#EdBookFest 2018 recap

My first time in Edinburgh! And my first time at the Edinburgh International Book Festival too. It was a blast.

I attended talks on the penultimate and the day before the penultimate day (is there a word for that?), and was lucky enough to sit in on some amazing discussions. The weather was extremely kind on the day that I arrived - don't let the above rain clouds fool you, it was warm and sunny and people were lounging and sitting on the lawn. It was a true festival buzz.

John Boyne

The first discussion I saw was with John Boyne, author of the well-known The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas - which I've actually never read. In fact, I've never read anything by John Boyne, but his new novel, A Ladder to the Sky, sounded intriguing. And this is what a book festival is for, isn't it? Getting to know authors.

John is a very fun person to listen to (and was given some very good questions by Lee Randall), and he gave good insight into his writing process. He admitted that he never really plots a novel out in advance - he would instead create a character and let them roam free, following them to see where the book was going. He also talked about the fact he aims to create characters on the whole range of the spectrum: nobody is pure evil or good, and although the Guardian debates that one of the main character's aims in the new novel (to become a father) "feels more like a plot contrivance than a plausible feature of his character", I think I'd like to see for myself before I agree with that.

Had this not been the first event I attended, I would have purchased the book on the spot - but seeing as I arrived only with a small backpack, I had to make a careful decision about the one book I set myself as a maximum I could buy.

J.R. Carpenter & Alicia Kopf

My next event was a discussion with Alicia Kopf and J.R. Carpenter, titled Polar Explorations. That's really why I booked, although not much was actually said on that specific topic. (However, I did meet a lady called Jenny beforehand, who told me about her scientist brother's adventure to Antarctica - how he and his team got stranded there because radio communications had broken down, and yet how he went back the next year for further study of the local flora. She was very nice.)

Both of these authors' books are literary explorations, playing with form, genre and language. Alicia's semi-fictional autobiography aimed to build on the epic polar adventures of the past and to bring them into the present. She reminded me of Frida Kahlo in her passionate mannerisms. J.R., on the other hand (whose name seems to be, in fact, J.R.?) didn't convince me. Her poetry is not my cup of tea; it just felt a bit too far-fetched into the experimental.

Two highlights from the event: first, when Alicia said that for her, "writing a book felt like telling you a secret". Second, she made an amazing analogy that left the room umming and ahing: she said that a writer is like an oyster. A grain of sand causes it pain, and it works hard through it to digest and swallow that pain to finally make it into a shiny pearl. (Right?)

Steve Brusatte / Pat Barker

Although two separate events, I'm going to draw them into one subtitle. Steve's talk was amazing. Not much was said about writing but loads on dinosaurs (his new book is called The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs), and the joy and enthusiasm in his eyes when he got onto the topic was just a pleasure to watch. What I did want to know was how his book is different from the other dinosaur intro books that have been written before - but that's not something you ask at an event. Regardless, I'd definitely be up for reading his book.

Steve was decidedly giddy and giggly, and the event was expertly chaired by Philip Ardagh. One of the highlights: did you know that there isn't actually much info about the sex of dinosaurs? Bet you've never thought about that before.

Pat Barker's event was extremely popular, but I wasn't convinced to buy her book. She is a funny lady, and the talk was really quite interesting (example: at one point, she asked whether it really mattered if Achilles was real or not. I felt oddly offended by the idea that he wasn't). And I thought her book would be right up my street. But after her reading I wasn't sure - especially when it touched on the "smell of period blood". Mmmmaybe I wouldn't have picked this section to read?

Guy Gunaratne & Imran Mahmood

I was personally offended that this event wasn't sold out - but it seemed people cared more about Gina Miller than an author whose very first book was long-listed for the Man Booker Prize this year. Humbug.

Although Imran (a real-life criminal barrister) got more speaking time, it was ultimately Guy Gunaratne who won my one-book-only prize. (It is decidedly NOT because he is so handsome.) He claimed that, once finished, he was able to distance himself from the book and to let the world take it from there - despite the Man Booker nomination, he said he didn't feel tied to the book and was ready to start something new. He also talked about his upbringing and how it inspired In Our Mad and Furious City  (currently reading - very good so far, stay tuned). To have such a good insight into the real world is extremely hard. There's lots of talent here.

...and that's a wrap! My main observations about Edinburgh:

1. Pedestrian red lights are ridiculously long. And the traffic system doesn't make sense. Two lights that could operate simultaneously just never do. It does not. Make. Sense.

2. Much like in the Netherlands, people do not move out of the way. It's not an aggressive thing: it's just that they're so busy with their own thing that they don't think ahead. It's quite annoying.

3. Nobody told me that Edinburgh had such a deep connection with Harry Potter. So stumbling on shop after shop filled with wands and trinkets, I wanted to weep with joy.

4. Everybody sounds like Malcolm Tucker. (In the best possible way).

A twentieth century tale

Although I know I stated previously that I don't read much historical fiction, I am seeing a change of pattern. In fact, I can now confidently say that I do enjoy historical fiction, very much indeed. but Frances Liardet's We Must Be Brave is quite a different breed from my previous post, both in terms of period, topic, approach and style.

A word on the proof cover: I don't know if this will be kept for the hardback when it comes out in February next year, but kudos to the cover designer. Who, by the way, seems to be impossible to identify. Is this the case for most books? Should this change? Surely cover designers should be included in the proofs and finished books?

We Must Be Brave tells the story of Ellen Parr, a young wife who, during the bombing of Southampton in 1940, finds a little girl sleeping at the back of an empty bus. Unable to track down her parents, she takes little Pamela in - if only temporarily, until her real family shows up. Meanwhile, we learn about her past and marry it up with the present; and trace almost the entirety of the 20th century throughout the book, in the first half interchanging between present and past, and in the second half taking bigger jumps forward.

What did I like about it?

Liardet has a writing style that is extremely comfortable to read. I say comfortable because I never lingered; her sentences flow into one another, and there are no pauses or roadblocks. I wouldn't say her style is outstanding, but is very easy and well-structured - and therefore enjoyable.

Oddly enough, I enjoyed the sections about Ellen's past the most, as opposed to the main storyline. Hers is a fascinating story, going from luxury to extreme poverty and describing how a young girl adapts to these changing circumstances, how she gets her first job, the things she appreciates in life. Young Ellen is an interesting character - as well as her best friend, Lucy, who I found to be a complex personality with the most interesting sides to it, both in past and present sections.

In addition, Liardet's attention to detail really helps make this a believable piece of historical fiction (if not the war period itself, more the post-war times). She takes care to include everything from typical habits and hobbies to meals that would be cooked and household objects to be had: Ellen having to borrow black shoes for her first interview (and stockings); bread tins to bake loaves which would 'kiss' in the oven without them; dolls made out of pegs. It's all these little things that help construct a beautiful picture.

What was I not massively fond of?

I have to admit that in the multitude of characters that appear on the scene (often with more than one name to them) I had a bit of trouble remembering who's a friend, who's a foe and who's a dog. I often had to go back to double-check.

The character of Pamela - the little girl found on the bus - just did not work for me, both in terms of character and her relationship with Ellen. It might be that she's a typical eight-year-old, but because she seemed to show no reciprocity for Ellen's immense love, it was hard to believe that she would be the thing that crippled Ellen's soul for the rest of her life.

Which brings me to my third point: the aim of the story. I think Liardet juggles too many ideas at once in this book. All good ideas, mind you, but because she didn't give any of these enough spotlight, I think they overpower each other. There's the Ellen-Pamela relationship; there's the Ellen-Selwyn relationship (her husband) into which we hardly get any true insight; there's Ellen's character by itself, which turns sour in the second half of the book, although this isn't truly explained nor justified in my opinion. Then there's the fairly unnecessary Ellen-Mr Kennett relationship. His character felt like he'd just walked out of a Disney book, if I'm perfectly honest.

A point on the historical element: I think the war feels quite forced onto this book. It is there as a framework, but not much more, and it slowly drifts out of the picture without any true effect on the main characters or their lives. In the beginning, yes, there is bravery, and the effects are felt very strongly. It also affects the lives of some of the supporting characters. But as for the main storyline, I feel this could have been set in any period.

And a final thought: the last section on Ellen in 1974 could have been a tad shorter. Okay, perhaps quite a bit shorter.

Overall...

This is a good story and a good read - it's captivating and draws the reader in quite easily. However, I think the inconsistencies jumble the book up a bit, and what could have been a very touching, honest story instead turns into a platform for ambitious ideas.

None of the characters really resonated with me, and it left me asking too many questions. My main wonder is whether Pamela would really hold a grudge against Ellen, even as an adult, despite now understanding the circumstances under which she was finally taken away from the Parr household. I don't believe so - or if she would, then I should be right in not liking her, not one bit.

6/10

Murder in the Senate

Would you say that Circe by Madeline Miller is historical fiction? It's debatable, because the setting for the book - Greek mythology - isn't exactly history, per say (although accompanied by real events). So perhaps it's more accurate to call it fictional history.

The Year of the Snake by M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman, on the other hand, is pure historical fiction. The married couple has written several books, and Mei (M.J.) has written over 100 books in total. It's worth having a look at his website - the sheer number of projects he's taken on is quite fascinating.

This book probably isn't something I would have picked up, I suppose mostly because a, I wasn't aware I enjoyed historical fiction and b, I wasn't aware I enjoyed a murder mystery. And perhaps, as it were, I wouldn't enjoy those things separately - but combined into one, they made a hugely entertaining read.

The Year of the Snake tells the story of Calidus, a recently freed slave. After his master suddenly passes away, Calidus isn't convinced that his death was entirely natural, and begins a city-wide investigation in Rome. The micro level is accompanied by a day-to-day glimpse into the reign of Nero, his follies and obsessions, as well as the sights, sounds and smells of ancient Rome itself.

What did I like about it?

Upon reading the short summary, you may - like me - think this sounds a bit too much like basically every murder mystery ever written, except for the addition of a historical setting. Like me, you'd be wrong though. What the blurb doesn't make clear is that this book doesn't take itself too seriously. It is written in a quite light-hearted, often satirical tone, and adds a pinch of salt to the story through it. Perhaps 'cheeky' is the best word here.

Thanks to this, and also to the research that's clearly gone into this book, I think the writing is excellent. It's very easy reading - perfect for a lazy Sunday or the pool side. You'd be surprised how exciting ancient Rome can be. Details on Roman baths, the Senate, death rituals and the circus all indulge the reader and lead us into the setting of the novel very well. It's quite immersive, which is really what you'd want from any piece of historical fiction.

I also thought that the details about Nero and his reign added another level of interest. He is one of the most interesting characters in Roman history, and the authors give excellent details about his banquets, his habits and his whimsical ways - something of general interest, I believe, surrounded by an air of mystery due to his madness. So it's a clever addition, and in fact ties in with the story eventually too.

What was I not massively fond of?

Is it just me who is bothered about the constant swearing in historical dramatisations? From this book through to the Spartacus TV series, I keep seeing an excessive amount of swearing from Romans. Is this really how they spoke? I have no idea. And fair enough, things like "Jupiter Highest and Best" settle well enough as cursing - but when it comes to "shitting his pants", I'm just not sure it adds so much to the depth. (Then again, if you scroll back through this blog, you'll see me complaining about swearing in basically any book, so maybe I am a prude and it is just me.) But I have to admit, it does add to the comic elements of the novel.

I felt that the characters in the book were somewhat shallow, in the sense that apart from Calidus (our main man) we don't really get a deeper insight into their minds. But then again, for a light-hearted murder mystery, we don't really need to know about daddy issues and childhood trauma.

I'm also not going to pretend that the ending wasn't somewhat predictable - you do get slapped in the face with a few red herrings, but ultimately I'm sure you'll be pretty accurate in your guesses. Towards the end, there are also a few things dropped in that I think weren't absolutely necessary as they don't add to the conclusion (such as the Bacchanalia cult), although they were quite interesting to read about.

Overall...

As I mention above, this is a fun read for a lazy day or the poolside. Hugely entertaining details on an exciting historical period, coupled with a relentless (tenacious?) lead and lots of comic relief characters. Although sometimes the authors can't resist giving us a brief history lesson, for the most part this book is highly visual, entertaining and keeps you turning pages despite yourself.

A word on the ending (more accurately the last sentence): I don't know if it's intentionally satirical or I'm just reading too much into it, but extra points for the subtle humour.

It also opened my eyes to historical fiction in general. Watch out genre, here I come.

6/10

Sophie Mackintosh's haunting debut

The Water Cure by Sophie Mackintosh first caught my attention when I read an interview with her about the book. First of all, as you know by now, I can't resist a juicy dystopia - and what started out as sci-fi and evolved into a carefully crafted, masterful and unique story was sure to be of my liking. 

In the interview, Sophie said "there was something buried in between all the focus on survivalism and disaster, moments of strangeness that I wanted to pry open". So I was expecting subtlety, lurking emotions and goals, a sort of mystery hidden in the pages. I was not disappointed, to say the least - and clearly, the judging panel of the Man Booker Prize wasn't either.

The Water Cure tells the story of a family: King and Mother, and three sisters: Grace, Lia and Sky. They live isolated from a world overrun with toxins and poisonous air; a world filled with dangers, especially to women. The parents exercise daily treatments on the girls to help them prepare for the inevitable coming of 'the men': love therapy, ice bucket therapy, sleeping therapy. Then one day, King disappears and three men wash up on the shore shortly after: the dynamics begin to shift, and with it everything the girls have ever known.

What did I like about it?

This is the year of striking debut novels, I swear. But this book stands out. First of all: the idea itself. Again, in a publishing world slowly being overpowered by feminist dystopias, Sophie has created a story, a world that is incomparable to anything I've ever read. Nothing is certain; nothing is real, nor fake. The way the story is told - through the viewpoints of the sisters - keeps the reader at arm's length, never confirming nor denying. We can't trust anyone's narrative: not the parents, not the sisters, not the men who arrive to their world. Along with the girls, we feel constantly threatened.

The language. The sheer power of simplicity. A completely random example (but I could have picked any page):

"I have gone days, weeks, without touch and when that happens I can feel my skin thinning, I have to lay my body against grass and velvet and the corner of the sofa and rub my hands and elbows and thighs against anything until they are raw."

Without over-complicating things, there is so much in each sentence that they're bursting at the seams. I read this book slowly, savoring every paragraph, often re-reading them as I went along. A single sentence would create a knot in my stomach. This is prose at its best.

Then, a third point (although I could keep going): the mystery of it all. The atmosphere is so tense that I never let my guard down; and as I slowly began to understand the world I was entering, I was always hungry to know more. The why, mostly. This is a book that kept me asking questions. Why did King decide to leave? What happened to the damaged women once they left the house? What lies beyond the barrier?... And it keeps me asking questions, days after having finished it.

What was I not massively fond of?

Very rarely, there would be a word that felt out of place - one specific example for me: "Yes, they do, but then what's new, I long to hiss back." I felt that King and Mother wouldn't use an expression like that, and because they're all the girls ever knew, Lia wouldn't use something like this either. Sometimes the swearing also felt out of place, but when I think about it, it didn't - this they could have picked up from the parents, and for every hidden emotion and repressed fit of anger, the girls would need words to let it out.

Something that kept me wondering was what the ultimate aim of the parents might have been. They aimed to create a utopia (a "failed utopia" perhaps, as Mother muses once), but what is the utopia in this case? This is a book where many minds and aims mingle, creating an intricate web of human emotions that we are all - reader and characters - trying to navigate. It is confusing, but in the best sense of the word. Truly human. (I ended up praising instead of criticising, didn't I.)

Perhaps another thing I wondered about is why, in the middle section, we only see things from Lia's point of view, while in the beginning and end we often hear Grace and also the three girls, collectively. I feel that Grace would have been just as striking to understand in the main section of the book - but then I also imagine that Sophie is giving us a kind of freedom. We flow along with Lia, almost as a test; and then receive Grace's judgement in the end, telling us how we fared in her opinion.

Overall...

A stunning debut of a novel. The words that spring to mind are chilling, quiet, subtle, haunting. Unnerving. 

I could write many pages about The Water Cure, thinking over its message, where its power lies, delving into the emotions and thoughts. I foresee PhDs on this book, critical essays and talks. It will be analysed from a perspective of female power and parental attachment; about male-female relationships and siblings. About the use of language and its evocative power. 

Probably also about Sophie Mackintosh, who burst onto the scene with a masterful novel and went on to write similarly stunning things. 

9/10

Why I want to talk about this book... but can't

[Full disclosure from captain obvious: in the white bit there, it says 'To white people'.]

Okay folks, I know this is going to be tough. I'm not smart enough, well-read enough, or even qualified to give you a solid review of the book's contents - you should probably know this up front. So I think I'll keep this quite brief, and talk about why I think you should read Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge.

To give you a brief overview of what it is: it is a discussion about racism, racial bias and the history of prejudice in the United Kingdom. In brief essays, Reni discusses vital, timely topics and sheds light on parts of history that even many born-and-bred Britons won't know about. She then lifts the flap on structural racism - in our workplaces, our personal lives, aspects of our brains we don't or won't admit to - as well as the pitfalls of today's feminist movement. 

What did I like about it?

From page one, it is clear that Reni has done the research. And to write a book like this, not only do you need research, but also guts - because it's an extremely sensitive and difficult subject. As she so often points out in the book, we prefer to pretend we're colour-blind and to not discuss racism if at all possible. But what she is trying to say in this book is that it isn't.

She is smart and confident and is conveying a message that I've never come across before so clearly. I can only speak from the very little personal experience I have, but to me, her arguments and her facts were true eye-openers. Before I read her book, I've never considered race the way I do now, taking into account histories, different perspectives and experiences. She doesn't want us to feel guilty though - guilt is pointless. What she wants is for us to get angry and do something about it.

It is simply fascinating, and it left me feeling like I learnt something truly valuable. Not only that, but it left me asking questions. As a white reader, I had to think long and hard about my own history and how Reni is proposing I proceed from here. My reactions were often the same as those white people's she describes in the book - often guilt or reproach. But she'd immediately proceed with telling me to ignore my guilt - so then I'd feel guilty of feeling guilty. It is not a simple thought process. But the fact I'm asking myself (and the world) questions is a clear sign that I am trying to process the message - and if other readers do as I do, perhaps this book can have a genuine effect on the way we approach racism in the UK.

What was I not massively fond of?

On a few occasions, I felt that the structuring of her essays could have used just a little extra work, mainly due to occasionally rejecting linear timelines and instead jumping back and forth between events or publications. There is a possibility that it advanced the message better this way - but as a reader I felt chronological order would have maybe been better.

Sometimes I also went back to re-read passages to understand whose point of view we were observing more closely. I lost the thread on occasion, despite her very clean writing. This might be my fault though for not reading enough commentary and non-fiction (I'm working on it!).

Overall...

I was reluctant to write a review of this book because, as I say above, I am still processing. It is so much new information for me (which shouldn't be new), and especially as someone who wasn't born in the UK. It gave me a glimpse into British colonial history and slavery, introduced me to intersectionality and has helped me notice huge gaps that I didn't see before.

WINLTTWPAR did for me through non-fiction what Octavia Butler's Kindred did through fiction (and if you haven't read that, I would absolutely recommend that you do). For those living in a dream world, isolated from the problems of prejudice, this book is a wake-up call and a glimpse into what we cannot see. It's shocking, terrifying, amazing and simply brilliant.

PS. Extra points for one of the best explanations of racism I've ever heard, which at one point Reni defines as prejudice plus power.

9/10

First rule of Suicide Club: we don't really want to talk about it

Rachel Heng's Suicide Club caught my attention for several reasons. First of all: that's one sexy cover - even sexier when you hold it in your hands and realise that the heart and text is embossed. Second, and I think everyone who has read the book will agree with me: the concept is awesome. It sounded like a juicy dystopia, just the kind I like - a changed hierarchy of values, and aspirations not exactly foreign to us, but just out of reach. The moment I found out about it, I put it on my reading list (along with four other awesome books).

The novel tells the story of Lea and Anja - the two representatives of the different values of this dystopian future, where the main aim of the mysterious Ministry is to make immortality available. Lea has everything: a handsome boyfriend, 100 years behind her and counting, a great job, excellent benefits. She's at the top of the list of people eligible for immortality. Anja, on the other hand, is quiet, poor and lives with a shell of a mother who is basically now on life support, with only her heart being conscious of the life still running through her. The mysterious Suicide Club is a terrorist organisation, with its members killing themselves on camera to send a message: not everyone wants to live forever.

That's in a nutshell, but I'm struggling a bit to sum up what the book is really about.

What did I like about it?

To go back to my original point: I very much enjoyed the concept. Heng's idea is really quite original in a modern literary field littered with dystopias of all kinds. It doesn't seem far fetched either: if you've read Homo Deus, you'll know that Harari, among others, believes that the aspiration of the modern man is to lengthen their life span, ultimately aiming for immortality in all likeliness.

There are also some scenes in the book that are extremely visual and very well presented - images that linger on, even as you move through the story. One scene, where Lea and Anja take a dip in a top-floor swimming pool, is extremely strong: not just the view, but the sights, sounds, the breathing, the drips. These golden nuggets are the best parts of the book.

What was I not massively fond of?

From the very beginning, it felt that Heng gave a lot more attention to describing every minute detail of the world she's created than to actually moving the story along. I feel she got tangled up in the logic of the story: while creating the dystopia, she didn't give sufficient attention to people's motivations. I know, because I've tried writing a sci-fi novel. When coming up with a new world, you're desperately trying to make the reader understand how it works - but in the process you lose sight of what's important. I think that may have been the case here.

The structure of the book is also a bit confusing. Sometimes, without warning, we jump back in time to Lea's childhood, and I felt that the scenes there remain without explanation or consequence. In addition, the story itself takes so many turns that you have trouble figuring out where we're really heading, and what we're trying to achieve. All the characters seem to change from page to page; a particular one that I wasn't keen on was George. His motivation, background, or even current occupation just didn't make sense to me. But Lea, too, felt like an odd leading lady. Truthfully, as a child, she is painted as severely troubled. In the future (present) though, she seems normal; then odd; then outright brutal. I want to say, crazy. Sometimes. But then she'd abruptly shift back into logical. I didn't quite follow.

In addition, despite the idea of immortality certainly worthy of exploring, I felt that it was exactly this idea that barely got any stage time. Yes, Lea's father represents the struggle, but even his motivations often remain unclear. I feel a lot more could have been done in this direction; in fact, this could have been the central idea of the novel. And maybe it was. But I don't think it was strong enough.

Overall...

I think that, despite a very good concept, the book falls flat because of its many arms - none of them are quite followed through. I was unable to sympathise with any of the characters, therefore leaving me a bit cold and disinterested.

Maybe if it had been split into more than one book, Heng could have explored all her ideas separately, and it would have been the excellent dystopia it should be. Instead, this book feels, to me, unfortunately uneven, messy and unsure of itself.

5/10

All the single (or not) ladies

Wowza.

Holly Bourne's How Do You Like Me Now? has been on my reading list for a while, but things just kept coming in so I had to postpone it. So I took it to bed with me last Saturday night, around half past 10 - and the next time I looked up somehow it was nearly 4am and I only had 100 pages left. I decided to save them because I was having such a good time that I thought Sunday me should get a little fun too.

The book is about Tori Bailey, successful author of a self-help book, 31 years old, flat (and cat) owner, proud girlfriend of a gorgeous man. But everything's not alright. Her best friend and companion meets someone and soon becomes pregnant; everyone is getting married, popping out babies and looking fabulous on social media. So is Tori, for that matter, but we see her point of view - the deceit, the need for validation, the lying to one's self about happiness. As she uncovers what it's like to enter her thirties she helps us witness how everything around her is changing. And really, for anyone around 20-30 years, this won't be a surprise - the surprise is how the hell Holly Bourne knows exactly what I'm thinking.

What did I like about it?

I think what resonated with me the most is how truthfully Holly is able to describe being my age - I'm right in the middle of this age group, and this book almost read like a diary. She finds the thoughts and feelings that are characteristic; the worries and the concerns of our generation. The lies behind social media and the hidden messages in our conversations. And most of all, that fear. That gripping fear that, if you were to change something now, you'd have to start all over again - and think of all that time wasted...

I've never felt a piece of fiction to be so shockingly true - it's almost like she hit a nerve in me. It's a motivating story too, in a way, and almost reads like a self-help book; or, at least, a self-reflection book.

Besides, Holly has a fabulous writing style with surprisingly strong metaphors (I don't mean it's surprising from her; I mean it's surprising in general). The thing is, book stores might say this is women's fiction, and it is, on some level. But it's smart. It's so damn smart. This type of insight is rare.

What was I not massively fond of?

I think the one thing that other critics have also pointed out were the occasional insertions of photographs or imitation-social media posts. Although no, the posts didn't feel out of place - just the photos. At one point, a 'photo' of Tori's best friend is included and, if you're easily influenced, this could wipe out the image of her in your head in a second, and you won't be able to imagine her any differently. (I'm a strong, independent woman though and I won't do what you tell me.)

Another thing I'm wondering is whether this book would resonate as much with people outside of this age bracket as it did with me. Come to think of it, women - most likely. These topics are not age-defined. With men? Perhaps not so much. But hey boys, if you want an intimate glimpse into your 'difficult' or 'crazy' girlfriend's head, give it a go. You might be surprised about how much you can learn.

Overall...

I think I need to re-read this book already, and I only just finished it. You know when you go for a run and at the end you can't really remember a single moment of it, you just know that you feel pretty good now? That's how I was with Holly's book, except I remember that it was incredibly brilliant, funny and honest.

She has astonishing talent and I'm very much hoping her next book will be just as good.

Thank you for answering questions that I'm too afraid to answer myself.

10/10 (yep!)

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

Celebrating #YAWeek with two trilogies

Because Goodreads is celebrating Young Adult Week (that's #YAWeek for you Twitter-heads), I thought I'd share a quick post on my two favourite young adult trilogies - the best things do come in threes.

One of them will, of course, need no introduction, and perhaps now that The Book of Dust is out, Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series may no longer count as a trilogy (although, according to Wikipedia, this next trilogy will be a companion to the original trilogy). 

Why should you read all three?

If you haven't yet read His Dark Materials - and I'm talking to both youngs, young adults and adults here - you are probably worried you'll be tricked into some average, churned out fantasy world, the likes of which overcrowd the 'fantasy' shelves in book stores. Right? Yeah, those series can be intimidating, especially with new books constantly being added to the series. You just can't be asked for that kind of responsibility.

This trilogy is not like that. This is quite simply a masterpiece, carefully disguised at first as any other easy-reading fantasy novel, then slowly shifting into something unexpected. It discusses themes that even an adult often grapples with - the importance (and reality) of a soul, consciousness, love, death and most of all, sacrifice. The characters are incredibly human and therefore hold our hearts in their hands. Often they stamp on it, for good reason. This is masterful writing - I can only imagine how hard it must be to craft novels that speak to all ages. But turn to Philip Pullman if you're looking for a master of the art.

If you've met me, or even know about me, you probably saw this coming. James Smythe's (writing as J.P. Smythe at the time) Australia trilogy is full-force young adult science fiction, crafted with the expertise I've come to expect from this author. After giving us the first two books of his Anomaly quartet (we're still due two glorious episodes), James took a trip to young adult world and left a trail for aficionados - here's your invitation. 

Why should you read all three?

No pressure. Read one. Good luck with not reading the other two.

I think it was these books that really developed my love for James' writing, because to create something so addictive requires serious talent. You can't tell, when you're writing, whether your book is going to be unputdownable; you just hope. And these books really are. Again, with some of the topics tackled in here, I wondered how old my child would have to be before I gave it to them - there's blood. And bones. And horror. But above all a gripping storyline and a powerful heroine, left to fend for herself on a spaceship cast out into space - but why? Can they ever return to Earth? And if they do, will there be anything left for them?

There are so many surprises along the way, so many interesting characters and ideas. I was especially fond of a character named Rex; her transformation, her story, her exercise regime (which got me running again). 

Unlike His Dark Materials, I do feel you need to be into sci-fi to read this, and not mind language that often aims to help younger readers access the story - but this by no means diminishes its value. In fact, this is why it's a gem of the genre: it's the genre, done well.

Pearls before swine

Circe by Madeline Miller was my first encounter with Greek mythology for a long time - and I must say, I have missed it dearly. It brought back memories of my first ventures, in fact, which were due to an amazing book by Alain Quesnel (Greeks (Myths & Legends)) - published only a month after I was born.

I read that book so many times there was probably a time I could recite it by heart. And although Circe wasn't in it, all her companions in Miller's hugely enjoyable book were there - Athena, Zeus, Helios and the rest of the gang, all just as whimsical as I remembered.

I don't claim to be an aficionado of Greek mythology, but I approached Circe being more or less familiar with the story. But it didn't feel like it, and I mean that in the best possible way.

What did I like about it?

Reading Circe was like watching a film adaptation of a beloved book - all the stories I remembered factually came to life, dramatised and filled with emotions. The story of Circe, witch of Aiaia, starts on the level of gods, but eventually descends to the world of mortals, turning it into a very human story. It is a gripping one too, in the very spirit that anyone even remotely familiar with Greek mythology will be aware of: looming prophecies, tragedy, caprice and horror, delicious to the reading eye. Miller has used every literary source at her disposal to create a full picture of Circe's story, and thanks to this it is well-rounded. It also brushes shoulders with other famous tales, from Daedalus to Odysseus (obviously), which gave me similar feelings to when I recognise a location in a film (it gives me so much pleasure).

Another thing that I enjoyed was how strongly she kept most of the characters in this mythological spirit, too. Boys will be fierce and foolish; gods will be self-obsessed and ruthless. Nymphs will be b*tches (pardon). The mythology rings true, so to speak, and you could easily be fooled into thinking she really was just writing up the story that's already out there. But that would be wrong.

Finally, Scylla. Miller's words paint a vivid, horrifying picture of her - this is perhaps the strongest image in the book for me.

What was I not massively fond of?

I think that Circe suffers from a small structural issue. In the first half of the book, the plot is extremely dynamic, and key events follow on each page. It is the birth and creation of Circe - her backstory. Even when she is sent to Aiaia, she leaves - as it feels to us - almost immediately (even though in her world it's probably more like a centenary). I don't blame Miller for this; this is just how the story is. But I think perhaps it could have been balanced a little better, as we do spend considerable time lazying around on Aiaia with Penelope and Telemachus before the plot moves on again.

Another thing that stood out to me was Circe herself. I found my opinion changing all the time about her. At some points, she would be extremely wise and see things clearly; at others, she would be self-pitying and frail, even blushing and girly. Sentimental, you might say. Which is exactly how I imagine a demi-god to be, true. But still it felt that, much like the sea surrounding her island, her strength and weaknesses would come and go, but without much structure. Some critics are pointing out a feminist slant - reclaiming a character who's been dismissed as minor over time, painted as a villain - but that's not how the book struck me overall.

Despite this though, she is an incredibly likable witch, and of course we all root for her throughout the book. Circe, the misunderstood. She did it before it was cool.

Overall...

A very enjoyable retelling of a tale already famous and fascinating - who doesn't like a bit of magic? - but with more details and more power. Although sometimes mixing modern language and what feels like a good imitation of ancient style, the novel still flows and is truly a page-turner.

Who thought Greek mythology could feel so sexy again?

7/10