Memories of the Future, by Siri Hustvedt: I know autofiction is cool now but even the examples that I like tend to annoy me; Hustvedt’s new novel didn’t, partly because her narrator is looking back on her life as a young woman in New York City instead of narrating it as she experiences it, and partly because her focus is mostly outward. She writes about “S.H.”‘s mysterious neighbour, Lucy Brite, and the people she meets in the city, and assesses those experiences from her perspective as an older, savvier woman (particularly about gender relations.) S.H. is explicitly interested in how her memories of the past are sometimes contradicted by, e.g., her journal entries (some of which are reproduced as part of the text). It all really works.
Daisy Jones and the Six, by Taylor Jenkins Reid: A magnificent novel about the rise and fall of a rock band in ’70s California, told through the transcripts of interviews for a documentary. Reid nails atmosphere: the drugs, the sex, but also the strangely untouchable, self-centered innocence that permeates this milieu. Daisy Jones could have been a Manic Pixie Dream Girl (with added smack problem), but her emotional vulnerability is leavened with grit; Camila Dunne, wife of the lead guitarist, could have been a caricature of a stay-at-home mother, but her integrity is the moral backbone of the book. Reid also has some beautiful, scary things to say about creative collaboration, the hard work of making music, and the ease with which we can fuck up our own hearts. Out on March 7; don’t miss this.
Mouth Full of Blood: Essays, Speeches, Meditations, by Toni Morrison: A collection spanning forty years that has either been ill-edited or not edited at all. Editing Morrison might be intimidating–she won the Novel Prize, ffs–but that, particularly with established authors, is what publishers are for. The collection has been arranged so as to make it embarrassingly obvious that Morrison often recycles whole paragraphs from one public speaking engagement to the next–and you know what, everyone does that, it’s neither unexpected nor a crime–but when at least three essays in the first section, none of which are long, all feature a paragraph that starts “Excluding the height of the slave trade, the mass movement of peoples is greater now than it has ever been”, you can forgive a reader for feeling mildly insulted. There are also no citations for most of the texts Morrison quotes. Up your game, Chatto & Windus.
Currently reading: Gingerbread, Helen Oyeyemi’s new novel. So far I’m finding it stylistically easier than many of her earlier books, and loving the atmosphere of oblivious strangeness she builds around her mother/daughter protagonists, Perdita and Harriet. (I’m ALSO reading The Terror, by Dan Simmons, which is sort of The Thing meets Cherry Apsley-Garrard’s The Worst Journey in the World.)