because personally I'd never heard of this novel before. Some readers I follow who had read this novel were disappointed by this winner, but nevertheless I went into reading it with an open mind. Unfortunately I found reading the novel to be a frustrating and disappointing experience. The plot is not only melodramatic but often feels like a cliched soap opera with double identities, amnesia, separated lovers and a dramatic fire/physical altercation. Of course, these can be elements in great literature but this novels feels somewhat like an unsuccessful mashup of “Wuthering Heights” and “Rebecca” set during the American Civil War. Its heavy reliance on coincidences and artificially conjured emotional situations makes it seem like a cheap and facile imitation of an epic tale.

The story is primarily set at the Trans-Alleghany lunatic asylum in West Virginia in the year 1874 and follows the gradual recovery of a mother named Eliza who is so mentally unwell she's nearly comatose at the novel's beginning. Her teenage daughter ConaLee joins her at the asylum, but pretends to be Eliza's carer because family aren't allowed to live with patients. Both mother and daughter take pseudonyms while at the asylum. Prior to their time at the facility they've been captives of a tyrannical scheming Confederate soldier who insists on being called Papa. The narrative occasionally flashes back to a decade prior at the end of the American Civil War to show different characters' points of view including Eliza's lover John, a wounded Union soldier, and Dearbhla, an Irish healer. There's also an orphan boy nicknamed Weed dwelling at the asylum who oversees many events which occur between the characters. Eventually true identities are revealed, a professionally questionable romance forms and everyone goes on a jolly carriage ride.

The Pulitzer simply declared this to be “a beautifully rendered novel” and in a Publisher's Weekly interview Phillips described wanting the reader to “understand the history of another time, to appreciate it—and the best way to understand,” she says, “is fiction. I want to write scenes where the reader can feel the shattering moments.” There are certainly shattering moments including an unnecessarily extended rape scene whose gruelling nature points to why Eliza is psychologically destroyed. However, I didn't feel the story sufficiently conveyed the dynamics of this long-term abusive situation and I was left with a lot of questions which it felt like the authors skipped or avoided. Despite giving a sense of the facility including reproductions of photographs and documents, I didn't understand how the hospital operated. I don't understand why ConaLee was denied from knowing about her true father for so long. Eliza's neighbour Dearbhla is the kind of character I'd normally be intrigued by and want to read about, but her involvement in the plot felt forced. There was a lot of potential in the story regarding revelations about John O'Shea and Weed's ambiguous nature and origins, but these didn't feel sufficiently developed.

The momentum of the book rests in the damage of the past and this is embodied in the monstrous figure of Papa. However, the primary action takes place in the present as Eliza slowly heals and the story leads to an artificial confrontation. Of course it's inspiring to find that there existed a facility at the time which was so caring to its mentally ill patients as most such institutions during this period were cruel and abusive. But the story and the choice to focus on this benevolent facility don't give much insight into this period of history. Or, rather, they suggest a simplistic sense of hope amidst a devastating period which left many casualties. Consider the example of Keneally's “Schindler's Ark” which highlights an inspiring example of humanity amidst a genocide. Yet the book also doesn't shy from portraying the complex cruelty and destruction of this period of history. “Night Watch” only offers a flattened version of the past with a syrupy plot designed to suggest that benevolence ultimately prevails, but this has little to do with reality of war or its aftermath.

Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck (translated by Michael Hofmann)

What if you woke up one day to discover that your country no longer exists? That was the experience for East Germans and the protagonists of this novel in October 1990. However, the story begins in East Berlin in June 1986 when a chance encounter between Hans and Katharina spark a passionate romance which continues for years. There is a 34 year age difference between them. The first half of the novel follows the intensity of their affair where the age gap feels somewhat inconsequential when considering the span of history. Descriptions of their trysts are meaningfully paired with heart soaring pieces of music and mythology. The second half of the novel follows the unspooling of this romance which grows increasingly dark and abusive. Though this is a story of toxic love the central question of the book isn't whether their affair is right or wrong; it was clearly doomed from its inception. This couple remains together long after they clearly should have separated, but they also linger in the idea of their nation even as it crumbles around them. The real question of the book is why do we cling to our romanic and political ideals when we know they are inherently faulty and bad for us?

The novel is framed around a future point where Katharina inherits boxes of documents after Hans has died. She sifts through these remnants of the past recalling the years of their affair and the many cultural references they shared. So the book is structured like a piece of archival research, but it's also structured like a piece of music. These incongruous modes of telling would clash if it weren't for Erpenbeck's elegant way of combining them to reproduce these characters' deeply-felt experience. The narrative effortlessly flows between their viewpoints to mimic the way their consciousness has been fused amidst this passionate romance. It becomes a locked box and a territory of their own. But as their relationship sours this paradise turns into a prison from which they - and the reader - can't escape. It becomes increasingly uncomfortable to read this novel as the second half turns intensely claustrophobic and painful. This obviously isn't a pleasurable experience but it is an impactful one because it reveals how deeply lost these characters have become in the changing country and world around them. Erpenbeck brilliantly probes issues of belonging and nationhood as she did in a very different context within her novel “Go, Went, Gone”.

Hans and Katharina come from very different generations, but they hold onto one another longing for a life which is no longer possible. Hans has a shady past and part of his belief in the German Democratic Republic comes from wanting to distance himself from the armed forces he was a part of in his youth. Katharina was born long after the end of WWII, but the system under which she was raised causes her to gaze critically at the commercial and cultural imperialism which is absorbing her country. As their affair painfully persists so the marking of different anniversaries continues as if dedicating themselves to these dates can hold their imagined reality together. But they come to feel increasingly hollow and twisted. Following the dissolution of their private world is a melancholy endeavour. Persisting to the end of this novel felt challenging but I'm glad I did because the overall effect is haunting. It made me question my own assumptions having grown up with a Western mentality and probe what romantic notions I allow to unhelpfully steer my life. I'm also sure it would be valuable revisiting “Kairos” at some point to better understand the innumerable cultural and historical references it contains.

And Then She Fell by Alicia Elliott

It's tricky trying to summarize how I feel about Alicia Elliott's debut novel as the experience of reading it was often frustrating, but the power of its voice and the complexity of the many issues it raises have inspired me to engage in a lot of discussion with my bookclub about it. There's also a very clever narrative twist a long way into the book which helped me to emotionally engage with it in a way I struggled to up until that point. The story focuses on narrator Alice's experiences grieving the loss of her mother and living in a predominantly white Canadian neighbourhood separate from her familiar indigenous community. She's a writer endeavouring to compose an updated version of the Haudenosaunee Creation Story, a wife to a kind-hearted white man who is academically researching her culture and a new mother to an infant she feels she's failing. Increasingly she senses that inanimate objects, creatures and strange visions are speaking to her. This introduces the question about whether she's suffering from mental health issues, the disorientating effects of sleep loss or whether she's deeply communicating with spirits/ancestors from her culture (or perhaps some mixture of all of these things.) So there is quite a lot going on and it's not surprising that Alice feels continuously overwhelmed!

It's quite a surprise in the prologue when Pocahontas (or Matoaka) begins speaking to Alice through the television screen. This feels both comic and playful, like something from a horror story. It's also meaningful in how there is a darker truth to indigenous history/experience than what non-First Nation groups acknowledge in popular culture. I feel like Elliott tries to balance these three modes throughout the novel's narrative which is a difficult thing to pull off. The novel uses a very conversational style of writing which makes it very personal and immediate. I appreciate how this conveys a strong impression of Alice's point of view and state of mind however, to me, it can sometimes feel too much like a rant where Elliott hammers through messages rather than letting them arise naturally within the story. Alicia Elliott wrote a very interesting personal essay about perceptions of mental illness: https://www.thestar.com/entertainment/books/the-power-of-alicia-elliott-how-the-indigenous-author-embraced-the-unreality-of-fiction-and/article_b0e3c11d-7092-5c59-ac2a-07c83b34a815.html It's really challenging not to dismiss someone's perspective when they've been categorised as suffering from “madness”. At the same time, there are so many practical difficulties which accompany this experience especially when clear and honest communication becomes nearly impossible.

Alice's daily physical interactions seem fairly benign – being gifted dvds, buying alcohol from staring shop assistants and being pounced upon by a hyper vigilant neighbour. Certainly there is unacknowledged prejudice and micro aggression within these encounters but Alice's reactions often feel out of proportion to what's occurring. I understand she is frustrated that the white community she's surrounded by can't understand her perspective and that she desires to exhibit positive representation to deflect stereotypes about Native people and feels the need to keep up appearances – especially to her husband Steve. This poetic line from the novel seems to really encapsulate her experience: “I'm a puddle pretending I've got shape and form.” However, it feels like her increasing panic about her predicament would be tremendously eased if she were to speak honestly with others about what's happening and her state of mind. Instead, she constantly covers this up and keeps an increasing amount of “little secrets” from Steve. Though we don't get much backstory about the formation of their relationship this seems to be a consistent aspect of it: “I've kept so much from him from the very beginning. Edited my life to make it seem a little less tragic and a lot more functional.” Of course she wants to present herself as capable/confident but a big part of any successful long term relationship is allowing a partner to see your vulnerabilities. Instead, Alice seems to be trying harder to cover them up so the truth of how she's feeling can only come out in erratic or paranoid behaviour.

Perhaps this is part of the point of the story. However, it makes it frustrating and difficult to empathise with Alice when she's not willing to let others into what she's experiencing except through this narrative and her rewriting of the Creation Story. I'm aware my reaction might be biased because this character's life is very different from my own. I want to listen to what this book has to say and I'm not trying to minimise the impact of her cultural heritage, position in this society and the difficulty of new motherhood. I was really struck by the lines: “Motherhood is sacrifice. Not metaphorical sacrifice. Literal sacrifice. Every day I feel like I'm destroying pieces of myself to win the favor of this insatiable demigod who wants and wants and wants.” It must feel devastating to rapidly lose yourself in this way and feel like this baby is the antagonist while also loving your child. I've found it really interesting to compare Elliott's novel with “Soldier Sailor” by Claire Kilroy since there are parallels in how new motherhood causes such a terrifying physical and mental breakdown and sense of isolation. What's clear from both is that it's a tremendous strain no matter the circumstances and support/lack of support from one's family/spouse.

It was a complete surprise to me how the story switches its nature later in the novel just as Alice's manic energy and all-consuming paranoia become too much to bear. By getting an outside perspective of Alice (and getting a heartrending peek at the many directions her life might have taken) I suddenly understood the tragedy of her plight better. I'd previously felt sympathy for how overwhelmed she's been with the grief for her mother, the responsibilities and sleeplessness of new motherhood, separation from her Indigenous community, wavering mental health, semi-reliance on drugs/alcohol and frustration trying to honour her heritage by rewriting its stories. But being locked in her point of view also made me feel like a therapist listening to a hopelessly tangled diatribe and this made the reading experience increasingly laborious. It's not often that it seems worth it to read through hundreds of pages to get to a pay off like this. But, in this case, I am very glad I read until the end. It felt necessary to see Alice's increasing frenzy from the inside in order to really know how she got to this point of absolute despair. There's a pleasure in re-viewing the events that have come before given that the nebulous voice is given a personality. It's also quite playful and inventive how the author has structured the book as if self consciously drawing upon the kind of popular culture films she frequently references. I was reminded of the films 'Get Out' in the dinner scene, 'Interstellar' in the family reunion across time – as well as the numerous movies which have drawn upon concepts of alternate realities/the multiverse. Some might see this as derivative but I think it felt natural for this story and a way to show the tension Alice experiences as someone whose identity is a blend of both Indigenous and colonial culture. I found this concluding section really heartwarming and moving, but I'm sure not all readers would agree.

The title of the novel is taken from the story of the Sky Woman being dropped by The Great Spirit into a hole so that she falls towards the Lower World. But I like that it also has a popular culture meaning in how Alice connects to Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka because she thinks if she makes the wrong choice the floor will fall out from beneath her. There's also some “Alice in Wonderland” influence given the protagonist's name, that Sky Woman falls (or is pushed) down a hole and at a disastrous dinner party Alice believes that guests shout “Off with her head” at her. I'm glad to have read this book and to have received Alicia Elliott's point of view. I do question whether she might have been able to use a different writing technique or structure to better tell this story. It's really difficult to say because Alice's mindset is so messy it feels like the narrative needs to emulate that and if it'd been more formalised it might not feel so authentic. So it's difficult to know how to rate this novel or whether I'd recommend it. I'm continuing to mull it over and I'd be very keen to hear reactions from other readers about the book as a whole.

James by Percival Everett

In the past couple of years it's been exciting to see new books coming out which self consciously build upon canonical literature from the past. “Demon Copperhead” brilliantly reimagined “David Copperfield” in contemporary rural America. Sandra Newman's “Julia” was a clever retelling of “1984” from the point of view of Winston's love interest. I'm sure there have been others and this isn't a new phenomenon. “Wide Sargasso Sea” is an excellent example of taking a striking character whose perspective we don't get in the original, the so-called mad woman in the attic from Bronte's “Jane Eyre” and imagining this world from her point of view. And now Percival Everett has used a similar method in the much talked about and highly publicised new novel “James”. I think this book deserves all the attention it's been getting! It shows some of the same events from Mark Twain's classic “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” from the character of Jim's perspective. Utilizing Everett's customary sense of wit and satire, he re-envisions this story and period of history to give a refreshing and revelatory take on James' precarious position as a runaway slave, his struggle to free his family and his yearning to achieve a sense of freedom outside the boundaries of the subjugation he's been born into during the Antebellum South.

Firstly, though I don't think it's absolutely necessary, I did reread “Tom Sawyer” and “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” before getting to this novel. I had read abridged versions of both when I was younger. Reading them as an adult was largely enjoyable though I now find it difficult to relate (or care much) about these boys' cravings for high adventure and high-jinks in their rural community. The episodic story seems designed for the entertainment of young boys so often it felt like the plot was unrealistically skewed to show these adolescent characters triumphing in situations and coincidentally happening upon dramatic scenes. This leads them to achieve great fortune at the end of “Tom Sawyer” and “Huck Finn” does feel like a stronger book in many ways. It's especially vivid and terrifying reading about Huck's abuse under his father at the beginning. Nevertheless, his journey thereafter often feels like a game he's playing. All the while Jim is portrayed as the honourable, superstitious and mild-mannered character at Huck's side. His friendship with Huck is touching. It's impressive how Twain's novel deals with the moral complexity Huck feels growing up in a culture where people with Jim's skin colour are treated as property but his growing emotional connection to Jim disallows him from seeing Jim in this way. But, obviously, this is only one side of the story. Of course, it's also jarring reading these novels today given the language used.

Interestingly, in Paul Beatty's 2016 Booker Prize winning novel “The Sellout” there's a fascinating and funny debate where a character named Foy Chester describes how he rewrote “Huckleberry Finn” after he began reading Twain's novel to his grandchildren but stopped when he discovered the 'n-word' appears 219 times in the book. He describes how “where the repugnant 'n-word' occurs, I replaced it with 'warrior' and the word 'slave' with 'dark-skinned volunteer... I also improved Jim's diction, rejiggered the plotline a bit, and retitled the book The Pejorative-Free Adventures and Intellectual and Spiritual Journeys of African-American Jim and His Young Protege, White Brother Huckleberry Finn or They Go In Search of the Lost Black Family Unit.” However, the narrator of Beatty's novel then challenges Chester stating: “why blame Mark Twain because you don't have the patience and courage to explain to your children that the 'n-word' exists... no one will ever refer to them as 'little black euphemisms' so welcome to the American lexicon”. The language in Twain's book has been subject to a longstanding debate and censoring or erasing what was cruelly, thoughtlessly and freely used in the past prevents us from learning from history. Therefore, I think it's important and smart how Everett has positioned his novel not as a rewrite, but a chance to tell Jim's story.

“James” begins with a section of the notebook of Dan Emmett (the real life composer and founder of the first troupe of blackface minstrels) and this takes an important role later in Everett's novel. I love that the story then launched into Tom and Huck playing one of their familiar jokes on James only to show that James is very aware of their game and indulgently playing along. James recognizes throughout the book that adolescent Huck is naturally attracted to adventure and he will sometimes manipulate Huck towards taking a certain action by persuading him it will be fun in this way. This new characterisation immediately negates the idea that James is a naïve butt of the joke which would be easy to assume from Twain's novel. Instead, Everett portrays him as highly intelligent, literate and an educator who teaches enslaved black children in the language and manner they must use around white people to avoid punishment and survive in this world.

It's poignant how the importance of language is emphasized throughout the novel. Natural speech carries on into conversations James has with other black people in private, but everyone speaking will quickly revert to another form of “dumbed down” language whenever white people are present and overhear them. They know that it's not only expected that they'll speak like this but they will be punished for using the language white people use. James must continuously check himself while travelling with Huck because even though they develop a camaraderie he must be mindful of maintaining that barrier. This necessary front comes to feel even more sad the closer he becomes to Huck. It's also striking that when James drops the affected form of speech in front of white characters he's confronting it's the inability to believe he can use such language that preoccupies them more than the immediate threat of violence.

I was also so moved by the reverence James has for books and writing since they are the only sources of true freedom available to him. He attentively dries books after they become soaked in the river and he clings to moments when he can read them when not being overviewed by white people. But also it's wonderful how he enters into a dreamlike/hallucinatory dialogue with philosophers of the Enlightenment such as John Locke and Voltaire to challenge them about their views on freedom as a concept vs the reality of his life. It's a brilliant way of interrogating a whole school of influential thought. It's also easy to imagine that if James had been born in a different time, place and circumstances he'd have been a great scholar, studying philosophy and publishing important books. As it is, his intense desire to write his own story is very touching and we also see him testing out different surnames for himself throughout the story. The mere ability to obtain a pencil and writing paper becomes so precious. So it's all the more heart wrenching when we see the price paid and consequences for the black man who obtains the pencil for James.

It's interesting how Everett mostly follows the timeline/events which Twain laid out in his novel. There are interludes when James is separated from Huck and here Everett had the freedom to fill in his story however he wanted. Through James' eyes some of the characters of Twain's novels such as the con artists they meet appear much less fun and more threatening – actually quite vicious and terrifying in Everett's novel. The events and timeline become altered more towards the end. I think I read how Everett mentioned somewhere (not in the interview I saw him give with Nelson) that he felt Twain was indulging the reading public by reintroducing Tom Sawyer at the end of “Huck Finn” because he felt they'd want more of this character. But this doesn't serve the story or primary characters of Huck and Jim well. So I found it really clever and harrowing where Everett takes James' story. The whole question of freedom and identity becomes much more layered as James joins a minstrel show, meets a man who is passing for white and ultimately reveals his true relationship with Huck. This gives a whole new meaning to their bond and why James is especially attentive and caring towards Huck.

In the past I've not been a very big fan of satirical writing where there are often exaggerated versions of villainous characters being presented in a way to (often justifiably) diminish their power. It usually seems to me better to give more nuanced presentations of characters to show the complexity of all individuals. However, Everett uses it to fantastic effect. His novel “The Trees” used satire in a much more blatant way where some of the white characters were purposefully portrayed as stereotypes. To portray them as such is Everett's clever way of challenging us to think about and re-view other stories (novels, films) where black individuals are presented in a stereotypical way. Probably little exaggeration is necessary in depicting many of the racist white characters in “James” because their assumed superiority was so much a part of the culture and even those who felt they were kind to slaves maintained their dominant position and were glad to wield their power when it suited them. Conversely, the slaves James engages with in private have cerebral conversations using heightened language to emphasise the unrealised intellectual potential and psychological complexity for these characters merely portrayed as (good-hearted, jovial) slaves in Twain's book and countless other stories. I think it's really effective and powerful how Everett achieves this in “James”.

In Twain's novels the boys often surreptitiously view people and scenes while they are concealed. This amplifies the entertainment and drama of it all – as if we're being allowed secret access to conversations and information. It's ingenious how Everett uses this same dynamic several times throughout his novel especially towards the end where James witnesses an enslaved woman now inhabiting his old home being raped. Rather than the voyeuristic charge in Twain's novels, being trapped in a concealed position to witness this utterly horrifying incident emphasizes the real practice, repercussions and violence of slavery. Of course, Twain could never have written such a scene but in thinking about the world he was evoking Tom and Huck would have realistically witnessed many acts of violence towards slaves. But getting that terrifying scene from James' perspective and throughout everything he's endured and his burning desire to find his family it's so satisfying how Everett allows James to go on a path of revenge towards the end. If you watched the interview I posted below it sounds like Everett was really inspired by the memory of his mild-mannered father who took out a gun and was prepared to fight when Everett was a child and they were almost stopped by the KKK. Similarly James is a calm and peaceful individual whose anger rouses him to justified violence to find and rescue his family.

So I think it's incredibly impressive how Everett handled writing this novel bringing with it all the adventure of Twain's classic but also challenging the reader to think about race, language, literature and history in a more complex way. It was especially striking to me how when news of the coming American Civil War reaches James he understands it has little to do with him. I think this makes us ponder more about the way we consider this period of history which is often characterised as a moral/virtuous battle to end slavery, but there were also other motivations behind it (economics/political power/preserving the Union) and to many of the individuals caught up in these events it meant something else. I found James' journey completely engrossing and came to really care about him and the multilayered connection he forms with Huck over the course of this magnificent story. I think the only thing I wish we'd had more of was James' family – I know the timeline of the story means we're not with them for most of it but we only get brief glimpses/details about them in the beginning and references to how he misses them but I wish the story had portrayed more memories and thoughts about them to give a more dynamic understanding of their connection. However, that's a minor quibble about an excellent novel which is a welcome addition to the cannon of American literature.

Hagstone by Sinéad Gleeson

I've been greatly anticipating Sinéad Gleeson's debut novel having read her powerful book of essays/memoir “Constellations” and the enlightening collections of stories by Irish women writers she edited “The Long Gaze Back” and “The Glass Shore”. Gleeson is highly attuned to the ways art, songs, writing and storytelling not only capture a place and the different personalities who inhabit it, but stand as a testimony for those whose narratives are often ignored, erased or suppressed. Therefore it's fitting this unique and captivating novel evokes the lives of a community and individuals who reside on the margins.

“Hagstone” follows artist Nell who resides on a remote rocky island. She's highly independent enjoying swims off the coast and occasionally takes lovers. Both she and the small populace there rely on the income from tourists who arrive during the warmer months. To make ends meet, she acts as a guide to these visitors who hunger for salacious stories of shipwrecks and tantalising folklore. So Nell is cognizant of the way true stories can become sensationalised. Her artwork reaches for a more subtle understanding and connection with the past. The pieces she creates are often meant to be ephemeral and work as touchstones to the lives of women who were maligned or misunderstood.

She receives an unexpected invitation to make a specially commissioned artwork for a reclusive commune known as the Iníons. This is a group formed of diverse women who have moved here from all over the world and, until now, their lives have been shrouded in secrecy. But Nell's presence isn't welcome by all who reside there. She gradually becomes familiar with several members and the uneasy structure of their commune in the lead up to a celebration – a climatic event with unintended consequences. A strange feature of the island is that there is a mysterious sound which emanates from the landscape and the Iníons have a reverence for it. Not everyone can hear this sound, but it drives some to madness and other to a kind of spiritual awakening or connection with this singular location.

This is a story which wrestles with the tension between independence and community. It asks what advantages can be found in building a life in relative isolation and what is sacrificed by removing oneself from the larger society: “Solitude can be its own kind of loss.” It especially focuses on the plight of women and those who understandably want to escape from the patriarchy. However, any group inevitably forms its own hierarchy and involves power struggles. The novel cleverly feels out the levels of compromise required when seeking to achieve a truly peaceful existence. It’s also fascinating how it explores the relationship between artist and subject. In what ways does art memorialise the lives of others and how does it intrude upon their privacy? Nick, a famous actor visiting the island, seeks to make a film about the Iníons and becomes another suspicious presence in this commune. Tensions mount from both inside and outside this community resulting is a horrific clash.

I deeply connected with this novel's story and appreciate the complex way it engages with these issues while also delivering a highly entertaining, compellingly gothic, occasionally sexy and meaningful tale.

Nightbloom by Peace Adzo Medie

I love it when a novel can present two conflicting perspectives which are equally convincing. This demonstrates that relationships are very complicated and it muddles concepts of right and wrong. Throughout “Nightbloom” I felt my sympathy completely shifting in tandem with who was telling the story. It follows cousins Selasi and Akorfa who are best friends growing up in the same Ghanaian town. But, as they get older, they diverge in their academic pursuits and aspirations. Differences to do with economic status, social groups and family circumstances which didn't matter so much when they were younger play a factor into how they grow to misinterpret and misunderstand one another. Their connection becomes completely distant as Akorfa moves to study in America and Selasi becomes a successful restaurateur in Ghana with a politically ambitious husband. The narrative follows one cousin's point of view before switching to the other to show the same events from another perspective until their paths meet again. Though the break in their friendship partly has to do with personality conflicts it also has to do with larger factors such as familial expectations and societal pressure. The divide which forms between them is all the more heartrending because both experience similar abuse as women and pressure to overlook the injustices they must endure. They'd be able to find solace and strength in one another if the circumstances of the world hadn't come between them. The way this story follows the course of their journey is emotional and utterly gripping.

You can also watch me discussing this novel in my garden: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeA_CJw5QuU

Hangman by Maya Binyam

It's refreshing that there's a wave of contemporary fiction which is actively working against a confessional mode of storytelling. Many novels present the inner life of characters with all their history, memories, preoccupations and hopes for the future. However, Binyam challenges the reader with a nameless narrator who returns to his nameless native country in sub-Saharan Africa after living for many years in a nameless Western country. His purported mission is to locate his ailing brother who has been writing him letters entreating him for money, medicine, property and support. But really this journey is a reckoning with the place he left behind and with himself. However, he actively withholds personal information and his emotional state as he becomes reacquainted with this place, its people and their politics. This unashamedly draws influence from Rachel Cusk's “Outline” to build upon it. Binyam's novel even begins with its narrator conversing with someone on a flight. I greatly appreciated the absurdist and slyly surreal nature of this book with its flashes of wicked humour and his account becomes surprising emotional.

This style of writing may seem confusing and frustrating, but the narrator is highly suspicious about how tales such as his can be used to falsely frame people. At one point he emails a friend about his progress and instantly refutes that message's content “It wasn't accurate, but it didn't need to be accurate, because emails were just a mode of storytelling. In the case of the so-called immigrant returning to his home country, the story should be a good one.” Such a homecoming with all its conflicted feelings of estrangement and belonging can't be neatly contained. Nor can his personal past and the circumstances of his emigration. Any such attempt to convey them in a straightforward way would lead to interpretation and they'd become politicised so that any nuance would be ironed out. Much of the novel concerns his conversations with those he encounters as they eagerly describe their backgrounds and positions: “People liked to talk, because talking made them feel like their experiences amounted to something, but usually the talking turned those experiences into lies.” By withholding his own story, the narrator seeks to maintain a greater degree of honesty.

Nevertheless, details about his past and frame of mind gradually emerge. Through suggestions and hints the abstract gradually solidifies, but it can never be fully defined. It becomes increasingly poignant how people and places that he initially identifies as one thing are suddenly revealed to have great personal significance to him. A stranger becomes a relative. A building turns into a home he was forced to vacate. In this way the present world shifts around him and becomes realigned with history. Yet everything has changed and he's a different person from the one who left this place many years ago. Unsurprisingly, the consequences and ultimate result of this homecoming are ambiguous. Though the immediate experience of this book is befuddling it's developed more resonance the more I've thought about it. It's certainly not a novel that will be everyone's cup of tea but those who patiently engage with its larger meaning will most likely find it impactful.

My Friends by Hisham Matar

“My Friends” is the story of a man named Khaled who grew up in Libya and moved to the UK to go to university. Here he and his friend Mustafa get involved in a London protest about Gaddafi's government and things become terrifyingly violent. This radically upends his life and cuts him off from his homeland. This novel keyed me into so many startling historical incidents that I previously knew little about. This prompted me to look up and learn more about these particular conflicts. It involves assassinations, tense political standoffs and revolutions. Though this all effects the main character in an extremely personal way, he's reflecting on it and usually distanced from it. So there's a melancholy and meditative tone to the book. It's also filled with so many heartfelt insights and brilliantly composed sentences – the kind that give such a unique perspective I often had to stop and mull them over.

It's a story of exile, trauma and friendship. It's about finding a home in literature and the text is peppered with so many great reading recommendations – especially the affinity Khaled develops for the great (equally melancholy) writer Jean Rhys. But it also shows how Khaled creates a sense of home and family with a precious few people who he connects with on a deep level. It's about a specific conflict in history, the oppression and terror of living under the spectre of a military dictatorship and how this can cruelly warp people's relationships to each other and destroy any sense of hope. This also speaks to the universal struggle of people trying to live their lives amidst “unreasonable men”. And it's about the persistence of love in Khaled's biological family even when they've been physically separated for many years.

It's also the story of a city and how London becomes Khaled's unintended home for decades. The present day action occurs only over a couple of hours in 2016 as Khaled walks through the city. In this way the novel enters in a tradition of London literature such as “Oliver Twist”, Virgina Woolf's “Mrs Dalloway”, Sam Selvon's “The Lonely Londoners”, Monica Ali's “Brick Lane” or Caleb Azumah Nelson's “Open Water”. These stories contain routes that can be physically traced on a map or in person. Since I'm lucky enough to live in London it really brought this novel alive for me to travel to some of these places to view streets, buildings, statues, memorials and artworks mentioned in the book. There's also a wonderful section where Khaled's friend Hosam takes him to view some London locations where writers lived and worked. In this way the book shows how a cityscape can be overlaid with real lives and fiction.

I was deeply moved by this poignant and beautifully written novel's meditations on life, friendships and a sense of place (especially in exile.) The story made me contemplate what action we're prepared to take when living under an oppressive system. It explores a number of options including writing fiction, speaking publicly, protesting or living in silent opposition. I find it especially poignant thinking of Khaled's father who chose taking a humble teaching position (compared to the career he might have had but which would have made him more a political target.) Though his contribution appears to be humble he's having an effect (as we know from people Khaled meets that highly respect his father) and his continued presence in Libya (rather than moving abroad) is a statement in itself. The struggle Khaled has maintaining a connection to his family especially under the paranoia of government surveillance is harrowing.

Khaled's friends become like his family in London so the fact that we know they have left him at the beginning of the novel amplifies his sense of aloneness and estrangement from his native land. Perhaps if they had remained instead of returning to Libya and moving to America he might feel more grounded in this life. So, given the events that unfold, it adds to the poignancy of how this novel is framed around his saying a permanent goodbye to his friend Hosam. Although I feel like there's a note of hope at the story's end there's a melancholy sense that Libya is not a place he'll ever be able to call home again: “It is a myth that you can return, and a myth also that being uprooted once makes you better at doing it again.”

Overall, I think this novel is excellent as a meditation on exile, the meaning of friendship over time and the longterm effects of trauma. It gives a personal take from the inside about a specific period of history and political conflict. This intersection between fiction and historical events which might not be widely known can be really rewarding and Matar has done an excellent job framing this story. The novel also raises more universal issues concerning how we think about nationality and our relationship to homeland. It's a celebration of literature and the deep connection we can feel to authors. It's a stunning achievement and I hope it gets some award attention this year.

You can listen to me discuss this novel more and show some of the locations mentioned in the story while reading passages aloud here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPwu3keS-UI

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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