Seaweed Rising | Book Review | Rob Magnuson Smith | Sandstone Press

 

[Review originally published on Bookmunch: View Post]

Seaweed Rising by Rob Magnuson Smith is the type of book where the mood and plot both creep up on the reader like the many wet fronds of the seaweed that play a central role in this deeply disturbing, captivating dystopia.

We meet Manfred, a fifty-something teacher on the gloomy beaches of a Cornish village, where mizzle and fog mingle with the smell of dry vegetation circled by flies, salt-air crust lingers on the tongue, and everyone wants to get away. The splash and suck of the sea is constant: ‘It was a sound both relaxing and frightening, like the sleep-inducing cacophony of a pumping heart.’ Here begins his obsession with phycology, after discovering a huge kelp on the shore and relocating it to a bathtub in his garden.

Importantly, from the very beginning, nobody’s point of view seems rational: not Manfred, not his colleagues, not even Nora, our second central character whom he meets at the local farmers’ market. She is selling edible seaweed, of course, and a fatal attraction is forged.

To say that Manfred is convinced that seaweeds are rising is a rather simplified explanation; the brilliance of the novel lies in the fact that we never fully comprehend what it is that we should fear – or not. For the most part, we don’t know whom to believe. The points of view shift between that of Manfred and Nora, one quickly disintegrating into an unreliable narrator while the other seems to hold the voice of reason for slightly longer. As the story unfolds, we delve deep into psychosis, obsession, compulsion and suicide, and the impulse is spreading. So could algae be to blame after all?

The strangely cold and detached relationships between characters are weighed against the collective experience as the novel explores questions surrounding the potential apocalypse, whether caused by sentient vegetation or not: should we bring new life into the world if it is doomed to fail? Would it be better for the planet if humans disappeared altogether? As the characters travel across the globe, from the UK to Spain and the Arctic, signs of our imminent downfall are everywhere: meth addicts and alcoholics pepper the city streets, and the corporates are pushing into the most pristine landscapes with drills.

When compared to the strategic aim of the seaweeds – that is, to become the dominating species – humanity seems destined to fail. But children are conceived; alliances forged where there were none to be found. Rossman’s agrarian imperative, which argues that some of us have a genetic need to provide for our fellow humans, keeps cropping up. Whether we care enough is the ultimate question that the novel poses, and it lingers bitterly on the tongue.

Although referring to a glacier, Smith could equally be writing about the very planet we walk: ‘It was as if they had become entranced by an edifice so massive and beautiful – and simultaneously dying.’ We stood by and watched it happen.

I Tawt I Taw a Puddy Tat

[Please note: this review contains spoilers. It's hard to talk about it without them. Sorry.]

So, Stephen, we meet again!

I have so much respect for Stephen King and so little patience for people who have never read his books but just assume he's a pulp fiction writer who churns out the same stuff year after year after year. I also find it extremely amusing that someone called 'King' has managed to achieve, in his lifetime, the recognition that he is in fact the king of something (horror, in this case).

The first book I read by SK was Gerald's Game, as previously mentioned. The second was On Writing, a fantastic non-fiction book, half autobiography and half creative writing lecture, and if you've ever considered trying your hand at writing anything, ever, read it, for the love of god. The third book was Danse Macabre, a 400-page treatise on the genre of horror and despite my dislike for the genre, this was a totally captivating read. (A random selection at the charity shop.)

... And so we arrive to Pet Sematary - finally something that, you know, he is actually known for.

Casually described in the introduction by the King himself as "the most frightening book I've ever written", you're set up to have a ball. The Creed family moves into a large, gorgeous family home - all is well, except for the creepy pet cemetery up the hill at the back of the house. Word gets around it's more than it seems. Nightmares begin. Rumours are heard. And then the family cat gets hit by a truck...

What did I like about it?

SK is SUCH a good writer that even though the chills are running up and down your spine, you can't help but lazy about on his beautiful sentences: "Somewhere there was a drip of water and above them, like a steady river in a bed of sky, the monotonous whine of the wind." He is artfully terrifying. Come to think of it, when one hasn't read a horror book, one wonders how on earth a book could possibly be scary. This is how: "The swing door opened and let in shadows. One of the shadows was more substantial than the others. Dear God, that stink. Shuffling steps in the darkness." (Cue violins)

Some characters were shallower than others, but I thought the hero (hardly), Louis, was very well constructed, if not realistic. His incredible resistance to believe the facts, his denial of the things happening around him, his complete inability to lie - it all made for someone I loved to hate. From the first pages, really, you dislike him, after his little fantasy of abandoning his family on the side of the road; but it comes and goes in waves. You still care, somehow.

There were some truly terrifying elements of the book, but the worst of the worst was Louis' wife's dead sister, Zelda. She suffered from spinal meningitis, and her contracted body, her blackened face, her fists like claws and the loss of her sanity all contribute to one horrifying picture. And kids, that's why I won't be watching the film.


What was I not massively fond of?

Okay, I have to admit there were some significant points I noted won. First, basically, it was quite long. A little too long. Lots of building up and then over in a flash. I felt I deserved more after 300 pages of 'here it comes... any second now... '.

I felt SK asked a little too much for us to believe sometimes. So many things were glided over, little impossible things just put down in front of us, claiming it was magic. Such as, and here comes the spoiler, after Louis' young son Gage comes back from the grave - mind you, how old was he? Four, tops? - he murders two fully grown adults with ease. With a scalpel. His mom, okay I believe, she was distressed. But a grown-ass, robust old man? I don't think so.

Another stumbling block that just didn't work for me was the way to the burial ground - despite all efforts, it just seemed a bit lazy. Scary laughs in the dark? Oh, you bet if that happened to me I'd be wetting myself, but reading it in a book didn't feel powerful enough. (Again, this is why I'm not watching the film.) Not to mention the slightly overused element of 'OMG it wasn't a dream'.

There was also a lot of relying on the supporting character, Jud. He was the teller of stories, the clarifier of confusions, the well-wishers and know-it-alls. But he is still super loveable.

One more point, Mr King - don't kill the cat. And if you had to, don't go and make him the evil guy. He's not the one to blame for this.

Overall...

This book wouldn't be as enjoyable, I think, if it wasn't for SK's incredibly readable and enjoyable style. But then, just because I didn't find this scary at the time of reading, it doesn't mean my stomach didn't turn when the neighbour banged his door just now upstairs.

I'm alone tonight. Send help.

6/10

PS. Here's the link to the Facebook page of SK's to-die-for doggie, Molly aka The Thing of Evil. You're welcome.

A hopeless wanderer

I am not very good with scary things. Scary films especially - but I remember my first time when I decided to venture into the world of Stephen King and picked up Gerald's Game and despite massively enjoying his writing, I'm not lying by saying the images from that book still haunt me. (So, kudos, Stephen. By the way, I am reading Pet Sematary at the moment, ask me later.)

So I was undecided regarding Sarah Perry's new book, Melmoth. I say undecided, but - somewhat like the characters in the book itself - I feared it and I longed for it at the same time. Eventually, I had to do it.

Reasons being, Melmoth is a book about Melmoth the Wanderer, an ancient legendary figure - shall we say ghost? - who wanders the earth and bears witness to humanity's crimes. She is a he in most traditional tales, but in this setting she wanders alone, looking for lost souls she can tempt into joining her.

Of course, it's not so simple. The plot really follows Helen Franklin, a 40-ish woman living in Prague, who lives a somewhat ascetic lifestyle, the reasons of which we don't know. She is introduced to the legend of Melmoth by a friend, and hereafter begins to form a strange obsession with the tale - all the while increasingly feeling like she is being followed and watched...

What did I like about it?

I haven't read any of Sarah Perry's previous books, but it turns out the Essex Serpent received high praise when it came out, amongst others from The British Book Awards. So to judge Melmoth as a cheesy gothic horror, like I initially did, is clearly wrong.

And so it is! This tale, set in the framework of a gothic mystery unfolds to be a beautiful parallel about guilt, mostly, but also change. It is constructed of several stories, folded into one very neat package, weighing a ton. It's not a happy read; quite the opposite. But the horror, the true horror of it lies not in the gothic storyline, but in that of human stories being told.

Perry has a way with words that makes the book read like a classic piece of fiction - I would easily place it next to Mary Shelley on a bookshelf. I think this plays a massive part in creating a truly gothic novel, and it is a total triumph in this case. Open it on the first page and see: "Look! It is winter in Prague: night is rising in the mother of cities and over her thousand spires. Look down at the darkness around your feet, in all the lanes and alleys, as if it were a soft black dust swept there by a broom...".

One of the storylines in the book especially gripped me - images that are possibly engraved in my brain for good. This particular one concerns a young German boy in wartime Prague under German occupation, and all too realistically it presents that little switch in the brain that makes one go from childish imagination to an act of true horror. Like Melmoth, we are asked to bear witness, and suddenly we understand why the ghost suffers so from her duties.

What was I not massively fond of?

One element that stood out in the plot for me was the coming together of four female characters for dinner who aren't particularly familiar - proceeding to share their most intimate, most closely guarded secrets during the evening. Perhaps that's a bit forced in terms of plot, although if we allow a little for the imagination, later on we can possibly assign it an explanation. (I know this won't make a lot of sense if you haven't read the book. My apologies.)

Another thing, perhaps a bit more significant and as pointed out by the Guardian in this review, is that Perry gives away little in terms of the inner lives of our characters - even though they are all extremely interesting, and we would love to know more of the whys and hows and whens. Perhaps the reason behind this is that we're doomed - as they are - to witness, rather than understand. But it leaves us feeling like the people in the book are a bit cold, a little unfamiliar. I would have loved to know a bit more about them.

Overall...

I could write so much more about the inner workings of this book: metaphors, beautiful touches, favourite quotes... it was a chilling experience, reading this. A dark, heavy experience full of guilt and the haunting of the past. It reads true - and that's what makes it a great book.

I will be reading the Essex Serpent, for sure.

8/10

Wait, Neil Gaiman, wait, wait...

2013? Are you serious?

Here I was thinking I was finally jumping on the Neil Gaiman bandwagon. I went back to Budapest and visited the Budapest Book Fair where, right next to Zadie Smith's Swing Time was this gorgeous-looking book by the much-reputed Neil Gaiman. 'Ha', I thought, 'it's time' and all that and I bought it, proud of myself, thinking I was picking up his latest and greatest.

Never mind though, because boy, this book is good.

Take an unnamed narrator who takes a visit to his old (now demolished) family home, then visits the neighbouring Hempstock farm where, as a seven-year-old, he made a friend for life. We fade into a recounting of the events of the time - and because I am trying not to spoil anything, let us say that magical, scary and scarring events ensue, mixing realism with fantasy in the most masterful way I've ever seen. Let's see.

What did I like about it?

What did I not? I couldn't tell you why, but from page three, I knew I would devour this book as fast as humanly possible.

One of the things I loved is this mix of realism and magical realism. We follow our narrator as he enters a world so far unknown to him, with his new friend, Lettie Hempstock - and images such as opals, a lake that is an ocean, purring cats and fresh milk are swimming in our heads already. I think Gaiman is an expert at waking up our inner child, and that's why the setting appealed to me so much. I used to be just like our narrator, engrossed in books and in love with exploring nature, dreaming of nothing more than a farm with a massive garden and my secret spots and my secret adventures. (Bit of a loner, really.) That's exactly what we get.

Similarly, the feelings that Gaiman wakes up in us are incredibly powerful. Within a few pages, I was surprised to see how upset I was. And there's no magic involved: this is because of very human experiences our narrator goes through, and the types that all of us know and remember deep down. There's an especially powerful scene towards the end between our narrator - sitting in a fairy circle - and his father which genuinely made me weep. That's how memories of feelings surface.

And finally, there are just small touches that are open to interpretation - regarding the Hempstocks, regarding our narrator's cat, regarding the opal miner, regarding Ursula Monkton (of course she's evil! No good character has ever been named Ursula. C'mon.) Even regarding the entire story itself. It is, quite simply, a pleasure.

(Plus all the beautiful imagery and language and cats.)

What was I not massively fond of?

Well... my version of the book cover had one of those awards stickers on it, and I think that deducted from the beauty of the cover.

...

Overall...

I have failed you, I know. But try as I might I really can't pick up on anything that I didn't like in this book.

Younger ones could read it (in daylight - it's scary!) and see a beautiful, sad fairy tale. Adults can read it and see layer upon layer upon layer. And beauty. In either case, you will devour it, I promise.

“Adults should not weep, I knew. They did not have mothers who would comfort them.”

Does this not make you want to cry already?...

10/10 (there I said it)

Michael Rutger stole my weekend

It took some time to figure out who I should name as author for this book. After some Googling, I can happily share that Rutger is indeed the newest writing name of Michael Marshall (or Smith), 'as part of a long-term goal to eventually become every author with the first name "Michael"' as he himself declares. I'm behind you, Michael.

I was recently sent a copy of The Anomaly, which is the author's newest book, due out in August in the UK. I wasn't familiar with Michael's work before and the proof copy came to me out of coincidence - but I was rather glad we found each other. After finishing it in two sittings (six hours on Saturday, six hours on Sunday) I had a look at some of his other works, and seeing as I really enjoyed his writing style, I think I will be looking at further books from all his alteregos.

The plot concerns Nolan Moore, star and host of the Anomaly Files, a YouTube channel with videos about unanswered questions, conspiracies, phenomena and the likes of. His newest idea takes him and the crew to the Grand Canyon, seeking a hitherto undiscovered cave that is only mentioned in archival material. Though, of course, when they finally discover the cave, they get a bit more than they bargained for.

What did I like about it?

Oh man, where do I begin? First of all, Michael's writing just flows off the page. This is a real page-turner, written almost like a tv series. Each chapter leaves you desperately wanting to read just one more chapter, just a little bit more (see my example of spending the entire weekend on the balcony, only getting up to make tea).

Although his characters are definitely not real world-realistic, they're fiction-realistic: that is to say, they fulfil their roles in the story perfectly. The chubby, funny guy; the smart, sarcastic girl; the innocent, always happy girl; the handsome young guy who we obviously envisage with just right muscles. And of course, Nolan: smart, confident but humble, our guide and best viewpoint for the story. He's a bit reminiscent of Robert Langdon, but the sticker on the cover already told you that...

The plot is gripping, too. From the beginning you have a hunch about where we're heading - up to a point at least - but the suspense is great. You read on, dreading. I'm not claustrophobic, but I still had to keep looking up at the sun to soak up a bit of light before plunging back (a good 60% of the book plays out in near-total darkness - obvs).

What was I not massively fond of?

A biggie is that it takes about half the book before sh*t gets real. There's only so long you can spend waiting for the big 'un to happen, but fortunately Michael finally brings it on us just when we're about to lose hope it's actually coming. So, he saves it, but I feel like it could have happened slightly earlier.

I also find that after all that suspense, I was waiting for something absolutely horrific to happen. Something terrifying from the other side. Blood and tears. Sorry, but if I'm going to be scared, I want to be really scared. And it is scary and weird, don't get me wrong! (It's so hard to write about this without spoilers.) But there were bits that just fell a bit flat for me, and bits that were just a bit funny. Also bits that will probably look super cool in the film adaptation, but I just had trouble imagining it as scary.

And finally, here too: the ending. The ending feels rushed. Compared to the massive build-up, the ending feels a bit quick, a bit out of pace with the rest of the book. It is solved quite simply. I would have liked some more smart twists here, seeing as the anomaly that the team finds is actually quite fascinating and complicated. I think the ending would have benefited from something similar.

Overall...

If you like your sci-fi intertwined with a bit of horror and a bit of knowledge, you will definitely love this. (Did I just describe the Da Vinci Code?) But also if you like a captivating read and don't mind a bit of gore.

The book strongly reminded me of several things: Cabin in the Woods, The Descent, Indiana Jones, and National Treasure are a few examples. (Forgive the film references, but I actually haven't read much in this field. Except for the Da Vinci Code.)

Keep an eye out especially for a scene involving our witty journalist, some water and some consequences. That one got me good.

7/10

Not to be confused with Hereditary...

... Hereditation, James Smythe's first published novel, was a bit of an anomaly for me.

[Full disclosure: not counting Ernest Hemingway, I would probably say James is my favourite author. I have a soft spot for pretty much all his novels so far.]

But somehow, I wasn't even aware that Hereditation existed until I've finished reading all of his books, finishing up with his most recent one, I Still Dream - which, by the way, is an amazing read.

Then, having discovered an ancient podcast episode in which James is interviewed, Hereditation was revealed to me as a book that he isn't particularly keen on, being his first novel, and in fact he still claims it is simply not good. What would you do if your favourite author said something like that? Would you read it, risking actually not liking a piece of his work - or not read it, and keep up the illusion? In the end, I decided to read it and decide for myself.

Hereditation tells the story of the Sloane family, focusing on a pair of twins, Maynard and Erwin Sloane. After their father's death, they discover a box filled with letters and documentation about their ancestors, and Maynard begins to piece together the story of the family - at the same time identifying a pattern of tragedy and brutality. Throughout this time the brothers' lives are changing, spiraling into different directions - and seemingly following a familiar pattern...

What did I like about it?

While his more recent books could all be categorised as sci-fi, James' first novel could be a lot of things. There's a bit of horror, tragedy, love and disaster. It might even classify as literary fiction  - slightly reminiscent of One Hundred Years of Solitude, it is possible to lose track of the Sloane family members as their episodes interchange with the present day family struggles.

The book is also deliciously dark. There are amazing images conjured up throughout, including a living room filled to the brim with magazines, constructing a second wall; a dark upper floor with a Schrodinger mother in bed who may or may not be alive. It weaves together stories and reality; it's repulsive and fantastical at the same time. You can almost smell the dust settling on the old Sloane house as you read through, and throughout you are gripped by some kind of foreboding,  a sort of inevitability.

What was I not massively fond of?

It's clear that at this point in time, James' writing style and voice haven't quite developed (duh, it's his first novel). There are lots of clauses in brackets which aren't strictly necessary; lots of side details that don't add to the story.

I also felt that although the idea of the structure worked - the contemporary story interchanging with individual ancestor stories - sometimes it was a bit muddled, as the inserted stories, on occasion, also concerned contemporary characters. So, although we do want to know their backstories out of curiosity, I thought it may have worked better if these are kept within the main story, and the injected sections are kept for the ancestors.

Finally, it does take a while for an inciting incident to occur. The first of these doesn't really move the plot along (a new addition to the Sloane house) - at first, at least. She is key to the story but the first real change or occurrence comes later. Although if we think of it as literary fiction, I don't think it's necessary to blow up a house in the second chapter. The plot is subtle and slow at first, and I truly don't mind it.

Overall...

If you're looking to read something from James, this is not where I would start: I recommend The Machine or The Testimony, both of which are standalone novels and they are - as Waterstones likes to say - unputdownable.

But James: please stop trashing this book. It's a good read. It's full of great ideas and strong imagery. It's tragic and brutal. It's good creepy. And it definitely has a spot on my shelf.

6/10