The Salt Path by Raynor Winn | Book Review

I was very sceptical about The Salt Path by Raynor Winn when it published last year. I was well into my nature writing reading phase (still going) and once I started paying attention to these books, I couldn't help noticing just how big a trend it really was. That's pretty much when this book published, and for some reason - too sad? Too on-trend? - I decided not to buy it/into it.

Foolish!

I'll admit that I came across this in my local charity shop (along with a Booker winner and a Pulitzer winner, on the same day!) and some kind of intervention from above inspired me to buy it. And I absolutely loved it, and for all the right reasons, too.

The Salt Path tells the true and very recent tale of a married couple, Ray and Moth, walking the South West Coast Path after losing their family home and Moth being diagnosed with a terminal illness. With nowhere to go and no one to turn to, they pack up the little they have and start putting one foot in front of the other in search of self-discovery, an answer, or just a bit of time, really. So yes, doesn't sound like an easy read.

What did I like about it?

Perhaps I can blame the blurb because, let's face it, I didn't exactly sell it to you just then either. But the book is really the opposite of what we expect: it's a tale of optimism, a journey of self-discovery without the New Age bullsh*t with two very loveable and very real people. It's beautiful because it rings true. Ray doesn't try to make anything sound more dramatic than it already is: she keeps the tone of the book down to Earth, realistic and most of all, honest. Yes, it is at times heart-wrenching, but aren't all the best books?

I love that there is no fake dialogue - there is only little direct speech, because there was very little dialogue, understandably (I wouldn't be very chatty either if I was over 50 and walking one of the UK's hilliest footpaths). Often, it isn't even clear whether something is said by Moth or Ray, and it doesn't matter. We understand that these two people are almost one in their love and devotion to each other; we feel what they feel without saying it. We root for them every time they check their bank balance for that tiny income, and enjoy every bite of their last fudge bar with them as they run out of food in the middle of nowhere.

The book shines a direct light onto homelessness and how circumstances can change in an instant. It talks honestly about this couple's experiences, camping in the wild, being ashamed of admitting to being homeless, and the jealousy and occasional feeling of injustice. But the way Ray and Moth see the world is humbling to us as a reader. They will give away half of their money to help a single, good soul, and share their food with those even less fortunate then them.

Ray's writing certainly deserves a special mention. This is her first book, yet it reads like good literary fiction - it shows that nature writing is at its best when it is honest and doesn't try to be too lyrical. At the opposite end of the scale is, for example, How to Catch a Mole by Marc Hamer, which is an overly flowery first book, infused with poetry. So that's a no. (In a sad kind of ironic way, Hamer also experienced rural homelessness.) Ray narrates as she observes: from large scale to the tiniest butterfly, we follow her eyes as they pan the horizon, filling the landscape with her own feelings. "Green, blue. This coast is rugged, rock stacks standing defiantly against the power of the Atlantic." "An ozone wind rushed over the edge, bringing the creatures' deep, sorrowful calls echoing up through the rocks. Their sadness was surely an illusion, a human interpretation of the animals' noise."

Nature, personal history and our inner feelings become one in this narrative, and as a result, it reads beautifully.

What was I not massively fond of?

I will say that perhaps the last one-sixth of the book becomes a bit too long - the days are a bit repetitive at times with silent walking day after day. Not a long section, however, and when the couple reaches the finish line (in more than one way) it is extremely gratifying.

Overall...

I looked at many things differently after reading this book, and it also helps me through this long, dark period where nature and beloved campsites seem so far away. It makes me want to wrap up in waterproofs, grab my backpack and walk, just walk.

Thank you to Ray and Moth who were brave enough to share their true story with the world. I think it is an act of courage and generosity. We would be fools not to welcome them into our hearts.

8/10

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