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

Lullaby by Leila Slimani | Book Review

Let me start this review by saying that I really hate the cover of Lullaby by Leila Slimani. Not the image - that I quite like, the misleading collar and neck that could be a nanny, could be a little girl - but the fact that they've tried to form this book into a cheap thrill shape. "Is Lullaby the next Gone Girl? This author's book on a killer nanny is (a) must-read." Let me answer that for you, Daily Telegraph. No. And don't call her a killer nanny, for the love of everything.

Sure, we can compare the two books, but they are by no means obviously in the same category - nor niche - and I certainly wouldn't call Lullaby a must-read. Read this if you don't have children. Do not read it if you employ a nanny. For example.

The book opens with a horrific crime scene where two young children have been murdered and the perpetrator, the nanny, has attempted to slit her wrists. From here we go back to the beginning of the story to try and understand the outcome, slowly building tension, claustrophobia, terror and understanding of how we ended up here, right until we reach this point again, going full circle. Even though we wish we hadn't.

What did I like about it?

This is a choice of topic that you don't want to confront, but you can't look away - and with her craft, Slimani takes aim and fires right at you with the very first chapter. "The baby is dead. It took only a few seconds. The doctor said he didn't suffer. The broken body, surrounded by toys, was put inside a grey bag, which they zipped shut." Now try getting that image out of your mind.

She doesn't let us off the hook, either - after further descriptions of this very immediate scene, Slimani is great at starting from the beginning and, with a feeling of false security, we amble along as the parents hire this perfect nanny who gets on with the children so well and who is a real life-saver.

The book really reminded me of American Psycho in the way that it drip-feeds the small but immediate red flags, and the feeling of unease builds slowly but surely as you proceed through this short book until horror is unleashed. But this is not a crime novel - it is more psychological drama and we could easily draw comparisons with the recent Joker film in that we see how bad circumstances and a closed-door society can turn a person into someone completely different.

The atmosphere of the read is truly claustrophobic, as this special relationship between mother and nanny, and children and nanny is explored - everyone involved becomes trapped. Slimani is brilliant at showing the vulnerability of this set-up: of how much each depends on the other, and how inseparable they become. 

None of the characters are truly likeable, which makes the offering even stronger. We don't have to like the children to pray for them to survive; everyone else is irrelevant. It is a grave offence to hurt or abuse something so innocent as a child, and the sheer profanity of it makes you angry. And desperate. And all the while, we as readers somehow still hope we might end up somewhere different from where we began. 

What was I not massively fond of?

I would like to make the small and selfish complaint that I am not satisfied with how we left things. Sure I expected a clean - or at least, less foggy - explanation of the why, but perhaps that's a concession that Slimani isn't willing to make.

I did have trouble with the nanny, Louise. There were some elements to her that I couldn't roll into one character in my head. Her favourite dress comes with a Peter Pan collar (see cover), this is often emphasized; but she pairs it with heavy make-up and brightly painted, long nails. The contrast of the modest dress and repulsive, clownish make-up just didn't fit for me. I felt the same with her character at times: she mentions her dream of moving away, being by herself where she doesn't have to look after anyone anymore. Few chapters later, however, she is meticulously planning how to leave the parents alone so they can make another baby, so she can stay with the family. She often sounds loud, confident, arrogant; other times, she is a recluse. She has the body of a doll but immense strength in her arms. And I see the appeal of the contradictions - I just can't create a character out of them.

There was also one big blow to the story for me, which came after I finished reading the book. By the time the story ends, we're - to put it bluntly - very cross with Louise. She has been threatening, aggressive and uncomfortable with the parents for a long while, and they've made plans to let her go. Why then, as I flip back to the very first chapter (as I'm sure you will too the minute you finish), is the mother buying Louise her favourite cake on her way home from work before she finds her dead children? That's an inconsistency that took a considerable chunk out of my respect for this work unfortunately. 

Overall...

To me, Lullaby is much more than a cheap thrill - it does have significant literary merits. But ultimately I do have to give the weight to the story instead of the writing in this case; perhaps if I come across her other books, this opinion will change.

Last year, President Macron apparently bestowed upon Slimani the job of “promoting the French language and its culture” and she has won the Goncourt, France’s most prestigious literary prize - so her qualifications are impressive. I will keep an eye on her books and report back...

6/10

The Testaments by Margaret Atwood | Book Review | The sequel nobody asked for

Here's a sequel nobody asked for - here's a sequel everybody asked for. Apparently.

I can't remember why I picked up The Handmaid's Tale in the first place - I think it was a title that kept cropping up over time, and once I decided to find out what it was actually about (and discovered it was a dystopia) I had to have it. You know how I am with dystopias. 

Precisely because The Handmaid's Tale (first published in 1985) was so good, so readable, so claustrophobic, so horrific, I felt conflicted about a sequel. It's been a while since 'the first' book (I refuse to call it that except ironically). My boyfriend was born and raised, for example. There was also a god awful TV series loosely based on the book. Could the Canadian queen revisit this tale after so many years and create a similarly gripping piece of work?

What did I like about it?

My answer is no. There were things I liked: for example, obviously, Margaret Atwood is still a literary queen, and her writing doesn't falter for a second. It's gripping, page-turning, exciting stuff that reads like the best YA thriller. There is also her usual sarcasm - "All that was necessary was a law degree and a uterus: a lethal combination." - but I would have loved more of this.

It was also a gripping story, packed with action. Despite myself, I couldn't help read it as fast as I could, always onto the next point of action, always onto the consequences. It was nice to read something that made me turn off the TV and spend the evening reading instead. That is power.

But now onto the second section, which, for what is probably the first time, will be longer...

What as I not massively fond of?

What people are calling a sequel feels to me more like a distant cousin. In no way does this book relate to The Handmaid's Tale in my mind. It might be set in the same universe but, as if holding up a curved mirror, all the power of THMT gets lost in this piece - none of the dark, terrifying, just-about-realistic-enough horror remains, none of that feeling of absolute and utter helplessness, where every step you take might cost you your life. This is a lax, loose, easy universe, where blasphemy can be casually overlooked and be done with by a blush. Just like the TV series, the rules are bent and loosened, and through these gaps all the power of the original story seeps through and disappears.

It is, of course, nice to see inside the head of Aunt Lydia, a figurehead of THMT in maintaining, promoting and educating on Gilead order. One of three story lines, hers is probably the most powerful one - if only in the beginning while we find out her backstory - but unfortunately falters, like the others, towards the end to become a simple action-packed thriller with no real depth in my view. It's all about the action, without any of the subtlety.

Of the other two story lines and narrators, one starts out promisingly: it's the story of someone who grew up within the regime and actually guards fond memories of her childhood, despite the hardships and rigid rules. When this story ties in with the third narrator's though, it once again loses its power: and the third story line, an unashamedly young adult story of a genuinely annoying teenager, had nothing to give me. It was that of a depthless, cliché character.

I could talk about how everyone seems to be able to become an aunt in Gilead nowadays; I could talk about how suddenly the Eyes are much less observant than in THMT; I could complain about how the book seems to have taken some elements from the TV show, which to me is an absolute no no. But instead I'll mention the biggest opportunity that I think was missed here: I never really accept how Aunt Lydia becomes Aunt Lydia. This would have been the perfect opportunity to be nuanced in demonstrating how a rigid system comes into being with the support of those who may have once opposed it ferociously; how the oppressed become the oppressors without realising. But here, there's only square one and square two as far as I could see.

Not to mention a strong hint at a happy ending, which is, quite frankly, a bit disappointing.

Overall...

It was this Guardian review that really put a finger on the problem for me: it points out that in THMT, one of the most powerful forces was that of not knowing things:

"There is no doubt that Atwood is on top form here. But still it feels as if something crucial is missing.

Or perhaps not missing enough, for didn’t the strength of the first book lie precisely in its daring ambiguities, its unapologetic refusal to elucidate? Surely one of the reasons Gilead managed to be so spookily convincing was that Atwood cunningly chose to leave so many of its edges blurry. Interiors, furniture, food, clothes, linen were described with all of the deft shadow and gleam of a Dutch painting – and the same, incidentally, is true in this book – but beyond that, we only had the vaguest hints of how the larger world worked. The most trenchant and exciting fiction almost always amounts to an act of conjuring – and in Atwood’s gracefully necromantic hands, Gilead’s regime didn’t seem to require much explanation or justification." 

Offred was kept in the dark and could only really show us, the readers, what she could see - the uncertainty that resulted from this was overwhelming. It was brilliant.

With The Testaments though, we see and hear all, much like the aunts; and although for them, it's a virtue, as a reader it doesn't provide nearly as much enjoyment as following a handmaid.

I'm so sorry that the combined efforts of an appalling TV adaptation and ridiculous hype have ruined any enjoyment I could have gotten out of The Testaments. Not to mention the fact that no part of me, not one percent, agrees that this should have won the Booker prize.

I'm sorry Margaret. I'll keep to your earlier stuff instead.

3/10

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 different set of gods

I am one of those rare birds who have not yet read the big works of Neil Gaiman that made him such a big deal in the public sphere - American Gods or The Sandman graphic novels, for example - although I have read The Ocean at the End of the Lake, and I did love that book, very very much indeed. I am also currently listening to the audiobook of Good Omens, co-written by Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and which is absolutely and indisputably the most hilarious book I've ever read (listened to), so thanks to the Penguin Podcast for the recommendation.

I've had my eyes on Norse Mythology for some time and, although I knew it would be good, I didn't expect to open it at 9am on a sunny Saturday and to finish it by 2pm, only getting up for tea and occasional toilet breaks.

Much like Stephen Fry's Mythos, Neil sets out to retell the stories of the gods - except the gods of a slightly different world. These are the stories of Thor, Odin, Loki and the likes from Asgard, Yggdrasil (the world tree), the stories of frost giants and plotting dwarves, and of course, Ragnarok - the end of days and a new beginning.

What did I like about it?

Seeing as I enjoyed reading the Greek myths so much as retold by Stephen Fry, I can't help but compare Norse Mythology to Mythos. This was a hugely enjoyable retelling of stories from Nordic mythology, and while Stephen Fry takes a somewhat cheeky, tongue-in-cheek approach, often even picking sides, Neil writes his stories with a degree of seriousness, as if we're really gathered around a fire on a frosty winter's night, retelling tales of the old. "Nothing there is that does not love the sun," he writes. "Now I shall tell you of the days to come," he says as he guides us into the story of Ragnarok.

Nordic mythology is incredibly different from the Greek world. Nordic gods seem less capricious, less interested in unnecessary drama; they don't seem to regard humans as their plaything, a species to be meddled with for their own entertainment. In fact, they hardly come into contact with the human race at all. They'd rather keep to themselves and their realms: the land of the dwarves, the light elves, the frost giants or the land of the dead - ruled by the most terrifying character of all: Loki's daughter, Hel, with half a healthy, beautiful face and half a face of a corpse, long dead. There is much less coitus than in the Greek tales; Nordic gods are more interested in adventuring, slaying beasts, wrestling giants, outsmarting each other and dealing out horrible punishments.

It has to be said, though, that Nordic gods aren't the brightest, either; even though Odin gave an eye for wisdom and hung himself from a branch of Yggdrasil in exchange for powers, they still seem quite gullible and can easily make the same mistakes over and over. Thor himself isn't the brains of the operation - as often reflected in the Marvel films too - although he is certainly the strongest. But the characters are complex, curious, proud and incredibly competitive, providing endless joy for readers of these stories.

What was I not massively fond of?

Annoyingly, much like my last review of a Neil Gaiman book, I've not much to add here. It's not Neil's fault that, as he points out in the introduction, stories of the female gods have not been as well preserved as those of the men - perhaps it's out turn to make some of these up.

I would have liked to see a graph of the gods to be able to place every one of them, although this family is much smaller and easier to trace than that of the Greeks. There is a helpful glossary at the end though, as to be expected.

Overall...

"The Norse myths are the myths of a chilly place, with long, long winter nights and endless summer days, myths of a people who did not entirely trust or even like their gods, although they respected and feared them." How different, then, to think of the god-fearing Greeks who were expected to make sacrifices before and after any journey, for any feast, for any event really.

I find there is something so compelling, so magically binding and attractive about the Norse world - the cold, the Northern lights, Valhalla in a plain field under misty skies, gifts of gold from highly skilled dwarves, ships that fold into handkerchiefs and a giant, monstrous wolf that will one day swallow the moon and the sun... No wonder I was addicted to playing Skyrim for so long.

There is everything and more to love about this book, and if you're like me, you can easily read it in a few short, delightful hours. If you can, aim to have an open fire nearby.

9/10

The Binding by Bridget Collins: Should you judge by a cover?

The first time I started paying attention to The Binding by Bridget Collins was in July 2018 - at least that's when I marked it as 'to-read' on my Goodreads. The second time was when I pre-ordered a gorgeous, purple-edged, signed copy from Waterstones in December 2018. This says a lot about the massive build-up to its publication, and the effort behind the marketing campaign from the Borough Press - kudos to the team at this beloved publisher.

When I first picked up a physical copy, I realised, strangely, that I had very little idea of what it was actually about. Clearly, I'd been distracted by this gorgeous cover - I mean, you should see the spine! This is probably the most beautiful book I own, hands down. But whether it was going to be any good, I wasn't actually sure.

If you'd rather not have any spoilers, I urge you to just read the 'Overall...' section.

How to sum up The Binding? It's a story of fantasy fiction/romance set in a Victorian-style world, where people can have their memories bound in a book - that is, memories can be taken away, written up and locked away safely. The only way to remember them again is if the book is destroyed. Emmett, our main character, has a calling to become a binder, and starts an apprenticeship at the local binder's as our story begins. One day, he discovers a book with his name on it, and his world is never quite the same again after.

What did I like about it?

A concept is often enough to get me interested in a book. This was the case with Suicide Club, but unlike with that novel, The Binding carries its creative concept throughout the book successfully, for the most part. There are questions of morality and happiness to be raised, because although the subject has to consent to have their memories bound, they can still be coerced into agreeing to the process. The idea has a lot of potential, and although I think there was a lot more to be explored, the main storyline does concern itself with the question of free will, blissful ignorance and whether finding out the truth is always the right thing to do.

Although someone a bit less naive than myself would probably have guessed it earlier, I was pleasantly surprised that the advertised romantic thread was in fact between two men. Bridget's writing is delicate, touching and writes about the relationship exactly as it should be written: noting nothing out of the ordinary.

In fact, Bridget's writing flows very well throughout, and it must be said that The Binding is a very easy and pleasing read in terms of language. There were a few golden nuggets of pure literary writing, such as when a character describes seeing their father cry as there being "something indecent about it, like nakedness or uncooked meat." As the book is divided into three parts - with the first two being told from Emmett's point of view, and the third from his lover, Lucian's - I think the first part took a while to hook me. The book really blooms in the second part, where I think both the writing and story are at their strongest; the third section is well-written but dark, troubled and perhaps a bit rushed.

What was I not massively fond of?

In terms of story, what I noticed was the huge amount of locations that the characters move across. From Emmett's home through Lucian's uncle's castle, the old bindery, the ruins, Castleford and even numerous houses within Castleford, I think this perhaps could have been cut down a little - as I found that all this movement made things a tad too event-packed.

I also felt that Bridget revelled in describing physical agony and furious anger throughout, which sometimes felt maybe a bit too passionate for a given situation. All of her characters endured dizziness, nausea and splitting headaches intermittently, but also rage - especially Emmett towards Lucian, before he comes to terms with the reality of his feelings. This rage, however, was just a little too drawn out for me; although what do I know about facing hidden feelings? My feels are usually on my sleeve. Anyway, apart from the furious stare-offs that the boys (or men? We never truly find out their age) insist on, it's nothing that can't be overlooked.

Overall...

I don't know what it's like to graduate from only writing young-adult novels to writing your first adult novel. Here's a question for your next book club: what makes a novel 'adult'? A smooth transition was Holly Bourne's How Do You Like Me Now? (which is, well, a perfect book). I'm not sure that The Binding is for adults. It feels like it's knocking on the door of adulthood, but maybe facing feelings that seem 'shameful' and adding in a touch of brutality doesn't necessarily make a book an adult one.

I really enjoyed reading The Binding, but I also don't think it's a story I'll remember for a long time. Perhaps there were just too many focus points, which diluted the original concept. Perhaps it's that I never really identified with the characters, feeling that I didn't know them well enough.

It's a beautiful book, and a good read - I'd recommend it for your Christmas break, or the pool side. That's not to diminish though; those are the times when I want something readable and enjoyable, not to mention those are pretty much my favourite times to read.

6/10

Could we be Heroes?

Thus continues my deep dive into Greek mythology - as expected. From Circe by Madeline Miller and Mythos by Stephen Fry, my journey took me on a quest to Troy and back - via The Iliad and The Odyssey - to now winding up in the world of mortals, with 'a bit' of help from Stephen Fry again.

Heroes is the second volume of Mythos, if you will; while the first book concerned itself with the comings and goings of the Greek gods, in this book Stephen turns his attention to mortal struggles. From Perseus through Bellerophon to Theseus and Heracles, all the big ones make an appearance - even Atalanta, who happens to be a badass princess who hunts and uses a bow and was raised by bears. You can't get much cooler than that.

What did I like about it?

For those that read my review of Mythos, you will know that I spared no enthusiasm in describing Stephen's writing style, and I can't help but continue. His tongue-in-cheek approach to sometimes seriously confusing myths comes across even more in this book - the humans really take a beating sometimes - but this is what helps keep this book entertaining, and make it unique among the (I imagine) countless retellings of Greek mythology.

Despite venturing into the mortal world, there are still countless mythological beasts to be slain, tamed, captured or borrowed (in the case of Heracles and Cerberus, the three-headed guardian of the underworld) - conveniently so for all these young fools determined to become heroes themselves. There is also, unsurprisingly, more treachery, more weird family ties, more labours to be completed. It seems mortal heroes simply cannot extricate themselves from an endless cycle of committing blood crimes and then labouring for decades in order to be cleansed.

Often referencing back to Mythos in footnotes, Stephen does everything in his power to help readers wrap their heads around all the connections, be it between characters, storylines or cause-and-effect connections. So it's not essential to have read Mythos, but I would certainly think Heroes is more enjoyable if you had read it. And enjoyed it.

What was I not massively fond of?

My biggest issue with Heroes was the near-impossibility in remembering who is who. I don't blame Stephen for this - he really does his best to help - but I do think a graphical chart (much like the one on the Olympus generations in Mythos, repeated on the first pages of Heroes) would have been immensely helpful. There are 25 pages describing every mortal character that had appeared in the book; twenty-five! And those are just the mortals! I struggled with distinguishing my Pelius from my Pelias; my Iphitus from my Iphicles. And while in Mythos it felt alright to just swiftly move on when I didn't remember everyone, I think Heroes is better enjoyed when all characters are remembered separately, backstory and all. Mainly because almost everything is connected.

I also took an issue with footnotes that referenced stories we hadn't read yet. I think back-referencing makes perfect sense and is very helpful; but to mention a connection with a story I haven't yet read makes little sense to me.

In terms of writing, I did find that Heroes was often more casual and conversational than Mythos, sometimes perhaps a little too much for me. Reading this conversation, for example, I remember forgetting that I was reading Greek mythology, so everyday and casual did the writing feel:

'You're late, darling.'
'Mum, what's a "Medusa"?'
'Perseus, have you been drinking?'
'Maybe. Just a cup or two.'
'A hiccup or two, by the sound of it.'
'No, but seriously, what's a Medusa?'

See what I mean?

And last, but not least: the format of this book... To be able to read Heroes on the go, I needed the following:

• a backpack large enough to fit the book in
• a seat on the train
• if I couldn't obtain a seat on the train, highly developed and regularly trained thumb muscles
• lots of calcium to avoid hand cramps

In short, this is a giant, heavy, large-sized hardback that is an absolute pain to carry around, and it baffles me that someone thought this was the right format. It feels slightly larger than your normal hardback (in terms of length) which means it doesn't fit in my usual backpack - or if it does it pokes out heavily, causing a literal pain in the back.

Overall...

Although I very much enjoyed reading Heroes, I did find it a bit more over-the-top tongue-in-cheek than Mythos. Perhaps it's the mortals' fault for being so damn ordinarily human; we still got to see Zeus in the form of a golden shower though, and a talking figurehead on the Argo, and of course there's the ever-popular Minotaur, making an appearance as a near-human full of empathy and a death wish for the sake of everyone. Touching.

If you enjoyed Mythos, there is no doubt it's worth continuing on with this second volume. Just be warned that humans haven't changed so much since ancient Greece... See Theseus:

When he [Pirithous] proposed the insane idea of descending into the realm of the dead and snatching Persephone from under the very nose of her husband Hades, Theseus the hero, Theseus the wise, Theseus the clever, Theseus the great king and counsellor nodded his head vigorously.
'Why not? Sounds like fun.'

Serves him right though, because although he gets rescued by Heracles, he leaves with a very flat bum indeed, having most of his behind ripped off by the stone throne he had been bound to with snakes. Dumbass.

7/10