The Glutton by A.K. Blakemore | Book Review | Granta

 

From the moment I found out about it, I knew I wanted to read The Glutton by A.K. Blakemore. It's surprising to then try and put into words why. As someone who doesn't read much fiction, when I do, I need it to be absolutely up to my high-horse standards: after all, when you read fiction, you read beautifully made-up lies. Beautifully made-up, but lies nevertheless. (Am I too negative? Perhaps.) And yet I had no doubt about it: The Manningtree Witches, Blakemore's previous novel, I found to be pretty much flawless too. 

The Glutton is a grotesque story, set in late 18th century France, where the terrors of war and economic depression influence every aspect of life, public and private. 'The price of bread rises,' chimes the menacing refrain. It's a haunting shadow throughout the book, as the plot develops, and masterfully widens the scope of its main focus – that is, Tarare: the boy with a strange name, the bastard, the great, the terrible. 

It's a tale in a tale, as dying Tarare narrates his life in the convent hospital where he came to die, to a curious nun, in the night. He is repulsive, not one bit endearing: that's what makes this an outstanding performance in the grotesque, because one's curiousity is instanly piqued. We want to know why. How. Whether. It's his story, from a violent birth through violent childhood and, to finish things off, a violent adulthood – though perhaps that's too strong a word, because the dying Tarare is only twenty-seven. The characters revolving around him are colourful and repulsive in equal measure: his salt-smuggling stepdad, his band of bandit brothers, his whore lover. 

Blakemore leans into the disgusting, seems to relish it and yet somehow that's exactly what I want her to do. It's a dirty book, sticky, slicked with grease and oil and semen, and blood, of course, a lot of it. Whether that's the blood of the animals that the Great Tarare, with his dislocated jaw, swallows up (bones and all), or the people dying like flies around him, is of no importance. She tortures her characters, and seems to delight in it – and somehow I enjoy it too. It makes one feels rotten, but also makes the reading a deliciously sick experience.

Blakemore speaks to all five senses as she conveys plot and atmosphere, and is excellent at it. Stench prevails throughout. The imagery is so vivid, yet so poetic that her style could be no-one else's. Her vocabulary is broad – to some, jarringly so, though to me doesn't feel gloating (though an LRB feature quotes ‘feculent’, ‘violaceous’, ‘sapor’, ‘asterisms’, ‘garniture’, ‘verdigris’, ‘entheogen’, ‘ectomorph’, ‘raptorine’, ‘ascarids’, ‘gleets’, ‘craquelure’, ‘priapic’ and ‘autogamous’ in one breath and yes, put like that, it does feel like a lot). I can see how this cacophony of mellifluous words, perhaps unnecessary, might annoy someone as much as it impresses me. I gather a vague sense most of the time, but I google certain words that jump out at me, not because I can't make out their meaning from the context, but because I feel she deliberately chose them, placed them with care. The least I can do, I feel, is to explore at least some of them.

It is no surprise that Blakemore has previously pubished poetry collections, because her narrative flows, convulses, expands, circles. I love her occasional use of repetition, both within a paragraph and throughout the book. It foreshadows and lends musicality to the text. By what seems like mundane repetitiveness, to me it seems she hefts gravitas onto sentences. Her craft is to be admired.

And what of the Glutton himself? Though Blakemore sometimes makes us wobble in our antipathy for Tarare, on the whole I think she wants us to dislike him. This is not a tale of understanding the misunderstood: it feels more like being one of the crowd, watching Tarare swallow leather belts and jewellery (and then some), equally repulsed and excited. I revel in it.

The only issue I have is with the novel's timing and timeline. We know, from the present-day snippets, that Tarare is twenty-seven when he dies; and we know he only spends a summer with his vagabond crew of thieves. So as I progress with the book, and find my right hand holding an increasingly thinning half, I'm worried about the ending. I do find the pacing struggles a bit – huge gaps in time with little detail, then comparatively short events before we zoom out again – but the ultimate events are harrowing enough to make the ending a relief, as I'm sure the author intended it to be.

I hope whatever comes next from Blakemore will be just as mysterious, dark and entertaining as her first two novels.

Shy: A Novel | Max Porter | Book review | Faber & Faber

 

Ever since first reading Lanny by Max Porter, I have been in awe. That little book had so much power that after these four years, I still think of it as one of the best books I have ever read. I haven't taken my eye off Porter's work since, and I had been looking forward to his latest, Shy, ever since its publication was first announced.

But what can I say that I haven't said before? For the sake of literature, I will write my thoughts again: that Porter is brilliant, outrageously clever, creative and powerful. To me, he is one of the most vital and masterful contemporary writers.  

Like his other works, Shy is a short book of 122 pages. It is a snippet of a few hours in the life of a teenage boy: we are dropped into the plot sort of in medias res, but we know where we are from the first few pages. 'The night is huge and it hurts'. There, in summary, is the plot, but in Porter's case I always find it to be just one element on equal standing with so many others.

Reading Shy is like listening to a piece of music. The author has a sense of pace like that of a conductor, and the writing quickens and slows like waves cresting and falling. This is why I believe Shy, and the rest of Porter's oeuvre, is best enjoyed in one sitting – because like his other works, every word, thought and section is carefully placed. Some pages have to be turned fast. Others read and reread. Did I register that sentence or word? And if not for the sake of the plot, did I register just how brilliantly written it is? I know of no other writer who places this much emphasis on making sure nothing is accidental. Nothing, not a single word, is superfluous.

And the language! Please, allow me to quote this paragraph that stopped me in my tracks:

"He smells of pond. Everything smells of pond. He feels like he could sniff his way into individual microbes, earthy worming growgreen liquid stink, newts and shoots, silty, fruity, and as he walks he gathers in the smell of dry leaves, crinkly things, brown oily smells, good rot, herby hydro deep woodlousey sticky mushroomy smells, things turning, things that go on smelling this way whether or not a wet teenager is here to smell them. He is all sense. He isn't having any thoughts, he's all smell and shadows and ruined trainers, a frighteningly awake sleep creature sloshing along."

The musicality of the language throughout is amazing, and though the book reads at a pace like a stream of consciousness, when observed closely it feels too beautiful, too carefully placed for that. What's left out speaks as loudly as what's in. Scenes shift like dreams, reality mixes with imagination. Locations ripped from under our feet like a rug, feeling like a lucid dream. This is fiction at its absolute finest. 

Less so than in Lanny, but there is some boundary-pushing formatting in this too, and rather than disrupting the flow, it elevates it to a completely different level. It is unexpected, and it is brilliant. 

Because I'm already a convert, I find it hard to imagine what it is like, coming to Max Porter's work from the outside. Perhaps, like I was, you're suspicious, or confused, or unsure. I hope I didn't give the impression that his books are high-brow, or difficult to follow: quite the opposite. It is deceptively easy to read Porter's books, which is why I'll often read them more than once. Shy too is short, exciting, sorrowful, very readable; and once you've got that out of the way, it is a piece of art with layer after layer to be peeled back.

If you want my advice, it would be a mistake not to read Max Porter. 

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.

Piranesi | Susanna Clarke | Book review | Winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction 2021

 

A period of time spent at home means I have made a return to fiction. My true love will always be non-fiction books, but these last weeks I've been in desperate need of escapism and distraction. Enter Susanna Clarke with Piranesi.

Piranesi is one of those books that I've seen from the corner of my eye for a few years now, knowing nothing more than the fact the title sounded intriguing. Then I saw a TikTok (yes, I know, but see above re - desperate need for escapism) listing it as the one book the creator wishes he could read again for the first time. And so, with little else to do, I looked into it. 

The first thing that captured me in Piranesi was the beauty of its setting. This strange tale is set in a world made up of gothic halls filled with statues, glimpses of the sky dappling the marble floor, and the sea booming and swishing audibly at all times. A labyrinth, as it is eventually named. The imagery is strong, and although the first chapters of the book really take the time with world-building, I felt I would have happily read an entire book simply filled with these descriptions. Who needs a plot?

But there is one, subtly creeping into the world that Piranesi, our narrator, had carefully established for us: more surprising and intriguing than I could have guessed. Combine a potentially unreliable narrator with an unreliable side cast; occultism, magic, tides, the sea, and somewhat menacing, uncertain undertones for a perfect pace that builds throughout the book to a conclusion that is dramatic but not overly in any way - and an ending that doesn't undo everything the author took such care with.

Piranesi is one of those books that make you forget you're reading. The craft is incredible. Written in a first-person voice that a reader enjoys, but knows not to necessarily trust (somehow always making one feel just a little uncomfortable), we see things from this lonely narrator's point of view and with his understanding: a 'shining device', never clarified but presumed; or the 'thing like a slice of a larger cylinder cut down at an angle, with a yellow hose coming out of it'. We meet strange statues, from the woman carrying a beehive to the gardener or the minotaurs in the First Vestibule, and never know if we are to consider them as cast, or set. Clarke keeps us constantly questioning.

I couldn't resist the strange draw of the book. But so strange is it, in fact, that although I read it in just a few sittings, each sitting required a little bit of stepping back from my actual day, putting aside what I know, and clearing some headspace. Going 'back in' felt, each time, like sinking under the surface. It is a wonderful feeling, and reflective of the strength of the author's vision.

It is hard to write about Piranesi without giving too much away. I don't know that I've read anything that comes even remotely close to its strangeness, beauty or atmosphere. I craved more the minute I finished reading this book, reluctant - like Piranesi himself - to differentiate between worlds. A book that is the perfect mixture of an indescribable nature with a magic that extends way beyond its covers.

Really Good, Actually | Monica Heisey | Book review

Bearing in mind that this book could well be about me, the claim that it is depressingly relatable may not be universally true. Nevertheless, with a female protagonist of 29-30 who fills over 300 pages with mostly self doubt, for me, Really Good, Actually by Monica Heisey was unputdownable. 

I've read too many books with female protagonists whose support group is more than believably supportive, living in London yet somehow managing to be at said protagonist's house in a crisis within 20 minutes. Honey, if you live in Woolwich and she in Wandsworth, that ain't happening. Not even if you're loaded, which these clichéd, adoring friends somehow normally are. The forceful cheeriness of fictional WhatsApp groups who love each other oh so much are so done in my opinion.

Fortunately, that's not the case here - in fact, I felt it was a bonus that this book is set in Toronto, giving enough colour to make it feel more warm and true but removed from the metropolis that I'm familiar with. The support group is present, but no friend gets more, or less, characteristics pinned on them than is needed, and in fact they manage to act like normal people most of the time. (Okay, fine, one character's message does read 'Be there in 20' as if people have nothing to do all day but respond to friend emergencies, but as we learn in the book Toronto is small, and I can overlook it this one time anyway.)

The story can be summed up simply: Maggie, 29, is a very normal main character. She is an adjunct professor, teaching and working on her PhD. ('Jon had joked about me stepping forward on an airplane: 'Are there any doctors on board?' 'Yes! What part of Coriolanus is he struggling with?') Crucially though, she is going through a divorce. And losing custody of her cat. When you open the cover of this book, you grab your suitcases and march on into her head, where you'll be making a home until the end, including hilarious lists of Google searches and hypothetical scenarios which end each chapter, adding that touch of lightness. 

Maggie's internal monologues are self-deprecating, biased against herself: negativity piles about her body, her actions, her entire being as a person (bad daughter, bad friend, bad everything). And although yes, she has flaws - as we all do - it is weirdly uplifting to read such a negative view of another's self and be able to think, 'don't be so hard on yourself'. Perhaps this is what is so loveable about this book: by cultivating compassion for someone who is just like us, we as readers can stop and imagine being this compassionate towards our own selves as well. Just imagine!

Importantly, Maggie is not kooky, or depressed in a cute way, and her friends only tolerate her meltdowns up to a point. She is sometimes rude, sometimes insensitive, and this is what makes her believeable and a pleasure to spend time with.

Although the novel follows the simple story arc where things go from good to bad to really bad to hopefully better, it is full of bittersweet surprises and human decisions, interactions and occurrences. It is a story of a divorce that somehow manages to avoid melodrama, even when things don't go as originally planned - the amicable, reasonable breakup we'd all want but none of us can make happen in the end. In fact, refreshingly, the ex-husband barely features in person, and is more hinted at through memories and second degree interactions. 

The only slight crime, if we need to poke holes, is the overuse of the word 'bashfulness', but if that's all, believe you me we're in good hands.

Ultimately, this is easy reading that still manages to make you feel like your heart is broken (I kept reaching over and grabbing my husband's hand for reassurance). I loved Maggie and I will miss her honest rambles, and her 3am burger deliveries, and her therapeutic online shopping, and her too many hashbrowns for breakfast. In fact, I'm slightly annoyed I can't get a McDonald's breakfast delivery right now.

This One Sky Day by Leone Ross | Book Review | Faber

 

Everything I know about writing, I learned from this magical woman. Leone Ross is a writer, lecturer and to be honest, a presence to be reckoned with - and to this day, I am grateful that I got to study with her at university for a few short years.

But enough of my gushing emotions. We're here to talk about This One Sky Day, the latest novel from Leone, published by Faber in April 2021 - so yes, I was lucky enough to swindle a proof copy from the publisher. Hugs and kisses to them.

You might already know some of Leone's writing, or perhaps you've come across her after she published a short story collection in 2017, Come Let Us Sing Anyway, with Peepal Tree Press - but if not, welcome. You are among friends.

This new novel was, according to The Bookseller at least, 15 years in the making, and takes readers on a dazzling journey to Popisho, a land where everything is bursting with colour and magic; where food is as important as life; and where we follow Xavier and many other wonderful and colourful characters through one fateful day.

Under a pink sky

When I close my eyes and think about This One Sky Day, I immediately see colour. Leone creates a world where sensations are everything. Touch, smell, taste, hearing and sight are so important to the story - and she is so good at bringing her world to life - that I felt as if I was living through it. I tasted the food that the macaneus, Xavier, cooks individually for every living soul in Popisho, once in their lifetime; I felt the desperate touch of a rejected lover trying to win back their partner; I was there when a couple broke open and licked, sucked, devoured a fresh mango, peeling the skin off with their teeth. 

In Popisho, everyone is born with some kind of magical power (or cors), be it healing, growing wings on your back, or being an unbelievably good shag. (Yes, there is good reason why the novel is being described as 'sensual'.) Everyone loves argument. The land is kept prosperous by the sale of exquisite toys to foreign - "big yellow toy chests, stuffed with knitted mice and parrots, with creaky hinges that made her laugh and sandalwood smells that made her sneeze ... Wooden alphabets, each letter so elaborate, she could call them nothing but jewellery ... little tables and chairs in the shape of animals: not cats or dogs, but goats and wasps and one she'd never seen before...". 

The writing is strong, clear, distinctive, consistent throughout. It is visual and gripping. Tastes illustrated with memories, pain with action. Words that I might not understand, phrases I'm not familiar with at first become clear quickly. I take it in my stride, busy being carried away by the story. It's an enchanting world, and in the middle of it all sits love.

"In her chest cavity, she'd stuffed a white, fat cloud"

No one writes love, or breaks hearts with words like Leone does. "In the damp of his neck, where she'd been so many times, she caught the new love ... Xavier tried to hold her, horrified at her eyes, but she tumbled to her feet, lurched across the yard, body in rictus, backbone unhinging, her hearts exploding." On this one sky day (if I may), loves will break and mend; things will be revealed that couldn't remain hidden anymore. In Popisho, even secrets are manifestations that can attach themselves to you and weigh you down. 

There is so much hidden pain and liberation as we go along; heartbreak - "and here Zebediah sighed so deeply, Xavier wondered if he'd ever been loved as hard as this man loved" - and joy and misunderstanding. 

The day is up-and-down, messy like a fever dream. People collide and ricochet away from each other; make plans and then break them. But somehow we always know where we're heading, which makes it clear that we aren't lost, not even for a second. Leone know exactly where she wants to go, and she's holding us firmly by the hand throughout the day.

"This was going to be so much fun"

I can't recount all the magic and wonder that Popisho is - half the pleasure is discovering it for yourself. But I can say that everything moves, changes, crests and falls like waves. It is complicated and beautiful. 

For those who forget how to love; for those who love to explore new worlds; for those after the next greatest contemporary writer; for those after literary fiction. Really, for anyone. This book is perfect. My advice? Keep your heart and mind open as you pick up this book. There is strangeness to be reckoned with - but the kind worth opening your heart and mind for. 

And savour the words, don't rush them. You'll be sorry afterwards.

Conversations with Friends | Sally Rooney | Book Review

 

I was just re-reading my review of Normal People, the second book by Sally Rooney, and I was surprised to see that apparently I was put off reading her first, Conversations with Friends, by Goodreads reviews - strange, looking at it now.

True, I had bought this a few weeks back and every time I thought about what to read next, I kept putting it off. What could this book really offer? - I wondered. Is it just hype? "Two couples' relationships become messily entangled in this mordantly funny debut that established Rooney as the formidable new voice of a generation," reads the Waterstones description. Am I to blame that I thought this is going to be a cliché?

Then, of course, I should have known better. Similarly to Normal People, it isn't the premise that's going to make this book - it's that, and everything else, as it turns out.

What did I like about it?

Just like in her second book, Rooney demonstrates a sharp eye for details that are so obvious that most writers today just don't bother describing them, perhaps. Or perhaps it's that cool detachment that, to me, is so characteristic of her writing - a kind of alien, removed point of view that presents everyday feelings and conversations as something novel and fascinating. Simple words and expressions gain superpowers - it's your life, all our lives, on LSD.

I enjoyed the power of longing throughout, like when Frances, the young narrator, desperately longs to be understood and cared for - "I wanted to tell him about the hospital then, because he was in such a nice mood with me, and he might say consoling things, but I knew it would make the conversation serious. I didn't like cornering him into having serious conversations," - instead of feeling the usual darkness of wanting to disappear, feeling like she could disappear without a trace. "I decided to drink as much milkshake as I could without taking a breath. When my mouth started hurting I didn't stop. I didn't stop when my head started hurting, either. I didn't stop until Bobbi said: Frances, are you planning to drown there? Then I looked up like everything was normal and said: what?".

How many times have we said 'what?' just to elongate that second of attention we received just then?

I love the feelings that the story stirs up through a plot that most of us have come across thousands of times, and yet here it feels fresh and new, like we ourselves are feeling those feelings for the first time. Hands touching by accident; eyes locking in public spaces where they shouldn't; a first, stolen kiss in a storage room, all presented with style and modesty that stops it from ever feeling like a cliché. The writing is truly masterful. And when it all goes wrong, as we all know it will, we feel the hurt that Frances feels deeply, like it's our heart that is being broken. It is so unique and so powerful for this effect on readers to be achieved through words.

There's also a lot of subtle explorations of the self versus what we want others to think - a crucial theme in the book. "I don't want you to think that I like her"; "I laughed to myself although there was no one there to see me.". It's a constant struggle that's depicted through simple conversations - who can play it cooler - and small acts of rebellion. I think it's the subtlety of these small acts that make this book so brilliant, to me anyway.

What was I not massively fond of?

The only thing that I could highlight, if I had to, is the story line of Frances' endometriosis. Not the story line itself, in fact, which works very well; just the elements that sometimes step into the over-dramatic, for me. Just to reiterate this is by no means to discredit these absolutely truthful and valid experiences of this difficult condition. It is just that there seems to be a tendency in new books, concerning young women, for the protagonists to have an excuse to faint or be seriously ill, so that the love interests and friends have to dial it down and be nice to them again.

Recent examples include Queenie and Promising Young Women, both of which widely overstepped the melodrama line in the sand in my opinion.

But that's only if you really want me to say something in this section.

Overall

Do you need any more convincing?

This is a shockingly brilliant debut novel, followed by a similarly brilliant second book. It digs deep into our hearts and souls and examines us with a magnifying glass. It points to shadowy corners and memories long forgotten - 'look, it's still there!' - yeah, thanks Sally, I was trying to bury that?

I'm really looking forward to more works from her. Her writing honestly makes me feel like a living, breathing, feeling human again, and lifts me above the grey everydays.

9/10

Less by Andrew Sean Greer | Winner of the Pulitzer Prize | Book Review

As I was doing some preliminary reading to write this review, I was browsing the Pulitzer Prize website to read their reasoning behind Andrew Sean Greer's Less being selected as the winning work in 2018 (a surprisingly hard thing to find). Not because I'm questioning their decision - far from it - but I was curious about which aspect appealed to the judges the most. (I still don't know.) I'm pleased to say though that I wasn't surprised to read that among the three shortlisted works was also Elif Batuman's The Idiot - a work very close to my heart indeed. Just as much as Less is now. 

Less could be selected for a number of things - mastery of language, satire, huggability of main character. It follows the journey of Arthur Less, just-turning-fifty, writer, very tall, very blond, wearing a very blue suit, who - to avoid coming to terms with the wedding of a recently lost boyfriend - embarks on a literary round-the-world trip. He tries a bit of everything from award ceremonies to teaching opportunities and retreats, running and pretending not to be.

What did I like about it?

I adore it when an author is able to combine a good plot with great language. Less does it all: we follow Arthur from San Francisco to Mexico, Germany, Paris, Morocco and more, until we finally arrive to Japan and back to San Francisco again. We take part in food tastings, camel rides, camping in the desert; we sleep with young, seductive German men and bond deeply with married men at wild parties in Paris; and we feel it all.

The reason we love Arthur so much is we are invited into his deepest feelings and memories, not by him, but by an all-seeing, all-feeling narrator - and we understand it, even though we might be very far from being Arthur Less.

We see how strongly love has shaped this man from a young age to his fifties. The beauty of the book is that it is satirical, funny, but deep down it is heart-wrenching and honest; it muses on what those years meant, loving and losing, the fear of loneliness, the boundaries we must or mustn't respect and growing old. Simple lines have such power here. "Please, Mr. Less." Says the bravest person I know: "I can't."

The literary wit I loved so much in The Idiot is here too: "The garden was planted four hundred years ago, when the surrounding area was poplar." ... "And now," Less says, "it's unpoplar." Some descriptions are so vivid that I want to frame them and put them on my wall.

He kisses - how do I explain it? Like someone in love. Like he has nothing to lose. Like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can use only the present tense and only the second person. Only now, only you. There are some men who have never been kissed like that. There are some men who discover, after Arthur Less, that they never will be again.

As you can see, the narrator isn't exactly impartial - and trust me, once you read this book, you'll want to get yourself a suit in Lessian blue too.

What was I not massively fond of?

I've got nothing here.

Overall...

Arthur Less is so lovable, the story so beautifully shaped, the language such a treat. His mishaps make him endearing, his feelings make us want to wrap him tight in a hug - and the ending we get is extremely cathartic and satisfying. I was sitting in a Pret with a cup of tea as I finished reading it, and I am proud to say I wept as I did.

I love Arthur Less.

10/10

Lanny by Max Porter | Book Review | Faber & Faber | The author with feathers

Lanny by Max Porter was one of those happy accidents - nay, my amazing taste in books - nay, my good taste and a bit of luck - oh, and a Booker long list - that happen so very rarely, but when they do, boy do they make their mark.

Max is already well-known for his first book, Grief is a Thing With Feathers. I had heard of him, but the snippets I'd heard about the book put me off. People said it was confusing, a bit mad, a bit of a chaos, but still good, and the like. I guess I had in my mind something like Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 or The Sound and the Fury by Faulkner, which are the only two books I attempted to read twice and twice I failed to finish. I guess you could say I'm not one for abstract things.

So why did I pick up Lanny? Perhaps, much like the eponymous character, it had some kind of weird and wonderful charm - the cover? Or the fact that the title says so little? I actually think it was part of a sudden influx of great books getting published at the same time, and it kept popping up in book shop newsletters.

Now, don't get me wrong. Lanny isn't abstract at all. There's a very concrete plot line: Lanny, the eccentric young boy living in a small village with his crime author mother, Jolie, and city-commuting financial sector father, Robert, is loved by all. Everyone is curious about him, find him a little strange but he's always so polite, so charming, so kind to everyone. Until one day he disappears without a trace.

What did I like about it?

Let's begin with the format. I am so glad that someone out there pushed his way through rigid publishing rules and was able to create a book where lines run over margins, lines overlap, lines curve and run across the page, stars take up a double-page spread. It is an experimental format in a very conventional, small hardback. (Don't be scared, the whole book isn't a mess - just sections.)

Same with the language: to the book's advantage, often we're not sure whose voice we're hearing, but we guess close enough - that's the power of Max's writing. And that often we'll only read responses to ugly remarks, and can guess very well at the type of person making the remark as well as the one we actually hear responding. "Edward, if you say anything to me about conspiracy theories or plots I swear to god I will divorce you", "Look me in the eye and tell me it's not exciting, the whole country watching", "I wouldn't say this to her myself, but someone should, that it might not harm her cause if she put some make-up on. She looks so rough it's hard to sympathise, you get me?"...

Besides the cleverness, though, the beauty itself is in the writing. "As the steep flank of the old wood meets the fenced rim of the managed fields there's a sparser hundred yards of thinner, younger trees." "There's a nervous charge in the air. Something guilty. Like when you meet a deer in the wood and the deer disappears and you're left standing there all clumping human noise, and there's shame in that." Max is also skillful in escalating tension just with his writing: it is because of the long, many-comma sentences that you feel your heart begin to beat faster, and the slower, more spaced out sections where you feel you can relax for a moment. It is clear that nothing, nothing at all, is an accident in this short book. Every word and space is purposefully placed.

Then there's the plot itself, with its will-it-be won't-it-be magical realism, its terrible darkness, its captivating power. Who can truthfully say they wouldn't get looped into an escalating kidnapping situation? We're all thinking, looking for clues and signs as we read the pages, as is the village, as are the parents. The story is often heart-breaking, human, terrifying, repulsive. The conclusion right before the end shoots up the emotional ladder like an arrow - my heart was pounding as I read through it, drawing very close to tears. All this in a reserved, quiet style and very few words.

Much like receiving a deadly embrace from Dead Papa Toothwort, all the elements of this masterfully crafted book loop you in, like vines.

What was I not massively fond of?

I can only think of one tiny plot change I would make - without giving away too much, just to say I would have had Jolie reckon with her endings towards the end too. See how you feel once you've read it.

Overall...

I want to read, and re-read, and re-read this book until I know the words by heart. Without exaggerating my enthusiasm, I genuinely believe this is a modern masterpiece, one to be kept and cherished and taught at school and studied on university courses and purchased for libraries in the hundreds and referenced and read again and again. With all my heart, I believe the Booker judges have made a huge mistake in not including this book in the short list.

But from me to Max Porter, all the recognition and all the fame.

10/10

On beauty and other animals

Until right about now, I didn't even notice the head shape on the cover of my copy of On Beauty by Zadie Smith. My signed copy, I should say - last year, I had the pleasure of attending a talk with Zadie up in north London where, although expecting her new collection of essays to be included in the ticket price, in fact it was a selection of old paperbacks, signed by the author in a hurry before the event. I stepped up to pick up a book at the very best moment, not only because there were only a few copies left (of which this was the only one I hadn't read) but also because I got to watch her sign it. And then smile at her. Even more extravagantly, I asked her a question later on. It was a great event.

Back to the book though! It's been a while since I've read anything from Zadie that I really loved. I read Swing Time last year, but had an awful time doing so. I know that's a divisive book as it is, and I unfortunately was in the camp that didn't like it, or perhaps understood it. After which, I think I got a sort of Zadie Smith-fatigue.

Which is awful of course, considering how incredibly good White Teeth was, which I swiftly followed with N-W, another excellent novel. Writing this, I do wonder if her work has been translated into other languages. If not, why on earth not?

On Beauty tells the story of a few years in the life of a mixed-race, British/American family, and as always, the author doesn't shy away from tackling massive topics in one relatively short book. The issues of culture and national identity, political values, human nature, religion and yes, even beauty, are all tackled through the viewpoints of the family members and other characters whose lives link with the Belseys' in one way or another. It is not light reading, I should warn you.

What did I like about it?

Obviously, Zadie Smith is a literary genius. I wanted to not enjoy this book (due to my earlier mentioned ZS-fatigue), but I couldn't. I feel she could write about pretty much anything - motor cars, the history of mining, rubber tires - and I would still be compelled to read it. She is the master of description, comparable to really no other writer I know of - "A boy called Ron, of delicate build whose movements were tidy and ironic, who liked to be clean, who liked things Japanese. A girl called Daisy, tall and solid like a swimmer, with an all-American ingénue face, sandy hair and more of a salty manner than she required, given her looks..."

On Beauty has a way of making things happen without anything major really happening. The main event is that of the Belsey dad's infidelity - important here because he is white, but also because of his values. Kiki Belsey, the mother, befriends the wife of Monty Kipps, Howard's (the Belsey father) sworn political and professional enemy. One of the Belsey sons becomes religious. The other finds a cause to believe in, one that feels alien to the family. The daughter falls in love. Small, seemingly separate events have a way of interweaving and quietly building up to a heart-wrenching, difficult ending.

The characters are mostly all strong and so human, so believable that I can see the Belseys walking off the page and into my living room. They are all so painfully human, in fact, that their very humanness becomes the plot. They do annoying, stupid things, and they regret them, and they refuse spontaneity and they blackmail.

All these small things add up to a truly captivating read.

What was I not massively fond of?

The one character I struggled with was Victoria Kipps, the daughter of Monty Kipps, who feels a bit shallow at times, a bit difficult to understand, whose motivations are sometimes unclear. To me, she feels a bit like a device - albeit an important one - as if she is dropped into scenes where she is especially needed. None the less, she terrifies me.

My other objections are all human and in no way criticize the novel. Because in some way, it reads like a Russian drama - things that people hope for ultimately don't come true, characters don't act the way they know they should, often things that could change don't change in the end. We root for so many things, but of course, it wouldn't be as good a book if all was well in the end.

I also bloody hated Howard Belsey.

Overall...

Despite the many themes tackled in the novel, to me the strongest was that of a family trying to pull together but desperately failing. It was strong and painful and sad to read.

Zadie is so great at digging deep down into her characters and bringing out the best and the worst. It often feels like a mirror. So of course, this book is often uncomfortable to read. But it is beautiful, well thought-through and addictive, in a way. I remember why I loved her in the first place.

8/10

A toast to Maurice Hannigan

I feel so strongly about this wonderful debut by Anne Griffin that I am struggling not to simply jump to the 'Overall...' section and send you on your way to read it.

I am mad though. Mad that in When All is Said, Anne has written exactly the kind of book that I hope to write some day. Quiet. Reserved. Uniquely, simply structured, yet powerful enough to make your eyes wet several times throughout.

84-year-old Maurice Hannigan is sitting in a bar. Over the course of one short evening, he will raise five toasts - stout, whisky, stout, whisky, whisky - for the five people who have shaped his life most powerfully. Five people, five internal monologues, connected in telling his own story as well as those around him. And all linked by a single, rather valuable gold coin.

What did I like about it?

This simple set-up leads to liberated, free storytelling, the kind that reads like an adventure story - even though it is simply the life of an Irish farmer from a poor family, rising through the ranks, getting married, fathering a child and experiencing all the complications of life that come with it. This is where the book's power lies: making the simple into something beautiful. The returning motif of the gold coin, from the way he obtained it in the first place to what happens to it in the end, adds to this adventure-like feeling though, touching on the inexplicable and repetitive patterns of life and satisfyingly showing us that what goes around does often come around.

Maurice's voice is clear, consistent and free of melancholy or sentimentality. He recounts his life as his own worst judge, pointing out the times he wishes he'd done something differently or now recognizes that he had done wrong. Above everything else, he's great at pointing out small struggles that only an observant eye could spot, but things we all encounter from time to time: "Each time, I swear to myself that this time will be different, that I'll make the effort. That I'll ask about your job and what you're working on. And I promise myself I'll listen to you with my whole body and every ounce of concentration in me ... But as soon as you walk in the door sure it's like a bolt closes over my mouth."

Every character he paints a picture of - all those subject to a toast - comes across strong and interesting, and despite the short chapters, their relationship with Maurice and relevance to the story are crystal clear by the end of each section.

What was I not massively fond of?

Of course, there is always the risk of making a slightly mysterious sister in an asylum into a cliché. Anne doesn't let it slip for the most part. Maybe her 'sparkle, sparkle' "catchphrase" (with many quotation marks) has been done before, which could have been left off, but that might be personal preference.

Perhaps the only section I would have done differently is that of when the five toasts are finished. Maurice is staying at the hotel - at the honeymoon suite, no less - but before he heads up to the room, he takes a slightly wobbly dance outside, in the rain, which felt a little forced, perhaps. I'm not sure he strikes me as the type of person who dances.

Perhaps I would have cut it short, even - after all, the ending is implied throughout. I have a feeling you've guessed it even by reading this review. Perhaps I would have left him at the bar, leaving him to enjoy the final moments of his story alone, undisturbed.

Overall...

Some reviews, even the blurb, make Maurice seem almost mean. I don't see meanness though. I see a man looking back on his life, nursing regrets but also taking note of the beautiful things; a man who has struggled to express his emotions, but who was understood by those around him.

At only 264 pages, this book is short - which only adds to its value. It is carefully crafted, well-written, never over the top, never pouting or bragging. It's a quiet, beautiful experience that will lift you up (and as previously stated, might make you weep in public places).

When All is Said is a true gem.

9/10

Speak now? Or forever hold your peace?

The three steps to reading The Idiot by Elif Batuman: one, find out that it had been nominated for the Women's Prize for Fiction in 2018 and become mildly interested. Two, find out that the author is a New Yorker staff writer and become rather interested. Three, have your friend make a joke about the title in the charity shop, excitedly pick it up and be completely satisfied.

What is The Idiot? It is the story of Selin, an American-born Turkish girl of 18 who is starting out as a freshman at Harvard just as email is becoming a thing and mobile phones are nowhere to be found as of yet. It is not coming-of-age and it is at the same time; the blurb says it's about Selin facing the challenges of adulthood, but I completely disagree (and feel that whoever wrote the blurb wasn't really trying at all or hasn't read the book). It's more about observation and coming to terms, then seeing if there are other ways of doing things; from making friends to falling in love to learning languages. Language, in fact, is probably the dominating theme - do we think differently in different languages? Does language limit our interpersonal connections? All this through a charming and hilarious point of view.

What did I like about it?

Despite its shiny credentials, of course I was skeptical when starting out. What could this book possibly present about being 18 that I haven't read about or experienced? Nothing, it turns out, but in a way that makes it feel completely fresh and new. The strength of the book, and its complete uniqueness, lies in the defamiliarised, humorous point of view of the first-person narrator. With the entire book consisting of short, snappy sections, usually the longest ones running over three pages, it feels almost as if every short section ends in a snappy punchline by Selin, keeping the tone light and entertaining the whole way through. "Having hit Send, I walked to the snow-covered river, sat on a bench, and ate cashews. The sky looked like a load of glowing grayish laundry that someone had washed with a red shirt." End section.

By not taking itself too seriously, it manages to convince us readers that the topic is, in fact, to be taken seriously indeed. You wouldn't expect to believe the things an 18-year old might say, but you believe Selin. Although the book's most significant aspect is a platonic love between her and a Hungarian senior named Ivan, it also manages to explore friendship, travel, developing a personality and more philosophical questions about the self in depth.

A strong accompanying theme in the book is language and its limitations. While at university, Selin's courses mostly revolve around different mediums: linguistics, art, film, Russian - and how expressive these channels are. Her relationship with Ivan is based on the fictional quality of emails; Ivan would rather limit their communications purely to email, even avoiding saying hello to keep within the frameworks of written communications. For a while, anyway.

It also has to be noted that, being Hungarian, I appreciated an American writer taking the time to explore Hungarian language, personalities and even geography (the last quarter of the book, in fact, takes place in Hungary). The unfamiliar pair of eyes on my country actually made it look quite nice, I think. And regarding Hungarians, she was spot on:

"Rózsa snorted. 'Of course you don't like Tünde. Who likes Tünde? ... Tünde is not interesting! What about me? What do you think about me?" Typical.


What was I not massively fond of?

Speaking of the limitations of language, it has to be said that an excellent writing style can only take you so far, and perhaps at times I felt like the plot moved a little slow. Especially towards the end, maybe I would have cut out a few pages to make the book slightly shorter. It's not that I was weary of the language, but I sometimes felt impatient to find out certain plot points, and would have rather moved on than lingered. But this goes to show that rather than telling your stereotypical story, Batuman relishes the opportunity of playing around with language:

"'You don't feel food,' Owen said, 'you taste it.'
'Yes,' Béla said. 'But I also mean more than to taste it.'
'You enjoy it,' suggested Daniel. 'If you eat slowly, you enjoy the food.'
'You enjoy,' repeated Béla.
'You relish it,' said Owen. 'You savor it.'
'Savior?'
'Not savior - savor. It's like enjoying something, but more slowly.'
'I don't know this word,' Béla said, his eyes shining."

Also, for the most part, Ivan was a complete a-hole.


Overall...

Once I finished The Idiot, I also found out that it was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in fiction, so if you needed more convincing that this is a kind, humorous exploration of being a person and that it's extremely good, surely now you don't need any more.

In fact, for a feel of the book, just head to Elif's website; her writing style comes across straight away.

My best advice is to try not to focus on the story too much, and just enjoy Batuman's excellent writing, and a character full of... character?...

Have I run out of language?...

8/10

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

This girl is on fire

Recently I've had a bit of a dip in my literary mojo, so to speak. I've managed to pick up two books, one after the other, both of which I had to abandon around halfway through (hence the silence on the blog). One of them was One More Chance by Lucy Ayrton, of which I won a proof copy but I simply couldn't make myself finish it, so much did I suffer; the second one was The Spark in the Machine by Daniel Keown which, in all fairness, was a very good intro to the type of books that I now work with. My only reason for stopping this one is that I don't need to know each acupuncture channel and how they work.

Fortunately, my mojo's back with R.O. Kwon's The Incendiaries, which I was already highly anticipating a while back and I was so very right to do so. The New Yorker sang the novel's praises, claiming it was a "rare depiction of belief that doesn’t kill the thing it aspires to by trying too hard" and emphasizing its silences as the novel's most powerful tool - and I couldn't have agreed with this point more.

The Incendiaries is a story about three people, told from mostly one viewpoint, all based at an elite university: Will, our narrator, Phoebe and John Leal. It is hard to pick who's story is the dominating one. The book tells the story of Will's increasing love for Phoebe and Phoebe's increasing draw towards a religious cult, lead by John Leal. It is a powerful mix of love, loss, grief, identity, religion and more than anything, the loss of faith.

What did I like about it?

The first highlight has to be R.O. Kwon's gorgeous prose, which makes this short novel feel like something to be cherished and consumed in small bites, making it last as long as possible. (Conversely, this makes it very hard not to read it in one sitting.) Her metaphors are highly unique while refraining from feeling forced or over the top. She points to John Leal walking across the campus, "His torso riding his hips like a serpent on its coil," and describes the rain, "the lines slanting like marionette strings". Her attention to detail in describing a scene of gathered members of the religious group: "Through a haze of smoke, stars smeared like souls fleeing this fallen earth. The night chill pricked Phoebe's bare arms, as if with pinfeathers, and she felt the rush of flight, lifting up."

The story itself is dark, threatening, painful like something inevitable, and the power of each character's motivation is what really moves it along. Phoebe hopes to replace her guilt and grief for her mother with religion; Will hopes to replace his grief for religion with love. The desperate search isn't described in detail and yet somehow is crystal clear, human in its approach but with a lot left to the reader to think through.

By using abrupt jolts between recent past and the present, Kwon is great at emphasizing the distance and difference between the two - and despite the back-and-forth, the story gradually builds towards its conclusion. We also know from the beginning what we're building towards, and it becomes clear very early on that Will is telling the story from a future point of view. In my opinion, Kwon is showing us the ending so early on so that we can focus on what really matters - how and why the people involved in this tragic ending got there - thereby carving the book beautifully out of a potential 'mystery' or 'thriller' label and firmly planting its feet in literary fiction.

What was I not massively fond of?

I have no negative criticism to share about the book itself.

Regarding the cover though - while I am no designer, as an avid reader and consumer of books, I must declare that I am unhappy with this cover. It is beautiful and I think would work very well for a piece of the above mentioned labels, or women's fiction. But I think that, for this novel, it runs the risk of putting off readers, thinking they're looking at a piece of light fiction, as opposed to the gorgeous, vital piece of literature that they're making the mistake of bypassing.

I just don't feel the relationship between the design and the contents, and I fear it might not do the book justice.

Overall...

Kwon is fantastically talented. This is a stunning debut novel that juggles prose so artfully that I'm actually surprised it didn't make it onto the Booker list (but then again, none of the books I picked from the longlist made it onto the shortlist this year, so more fool them).

It is a complex story, running on so many different layers that my short review really doesn't do it justice. It touches on cultural heritage and family ties; on transforming personalities and the immense power of regret. There are subtle patterns and quietly growing tension - it is simply mastery, and I would urge you to read this book with all my might.

10/10

What's not to love about people?

House keeping: sorry, I've been absent! Sorry I've been absent!

But in the background I was reading through some great books - the most recent of which is Sally Rooney's Normal People.

The first thing people ask if you say you're reading this is 'Oh, have you read Conversations With Friends?' The answer is no, I haven't. In fact, Goodreads reviewers put me off it, overwhelmingly expressing their dislike for the novel. Luckily I only half-listen to comments on social media, and when Normal People was nominated for the Man Booker Prize this year, I was won over.

Things to (apparently) know about Sally: she is the queen of writing down millennials; she is only 27. She is Irish. This latter book of hers has been deemed a future classic.

Normal People, in theory, should be easy to explain. It's an on and off love affair between two people, Connell and Marianne, who meet in school and their lives keep meeting and rebounding off of each other, without really being able to separate fully. But to quote the very book, "So why, despite its factual accuracy, does this feel like a dishonest way of narrating what happened?"...

What did I like about it?

I love to hate the fact that Sally is only 27, because her writing is exquisite and feels so direct as if she sat down and wrote this in one sitting. It flows like liquid: not once did I stop to look up and think 'that doesn't really make sense', nor did I wonder whether any of it was believable. Her style is distinct (not just because she doesn't use the conventional dash to indicate conversation); it's powerful, to the point, almost completely devoid of dawdling or side-lining. She says what she wants to say, and yet it reads like perfect fiction.

She's an expert in using small motions to demonstrate emotional states: "He looks at her, probably knowing what she's doing, and then looks at his own hands, as if reminding himself of his physical stature in the room."

Another thing that nears perfection is her characterisation. Especially Connell and Marianne, but even the supporting characters feel intimately real. The lead characters are complex, intriguing, and most of all subtle: their baggage is revealed slowly, delicately, always lurking in the background but never quite overtly blurted out. And this foreboding, these shadows that only manifest in full form towards the end of the book, make the novel more hurtful to read as one advances. As it improves, it gnaws at our souls, never satisfying us.

The story also runs the risk of turning melodramatic or clichéd, but for the most part Sally keeps a firm foot on the ground. The ups and downs of the girl-boy power play could easily turn boring - the book does span quite a few years - but the variety of these situations, the delicate indications of who is currently winning somehow makes for a fascinating story. Gripping, in fact. There is building tension at all times, and it feels like she's intentionally keeping our hearts just a little broken at any given moment.

What was I not massively fond of?

Very rarely, but there were moments where the inner worlds of the characters got a little too soppy for my liking, such as "He feels ambivalent about this, as if it's disloyal of him, because maybe he's enjoying how she looks or some physical aspect of her closeness. He's not sure what friends are allowed to enjoy about each other," but to be clear, these were rare instances.

Another thing I wondered about is the occasional tendency to show a situation from both viewpoints, one after the other - would it be better if we only got one person's opinion on a given occurrence? Maybe it would have been a bit more of a challenge, but curious as I am, I don't really mind finding out what both Connell and Marianne thought of something.

Overall...

It's hard to sum up this book. It was hard to read in that it was an internally painful experience. It's not a light-hearted story. It's expertly constructed, outstandingly written and seems to have been created with incredibly cool detachment. It's as if Sally is following around her characters with a notepad, observing from a close distance and noting everything down ("pretend I'm not here!"-style).

It's truly astonishing modern literature, and has every right to win this prize.

9/10

Guy Gunaratne on London

I wasn't familiar with many books on this year's Man Booker Prize longlist. I spotted The Water Cure; I spotted the new Sally Rooney. I didn't spot In Our Mad and Furious City by Guy Gunaratne. You may be forgiven if you didn't either: this is another debut, continuing the string of stunning first books that I've come across this year. 2018: the year of the debut. I mean, really.

Interestingly, many people are prejudiced against the book, and I have to admit I was too. In his booktube video on the longlist, Eric (whose videos I would highly recommend by the way) made the assumption - like me - that it's probably a story that's been told too many times before. But he gave it the benefit of doubt, and so did I when I went to see Guy at the Edinburgh International Book Festival this year. And I was so very happy that I did.

Despite the blurb - which mentions the main characters 'growing up' on a London estate - this book spans a very short time frame (two days). It is written from five perspectives: two adults and three young boys, all from different backgrounds, all from different minority groups. The premise is simply this: a young, white man is killed by a young Muslim boy. An extremist. The backlash, the different perspectives and consequences is really what the book tells us about.

What did I like about it?

I enjoy books that take something I know very little about and give me a closer glimpse - and Guy does exactly that with the side of London I'm completely unfamiliar with. The psychological effects of immigration. The clash of cultural heritage and settling in a new community. Being stuck in a certain life and desperately trying to break out of it. This is happening right now, just an hour's tube ride away from me, and I think it takes a certain bravery and sensitivity to take on something so relevant and present. This book does it very tactfully.

The structure of the book is beautiful. There are three large sections, divided into sub-sections with titles such as Ends, Defilement or Square. These are then divided into the different characters' chapters - but each of these will include the title of the sub-section in some subtle or symbolical way. It's gorgeous.

Another point is the pacing and the building tension. Although the two older voices mainly talk about their past - as opposed to the boys, who speak of the present - these draw a perfect parallel. And the story continuously builds towards an inevitably violent end. It's not a surprise, but it is arresting. Short, burst-like chapters characterise the penultimate sections, keeping you turning the pages, unable to pause.


What was I not massively fond of?

Writing a book with five different perspectives, credibly, is not an easy task. (For a good example, read Leone Ross' Come Let Us Sing Anyway - her mastery of language is amazing.) I think Guy does it truly well, for the most part; the two adults certainly sound very different from the younger ones. It's just the boys - more precisely, two of the boys - who I think could have used slightly more differentiation in language. Their defining hobbies (sport/music) helped navigate between them more than their voices.

Around halfway through the book, Yusuf - the third young voice - I feel tips over a bit too much to the artistic side. Although it is true that he is probably the most mature one of the three, the 'ennet's and 'bruv's seemed to stop quite abruptly, to be replaced by "The purity of the spires and sweeping arches, the intricacies of the art gave me mad galaxies to drift away within". It's beautifully written, just felt a bit out of place for a young character.

One cringeworthy scene I would have perhaps avoided: a rap battle taking place at the back of a bus. It made me smile.

A final point on the final chapter (without spoilers): I felt this would have worked better if it mirrored the first chapter, which is written from a collective perspective.

Overall...

I think Guy Gunaratne's book is absolutely worthy of the Man Booker nomination. It rings true, it is extremely well written and - although I hate using this term - it's very timely. It puts pressure on the reader's shoulders. Guides us through a world many of us don't really know.

At his event, Guy said that most of the feedback he got on the book from people who saw themselves in it was 'finally'. Finally, as in there's finally a book about them. And I agree.

To anyone considering reading this, I would say avoid the blurb, because it is misleading. This is not a book about religious extremism. It is an intense, brilliant piece of literary fiction about who we are behind the surface, and our determination.

8/10

Over the river and through the common

I could tell from the beginning that Putney by Sofka Zinovieff would be a tough one to read, let alone review. When I first encountered the book, I had no real idea of what I was about to delve into - turns out it was what most critics called a "modern telling of Lolita".

I read Lolita at a young age. Too young, I would argue, because I don't remember feeling outrage, or sympathy for Humbert Humbert - which I now understand was what most people felt, therefore the outrage - only seeing him as annoying and needy. After finishing Putney, I've decided to revisit Lolita again (although I need to give it a little break). 

Sofka Zinovieff's latest novel explores the questions of consent and abuse. The plot revolves around the relationship of young Daphne and Ralph, her 30-year-old lover, shifting between a retelling of their past affair and their modern day reckoning. It uses three different points of view - that of Daphne, Ralph and Jane, Daphne's old school friend - and their chapters interchange, giving us a good overview of the issues discussed and several different takes on the events.

What did I like about it?

The novel discusses very difficult subjects. Can a child give consent to have sex? When does affection become grooming? Which emotions are real and which are adopted?  It must have been incredibly challenging to write about something like this. This takes guts, and especially to do it in a way that feels truthful and believable.

The three points of view are also perfectly justified, and deal very well with exploring these issues. By giving a glimpse into the thought processes of everyone involved, the reader is free to shift their opinions from one chapter to the next, leaving an extremely uncomfortable feeling - as if we're never really safe. There is no clear consensus or right answer. On some level, the book is about being human and dealing with human problems. How we see the world doesn't always match up with what people around us see. I started out with a clear idea of who was to blame - but there were points when I wasn't so sure anymore.

What was I not massively fond of?

Although I thoroughly enjoyed the story, I found that Zinovieff's writing style just didn't agree with me. In creative writing, they often tell you to show, don't tell, but it feels as if she is both showing and telling, which feels a bit patronising as a reader. An example: "Unable to cope with the situation, Nina rushed out of the room and hurried upstairs." I feel the second half of this sentence would have been enough. Another example is Daphne's father, Ed, being remembered as quoting Oscar Wilde's famous gutter/stars quote. Jarring.

I also found that I just couldn't believe most of her characters as real people - they felt more like perfect vessels for the story to flow through. An example would be Jane's character shift towards the end of the book: although I can believe that she would change her attitude towards Daphne when all is said and done, I just don't think she would do it so dramatically. I also often struggled with Ralph's character, having trouble with imagining him in his entirety.

Overall...

Putney is a terrifying and eye-opening exploration of child abuse, extremely relevant today. I say it's an eye-opener because so many of us have no idea that, if not forced, why children would end up in situations like this. It's a strong, well-rounded argument for all sides, and an extremely uncomfortable read - making it all the more important.

6/10

Three debut novels to read right now

2018 so far has been ripe with amazing debut novels. From Eleanor Oliphant to My Absolute Darling, I came cross first books that made me purple with envy (that's one step further than green) - but also stunned me. It's so comforting to know that the amount of creative and talented authors is only growing.

Here, I have picked out three debuts that I will be reading before the year is out - one from 2017 admittedly, but I am yet to jump on the bandwagon that is Sally Rooney.

Sally Rooney, the author of Conversations with Friends, has just yesterday been announced as a long-lister for the 2018 Man Booker Prize (albeit for her new novel, Normal People). But that's not really how I came across her work: it was more the incredible hype that it is still getting, despite having published over a year ago.

Goodreads readers had a split opinion on it - with some claiming that her writing is hard to read, and others complaining that punctuation marks would make it much more understandable - but overall the praise is overwhelming.

The reason I'm interested in reading it, besides its fame, is precisely this different style though. I enjoy a bit of a challenge and I haven't read anything that used language massively innovatively (saying that, I should read some more Saramago some time). The story also sounds very human - a love triangle, the clash of younger and older generations, very personal thoughts. 

If good, I'll probably move on to her new book - the one on the Booker list - so I'll be more in.

Here's another Booker long-lister for you! But in all fairness, I have set my eyes on Sophie Mackintosh's The Water Cure a while back already, thanks to an interview in The Bookseller.

I think I've mentioned that I don't love anything as much as I love a juicy dystopia, and with three girls stuck on an island, isolated from the main land, you've got my attention. Based on what I know about the book, I'm expecting a lot of darkness and in-depth characters. She does mention that she had been told it’s "difficult to read, in the sense that it can be a bit brutal, but I hope for those who do persevere it pays off for them, that it gives them something". Based on her being long-listed, I'm guessing it does - and a lot of it. I cannot wait.

This final choice I had ignored for quite some time - I think my main reason being (without being conscious about it until just now) is that the cover reminded me too much of The Female Persuasion by Meg Wollitzer). Then, finally, being the perfect cog in this media-reliant society - and perfectly okay with that - I read this beautiful New Yorker review and decided I needed to get my hands on it. (FYI, simply being mentioned in the New Yorker will get you in my good books. No pun intended.)

Now that I broadly know what it's about, I want it even more. The Incendiaries by R. O. Kwon tells the story from three different perspectives, and touches on topics such as faith, grief, religion and understanding what it can mean to lose religion. Laura Miller quotes the following in her opening lines:

"People with no experience of God tend to think that leaving the faith would be a liberation, a flight from guilt, rules.”

This immediately got me thinking - and if one line can do that, just imagine what the rest of the book can do.