Taiwan Travelogue by Yang Shuang-zi (translated by Lin King)

I don't think I've ever had this experience reading a novel before. The food descriptions in this story were so evocative and vivid that I literally had to go out and eat to satisfy the hunger this book made me feel. “Taiwan Travelogue” is a very clever book in a number of interesting ways. At its center is Chizuko, a successful Japanese woman writer in the late 1930s who gets the opportunity to go on a year-long lecture tour of Taiwan. She's paired with Chi-chan, a woman who speaks both Taiwanese and Japanese and accompanies her throughout the year. The novel follows their relationship, the ongoing effects of colonialism on Taiwan, and the two of them eating their way around the country, sampling an enormous range of dishes.

Of course, not every dish sounded appealing to me, there were definitely some I wouldn't want to try, but plenty of others sounded genuinely wonderful, and reading this left me so hungry that I went out and found a Taiwanese restaurant in London called Mr. Bao, where I kept reading while eating a yuzu salad, grilled broccoli, smacked cucumbers with chili, and delicious fluffy filled bao. It was deeply satisfying to actually taste this food while getting more and more descriptions of everything the characters were sampling along the way, since the Japanese author-narrator has a genuinely insatiable appetite, describing it at one point as a monster in her stomach that can never be satisfied.

An Outsider Seeking Authenticity

Chizuko is something of a glutton, but she also genuinely wants to experience the real culture and food of Taiwan, which becomes a slightly complicated ambition as the novel unfolds, since much of the food and language in Taiwan at this time has been so shaped by Japan, referred to in the book as "the mainland," with Taiwan as "the island," and a real, loaded distinction drawn between mainlanders, islanders, and those of mixed background. We watch real tension grow between the two women alongside genuine affection, and both are outsiders in different ways: the Japanese author is described as physically large, loud, and endlessly curious, wanting to get past a tourist's version of the country to something more authentic, while the Taiwanese translator is much smaller and far more circumspect about what she says.

I've noticed that a lot of other readers found the Japanese narrator fairly unlikable, but I found her quite sympathetic. She's a genuine outsider herself, always reserved and bookish, someone who says she never had friends at school, and when she meets the Taiwanese translator and feels a real connection, she wants a genuine friendship, even though there's a real power imbalance between them. As they travel, we learn the translator is betrothed to a man she's expected to marry, carrying real expectations tied to her background and station, and facing prejudice from other Taiwanese people that the Japanese author instinctively wants to defend her against, even though that impulse itself complicates the possibility of an equal friendship between them. There's a faint romantic edge to their relationship too, most vividly in a moment where the Japanese author feeds peeled lychee into the translator's mouth, but for the most part the novel handles that undercurrent, and the tensions running alongside it with subtlety, building toward a dramatic crisis point later on.

A Vanished Landscape

I loved that the book opens with a map of Taiwan as it existed at the time, which I found myself flipping back to constantly as the two women traveled north and south and encountered different people and places, some of which no longer exist in the same form, like a set of waterfalls once visible from a train that can't be seen that way anymore because the transportation system has since changed. It gives the novel the feeling of capturing a bygone era, with the Japanese author self-consciously trying to preserve the essence of the country as she experiences it, while the book keeps quietly raising the question of how much that experience has already been shaped by the outside imperialism of the colonizers who imposed their own culture and language on Taiwan. That question builds gradually until the Japanese author is forced into some real self-interrogation about her own role in it.

A Gentle Read with Real Depth

I really appreciated how gentle this book was, especially having read a number of other excellent but genuinely dark books recently. This one raises real, serious issues, but in a compassionate way following these two women traveling the country, their banter, and a massive feast prepared by a female master chef with course after course brought out to them. There's even an odd little interlude at a girls' school that turns into something like a Sherlock Holmes mystery involving strange nighttime happenings. This section felt a little out of place to me at first, though it ties back later, when the Japanese author is trying to piece together the translator's true history, since she's described throughout as wearing a kind of Noh mask that conceals her real feelings, something the narrator keeps trying, with real difficulty, to see past.

A Novel About Translation Itself

Not every reader has connected with this book, and I understand some have found the prose a little too simple, but there's a layer of complexity built in how the story is presented: as if it were an actual novel written and published in the late 1930s that then passed through multiple translations, from Japanese into Mandarin and beyond, complete with footnotes from different translators across the decades who sometimes openly disagree with one another, especially as the book goes on. It's framed like a found document, tracing its own fictional history, including a detail about most surviving copies being lost in a fire, the book going out of print, being revived in a new edition altered for the political climate of its moment, then rediscovered again later. That gives a real sense of books as fragile, fallible physical objects that can be lost and transformed, especially through translation, and so much of this novel is really an interrogation of what translation actually does to a text: whether it's simply an approximation, or whether it can genuinely reach the truth of what's being conveyed, given how much cultural context can't always cross over directly. It's a question that applies to how we take in any information as it's always filtered through our own subjective point of view, but it takes on particular weight when it's happening between different nations and cultures.

Verdict

I found this a genuinely enjoyable read that left me with complex questions regarding power structures and the longterm effects of imperialism. At the same time the actual experience of reading it was pleasurable and, especially toward the end, quite emotional. I liked that the story takes place across the span of a year. It's also made me think about my own travel instincts, that familiar tourist impulse to want the "authentic" version of a place rather than a performed one, and what that impulse actually asks of the people who live there. I suspect I'll keep thinking about that the next time I travel.If you've read this book, I'd love to know what you thought of it, and whether it made you as hungry as it made me.

Since I read this novel earlier this year it went on to win the 2026 International Booker Prize: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvTU6FVos9c

John of John by Douglas Stuart

First Impressions

“John of John” is extremely moving, immersive, and skilfully written. It's already received a lot of praise from other readers, and I think deservedly so. I want to explain exactly why I think it's so good, and why I finished it eager to talk about it with other readers.

This isn't just a story about secrets and repression, though there's plenty of both. Every character here is harbouring something. It isn't simply duty versus desire either — it's about the subtlety of emotion, and the real difficulty of finding a level on which we can truly connect with and understand one another, including understanding people in ways they don't realize we do, and struggling to help the people we love embrace desires they might be too afraid to embrace themselves.

Three Generations on a Scottish Island

The novel follows three generations of one family. At the center is Cal, a young man in his early twenties whose full name is John Callum — he goes by Cal because his father is also named John, hence the title. He grew up on a rural and deeply religious farming island in Scotland with a very small population, but has since left for the mainland, where he's just graduated and is struggling to find work. The novel opens with a phone call: Cal's father John tells him he needs to come home because his grandmother Ella is ill. Cal returns out of love for her, only to discover she isn't actually ill at all — he's been brought back for other reasons entirely.

Cal is at an uncertain point in his life, with limited options given his family's financial circumstances, and he ends up back working the farmland. He's full of pent-up desire, wanting to go out into the world and fully embrace life as a gay man, discovering opportunities he never had growing up on this island. That makes his return deeply conflicted. His father John, meanwhile, appears strict and controlling on the surface, guided by rigid religious belief, but is harbouring his own secret: his own repressed sexuality. That's revealed fairly early in the novel, so it isn't really a spoiler.

Subtle Expressions of Desire

What struck me most about Cal and John is how, unable to fully express their desires, they find subtle, coded ways to do so anyway. This story is set in the 1990s and Cal tries to meet other gay men through personal ads, knowing there's almost no one else on the island he could realistically connect with. His father, meanwhile, has been carrying on a long-term relationship with another man in complete secrecy, operating within a private code the two of them have developed just to allow the relationship to exist at all. I found it fascinating how the novel tracks these different levels of expression. I naturally felt frustrated with both characters at different points in this novel, wanting to shout at them to just come out to each other. But what Douglas Stuart captures so well, through dialogue and action, is exactly why that's not simple — how difficult radical honesty is within families, and especially within the constrictions of a small community with its own expectations about unwritten rules guiding their behaviour.

Ella

I loved the character of Ella, Cal's maternal grandmother, so much. She's eccentric, expressive, and caring, living in the same household as these two closed-off men. At one point she remarks that “if the women round here just left it, this place would be nothin' but men living in caves, scowling out at the sea.” There's a lovely line describing her: “somewhere deep inside, Ella was still an eight-year-old girl.” Even as an older woman starting to face real health difficulties, that sense of a girl still living inside her comes through vividly in how she expresses herself. She's harbouring her own secrets too, both about her past and her intentions for the future.

Craft and Atmosphere

Douglas Stuart gets at real nuance in these characters: what they understand about each other, what they don't, the things one person knows about another that the other doesn't even realize they've given away, alongside crucial misunderstandings, many of them shaped by the expectations placed on the next generation about how they should look, act, and conduct themselves within the community. This isn't simply a condemnation of older generations, either, but also an exploration of how those generations are themselves misunderstood, and how everyone is trying to find a way to actually connect and reach understanding.

The descriptions of life on this small Scottish island are wonderfully atmospheric: bleak, stark, and flat, which creates real practical difficulty for characters wanting to meet secretly or simply find a moment of privacy, since almost everyone can see almost everything. But Stuart also brings out how beautiful and wondrous the landscape is, and it doesn't feel like a coincidence that religion runs so deep in a community that witnesses every day how sunlight transforms a landscape to become so breathtakingly strange and gorgeous. That atmosphere extends into the work people do — John and Cal keep sheep and weave tweed, and the detail Stuart brings to that industry felt so naturally integrated into the narrative, never like research dropped in for its own sake, but like something lived.

I was also struck by the novel's use of language: characters speak both English and Gaelic, since this is one of the corners of Scotland where Gaelic is still spoken regularly, complete with translated lines. That becomes part of the plot too, since not everyone on the island speaks it, and characters sometimes switch to Gaelic deliberately to conceal what they're saying from others in the room — a quiet power play. There's also a memorable detail about neighboring adult brothers who haven't spoken to each other in something like sixteen years despite living under the same roof, forced to communicate through an intermediary. The novel captures how, in an environment this small and claustrophobic, people are either forced into ongoing civility with one another or cut ties completely, with grudges that can last decades or generations — which speaks to why religion and its rules matter so much here: without some shared order, communication in a community this reliant on itself could simply collapse.

Violence and Tenderness

I was struck, too, by the range in the relationship between Cal and John — moments of real, frightening violence sitting alongside moments of real tenderness. Their work is physically punishing, and there's a scene where Cal's hands are so sore from a day's labor that his father massages oil into them for relief. Then, elsewhere, something switches and there's genuinely horrifying violence between them. It felt true to a relationship this tense: an underlying love that coexists with real volatility, tensions that inevitably reach a boiling point given everything simmering beneath the surface.

The Peripheral Characters

Some of the supporting characters struck me just as much. Cal's lifelong best friend, nicknamed Doll, is someone he's known his entire life, their friendship partly born of necessity since there simply weren't many other young men around as they grew up in a community with an aging, dwindling population. Their dynamic is genuinely interesting because it shows Cal isn't an entirely virtuous character — he has real flaws in how he uses and manipulates his friend. There's real love there, but also a failure to fully see Doll's complexity, and I appreciated that the novel is willing to explore how gay men can manipulate straight men for their own desires, knowing those men's own desires can be leveraged — something I don't think a lot of stories, gay stories especially, get into. I felt real tenderness for Doll's predicament, and how his own options and standing in the community grew more restricted as the story goes on.

Cal also has a friend named Isla, whom the whole island has long expected him to eventually marry and settle down with, even though both of them know that's never going to happen. Her own dilemma, navigating obligations to her family alongside wanting to fulfil her own potential, especially once she runs into real trouble of her own, is handled with great nuance. So many characters here are drawn with a level of sympathy and complexity — wanting to shake them and ask why they couldn't just say what they felt — while also understanding exactly why they couldn't, given the fears they're carrying and the smallness of the world they're operating within.

Literary Echoes

I appreciated the literary references woven through the book too. Cal is repeatedly shown reading an old copy of “The Wasp Factory”, the classic Scottish novel about a small island and a young man prone to violence, and I liked thinking about how that book plays against this one. There's also a reference to Thomas Hardy near the end, and having recently reread “Tess of the d'Urbervilles”, I could clearly see Stuart writing a kind of modern Hardy story: tales that look bleak on the surface, full of characters in a rural setting undergoing real strife because of social obligation and the expectations of their time, but shot through with clear moments of joy and love that make it feel lived-in and true.

Verdict

There was so much I appreciated and connected with here, even in a story so different from my own life — moments that made me laugh, and moments that felt genuinely heart-wrenching. I found the ending gripping, with gripping twists that kept me completely absorbed. My one small criticism is how Ella's storyline resolves — I won't give anything away, but I wished there had been a bit more of her, since I loved her character so much, even though I understand why the novel ends the way it does. The actual final pages, though, I thought were achingly beautiful.

If you've read this, I'd love to hear what you thought, whether you agree or disagree with me, and whether there's anything I didn't touch on that you'd want to discuss. I also loved “Shuggie Bain” and “Young Mungo”, and this novel only cements for me Douglas Stuart's talent for writing.

Transcription by Ben Lerner

Overview

“Transcription” gave me that wonderful experience where I felt completely mesmerized while reading it, and now that I've finished, I can't stop thinking about it. There were a couple of coincidences with things happening in my own life at the moment that made it feel like the perfect book for me to read right now, almost like the stars had aligned.

I also want to emphasize that this book contains so many ideas, and is incredibly smart and well-crafted, touching on technology, science, history, memory, art, literature, and dreams, that from descriptions alone or from other reviews, it might sound like an intimidating, intellectual novel. But I want to assure you it's also extremely emotional. There's a great deal in it about familial relationships, about anxiety for the next generation and their struggles, about fathers and daughters, and about adult men's relationships to a father figure or mentor. It's about grief, mourning, and romance.

Premise

The novel's unnamed narrator, who is 45, travels to Providence, Rhode Island to interview Thomas, a 90-year-old, weighty intellectual of both the arts and sciences, in what will likely be his last interview ever. The interviewer brings his smartphone to record the conversation, but accidentally drops it in a sink of water, breaking it. Unable to record the interview, he ends up, in a moment of quiet absurdity, setting his broken phone down anyway when Thomas insists he start recording — pretending to record while nothing is actually being captured. So everything we get from that interview is not a transcription at all, but the narrator's later reconstruction of it from memory.

Thomas's Voice

Thomas speaks in this wonderful, associative way, poetic but packed with references to art, science, and historical figures, his train of thought skipping from one thing to another almost the way the narrator of “Ducks, Newburyport” does. I loved reading his diatribes the way I love listening to some of my own favorite mentors: people so full of knowledge and ideas that it just flows out of them. Even though I probably only understood about half of what Thomas was actually referencing, I was completely mesmerized consuming it. That's part of the magic of what Lerner does here — you feel like you're really sitting attentively listening to someone speak following their winding train of thought with all its warm playfulness and humor. I found his sections extremely enjoyable.

But the way the novel is constructed calls into question everything Thomas has said, and whether what we're getting is really the truth, since the whole premise rests on an interview that technically never happened as a recording. It's smart in how it uses that situation to say so much more.

A Personal Coincidence

I happened to be reading this on a day when I was about to interview Joyce Carol Oates, someone I revere as an idol and mentor and who was about to turn 88. I felt that same thrill about being able to speak with someone I admire so much, and that same anxiety about the possibility of technology going wrong, since we've had instances before where a Zoom call wouldn't connect. Reading about the narrator's fraught relationship to recording technology while gearing up for my own high-stakes interview felt like an uncanny echo.

Unboxing Videos and Self-Consciousness Online

Later in the book, Thomas's adult son Max has a daughter, Emmy, who has almost no appetite and struggles to eat no matter what her parents try. Eventually she starts watching unboxing videos on YouTube, which lulls her into a comforting state where she's able to eat while watching, though Max speaks about these videos quite disparagingly, dismissing them as trivial. Coincidentally, I'd also made a recent video unboxing books for my own channel. So I felt very self-conscious reading a book that critiques these videos while I'm making them myself. It made me think about my own anxieties about participating in this kind of content: I know I didn't invent the unboxing video, I'd just seen others doing it and thought it looked fun, especially around books that publishers had sent me. I do sometimes worry whether I'm trivializing the experience of reading by making these casual videos rather than sitting down to formulate a more considered review — though I also know plenty of readers respond to that instantaneous, unfiltered reaction to new books just as much as, if not more than, a carefully composed one. Lerner's novel set me off on a long train of thought about performative reading online and my own place in it.

I also want to point out “Transcription”'s clever cover design: it has the appearance of a large smartphone with a record button.

Technology, Memory, and Dependence

The novel isn't condemning technology so much as genuinely interrogating it, weighing its pros and cons and situating recent technology within a much longer history of technological change. Thomas recalls getting a radio for the first time as a young man, and has strange theories about how even when a radio is off, the sound waves are technically still passing through the air, an idea that resonates with how our data now sits somewhere in "the cloud," a constant unseen presence in our lives whether we're actively engaging with it or not. There's real insight into our dependency on technology: even after the narrator's phone breaks, he compulsively keeps trying to turn it on, and keeps thinking in terms of the maps app to get to Thomas's house even though he already knows the way from memory. I recognized that in myself, too — I'll sometimes use maps to get somewhere in central London even after living here long enough to know the route by heart.

Fact, Fiction, and the Line Between Them

Because the interview was never actually recorded, what we get is not a transcription but a reconstruction, and the novel is remarkably smart about calling into question whether that reconstruction is even true, or whether the narrator has misremembered, improvised, or even fictionalized parts of it. The book is structured in three sections: the narrator's account of the interview; a section that interrogates that very interview, revealing in something like a memorial speech that it was reconstructed rather than transcribed; and a third section that shifts to Max, Thomas's son, and his anxieties about his daughter's condition (referred to in the book as "failure to thrive") alongside his own complicated relationship with his father.

I love how the title itself, Transcription, carries so much weight here — "trans" as a prefix meaning beyond or on the other side of, so that in some sense our memory itself becomes a kind of bridge between past and present, and the novel keeps asking what gets lost or altered in that crossing. There are also references throughout to literal borders, including the border between occupied France and Switzerland during the war, where Jewish refugees escaping arrest could not be captured once they crossed it — a reminder that borders are themselves agreed-upon fictions that nonetheless carry enormous real-world weight. The book uses small, concrete examples too, like the narrator touching what he assumes is an artificial flower in a hotel lobby only to discover it's real, while recalling elaborately designed glass flowers in a museum that look completely authentic but are actually constructed. All of this speaks to a larger, timely anxiety about how much we can trust the information we're given, whether online, in the news, or handed down to us as history — and the novel gently suggests this uncertainty isn't new, even if it feels newly urgent.

Voice and Connection

Set in recent times, the novel touches on the COVID pandemic, during which Thomas became seriously ill and Max feared, for a time, that his father was going to die. There's an incredibly emotional crisis point where Max speaks to Thomas on the phone believing he might be losing him, and everything spills out of him, years of tension between them, much of it rooted in the death of Max's mother by suicide when he was younger, a loss that hovers over the whole novel as an absence. It made me think about how much of what we say in moments of extreme emotional intensity is a true confession or actually authentic, and how much is shaped by the situation itself, and whether that even matters. So much of this novel is really about voice and connection: not necessarily the content of what we say to each other, but the meaning carried in simply speaking and being heard, whether that's Max on the phone with his dying father or the narrator worrying over trivial conversations with his own young daughter.

Verdict

There's so much in this book that just keeps prompting me to think further. It doesn't offer answers to the larger questions it raises about fact versus fiction, technology, memory, and authenticity, but it poses them so richly that I know I'll want to reread it. I love one line from the book: "You call this fiction, but it is more." I think that's true of the novel itself — Ben Lerner packs an enormous amount into a fairly slim book, and I found that genuinely impressive.

I absolutely loved reading this, and if you've read it too, I'd love to hear what you thought, or whether it resonated with anything going on in your own life. If you haven't read it yet, I'd highly encourage you to pick it up, and don't be intimidated by the perception that it's some grand intellectual work. It's smart, yes, but it's also, as I hope I've conveyed, deeply emotional and genuinely funny, and that combination is exactly why I loved it so much.

Since I initially posted a video about this book it’s also gone on to win the Orwell Prize for Political Fiction.

Said the Dead by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

A Singular Reading Experience

Reading this book was very beautiful and moving, but also extraordinary because it's such a singular experience. “Said the Dead” by the Irish author Doireann Ní Ghríofa is essentially unclassifiable — you could call it a novel, a memoir, an essay, poetry, or social history, and it is really all of those things at once.

Premise

The book follows someone, presumably the author herself, as she passes by a building that was once a mental hospital in Cork. She meditates on how, if she had been alive in the 1800s, she probably would have ended up a patient at this institution herself, given her unique personality. She becomes intensely drawn to the location, and especially to the women who were patients there for so many years, and starts haunting the structure herself, hanging around the construction site where it's being redeveloped, looking in on it. She also delves into the institution's archives, surveying censuses taken in the area to gather details about the women who lived there. Through those small details, a much larger picture emerges of the state of women in Ireland at the time.

The institution first opened in the early 1800s and became a state facility around the 1850s. The records mostly capture the doctors' perceptions of these women's lives and symptoms, and have to be taken with a pinch of salt for that reason. Quite often, the only note recorded about a woman over the years is "no change, no change." That phrase comes to reflect back on the narrator's own life too, since she describes herself as a wife, mother, and reader whose domestic routines can feel like they carry no change from week to week or month to month. She feels an intense identification with these women, and a sense that she can almost hear their voices reaching out to her from the past — while also feeling, in turn, that she is haunting them, peering in on their lives. She poses a striking question: “Who chooses the sight of a vision? The witness or the apparition?”

Psychological, Supernatural, Mythological

I don't personally believe in anything supernatural, but what I found so interesting is how this book plays on the line between the psychological and the supernatural. There's so much in Irish life and history that carries a sense of mythology and connection with the past — in the Fenian Cycle and broader Irish mythology, there's a sense of previous inhabitants of an area dissolving into the ground, so the land itself becomes sentient, reaching out to people in the present and helping steer their lives. I think that's a rich tradition Ní Ghríofa is drawing on here, even while she's also documenting how many of these women were genuinely marginalized figures: some clearly suffered from real mental conditions that made a traditional home life untenable, while others were pushed aside because they were suffering abuse or neglect, or because husbands simply didn't want to deal with them anymore. Some stayed only a short time before being judged "rehabilitated" and released; others stayed for years, or until their deaths.

Piecing Together Lives from the Archive

The narrator becomes a kind of diver into the lives of these women, piecing together their circumstances from doctors' notes and census records, and imaginatively building out the parts that the records can't tell her — conjuring a probable picture of these women's mindsets. Part of her access comes through a doctor at the institution named Lucia Strangman, the first woman to qualify as a psychiatrist in the British Isles, who worked there for many years and, by the book's account, had real sympathy for her female patients and tried to help them become healthier. Lucia becomes the narrator's key not just into individual lives, but into how the institution itself was run — predominantly by men, which shaped how women's symptoms were interpreted, classified, and treated.

The narrator often catches herself questioning how much she can really trust these accounts, especially from the male doctors, and how much can genuinely be gleaned from a census and the details it includes — or the details people chose to omit because they didn't want to be officially classified this way. Part of the book grapples with the real difficulty of researching these women's lives: the archive is publicly available only up to about a hundred years ago, after which point access is restricted to protect the privacy of more recent patients. That's the right call, but it also blocks her from finding out what ultimately happened to a number of the women she becomes invested in. She's also restricted from recording their real names. She invents pseudonyms but wants to record their true names, believing these women would have wanted to be properly known and remembered.

Alongside the text of the records are scattered photographs of some of these women, some reproduced in the book itself. She writes that she can't get the thought of their images out of her mind once she's seen them, and the text about their lives is layered over these old photographs, which carry an eerie sense of specters brought into the present. There's so much of this book that functions as a ghost story — though it keeps posing the question of who exactly the ghost is: the reader in the present, the author of this book or the women from the past?

Obsession and Home Life

The narrator becomes so engaged with these women's lives that she finds herself dwelling around the structure as it's being converted into apartments, having odd encounters with construction workers questioning what she's doing there, and small battles with librarians and archive keepers as she tries to find out as much as she can. She recognizes that, in becoming so obsessed with this project, she's in some ways neglecting her own home life, her family, her children — and there's a real self-questioning thread about why this matters so much to her when she feels she should be focused on her own family. But it's clearly important to her personally to honor and recognize these women, to really hear their voices and help preserve them, and there's a touching nobility to the project — most of these women would likely have been entirely forgotten if Ní Ghríofa hadn't written this account.

One of the women's stories I found especially touching is that of a woman named Dora, a committed reader who found in literature a kind of escape and a way of staying sane in a world that felt uncontrollable to her. The book also maps these women across periods of history — when the narrative reaches the early twentieth century and the First World War, there's real, palpable fear and depression among the women for family members who might be sent to fight, layered on top of whatever conditions they already carried. Many of the symptoms described, like severe depression after giving birth, are conditions we'd now readily recognize and treat, but at the time were widely misunderstood, dismissed, and used as further reason to push these women aside.

Comparison with Other Recent Irish Books

Reading this, I found myself thinking about other recent Irish literature. There's Jan Carson's novel “Few and Far Between”, set on an archipelago off the coast of Ireland, which includes a facility housing patients who have gone completely silent — comatose in the sense that they can no longer communicate, most often because of some massive trauma that has caused them to entirely mentally shut down. I also thought about Maggie O'Farrell's new novel “Land”, and the way mythology and its relationship to landscape plays such a large part in that book too. There's so much great new Irish literature being published right now, and I love how these books feel like they're partly in conversation with each other — looking at some of the same questions from different angles and different perspectives.

The Writing Itself

What Ní Ghríofa is really writing about is this connection with the past, with people from the past, and how different we actually are from them in the present — how much we can identify with those who have been lost, whose voices are mostly gone except for whatever traces in records we can find. There's a gorgeous lyricism to her writing, and a sense of creating a touchstone with history that I found incredibly moving. One line I noted down: “It was a relief to be absent from herself. If she was absent, who was present?” This question casts an eerie shadow over the book, but it's also quietly probing where the self actually exists, and who we are, if we're identifying so strongly with people from the past that there's both a strong sense of connectedness and an absolute absence of self.

Verdict

This book poses much larger questions about identity while specifically working through the records of these women's lives, and there's such a sense of compassion in it, alongside a genuine questioning of who we really are and where we fit into the past. I absolutely loved reading it, and I'd been eager to get to it ever since reading the author's previous book, “A Ghost in the Throat”, which is another extraordinary and singular reading experience — there, the author connects just as strongly with a specific figure from the past, a poet, looking at similar questions of history and psychological and social struggle that still resonate in the present. I sank into this new book completely as it's such a strange and searching experience.

A Beast Slinks Towards Beijing by Alice Evelyn Yang

It took me a little while to settle into this debut novel though the author establishes some intriguing mysteries from the outset. At the beginning we meet Qianze who works a demanding job in New York City when her long lost father Weihong suddenly reappears. Where has he been? What is the prophecy that he's forgotten? Why is Qianze keeping Weihong's return a secret from her mother and boyfriend? What's the meaning of the apparitions which appear to Qianze? I really felt the monotony and claustrophobia of Qianze and Weihong's routines in her small NYC apartment with her gruelling financial office work days and his excessive drinking. Weihong's resentment towards her father abandoning them but her begrudging sense of obligation to look after him were palpable. I was glad when the story moves to Weihong and his mother Ming's history in China. However, as the narrative slides between periods of time I was initially confused about how this family tree fit together. It was only as more about their backstories were revealed that it made sense to me.

I felt it was impactful how the novel shows the terror of these periods of Chinese history including foot binding, the Japanese occupation of Manchuria and the Cultural Revolution. Though I was familiar with these aspects of the country's past, reading about them in this story and looking up brief overviews of them felt no less shocking. The widespread violence, betrayal, starvation, rape and murder which occurred during these upheavals is staggering. I felt the author did a good job of immersing readers in particular examples of these periods of time showing how it impacted her characters. In addition to the resentment her parents have that she was not born a boy and being betrothed to the physician's son from birth, Ming experienced the effects of food shortages and the Japanese reforms that were responsible for “turning girls' education into a sham”. The terrible emphasis and pressure placed upon her to “become a woman” and start getting her periods was particularly striking.

Equally the author shows in Weihong's upbringing that joining the Red Guard was a matter of survival for him, but also partly the result of inherited trauma taking the form of violence. The scenes where students butcher members of the community was horrific, but I felt one of the most striking sections in Weihong's tale was when he came after his sister Kangmei's beloved chicken. Though the shifts in time made it challenging to always know how this family fit together, it felt unique how the author braided the stories of these different generations to show that the past can't simply be forgotten because it manifests in their personalities and in the supernatural encounters they experience. The cumulative meaning of this only became clear to me towards the end of the novel. I don't think it was entirely successful for me, but the author was effective in making me feel the way this traumatic history severely wounded each individual and was carried between generations.

It was creative how the author incorporated mythological/magical realism into the story where supernatural elements appear, but some instances felt jarring to me. I appreciated the scenes where Qianze is “haunted” by nightmares and real world encounters in a subway station. It also felt effective when Ming first encountered an ominous hare with horns. However, I was less convinced by Weihong and Kangmei meeting the mysterious woman in the alley and how the woman's voice has a continued presence in Weihong's mind. Weihong's encounter with a man who sees people's auras was odd. And I was really put off by Ming's encounter with The Oni/demon while she's trapped in a comfort house and an odd scene where she seems to turn into a preying mantis. I suppose this could be a result of the massive amounts of opium she was imbibing, but I didn't know what to make of her reencountering this figure later and the role he plays in the plot. It felt like too much of a stretch for me to take this storyline seriously.

There are some powerfully evocative moments in this novel and I mostly enjoyed her prose style. However, parts of it felt overwritten. For instance, I got a real key into Weihong's character when it's stated “He was damned to continue circling his wounds like tub water around the drain, the old emotions still raw... his past resisted chronology. It looped. It wound.” but it felt unnecessary to further describe this as a “Fibonacci sequence” (which, of course, I had to look up to understand.) I felt the author used dough and hand-pulled noodles as a metaphor too often. A line I appreciated was when Weihong initially leaves his wife and daughter and Qianze hears “That creaky screen door that could never hide anything.” This really immersed me in what it was like to live in this house where certain sounds are so well known. I felt all the main characters of Qianze, Weihong and Ming were well developed. But I wanted to know more about some of the more peripheral figures such as Kangmei (who disappears for so long until the very end) and Ming's mother-in-law whose character/motivations could have been elaborated upon.

After all the horrors and heartache in this story I was glad the author also offers some hope but the ending felt a little too neat to me. Overall, I appreciated this novel and its ambition, but its somewhat convoluted structure wasn't entirely successful for me. I love a family saga and I understand why she used so many time shifts, but part of me longed for a linear tale. It was interesting to learn in an interview that she initially wrote the stories of the different generations separately and I wonder how its impact would have changed if she'd simply fitted them together chronologically. Nevertheless, it's impressive how much she did in this first novel and I think she's a promising writer.

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout

For the past several years Strout has created a beautiful tapestry of novels about the intersecting lives of a number of her characters – most notably Lucy Barton, Olive Kitteridge and Bob Burgess in titles such as “Oh William!”, “Lucy by the Sea” and “Tell Me Everything”. So it's notable that she has written a new novel which is entirely outside of this set of books – although keen readers will notice there is an easter egg within “The Things We Never Say” that refers to a previous Strout novel and definitively establishes that this story is entirely outside of that fictional universe. Though the setting and characters are somewhat different, Strout's characteristic style of fiction persists. We follow idiosyncratic characters having conversations and privately contemplating the world. The narrative dips into the past and gives small snapshots into the future. The author has such a moving way of representing her characters' thoughts where memories intrude upon the present to produce a ruminative and lightly philosophical sensation. The genius of Strout's writing is that it is both highly relatable and profound as it guides the reader through what matters the most.

This new story focuses on Artie Dam, a history teacher who lives on the coast of Massachusetts. He's been married to his wife Evie over thirty years, has an adult son and enjoys taking meditative solo afternoon sailing trips. And in this strange new post-pandemic world Artie finds himself preoccupied with a sense of loneliness and the question of whether we really have free will. Not only does he contemplate the possibility of incompatibilism but he boldly raises this issue in casual conversation. Naturally many people are quick to bat away discussing such a ponderous question. Gradually Artie finds truer understanding with the people in his life by daring to speak about things which aren't normally verbalised, but this isn't a sure method of achieving real connections. The results are both surprising and humbling as the story concerns the nuances of human communication. Sometimes his exchanges are tenderly moving and sometimes they're just awkward in a way which is true to the ebb and flow of our personal networks. Some friends turn into strangers and some strangers become close friends. The central father and son relationship in this story is especially poignant. There is also a narrative tension as Artie discovers a dramatic secret about his family which may or may not completely upend his life.

The novel begins in the lead up to the 2024 US presidential elections and Artie has a terrifying feeling about what the result will be. In a conversation it's remarked “He's going to win, you know... People want authority. They crave authority. And she doesn't have the kind they want, and he does. In his cult following kind of way.” Everyone who has lived through this recent period of time will know exactly what is being said here. Though Strout possesses a seemingly gentle style of storytelling this novel is also excoriating about the present state of the country and the very real threats we may face in the near future. It's no coincidence that Artie is a teacher of history and his class openly discusses the lives of ordinary people from the Civil War and WWII. The anger and frustration with the state of our present times is palpable in this story. Artie witnesses bursts of violence and firm political lines being drawn. Yet surprising love can also be found between people who are seemingly diametrically opposed. What can we talk about and what can't we say? At one point it's stated: “to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand. It was a private thing, to be alive.” Though Artie is preoccupied with the question of free will, Strout seems more concerned with the question: what's happened to decency?

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje (translated by David McKay)

“The Remembered Soldier” by Anjet Daanje follows a WWI veteran nicknamed Noon who has lost his memory and resides in a Flanders asylum. It's fours years after the end of the war and a woman named Julienne comes to the facility claiming this veteran is her husband Amand. The novel traces this couple's story as they adjust to life together but there are questions about her motives amidst the debilitating effects of his shell shock. This is an emotional tale which took me a bit of time to ease into with the way it presents a cascading mountain of detail regarding Amand's psychological state and the dramatically fluctuating condition of his relationship to Julienne. But it feels so effective in conveying the horror of PTSD and the terrifying confusion from his amnesia. Moments of being fully present and aware come to feel so precious as his state of mind is often a blend of uncertain memories, nightmares, surreal fantasies and paranoia. The reader is also drawn into the tension about whether Amand is paranoid or is Julienne really hiding something about their past because of inconsistencies and questions regarding what she tells him. Daanje teases this out and, while I sometimes grew impatient with the way that Amand and Julienne's relationship ran hot and cold, I did feel very involved in their story. I wanted to know the truth about Amand's history, what Julienne is concealing and whether they'd be able to establish a stable and happy life.

I found it interesting that Noon or Amand seemed to be in a place of relative stability in the asylum with his routine gardening and his connection to some of the other patients, but of course there are terrifying undercurrents with the patients' nightmares and the time some former soldiers must spend in the ominously named “unruly pavilion” when things get too bad. The periodic pressure which comes from women who visit to see if Noon is their lost husband/relative seemed like another kind of needling agony as he's presented with so many possible lives to slot into until he's finally identified as Amand. It felt poignant when at one point in the story he returns to the asylum and finds he's outgrown it because he's established a place in Julienne's home. Yet he still sometimes longed for the tranquility he found in the asylum garden and this seemed to manifest in the way he occasionally walked out of the city until he found himself in a field.

Most notably, Daanje establishes an interesting form for the book where nearly every paragraph begins with the word “and”. The lines build into one long continuous extended description and the dialogue is compressed into the sentences. It gave me the sense of being swept into a river as we followed Amand's experience from being found by Julienne at the asylum to re-establishing himself in his family and work life. I think it's effective in conveying how there is barely ever any relief from the turmoil of Amand's condition as at any moment the ground beneath his feet might become unstable and he's be swept back into a nightmare. Are Amand and Julienne moving towards the truth or are they building an intricate illusion in their life together? At one point it's stated “he thinks she knows it too, their life is built on quicksand, one false step and they'll drown together.” This uncertainty builds a persistent sense of uneasy tension.

Amand comes to be wholly reliant on Julienne as “without her he has no idea who he's supposed to be.” He knows he can't trust his own mind and his memories are unknown but “there are also times he thinks it must be her, there's something about her, something unnameable.” There are several indicators of Julienne's potential untrustworthiness with how she concealed that she moved their family from Meenen while he was away at war, the question over their daughter Rose's parentage, how it's revealed Julienne used to be Amand's mother's maid, the way Julienne uses Amand to pose in photographs for financial gain and how their neighbour Felice accuses Julienne of falsifying her memories with Amand when the women have a fight. It's also so significant how Julienne spends much of her time retouching photos in an effort to both preserve and manipulate the past. However, there are plausible explanations for these things where Julienne might be tactfully withholding things or massaging the truth about the past to make their future together easier. It also might be that Amand finds it too difficult to accept a loving relationship after having lived in the dark about his life for so many years. It's remarked how “it's a safe world, this life he shares with her, but beneath it lies a nameless threat, whatever he does, thinks, says, it's there in the background, always, as if he glimpses it out of the corner of his eye and it moves again before he can look at it straight on, and the strange thing is somehow his fear always comes as a relief, his love for her was unknown territory, his fear is familiar.” Paradoxically there is a kind of comfort he finds in his fear rather than embracing the happiness which can be found with Julienne. But if the relationship turns out to be based on lies will that all collapse and he'll find himself in a new kind of horror?

Amand is also understandably wary about knowing the truth of his past and his time at war. It's remarked how “he's afraid for himself, for what his mind has managed to conceal from him all these years, it must be something terrible.” Yet there is no way for him to escape the past as memories might resurface unexpectedly and even amidst pleasurable experiences such as when the taste of chocolate reminds him of the chocolate he plundered from a dead soldier's pack while on the front. So he's trapped in a kind of limbo and this is poignantly symbolised in the way Amand and Julienne paint a backdrop of a no-man's-land for him to pose in front of to be photographed. Psychologically he's still there on the battlefield and can't escape it. And the widows who come to pose with him in front of that backdrop remind them of how many men didn't return from war. Though they know they are lucky and that finding each other was a “miracle” it's also fraught with so much difficulty, heartache and a tangle of complexity which might ensnare them.

I think it's masterful the way this novel presents an untrustworthy point of view. Amand losing his memory because of PTSD serves as both a testament to the trauma caused by the experience of war and a narrative device to create a lot of tension and mystery throughout the story. It's very impactful the way the novel roots us in his experience where the sense of disorientation and paranoia reach such terrifying levels. Since the narrative is filled with a profusion of detail following his experience with the repetition of the word “and” it felt all the more terrifying when there is a gap in his memory about what's occurred in the present. Amand realises that he can't trust himself and Julienne realises that she's inevitably going to lose the man with whom she's built a familiar relationship and love over the past year. As much as I felt suspicious of Julienne I also grew increasingly anxious for her and their children because of Amand's unpredictability.

The narrative style shifts in such a marked way in the final section of the novel. It's so striking that this is when the story moves from the intense often claustrophobic environment of their household with its familiar routines to the chaos of the larger post-WWI world. I found it so powerful how the novel describes the degraded existence of the collapsed German nation with the hunger, hyper inflation and highly skilled people forced to perform unskilled labour to try to get food. I don't think I've read any other fiction that depicts this post-war environment so vividly. Part of me wishes that this section had been longer with less time spent on fluctuations Amand and Julienne's relationship. Walking through this devastated landscape is such a wake up call for Amand who learns that “the war is over for the people it never really touched” but everyone else's lives have been shattered and existence is a constant struggle.

One of the most poignant characters in the story is a black dog named Issie. It almost feels paradoxical that an animal would stand out more than the couple's own children. A frequent criticism I've seen of this book is how small a role the children play in Amand and Julienne's life. I felt this as well while reading the book but my assumption is that this was a period of time when many parents weren't heavily involved in the emotional lives of their children. Parenting is more a practical obligation. But also Amand and Julienne were so wrapped up in each other there seemed little space for them to care about anyone else.

I think it's so compelling how this story raises larger questions about our relationship to the personal and collective past. There are the alternate realities we build for ourselves because we can't cope with the actual reality, but what is the cost of denying or manipulating the truth? There are also many specific questions to consider relating to the story. Of course, one of the big ones is can we really trust Julienne? Knowing the full truth about her and her motives is something I don't think we can ever know because this story is entirely from Amand's perspective, but it's clear she's a passionate survivor. One of the reasons I'd like to reread this novel one day is to see if I feel differently about her now that I know the entirety of this novel's plot. Even after certain plot points are answered larger uncertainties remain and ambiguities which can be debated.

Overall, I think this is such an impressive and moving novel! I admire the way it presents a tantalising mystery and gives a different perspective on post-WWI. Though it's a historical novel it feels relevant to consider how the effects of war last much longer than whenever politicians declare that a conflict has ended. It's also so moving how this story meditates on the meaning of memory and how it functions as the basis of understanding ourselves and our relationships to other people. Do our photographs give an accurate representation of the past or do they idealise the past? Is love an early commitment made after a passionate affair or is it found in the familiar routines where the challenges of daily life must be faced together? Daanje's story has left me with these lingering questions which I keep thinking about and I'm grateful the novel offers such a unique perspective.

Vigil by George Saunders

When George Saunders' first novel “Lincoln in the Bardo” came out in 2017 I instantly fell in love with it and was thrilled to see it win that year's Booker Prize. So I've been highly anticipating this new book and it was a thrill to interview him about “Vigil” in London: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xyuMp5X7uM It's impressive that Saunders has such a towering literary reputation given this is only his second novel though, of course, he's also published multiple acclaimed short story collections and non-fiction as well as being very active in the reading community with different organisations and his 'Story Club' substack.

I found it somewhat surprising at first that, like his previous novel, “Vigil” follows a similar format where the narrative treads between the living and the very chatty dead. In addition to the dying protagonist/wealthy oil man KJ Boone, we're introduced to many idiosyncratic (and sometimes flatulent) individuals caught in a realm like the bardo, a state between living and rebirth that comes from Tibetan Buddhism. There are references to how these figures aren't ready to “move on” yet because of some unfinished Earthly business. However, the heroine of this novel Jill 'Doll' Blaine is in a state of “elevation” where she continuously returns to Earth to comfort those who are passing. I enjoyed the creativity, inventiveness and humour of how Saunders describes the way in which the dead act. But I'm aware that this sort of action can quickly slide into the puerile and feel flippant. I felt Saunders mostly kept to the right side of this as I was consistently entertained and surprised by the ghosts' actions. There's also a tragi-comic element to all the ghosts encountered as many are caught up in their own obsessions and unable to break free or find peace. To be caught in such an egotistical loop is its own kind of hell!

It feels timely that this novel focuses on a businessman whose decisions and unconscionable actions have led to so many painful deaths and the destruction of the environment. I'm sure many people are frustrated that a small group of powerful elite in this world find ways to work around the law and use their influence purely to enhance their personal wealth/status to such ridiculous proportions. So I'm sympathetic with this novel's central drive to hold such a man to account and confront him with the destructive effects of his decisions by surrounding him with ghosts. Through all his self-justification and denial, some small hidden part of KJ Boone knows that what he has done is wrong. The spirits which surround him appeal for him to acknowledge this but KJ is on the brink of death. Is an acknowledgement of this truth enough even though there is nothing he can tangibly do to correct his wrongs? What form of repentance is suitable for someone who has caused such destruction? Is it right to hold KJ Boone responsible when he's merely part of a capitalist and social system that encourages individuals to pursue enterprise without a conscience? This story raises these questions and many more.

I don't think these questions have any easy answers but the story interrogates these issues through the ghosts, some of whom are former colleagues to the dying man who take radically different positions. Their designs upon KJ Boone seem wrapped up in their own logic and understanding about whether humanity should be sought in those who act in an inhumane way. The Frenchman feels: “To comfort one who remains wilfully ignorant of what he has done is to provide no comfort at all, he said. If you truly wish to comfort him, bring him to admit his sin, then repent of it.” Of course, the most insistent voice we're closely aligned with in the story is Jill Blaine who merely wants to give KJ Boone comfort as he passes over into death. Naturally her intentions seem angelic, but her reasoning behind this is complicated by discoveries about her own past. Her killer Paul Bowman who unintentionally blew her up when he was targeting her husband has entirely forgotten about his crime and her beloved husband started another family shortly after Jill's death. As her short life has almost entirely been forgotten it seems natural that Jill wants to leave behind any sense of selfhood and devote herself instead to what she believes to be her mission in a state of elevation: “Elevation was true. It was. For sure. Me, elevated? Was real. Realer by a mile, at this point, than “Jill 'Doll' Blaine.” Nevertheless, she keeps being drawn back to her memories through the wedding taking place next door and her own investigations into the physical landscape of her former life. Though a state of elevation is her new reality it doesn't provide any solution to the dilemma regarding KJ Boone's guilt beyond offering an all-encompassing benevolence which is offered to anyone merely because they are human.

I felt Jill was a tragic character who I was highly sympathetic towards but I don't agree with her logic and I think Saunders is interrogating her reasoning as well. At the same time, I don't think there's necessarily any other alternative or solution about how to resolve KJ Boone's fate. I want to see him held accountable but I don't agree that anyone should be doomed or subjected to torture for eternity like a comic-grotesque duo known as the two Mels' want to inflict upon KJ. I think the novel itself bypasses offering any solution and instead we follow Jill as she's about to embark on another mission to provide comfort to someone who is dying. Instead of this being an admirable state of benevolence I think Saunders is suggesting that it's another kind of loop her spirit is caught within and a fate that she's subjecting herself to for eternity. Surely if more and more people like KJ Boone negatively impact the world in the destructive ways that he has done there will come a time in the future when no dying humans are left to comfort because humanity will have been wiped out. So the dilemma that Saunders presents in this novel is very dark and sombre.

I think this is a very creative and thought-provoking book, but its brevity made it feel less impactful and meaningful to me than “Lincoln in the Bardo”. I know it's perhaps unfair that this new novel should continuously be compared to the last. But the ending of “Vigil” felt somewhat rushed and Jill's supernatural intervention a bit forced. Nevertheless, I enjoyed reading it and the experience was naturally enhanced by discussing it with Saunders himself. It was interesting that he acknowledged at the beginning of our talk that reviews have been “all over the place.” A review in the NY Times calls this novel “a hot-water bottle in print form” and the Guardian commented that Saunders' writing is “starting to feel like a gimmick” with a familiar “repertoire of tricks and tics.” Meanwhile a piece in the LA Review of Books comments “the novel sometimes feels weightless, even frivolous.” Since he mentioned reviews of his book, I was tempted (but too shy) to ask Saunders if he felt that any of the criticism being made about it was reasonable and made him rethink how he wrote it. It's difficult to see where his fiction might go from here and I wonder if he is more of a natural short story writer than a novelist, but I always find it writing extremely creative and thought-provoking.

Women Without Men by Shahrnush Parsipur (translated by Faridoun Farrokh)

Although “Women Without Men” was first published in Persian in 1989 and translated into English in 2011 it wasn't published in the UK until recently by Penguin's International Writers series. It's wonderful that it's become more widely available as this is a modern classic which incorporates magical realism and feminism to convey the story of five Iranian women seeking independence from the patriarchy. The first chapter ends with the line “It is always the heart's desire that drives one insane.” I think this is the key to understanding how the repression which these women from different levels of society experience drives them to radically break free from the circumstances of their reality. The story follows as these very distinct women use different methods to obtain independence whether that be literally becoming part of nature or scheming to evade the control of men. It's a work of great imagination that is a testament to the creativity and resilience of the human spirit.

Shahrnush Parsipur is an Iranian-born writer who just recently turned 80. While living in Iran she was an advocate of free speech and under the Islamic government she was imprisoned for many years. She's written about these experiences in a memoir called “Kissing the Sword” which I'd also like to read. Parsipur was jailed again specifically for the content of “Women Without Men” because of its frank portrayal of female sexuality and it's still officially banned in Iran. This title is a novella which rotates between the perspectives of five different women who converge on a property with a vast garden and orchard. It's set in 1953 which is significant as this was the year in which a US and UK backed coup d'etat overthrew the democratic government to reinstate a monarchy which was more favourable for Western interests. Prior to this women were gradually being granted more rights within Iran, but with this change in government that was hindered by years of disruption which eventually led to the Iranian Revolution and an Islamic Republic. The historical events of this year don't play a direct role in the story, but there are references to the severe disruption and violence which is taking place outside.

The stories of these women mostly take place within domestic spaces where they come into conflict with each other and the domineering men in their lives. There is an emphasis placed upon whether or not different women are virgins and stereotypes about menopause are made by one of their husbands. They long for financial and social freedom, education and a place where they can truly realise their desires. It's so interesting how some of the women liken themselves to film stars including Julie Andrews and Vivien Leigh. Mrs Farrokhlaqa's husband thinks his wife resembles Vivien Leigh and it feels apt that she is inspired by Scarlett O'Hara because this was a character determined to forge her own destiny and survive no matter what it took. I felt one of the most striking characters is Munis who longs to understand her own body, but has been prevented from learning about female anatomy and sex. Her friend Fa'iza diminishes Munis and schemes to become romantically involved with Munis' brother. This relationship plays out in an entertaining way and it's engaging how all of the women in this novella embark on journeys of discovery. It's extremely imaginative how this breaks with reality in various ways where a woman turns into tree, a woman rises from the dead multiple times, a woman can read minds and another woman only sees men who are headless. These surreal occurrences grant freedom which can't be obtained in ordinary reality, but it's far from fanciful. There are also many realistic horrors depicted in this story including domestic violence, rape and murder.

So when the various women in this tale arrive at a point to live in a vast garden owned by the now financially independent Farrokhlaqa there is finally the wonderful possibility for them to control their own destinies. But this isn't a utopian space. The women disagree, some progress onto elevated states of existence while other regress back into more subservient roles within the patriarchy. However, the vital thing is that they are allowed to decide the direction of their lives for themselves rather than having their choices controlled. So it's very touching how we follow the fates of each of these complex and passionate women. While I admire the extremely creative way that Parsipur evokes their stories and created a kind of modern myth, I did feel that some of the accounts of their lives were too brief. Also, some scenes felt more cartoonish than fantastical. There's a section where a number of characters come upon murder scene and faint. When they wake up they've forgotten what they witnessed or dismiss what they saw as a dream which felt a bit too convenient. There are also some peripheral characters such as a maid whose story is cut off when the novella suggests it would continue. Nevertheless, this is such a striking and significant book which captures the stories of ordinary Iranian women in an impactful and memorable way. It's inspired me to read more about Iranian history, want to see the film adaptation of this novella and to read more by Shahrnush Parsipur.

This novel is currently listed for the 2026 International Booker Prize.

The Melancholy of Resistance by László Krasznahorkai (translated by George Szirtes)

I'm always keen to try reading something from the most recent winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. This novel is a thoughtful exploration of a breakdown in society and the different philosophical positions people adopt to navigate through increasingly difficult circumstances. With its blocks of text, often confusing plot and unsettling atmosphere, this is most definitely a challenging read. But, given it was first published in the late 1980s, it also feels surprisingly relevant to disruptions we're seeing in the world today. It was written at a time when the author himself had witnessed the breakdown of communism in Hungary. There are parts of this book that are also filled with dark humour and a profound sense of wonder. I took a few hours to go to the Natural History Museum in London and spent time reading by a giant model of a whale to really add to the experience of this moody tale.

It took me a bit of time to get over the physical challenge of reading this novel. In order for my vision not to blur and keep my place I had to run my finger down the margins as I read. The run-on sentences and prose that flows like lava (as Szirtes has described it) requires a lot of attention and patience. It was difficult to know when I could take a break from the book and whenever I came to the end of a sentence at the start of a page it felt like I could finally exhale. I think the layout of this text is meant to reflect the sense of claustrophobia and overwhelming sense of doom felt by the citizens of this Hungarian town. I appreciate the effect the author is going for but personally I'm not convinced it's necessary. There are many instances where paragraph breaks could naturally be inserted and make the reading experience easier on a practical level. But, as it was, it certainly became a different kind of immersive experience and at times I felt hypnotised by the way it locked me into the details of these characters' increasing sense of dread and the chaos unfolding around them.

Though the format of the text was difficult, I was immediately compelled by the story as stuffy and snobbish Mrs Plauf has such an awful train ride being sexually pursued and struggles to make it home. I appreciated how we're gradually introduced to unsettling details occurring on the periphery giving a sense that things aren't quite right. I found the eeriest detail to be about the weather where it was freezing cold but it no longer snowed and the trees were uprooting as if the environment itself had died. The arrival of scheming Mrs Eszter brought a compelling dramatic element to the story though the full extent of her motives to acquire power and control only became clear to me as the novel went on. I did like the comically absurd scene in a bar as Janos assigned roles to the drunks to simulate planetary movements while the weary bartender waited for them to leave. However, as the narrative moved deeper into Janos Valuska and Gyorgy Eszter's stories it became increasingly unclear and hard to follow. I think this is intentional as the town descends into a state of lawlessness and all the characters were equally disorientated. But also these two central male characters had such strong idealistic values regarding the symmetry of the cosmos and the harmony found in a perfect piece of music that following their intense logic and philosophical positions was demanding.

I found the best way to read this novel was just to go with the flow and the overall atmosphere rather than getting bogged down in trying to understand the details of what was occurring. My favourite part was when Janos goes to see the stuffed whale from the travelling circus and the intense experience of being confronted with such an immense formerly-living creation. The writing here felt very beautiful and moving to me. It can be debated what the whale actually means or represents. Certainly there are religious, mythological and literary reference points for it. For me, it felt like an embodiment of how all life and every civilisation will eventually end no matter how enormous or seemingly indestructible.

Another striking element of the story was the Police Chief's two sons who start out as wannabe thugs when we're first introduced to them and then we meet them again later as crying children who have been completely overwhelmed by the chaos and abandoned by their drunken father which means their safety is no longer guaranteed. This felt poignant as it shows how impressionable young people can be so drawn to power but they desperately need help from others when they are left powerless. It makes me think of this notable line in the story: “there was ‘neither good nor evil’, and that there was one law and one law only, that of the strong which dictated that ‘the stronger power was absolute.’” This feeds into what I perceive to be a larger message of the novel which is that all systems of order, government and justice collapse when all sense of morality disappears. What is right and wrong no longer matters because life in its rawest form is about survival of the fittest.

I found it absolutely chilling reading the account from the mob which Janos discovers describing their rampage through the city and how they preyed upon cats and a random family trying to get home. The extended terror they subject this family to taps into a sense of the perverse pleasure the powerful take in dominating and controlling those who are vulnerable. I didn't find Gyorgy Eszter to be sympathetic because of his selfishness and misogynistic attitude toward his wife (though, of course, she is a horrible individual.) However, it was touching how he realises his platonic love for his friend Janos and develops a deep concern for this wellbeing. Given his complete inability to protect Janos, I found it moving how Gyorgy resigns himself and takes solace in the music he loves. No matter how much he tried to block out the rest of the world (literally boarding up his windows and staying in bed as much as possible) his need for human contact and a connection with beauty took precedence. I wonder if this is a thin sliver of hope or a sense of humanity which the story offers amidst so much destruction. Nevertheless, the final section is one of the most sombre endings to a novel I've ever read.

I found the majority of this book alternately frustrating and intriguingly bizarre to follow. But mostly it gives this unsettling sense of the city and society breaking down on every level so I found it to be an intensely atmospheric experience. I'm sure it touches upon many philosophical ideas and concepts I haven't quite grasped or couldn't entirely follow. “The Melancholy of Resistance” felt to me like a cross between Cartarescu's “Solenoid” and Paul Lynch's “Prophet Song”. This is all extremely weighty and complex fiction, but I think they are books worth reading and taking the time to meditate on. Personally, I'm glad I read this novel though I realise it's not for everyone or, maybe, not the right kind of read for someone if they're not in the mood for it. I'd like to read more by Krasznahorkai but I need to take a break from him for a while.

Glyph by Ali Smith

Ali Smith's writing has always been centred around the playfulness of language, its elasticity and surprising meanings. There is the mischievous way it alternately creates connections and misunderstandings between humans. Only Ali would conceive of a pair of novels whose titles are similar sounding words and each word has multiple definitions. “Glyph” is the second after her previous novel “Gliff”. Though there are some thematic links and both revel in the inventive glory of story telling, one of the strongest links between these books is how two characters have read the novel “Gliff” and disagree about its quality. Of course, Ali's two novel can be read independent of one another and it'd give a new meaning if you read them in an order separate to when they were published - like in her brilliant previous novel “How to Be Both” where the two sections can be read in different orders to give surprisingly different experiences.

This new book is filled with puns, the struggles of family life and the challenges of living in the world today (some of which are unique and others feel like the same old story felt through human history.) Adult sisters Petra and Patricia have been estranged for many years, but they had a strong connection to each other in childhood. They survived through living with an abusive father and the grief of losing their mother by conjuring or inventing the story of a special ghost. Now a certain spectre has made its presence felt in the present. This gives them the chance to reunite alongside Patricia's teen daughter Bill (Billie) who questions everything in a way which often unsettles adults. This novel is right up to date as it's set in 2026 and references many contemporary issues from debates over AI, whether flying certain flags is patriotic and waving other flags is criminal and the UK protests outside of asylum hotels. But it also looks back at history with stories of those who were lost in previous wars. There are individuals who resisted following the pack or simply showed their humanity by helping a disabled animal in need. Their voices were silenced by being executed by their fellow troops or they were literally flattened and left in the road. So many of these stories don't make it into the dominant narrative of history. In this novel they rise as spectres whose restlessness and indomitable spirits speak to the creative power of individuals.

There's an insightful passage in this book uttered by Bill which feels so relevant to what we're grappling with now: “there's this huge mechanism and it's acting on everybody. It is such a simple mechanism it is actually stealthy brilliance. You just say something that's the truth is a lie. Or that something that's a lie is the truth. Then the matter of something being true or not stops being about truth or lies and becomes about choosing a side and it drops itself like a blanket over everything, a blanket the size of the sky – no, maybe more like a net, like a gigantic fishing net, or the kind they use to drop over people on game shows on TV, something quite difficult to get untangled from so you have to struggle against it just to get yourself to the place where truth is.” I'm sure anyone who has been watching the news lately or feeling despair about the tone of current discourse can relate!

I was drawn to the lively personalities at the centre of this novel, but also some peripheral characters such as Glyph's longing for his lost lover and the sister's kindly uncle who was ignored at their mother's funeral. It takes real skill to make characters live on in a reader's imagination though only a slight bit of their experience is presented in the narrative. Smith is also brilliant at showing how though there may be tensions between relatives each family creates its own lexicon where words such as “stanchion” or “rubble” will take on their own meanings through being frequently used in their conversations. Most of all this book is a testament to the power of storytelling and how everyone will take their own meaning from those stories which are reinvented in their retelling - springing up like ghosts to tease, delight and provoke people to question the story about the world those in power want us to believe.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

Several versions of this novel exist as it was published in a serialised form and numerous subsequent book form editions of the novel contained many different revisions. I read the Penguin Classics edition which is based on the three-volume first edition, published in December 1891. This is considered to be the closest text to what Hardy originally intended and what the first readers of the book experienced. From what I understand the earlier serialised edition contained many edits based on censorship and later editions contained revisions to align the novel within the fictional geography of Hardy's Wessex.

I first read this novel over 20 years ago. While I appreciated the story at that young age, I think a lot of things about it went over my head. Even though I found reading it now a very solemn experience (poor Tess couldn't ever catch a break!) I did find it mostly engaging following the melodrama of this story. I felt for Tess in the pressure she gets from her parents to ingratiate herself with their D'Urberville “relatives”, the guilt she feels falling asleep which leads to the horse's accidental death and the terror/trauma of Alec's unwanted advances. I wish there was more of Mrs D'Urberville in the story as she was really sweet with her love for birds and acknowledging that her son is a louse! Because the section where Alec actually had sex with Tess is famously omitted, there's been a historic debate about whether Tess was raped or seduced. I think that's nonsense and personally consider it rape. Regardless of how it's defined, the fact is that she was sexually taken advantage of by a wealthy man in a position of power. Whether she grudgingly submitted to Alec's advances, was drugged or taken by force while she was asleep – it was abuse! I know that's probably a modern interpretation but I consider the nature of uneven power relationships to be a constant and Alec is a serial stalker/sex pest who assumes that because Tess is a poor peasant she'd want to be his possession. I found the subsequent section where there's the death of Tess' baby and the priest's refusal to baptize the child heartbreaking.

Even though I knew there'd be a tragic ending (though I couldn't recall all its specific details) I felt a glimmer of hope in the Spring when Tess becomes a milkmaid and has a simmering romance with Angel. However, I became frustrated by the extended amount of time taken with their courtship and Tess' dilemma about whether to confess to Angel what happened in her past. Parts made me wonder if this was padding which came from the book's initial serialisation. Angel actually fooled me into thinking he might be a good dude, but of course on their wedding night he's revealed to be a hypocrite since she instantly forgives his having sex with another woman but doesn't forgive Tess for having non-consensual sex. Then there's the disturbingly weird and ridiculous scene of Angel sleep walking with Tess and carrying her to a grave declaring that she's dead. All he wanted was an idealised version of her and a country virgin with whom he could start a farm. To make matters even worse, he propositions one of the other milk maids to go to Brazil with him though she confesses she could never love him as much as Tess. Angel is such a coward and it's cruelly satisfying reading how he has such a hard time in Brazil.

The subsequent sections of Tess arduously working the fields and trying to scratch out a living also felt tediously long to me. There is the character of Farmer Groby who is cruelly driven to torture Tess making her perform hard labour and remind her of her shameful past. He makes a contrast to kindly Mr Crick, her former employer at the dairy. I was struck by the scene where Tess defaces herself, cutting off her eyebrows and wrapping her head in a scarf to try to discourage the unwanted advances of men. Over this long period of time Tess' attitude does seem to change. We see through her letters to Angel that she gradually comes to accept that she's not to blame and he should have been more sympathetic to her plight. It felt like a ridiculous coincidence that when Tess finally goes to Angel's family for help that she overhears Angel's bitchy brothers talking dismissively about Angel and Tess. All the while she is continuously pestered by Alec who seems to pop up behind her at every turn after his weak religious conversion has crumbled. In fact he blames Tess for his conversion “backsliding” because of that tempting mouth of hers which no man can seem to resist. But since her family are literally turned out onto the street with all their belongings after the death of Tess' father it makes sense that Alec is her only option because otherwise her siblings would starve. Even though Alec is disgusting at least he's not hypocritical like Angel – he simply wants Tess as a possession and still wants to marry her though she's married already.

It's so interesting how the perspective shifts after Angel returns and Tess tells him it's too late. Rather than portraying the murder we simply observe the blood soaking through the ceiling as observed by the householder, Mrs Brooks. It's such a creepy scene and interesting how the novel suddenly becomes like a thriller with Tess and Angel on the run. I felt this was a welcome relief after the tedium of Tess' gruelling life in the fields. Of course, it doesn't last long with them bizarrely happening upon Stonehenge and Tess having a good nap before the police take her away. It seems apt the section is titled “Fulfilment” as Tess seems to fulfil her role as a martyr by declaring about her impending arrest “I am almost glad – yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!” That Tess would suggest to Angel that once she's gone he should marry her sister Liza Lu seems totally perverse. This actually happens at the end as Angel and Liza Lu watch on as the black flag declares that Tess has been hanged for her crime. The couple is far from romantic and it's infuriating Tess has been punished for her only crime while all the people in her life who have wronged her have not faced any justice (except Alec.) I assume this is the sentiment Hardy wanted to evoke in readers to drive home the injustice of what someone like Tess goes through.

I felt this book fell into the category of fiction where the author seems to over-manipulate events to evoke sympathy for a tragic character. As such it was hard for me to feel fully invested in a figure whose life is artificially packed with misery and tragedy. I understand the grander symbolic reasons for Hardy constructing the story in this way which I'll discuss shortly, but I think it's partly why this book is such a hard sell with modern readers. I kept thinking about the contemporary example of “A Little Life” where readers commonly criticise the way the author never allowed the character of Jude to get better or find a sustained happiness and that she seemed intent on perversely torturing a character whose life she wanted readers to care about. Hardy's depiction of Tess feels all the more disturbing knowing he was partly inspired to write the novel from the memory of witnessing a beautiful woman's (Elizabeth Martha Brown) execution when he was a teenager. I feel like this says a lot about how Hardy portrays Tess as an irresistibly attractive but fated figure, but maybe I'm reading into it too much.

Despite being designed for tragedy, I did appreciate how Tess is imbued with an ability to dream beyond her circumstances. A scene I really enjoyed is early on when Tess and her brother Abraham are driving the horse and they have a conversation about the night sky and stars. It's remarked how each star is a world and there are “splendid” or “blighted” worlds and Tess remarks that they live on a blighted world. Later on there's a scene where Tess describes how she likes to “lie on the grass at night and look straight up at some big bright star; and, by fixing your mind upon it, you will soon find that you are hundreds and hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to want at all.” There's a sense that she knows she's been dealt a bad hand with her family's petty striving for an aristocratic ancestry, being raped by Alec, losing her child and a life of manual labour having been abandoned by her husband. Nevertheless, she maintains a sense of integrity and tries to do what's right (until the end when she commits murder.)

This makes me ponder the meaning behind the novel's subtitle “A Pure Woman”. Tess is “pure” in the sense that she has done nothing wrong to cause so much hardship in her life and only acted in the best way she can given the circumstances. Alec sees her as “pure” in the sense she is an impoverished peasant available for purchase and Angel sees her as a “pure” virginal country girl. Because they have these idealised notions of her they can't recognise Tess for who she really is (someone who is simply not attracted to Alec and Angel doesn't see she is a victim of rape.) So I think the subtitle has a layered meaning. However, I also think it's a limitation of the novel that Hardy has designed Tess to be so relentlessly “pure”. Would Tess be any less worthy of sympathy if she had flirted with Alec before he raped her? Or married Alec after the violation purely for financial gain? Or kept her past a secret from Angel? Or insisted on financial assistance from Angel's family because she's his abandoned wife? Or left her many siblings to the responsibility of her parents to establish an entirely independent life elsewhere? Personally I prefer reading about characters who make morally dubious choices which are nonetheless logical and understandable rather than following a compulsively “good” or “pure” character who is a tragic victim of circumstance. Of course, Hardy was being progressive at the time showing why it's inhumane to blame a victim of rape as any woman who had a child out of wedlock at that time (regardless of the reason for her pregnancy) would have been widely condemned. Certainly such misogyny still exists today but the wretchedness of Tess' plight doesn't make it as satisfying a read today.

It's interesting that Hardy was drawn more to writing poetry (as I understand it, he wrote novels more for financial reasons than artistic satisfaction which is why he returned to poetry in the later years of his life.) Parts of the book did feel beautifully written to me, especially the descriptions of agricultural life which is detailed as being both tranquil and very difficult. Unsurprisingly Hardy was influenced by Whitman and I think that can be seen in the writing (Whitman is even referenced at one point.) However, as some have noted, there are numerous lines which are over-complicated. Reading them and unpacking their full meaning can be somewhat laborious. But overall I found it fairly easy to read despite its antiquated style and structure. I felt much of the dialogue yielded a lot of humour (whether it was intentional or not.) And, speaking of rare funny moments in the story, I did find the scene where Angel carries the milkmaids over a body of water while they all swoon in his arms to be hilarious.

All that I've discussed so far refers more to my personal reaction to this novel. However, I appreciate there's a lot more in this book which has a historic and symbolic significance. I found it interesting frequently flipping to the notes at the back of the novel to understand the literary/religious/historical references. In both the story and its structure Hardy explores the tension between Fate/Freedom, Christianity/Paganism, Nature/Civilisation and old world/modern world. The seasons during which events take place relate strongly to cycles of rejuvenation/fertility vs deterioration/death. Tess' reasons for turning her back on Christianity are much different from the intellectual reasons which draw Angel to a rural life separate from his father's beliefs. Of course, there's a lot more to consider from a scholarly perspective and I know I've just dipped my toe in reading/listening to a few discussions. Even after doing so, it still puzzles me somewhat why it's considered such an established classic that is often taught in schools (my husband recounted to me how he had to spend multiple months studying this novel.) I'm not saying it's without artistry or depth, but I find the work of other Victorian authors such as Dickens, the Brontes, George Eliot, Anthony Trollope, Elizabeth Gaskell and Wilkie Collins to be much richer and more enjoyable.

The Two Roberts by Damian Barr

I enjoy it when immersive historical fiction introduces me to fascinating individuals from the past. It inspires me to want to find out more about them. Damian Barr's new novel “The Two Roberts” recreates the lives of Bobby MacBryde and Robert Colquhoun, two working class gay Scottish artists who came of age in the mid 20th century. They climbed the heights of British society and moved in the artistic circles of the time before disappearing into relative obscurity. This is a deeply-involving, thought-provoking and sexy tale! I was a big fan of Barr's debut novel “You Will Be Safe Here” so it was great to discover that this new book explores a different corner of queer history.

A slight concern I had before starting this novel was whether I'd confuse the central characters since they are both called Robert. But the distinctions between Bobby and Robert are made very clear from the beginning. Though there are superficial similarities between them there are many differences regarding their personalities, artistic subjects, religious backgrounds and erm... sexual preferences. I got so involved following the tensions of their relationship, painterly aspirations and immersion in their society. Despite having to live under the persistent fear of potential arrest just from having gay sex it didn't stop them collecting buttons from their heated encounters with many different men. They were deeply devoted to each other as a couple but there was also a lot of messiness and broken crockery in their entwined lives. Amorous letters and sketches of each other needed to be destroyed because they could have been used as evidence against them. So it's poignant how the vanished intimate details of their lives are reimagined in the story. This novel gives a multi-layered look at the challenges as well as the vibrancy and excitement of queer life at this time.

Naturally, I loved how Bobby discovers a deep passion for reading in his local library. His enthralment with studying paintings in books makes his and Robert's first journey to a London gallery to see some of these artworks in person all the more thrilling. It inspired me to take a trip to The National Gallery in London to see for myself Van Gogh's Sunflowers which this pair once examined together. I show footage from my solo expedition in a video I've made about this novel. It's interesting how their artistic development and collaboration is shown in the novel as well as their acquaintance with figures such as Lucian Freud and Elizabeth Smart (as well as tensions they had with Vanessa Bell and the Bloomsbury Group.) Damian Barr has also curated a new exhibition of MacBryde and Colquhoun's paintings at Charleston in Lewes so I hope to see that at some point before it closes in April.

On the Calculation of Volume II by Solvej Balle (translated by Barbara J Haveland)

I was a big fan of the first book in Balle's ambitious planned series of “On the Calculation of Volume”. I'm compelled by the immediacy of Tara's plight being caught in a time loop where November 18 repeats endlessly for her while she continues to age and the rest of the world wakes up experiencing this day for the first time. But, even more than the plot, I find it fascinating to consider the larger ideas and questions this story raises concerning human relationships, subjective experience and our temporal relationship to the material world. So it was exciting to read this second book which continues Tara's notes after a full year has passed living in November 18th.

Just to note, I think it would be quite disorientating entering into this second book without having read the first. It picks up where the previous book left off and only briefly explains the overall circumstances and nature of her predicament. Though Tara still hopes to find a way to escape her time loop there's a more resigned meditative tone in this continuation of her story. Since she's been denied the regular annual traditions of the year from holidays to changes in the seasons, Tara dedicates herself to recreating these events by visiting family (who a bit too conveniently believe that she is caught in a time loop) and travelling to parts of Europe where the climates more closely replicate the season she feels she ought to be experiencing. Thus she gains a wider view of what the world experiences on November 18th from late-year lambing to football matches.

I enjoyed how this made me think more about how reliant we become on cycles of the year and changes in life. Without the holiday festivities Tara has come to expect there's a marked absence in her life: “traditions don't need to harmonise, they simply have to be there. They have to be there as a sort of safety net, to give one something to land on. When the world falls apart. When time fractures.” Far from going through the motions, the traditions which are part of family and community life form a touchstone. It's moving how Tara fastidiously goes about recreating Christmas with her family and then immersing herself in a Northern European snowy landscape to simulate the experience and sensibility which comes with winter.

A fascinating distinction is drawn between the weather and the seasons. A woman Tara meets in a hospital after she's injured herself remarks that “Temperature and precipitation were meteorological phenomena, she said. Cold and heat, cloudbursts and drought. But seasons? She saw them more as psychological phenomena.” I've noticed how something that often unites people (especially the British) is discussing the weather. It most often comes up when the weather that we're experiencing doesn't conform to what we expect the weather to be within the season we're currently inhabiting. This reminds me of Ali Smith's Seasonal Quartet (“Autumn”, “Winter”, “Spring” and “Summer”) and how many of the characters discuss or long for future seasons – as if the anticipation of the season to come is more enticing than appreciating the season one is inhabiting. Tara's plan to follow and record the seasons becomes like performance art where she immerses herself in the stereotypical sensations of a season to satisfy her psychological needs. Of course, this isn't always satisfying because there are indications which remind her it's not actually that season.

Being on the move also means that Tara doesn't use up all the resources of her local area. Any food she consumes doesn't appear again the next day so over time she drains the resources of local food outlets or restaurants. Consequently, she has the recurring feeling that she's a kind of monster: “I am devouring my world. That I have to move on, to avoid eating up my world. That I am a monster on the move, a winter monster.” Her condition creates a hyper-awareness of the environmental impact of her presence in a way we don't often think about in our normal lives because usually any resources we use can be easily replaced. I like how this factor creates an added layer of considering existence when thrown outside of the normal flow of time.

Our lives are so often consumed with the daily obligations of work and leisure time spent with partners, family and friends. I read this novel while suffering from a cold so I was less active than usual and absented myself from ordinary daily activities. So I enjoy how Tara's peculiar predicament simulates that experience of being thrown out of the normal flow of life. As I said with the first book, I don't think the how and why of this occurrence is as interesting as the larger questions her condition raises about existence. She's driven into a much more interior and ruminative space – eventually going on a tangent researching Roman civilization inspired by the sestertius she continues to carry with her. I enjoyed how this mimics the sense of becoming obsessed with a certain subject or book where time seems to disappear.

Tara also seems to come to a place where she can partly accept her fate and live in this eternal present: “my time is not a circle and it is not a line, it is not a wheel and it is not a river. It is a space, a room, a pool, a vessel, a container. It is a backyard with a medlar tree and autumn sunshine.” Since we're so accustomed to thinking about our personal and collective histories on timelines I like that her unique sense of existence forces me to consider another way of conceptualising a relationship to time. I'm very curious about where the series will go next (especially as this book ends with quite a cliffhanger.) I do worry that the author feels the need to work in twists which will keep the reader compelled to pick up the next book but, for the moment at least, I'm still hooked.

Daughters of the Bamboo Grove by Barbara Demick

“Daughters of the Bamboo Grove” is journalist Barbara Demick's account of a particular pair of twin girls who were born in China in the year 2000. When they were very young one of the girls was taken by a family planning official, trafficked to an orphanage and adopted by an American couple who thought they were rescuing the girl from China's oppressive one child policy. The book recounts the girls' separate journeys being raised in America and China as well as giving a wider picture of how the one child laws created a corrupt system where children were forcibly seized from a huge number of families. This displacement was obviously heartbreaking for many involved and now with genealogical tests being more widespread difficult reunions can sometimes take place. It was enlightening getting a clearer view of this recent Chinese history and it was moving following the stories of these twin girls.

I enjoyed the way Demick weaves a clear-sighted view of Chinese politics, history and the tragic effects of the one child policy into snapshots into the lives of ordinary citizens and how their families have been personally impacted by these larger issues. In particular, I found it fascinating learning about some brave citizens who stood up to local authorities and demanded answers about what happened to their children. In one section Demick goes off on a tangent about twins and psychological studies about “twinness” which didn't feel necessary. However, the rest of the book is extremely compelling as an exploration of modern Chinese life and the deleterious effects and continuing impact of policing procreation. Moreover, it was emotional and impactful following the story of these twin girls' lives and Demick's surprisingly personal involvement in them.