March

There was a part of March before the lockdown, and in it, I read a few books. (I also finished one book in March directly after posting my most recent round-up, so I’ll cover that too.)

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Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Before I went to the States, I posted a call on Twitter for recommendations with regards to good airplane books. The resulting deluge of suggestions was lovely but completely un-navigable, so I narrowed it down to two classics that I already owned and knew could keep me occupied for eight hours, Crime and Punishment or Don Quixote. Posting about this triggered another avalanche,  this time primarily from middle-aged men, all of whom were very keen to tell me just how Extraordinary An Achievement of the Human Spirit both of those books are. (Yes, Kevin, but is it consistently diverting at high altitude?) One guy was such a strong proponent of Cervantes that I decided to take Dostoevsky, out of spite. Crime and Punishment turned out to be very much not what I expected, though that’s not a bad thing. It’s not particularly dense, for one thing, though it is repetitive. (Once Raskolnikov kills the old lady, he mostly wanders around in cycles of despair and defiance, being sick and getting better, intending to turn himself in and deciding not to.) The oddest thing is that those repetitions make it kind of… funny? In the darkest possible way. It’s like a Coen Brothers movie. Just after the murder, he gets stuck in the old lady’s flat while the two guys renovating the flat downstairs yell at him, and his paralysis is ridiculous, hilarious. At one point he literally hides behind a door to evade his pursuers. It’s absurdist comedy. Also: is there Porfiry/Rasknolnikov slashfic? It may just have been me, but there’s a distinct flavour of erotic sadomasochism/power play in the way they talk to each other. Anyway: weird, worth it, I still like Tolstoy better so far, is there another Dostoevsky novel that might be a good next step?

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The Iliad, by Homer, transl. Robert Fitzgerald: Posting about my struggles with the audiobook version of the Fitzgerald translation of The Iliad also drew the exaggerated incredulity of the Kevins of this world, which I suppose I should have expected. Anyway, the fact is that for at least the first 50% of the poem, I was not enthralled. Dan Stevens reads the Fitzgerald edition that’s available on Audible, and he has a lovely reading voice, but even he cannot hide the fact that much of the first twelve books is just names and deaths, going by in a blur too quick to be meaningful. Which I guess is the point—soldiers die in war like Whitman’s leaves of grass, cut down before they can know themselves or their enemy can know them—but twelve books of the stuff is rather a lot. The interventions of the gods, also, seem scrupulously pointless: one intervenes for the Achaeans and they advance, another intervenes for the Trojans and they push back. Again, the futility of war is thoroughly conveyed, but at the cost of being able to invest. Things improve significantly around the time of Patroclus’s death (which comes much, much earlier than you’d think given its emotional weight in the poem), and the final 50% was infinitely more compelling. Maybe the most interesting aspect of The Iliad is seeing how the demands we place on our stories have changed over time; it was clearly conveyed orally to its first audiences and was probably shaped in direct response to their tastes and preferences, so why do we now find that parts of it drag, that the dramatic tension drops and rises in curious places? What’s changed about humans, about the pace at which we live our lives and absorb our stories, or about the events and relationships we find significant?

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The Bass Rock, by Evie Wyld: Of all the books for which I’m sad because the pandemic will fuck up their first-week sales, The Bass Rock may be the one for which I’m the saddest. Evie Wyld is a great writer—her last book, All the Birds Singing, was subtle and scary about female vulnerability without sacrificing characterization or style to a political end, and The Bass Rock does the same thing. It has three narrators in three different time frames, but all in the same place, which is a structure easy to do badly, but here done in just such a way as to demonstrate its strengths: it allows us to compare and contrast, to see the ways in which society and landscape pattern peoples’ lives across decades, even centuries, throwing up eerie parallels between otherwise disparate stories. The strongest, I think, is that of Ruth in the 1950s; she is the second wife of a man whose kindness is quickly, dizzyingly, somewhat sickeningly, revealed to be merely the condescension of an everyday misogynist, entitled and thoughtless. The anticlimactic, deflating banality of his awfulness is a key strength of Wyld’s writing. In fact, that now-clichéd fact is everywhere in the book, from the ever-so-slightly-wrong local vicar who takes the children off for sinister excursions, to the boyfriend of the woman in the modern-day sections whose anger flares up when she sets a boundary he deems unreasonable, to the matter-of-fact detachment with which the young narrator of the seventeenth-century sections describes the gang rape and subsequent murder of a young woman denounced as a witch. It sounds po-faced and preachy when I write about it this way, but it’s not, I promise it’s not. It’s funny and queasy and stylish and lives in my head weeks after being read. I think it might be this year’s Ghost Wall. Please, please order it (it was published yesterday, by Jonathan Cape) or put it on hold from your library, and read it.

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Deeplight, by Frances Hardinge: A new book from Hardinge is guaranteed to be a treat. She seems to get darker and more adult as she goes on, and I like it a lot. Her latest is set in an archipelago that was previously ruled over by Lovecraftian gods, horrifying eldritch monsters of the deep that occasionally wrecked islands or devoured ships and who had to be placated by a special caste of priests. Within living memory, all these gods killed each other, and the world is now devoid of divinity, except for the thriving market in “godware”, leftover pieces of their corpses that have strange properties. Hardinge paints the relationship between her young protagonist, Hark, and his best friend Jelt, in shades of grey: we realize pretty early on that their “friendship” is emotionally abusive, as Jelt constantly manipulates Hark into putting himself in danger. There are definite shades of Ursula K. LeGuin here—personal accountability and growth are just as important as saving the world; indeed, the latter relies heavily on the former. It’s also the first time I can remember seeing young adult fiction that deals with emotional abuse between people of the same age who are not in a romantic relationship. I hope it’s the first of many.

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Air, by Geoff Ryman: My attempt to read all of the Arthur C. Clarke Award winners has introduced me to some really incredible science fiction, and Air, which won in 2006, is by no means the least of these. Appropriately, it’s set in 2019-2020, and concerns the coming of a new technology called Air (“like TV in your head”) to the remote Central Asian village of Kizuldah, where people are barely aware of “the Net”, let alone this potentially devastating new world. Chung Mae, the village’s stubborn “fashion expert”, experiences an early test version of Air that kills her elderly neighbour and implants the old woman’s consciousness in Mae’s mind. Realizing how desperately unready her people are, she determines to make them so. Ryman’s smart not to play the situation for laughs on the whole; the book is funny, sometimes, but it’s not laughing at Mae or at her fellow villagers. It’s also the most effectively political book I’ve read for a long time, seamlessly integrating the odd coexistence of Muslims, Christians, and (fictional) ethnic minority Eloi in the same village with the central government’s formal oppression of those same Eloi, an oppression reflected in the tiny, propaganda-riddled quantity of information about them available online (and which an Eloi woman in the village decides to remedy, to her own hazard). Nor can I think of another book that so clearly demonstrates how universal access to information is democratic only in the most sinuous and slippery way, how the division of “haves” and “have-nots” (the book’s subtitle) will persist unless have-nots are specifically taught how to use new tools, and taught without condescension, in ways that they can grasp. It’s an exciting, gripping, hopeful, bittersweet book, and an exceptionally good one.

Things we did in the pandemic: episode 1

Upfront disclaimer: This is quite long. Oh well!

It’s been two weeks since my work asked us to start working from home, and it’s taken me this long to get into a headspace where I can start to think about writing anything. The last fortnight has been consumed with iterations of anxiety, uncertainty, and sometimes downright fear: about the stocks of food in my house, about how my employers can keep a book subscription business going remotely, about not seeing my friends, or boyfriend, for God knows how long (he lives across town and I wasn’t with him when the lockdown announcement happened; we can Zoom and FaceTime, but that’s it. I could try to hop on a train, I suppose, but I also count as an immunosuppressed person—type I diabetes, baybee—and that’s almost certainly not a good idea.)

But nothing lasts forever—no state of mind, no public health crisis—and now I can write a little, so I wanted to share what I’ve been consuming recently, in this temporarily topsy-turvy world. Mostly books, because obviously, but some movies, too.

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Last weekend, when we were all working from home but the lockdown hadn’t yet hit, I was halfway through The Mirror and the Light, by Hilary Mantel. It took me a full week to read it; it’s very long (about 900 pages), and not having a daily commute oddly meant that I had less built-in reading time, plus it was incredibly difficult to focus properly for the first few days (and still is. Twitter, during a crisis of any kind, is a time-and energy-sink like no other.) Once I got into the rhythm of it, though, it was as glorious as I remembered the other two Cromwell books being: just as sharply and minutely observed, just as steeped in the tactile details of the period (no one writes casually about Tudor food like Mantel), just as shockingly funny (her Cromwell has a dry, sometimes capricious wit that Austen might have been proud of), just as attuned to weather and temperature, the powerful weight of religious conviction, the rapidity with which the mood of a room can turn. It’s heartbreakingly good; even as you hurtle towards the end, queasily aware of your A-Level history and knowing what has to happen, you find yourself hoping Mantel has discovered some evidence to the contrary. The final two pages are so stunningly written that I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see them on English literature and creative writing courses up and down the country in a decade’s time. It’s a magnificent piece of work. I cannot believe that anything else on the Women’s Prize longlist even approaches it, and will also be hoping for a Booker Prize hat trick.

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After that, something completely different: C Pam Zhang‘s forthcoming debut novel, How Much of These Hills is Gold. (God knows what will happen to the April/May publishing schedule. I think Zhang’s book was meant to be Virago’s lead debut for the spring, which is doubly devastating if it has to be pushed back.) Set during the California Gold Rush of the 1860s, it follows Lucy and Sam, two Chinese-American orphans who set out into the wilderness to find an appropriate place for the burial of their Ba. From this description, you could be forgiven for thinking that the bulk of the book comprises their odyssey, but that’s not quite how it works; their travels together end a quarter of the way through, and the rest of the book consists of an extended flashback narrated by Ba’s corpse (hat-tip, William Faulkner, for all of this), then a flash-forward in time showing Lucy’s life in the town of Sweetwater, and what happens when fiercely independent Sam returns from five years of wandering and shakes things up. It’s an oddly weighted structure, not helped by the persistent present-tense narration; I’m more willing than a lot of people to give the present tense a chance, particularly in historical novels (cf. Mantel), but it also has the danger of imparting a kind of bland weightlessness to events, which is the effect it tends to have in Zhang’s novel. Most of the book feels glassy, not quite there, which may be because the structure prevents us from ever seeing Lucy or Sam bedding down into any one location. Sam’s gender-queerness is intelligently portrayed, particularly as it’s frequently juxtaposed with their beauty, but Zhang doesn’t ever seem able to commit to a pronoun, so you get sentences like “Sam jumps off Sam’s horse”, which is too consistently awkward to be passed off as stylistic. Worthwhile, certainly, but not quite the sum of its parts.

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Yesterday, I finished Olivia Laing‘s new essay collection, Funny Weather: Art In An Emergency. (Another scheduled April release, and a bigger name; what will become of these books?!) It’s one of those round-ups you get once an author has enough columns in various publications to their name; the second section is two years’ worth of short monthly pieces for Frieze magazine, for example. Luckily, unlike most collections of this type, the quality is consistently good, and excellent in places. I enjoy Laing’s writing a good deal more in long form than in short, so her Frieze pieces struck me as occasionally, unavoidably, glib, but an earlier section—biographical and creative appraisals of various 20th-century artists—was a delight. No one else writes about artists with such infectious verve; I now desperately want to read both Derek Jarman’s Modern Nature and David Wojnarowicz’s Close To the Knives, to seek out Agnes Martin’s paintings, to look up Sargy Mann. Her profiles of four creative women—Hilary Mantel (hey!), Ali Smith, Sarah Lucas and Chantal Joffe—reveal her fascination with artistic process and an artist’s psychology: why do writers, or painters, or filmmakers, or sculptors, work the way they do and on the things they do? There’s also a marvelous three-page essay (which I photographed and posted in full on Twitter, because it’s so good) about Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s idea of “paranoid reading” versus “reparative reading”: paranoid reading is what a lot of us are doing right now, desperate semi-mindless thumb-ache-inducing scrolling in order to gather the minutest pieces of data about a given situation. Sedgwick suggests an alternative paradigm, one in which the mere revelation of Bad Stuff Happening isn’t prioritized over attempts to process it or make it constructive or beautiful. Much harder to define, this reparative reading, but a really useful idea, at least for me, in the middle of this endless breaking news about Bad Stuff.

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I’m now listening to Michelle Obama‘s memoir, Becoming, which I got from Audible primarily because every woman of a certain age seems to love it and it seemed like something I should be, dutifully, aware of. Guess what? It’s genuinely great so far. She’s warm, gently funny, reflective, generous in her sharing of her family history. The first chapter culminates in an anecdote about her first piano recital at the age of five—she gets stuck because she can’t find Middle C on a piano with a perfect keyboard, having learned to identify it on her great-aunt’s instrument because it’s the key with a big chunk chipped out of it. Really, really enjoyable and lovely; highly recommend if you’re feeling a bit jangly because of all the news.


On to other media: Netflix is great and all (especially now that they’ve got most of Miyazaki’s films on there), but movies are my most infantile medium. The way some people demand only soothing or cosy or already-familiar books, I tend to demand the same of films. I like a franchise; open-mindedness and experimentation is a characteristic of my literary intake, not my cinematic one. I reckon we all need at least one artistic medium that we utilize purely for comfort. Therefore, in these times of turmoil: I bought a Disney+ subscription. It has been the greatest decision.

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My housemate Joe and I watched Coco as our first foray. I’d seen it once before, on Boxing Day two years ago, and figured my weepy response might just have been a result of being in holiday mode. Nope; it is a genuinely emotionally devastating film. It’s also wonderful and heartwarming, visually stunning, astonishingly dark in places, and very funny. It occurs to me that it doesn’t appear to have had much of a cultural afterlife (hah, afterlife): three years after its release, there’s no merchandise or memes or any of the stuff that, e.g., Frozen or Moana or even Inside Out have had. Why? What made this film sink (or sink-ish)? It can’t be because it’s about Mexican culture, entirely voice-acted by Hispanic/Latinx talent and set on the Day of the Dead, surely? (Apparently it is the highest grossing film of all time in Mexico, which is both lovely and heartbreaking: imagine being so starved for representation of your culture that it takes a cartoon to show you yourself.) Anyway, it’s fantastic; whoever wrote it has an incredibly light touch that only increases the emotional impact of each plot twist. Good, good stuff.

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We went for a double bill last night, because it was a Friday: our first screening was of Zootropolis (also released as Zootopia), which I’d never seen. God knows if I was just emotionally unstable and also half a bottle of wine down, but it struck me as utterly hilarious; the sloths in the DMV nearly had me weeping from laughter. The central conceit also allows for consistently brilliant visual gags, mostly to do with scale: the pneumatic commute tubes that deposit tiny, be-suited hamster bankers at their stop, a fox carrying a popsicle twice his size from a shop run by elephants, the fact that terrifying mafia boss Mr. Big is a pygmy shrew. I think this is actually a stronger element of the film than its police-procedural plot and the barely-sub-text about racism and prejudice; that stuff works well enough, but it doesn’t feel especially sophisticated. Watching a scene of a wedding reception, complete with exuberant dancing, before the camera pulls back to reveal that the whole thing is taking place on a tabletop (ringed by bodyguards who are polar bears)? Never not funny.

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For some reason, after we’d had one bottle of wine and finished Zootropolis, we decided to watch Hercules, which was made in 1997 and looks like it. Nevertheless, it’s also got some excellent writing, mostly given to Hades and Meg, both of whom are brilliant, bone-dry sarcasm merchants. It’s especially interesting to rewatch Disney films from this era because things that went right over my head are now smacking me in the face: the way in which Hades is coded both queer and Jewish, for example, or the fact that Meg is so clearly a 1940s comedic heroine, a His Girl Friday for the Bronze Age. The plot itself, of course, takes…liberties…with classical mythology, and the historically rape-y vibes of Zeus, the centaur Chiron and the satyr Philoctetes (who wasn’t a satyr) are either brushed under the rug or erased entirely. On the other hand, this is also the movie that gave us the Greek chorus of gospel singers, which is probably the best analogy in any Disney movie ever, not least because their music is SO. GOOD. (Another fun thing: when the chorus is narrating, as opposed to their actual musical numbers, the style bears a strong resemblance to operatic recitative. I copped on to it in the section that starts “Young Herc was mortal now”, but it’s there all the way through.) The introduction of the characters Pain and Panic is regrettable, and I still don’t understand why Hera is portrayed as hot-pink and sparkly instead of her more traditional characterization as a jealous bitch (with, as far as I know, standard human skin tone), but it’s fun and diverting, the scary bits are surprisingly scary, and the songs are surprisingly good.

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Oh, and I’ve also decided to watch all the way through the Star Wars movies in chronological order, which meant I had to start with Episode I: The Phantom Menace. Which is… not a very good movie. Liam Neeson is sexy in it because Liam Neeson is sexy in everything and at all times, but the rest of it is pretty pants. The pacing is weird, it takes an absolute age to get going, Darth Maul is barely in it (though his triple duel with Liam Neeson and Ewan McGregor at the end is excellently choreographed), Natalie Portman at eighteen really cannot act, and am I the only person who kept looking at every scene Shmi Skywalker was in and thinking, “More of this! Pay more attention to Shmi!” Her emotional experience before the film has been fairly devastating and things only get harder, and Qui-Gon Jinn just… never asks her any questions except for who Anakin’s dad is, and the film doesn’t seem to care? Also, Jar Jar Binks sucks. I know it’s fashionable to hate on him, but the fact is that it is also correct to hate on him, for he is the worst. The only redeeming feature of the film is Queen Amidala’s hair and wardrobe. Bring me this gown at once:

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What are you watching, reading, listening to, to stay sane?

some time later: a proof TBR update

I’m through that proof pile (we can talk about the library books later/never), so here are brief thoughts on each one.

71tn28sidylThe Water Dancer, by Ta-Nehisi Coates (out 6 Feb): I mentioned this a little in the earlier post because I’d actually finished it by the time I wrote that. Initially something of a challenge to hook into (it starts, shall we say, very much in medias res), it becomes more navigable as it goes on, and reveals itself to be the story of Hiram Walker, a slave on a Virginia plantation whose father is Howell, the white owner. Raised as a body man to his own (feckless) white half-brother Maynard, Hiram’s life is one not just of oppression, but of suppression: to survive as a house slave, particularly one so close to the family, he must occupy an intensely lonely and narrow social stratum, where he can fully trust neither his white family (who could sell him at any time) nor his slave one (who might develop resentment of his relatively high status). When Maynard drowns, Hiram is made over to Maynard’s fiancée, Corrine, and discovers that she has been freeing slaves and running a training school for Underground Railroad agents on her immense plantation, fighting slavery from within its own dark heart. She wants him because of a power he possesses, one his African grandmother, Santi Bess, is said to have used to free nearly a hundred slaves. Here is where I struggled a little with Coates’s conception: a supernatural liberating power that relies on harnessing traumatic memory is a brilliantly resonant idea; trauma plays such an insidious and undeniable role in the lives of descendants of enslaved people now that the idea of channeling it towards liberation is irresistible. But in the process, does it diminish or cheapen the efforts made by real Underground conductors, like Harriet Tubman, who appears in The Water Dancer as a supreme wielder of this power? Maybe: after all, enslaved people were not freed by magic. Or maybe not; maybe the metaphor holds and our conceptions of Tubman’s skill, courage and dignity are enriched by the suggestion that she was touched or chosen by something greater. I’m still not sure, though precisely because it raises these questions, I think The Water Dancer deserves to do very well.

81ongunjfrlThe Lost Pianos of Siberia, by Sophy Roberts (out 6 Feb): Roberts is a travel writer whose work has been published in the FT and in Condé Nast Traveler; this is her first book, and takes the form of a quest. On her travels, she has met a world-class pianist in, all of places, the Mongolian steppe, but this musician lacks an instrument equal to her powers. Roberts determines to find her one, and to do so by looking in Siberia, generally known as a land of unforgiving conditions, prison camps, black bread, greasy soup, exile, and misery. But—partly indeed because of the Tsarist, and later the Soviet, exile system—it also contains a surprising amount of culture, left over from times when highly educated and accomplished men and women were sent to the steppe for life. There are many pianos in Siberia. There are concert halls; there are opera houses; there is a ballet company. There are pianos brought for virtuosi to play and abandoned after one or two performances; there are pianos shipped overland by the determined wives of commissars and high-ranking Decembrist exiles; there are pianos in sitting rooms and music schools, played by children and old people and students and housewives. Siberia, it turns out, is intensely musical. There is great charm in Roberts’s descriptions of the landscape, the people, and the history. I personally tend to struggle with books of this nature because their composition seems so patently artificial: there’s a note right at the start of the text to inform us that Roberts has conflated and combined details of three long research trips to make her narrative, and while I understand why a writer might do that, something about it makes me automatically wary of all the detail that comes after. She also hasn’t quite managed to integrate herself into the text in a way that feels…how shall I put this? Generous? It’s hard to describe, but every time Roberts mentions her own reactions to something, you get the sense that the piano hunt is a proxy; what she wants, really, is an excuse to find Siberia. But there is never any acknowledgment of this, even though leads on pianos sometimes disappear for pages at a time. Hard to sum up, then, this book, though it’s also hard not to fall under its spell.

71pecyno-ql._ac_ul320_sr208320_The Good Hawk, by Joseph Elliott (out 6 Feb. Mild spoilers follow): Elliott’s debut novel for children stars a protagonist with a condition that goes unnamed in her world, but which is pretty clearly Down’s syndrome. In an alt-Scotland, Agatha is a Hawk: her job is to guard the sea wall that keeps her clan isolated and safe on the Isle of Skye. When she makes an honest, but dreadful, mistake, it’s held up as proof of her unfitness for work, and she’s stripped of her duties. Meanwhile, Jaime has a different problem: he’s been assigned a job as an Angler, a deep-sea fisherman, but is scared of the water. He’s also about to be married off to a girl from the neighboring island, Raasay, which is a fate worse than it usually is in children’s books because Skye people have never married; it’s not part of their culture or society. Jaime’s wedding is political—it’s meant to cement an alliance—but also deeply antithetical to everything his tribe has ever taught him, which is just one of the ways in which Elliott intelligently deals with tropes. (How many times have we seen a reluctant-young-bride figure in YA fantasy, as opposed to a reluctant young groom? How many times have we ever seen a boy being made to do things with his body that he doesn’t want to?) Agatha and Jaime—plus Jaime’s new wife, a Raasay girl named Lileas—must pull together when a betrayal sees their entire village abducted by alt-Vikings.

Elliott puts his characters in convincingly perilous and terrifying situations, and he’s not afraid to be realistic about the violence adults are willing to inflict: when a fairly major character is overpowered by the Viking prince whom the three children have managed to capture, their death is both shocking and thoroughly believable. Elliott introduces fantasy through the legend of the former Scottish king, who is said to have bred an army of shadows to carry on his war with “Ingland”, and to have been destroyed by them. The legends, it turns out, are quite true, and Agatha and Jaime will have to be the best versions of themselves—Jaime will need to be brave, Agatha to master her anger—in order to face them. I could have done with more Aggie, actually; I understand why Elliott chooses to intersperse her chapters with ones narrated by Jaime, in order to orient us, and Jaime himself has a rather lovely trajectory to do with his learning that homosexuality is fully accepted in what’s left of mainland society (and I can’t be the only one who’s also reading repressed queerness in his character). But I thought Agatha’s viewpoint was both unusual and strong, and wished for more of it. Luckily, this is the first in a projected series (the second is already written), and the final pages suggest that Agatha’s unusual ability to communicate with animals will drive the plot of the next installment. Hopefully that means she takes center stage on her own.

41vpl1d7djl._sy291_bo1204203200_ql40_Swimming in the Dark, by Tomasz Jedrowski (out 6 Feb): Initially giving the impression of some kind of Aciman/Greenwell love child, Swimming in the Dark doesn’t actually dispel that characterization so much as deepen it. Though I haven’t read Aciman, I don’t think he’s best known for being tremendously political; Jedrowski, on the other hand, is at least as interested in the effect of state repression on the growth and development of two men’s minds as he is in its effect on their romance. Indeed, he makes it clear that the two things are sort of the same. Ludwik and Janusz meet at a camp for university students, meant to teach intellectuals about the joys of toiling on the land—for this is Poland in the 1980s, half a decade away from Lech Wałeşa and Solidarność. They’re irresistibly drawn to each other, Ludwik with a kind of halting nervousness, Janusz with something more like gracious acceptance, and at the end of the camp, they go on a walking holiday together. They become lovers almost immediately, with a sense of utter naturalness and simplicity. Upon their return to Warsaw, they maintain their relationship, but in secret; in communist Poland, homosexuality is up there with sympathy towards the decadent West as the sort of leaning that can get you into serious trouble. Ludwik, who early in the novel acquires a banned copy of James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, is deeply frustrated by this repression. Janusz, by contrast, seems to see it as a necessary evil, the price a gay communist must pay for the satisfactions and rewards of being part of the state. The tension between these mutually exclusive attitudes will eventually render their relationship, and Ludwik’s continued habitation in Poland, impossible: the novel is focalized through his eyes and in retrospect, from the life he leads in New York in the late ’80s, watching news coverage of the revolution in his home country. We are meant, of course, to sympathize more with Ludwik, whose integrity will not be compromised, but Jedrowski is a good enough writer to gesture at the ways in which Janusz may not have made such a bad choice; he has almost certainly survived, his marriage to the fun-loving daughter of a high-ranking Party official both a protection and perhaps a thing enjoyable enough in itself.

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A Small Revolution in Germany, by Philip Hensher (out 6 Feb): This is the one I’m going to find hardest to talk about, not only because I finished it the most recently and therefore haven’t had time to let my thoughts about it percolate, but because there’s a lot about it that resists summary, though not necessarily analysis. It is, in essence, the story of a political awakening, but where most such stories tend to stop after that moment (the “small revolution” of the title, in one possible reading), Hensher’s more interested in the repercussions, the implications, of changing your mind or refusing to. His protagonist, Spike, and Spike’s partner of many decades, Joaquin, are the only two people from their youthful friendship group who have not deeply compromised their teenage radical principles. Others—like Percy Ogden, erstwhile leader of their gang, who once harangued an Army recruitment officer and now writes smug, condescending columns for a national newspaper, or Eric Milne, now a QC and a lord—most certainly have. Perhaps the worst offender of all is James Frinton, whom Spike recalls as the offspring of a pub landlord and a clinical depressive, smelling of overcooked peas and despair, and who reinvented himself so thoroughly at Oxford that he is now Home Secretary. And yet Spike doesn’t seem quite comfortable with his own integrity. He repeatedly notes, with something like unease, that the word “boyish” is often used of himself and of Joaquin. There is an extent to which moral compromise defines adulthood; if Spike and Joaquin haven’t compromised, how much can they be considered participants in the “real world”? How much do they want to be? (I wonder, also, if Hensher’s choice to make his protagonist a childless gay men is meant to be a gesture towards this as well. Not that I think Hensher is actually saying that a childless long-term homosexual relationship is a form of lifestyle immaturity; but I do think he might be suggesting that the world at large often frames choices like Spike’s in this way.) Anyway. Very interesting, and quite a good introduction to Hensher’s work, I think.


Have you got a proof TBR you’re trying to tackle? How’s it going?

books to look forward to

Forthcoming in January 2020: a bundle of truly excellent new titles, some of which I’ve read over the last few weeks. Let us hope that a good literary start to a new decade is an omen.

9781786331625Long Bright River, by Liz Moore: A genuinely exceptional crime novel, reminiscent of Dennis Lehane and Attica Locke, set in the drug- and prostitution-addled Philadelphia neighbourhood of Kensington. Our detective protagonist, Mickey, grew up in the area and has seen friends, cousins, neighbours, and her own parents and sister, fall prey to opiate addiction; keeping her patch safe is her biggest priority. Keeping her sister, Kacey, safe is equally important to her, but Kacey is a sex worker and a heroin addict, and Mickey is permanently worried about her. When it becomes clear that a serial killer is targeting Kensington’s sex workers, Mickey has to find the murderer and protect Kacey, even if it means going against orders. Her relationship with her former partner, Truman, is exquisitely drawn, as is her history with her ex-husband; the story of their marriage is an intelligent reinforcement of Moore’s exploration of how structural power is used against women, especially vulnerable ones. Not to be missed.

41uya1dvjtl._sx308_bo1204203200_Such a Fun Age, by Kiley Reid: I was meant to love this, according to the people I know at its publisher (Bloomsbury), and it almost feels churlish not to have done so. It is a forthright and quite uncompromising look at the shifting dynamics between a liberal white woman who desperately wants to be liked, and the slightly younger black nanny of her children; Reid’s major success is to create an atmosphere where all of the characters are both irritating and sympathetic, where everyone—even those that are more irritating than others, like the white boyfriend who has a history of fetishizing black people—makes at least one valid point about the emotional dishonesty and manipulative behaviour of the other characters. Where it’s not particularly subtle is in the illustration of nanny Emira’s friendship circle, which seems to consist primarily of Sassy Black Girl Friends. Ultimately uneven, but thought-provoking.

imageBraised Pork, by An Yu: Gorgeous cover, no? Despite the red flecks, it’s not especially gory; more than anything, it reminded me of Murakami, which is a comparison I generally dislike but which does occasionally seem applicable. In Braised Pork, a young woman finds her husband dead in the bath, the only clue to his demise being a scrap of paper upon which he has drawn a fish with the head of a man. His widow sets out to find the source of the strange drawing, and finds herself re-examining her own childhood in the process, including her father’s abandonment of their family. For me, the clearly magical realist elements of the novel (the un-dreams she has where she’s swimming deeper and deeper into a black lake in search of the fish man; a long sequence in a remote Tibetan village where an elder has been carving the image for decades) sat uneasily alongside the more prosaic family drama. Like Murakami, Yu’s novel often feels meandering and purposeless, though there no doubt is a purpose. Not my cup of tea, but might well be for someone else.

51licv4b04l._ac_sy400_ml2_The Street, by Ann Petry: Slated for republication by Virago Modern Classics, this was originally published in 1946 and was the first novel by a black woman to sell more than a million copies in America. Like much of what I’ve read from Virago recently, there is a fantastic sense of contemporaneity to it; the story of Lutie Johnson, who tries to keep herself and her son safe and their integrity intact, but who must contend with sexism, racism, and the devastating grind of poverty, is told with a fury so passionate and fresh that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the ink still wet on the page. Petry’s work is clearly a frontrunner for a literary tradition that went on to encompass Gayl Jones, Toni Morrison, Paule Marshall, and Tayari Jones.  Frequently skirting melodrama but always redeemed by Petry’s absolutely clear, burning vision, it’s a gripping page-turner as well as a portrait of a woman trying to maintain sanity within a system that has been specifically designed to destroy her.

81wobth2melAgency, by William Gibson: It must be odd to be William Gibson. Society, and technology, has more or less arrived at a point that he wrote about as futuristic during his early career; he’s now indelibly known as a science fiction writer, but Agency—though it has all of the trappings of a techno-thriller and is, certainly, science fictional—is less world-of-tomorrow sf than world-of-three-minutes-from-now satire. It concerns the development of an autonomous AI system, originally created as a form of virtual handler for covert military operations, now stolen by a Silicon Valley firm and marketed as a PA called Eunice. There’s time travel (sort of, in a manner of speaking), and high-speed motorcycle chases, and a remote-control drone shaped like a radiator, and a lot of quick, slangy banter. It’s terrific fun and reasonably clever along with it, though I think Gibson’s ending is optimistic.

9781526607027Threshold, by Rob Doyle: Nothing—no friend’s impassioned recommendation, no innate desire, no travel article—has ever, ever made me want to drop acid and go to a three-day rave at a Berlin nightclub. This book did. Doyle seems to have written a type of autofiction, one in which all he does for at least a decade and a half is travel around Europe, writing in a desultory fashion and taking a lot of drugs. As a human being, narrator-Doyle is faintly insufferable—he’s not good to women and remarkably solipsistic—but of course the relationship of narrator-Doyle to author-Doyle is indirect. Rachel Kushner writes, on the front cover, that she “learned to stop worrying (about what sort of novel this is) and love the narrator”; I never quite loved him, but I did warm to his earnest, encyclopedic  informativeness, and the postcard-from-Europe style of his perambulations around various cities. And no description of the effects of hallucinogens has ever entranced me half so much.


Out later in 2020:

original_400_600The Mercies, by Kiran Millwood Hargrave (6 Feb): I’m ever wary of covers like this one—it’s generally a dead giveaway that the publishers are attempting to ride the Essex Serpent wave, though sometimes (see The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock) it pays off. Millwood Hargrave’s first novel for adults (she’s a successful children’s/YA author) is based on the true story of a freak storm that killed forty men off the coast of a Norwegian island in 1617, and the subsequent imprisonment and trials for witchcraft that the women of the island suffered. Its relevance to the modern day is, perhaps, a tiny bit on the nose (yes, men dislike powerful women! Yes, religious mania is a figleaf for controlling sadists!) I was, however, moved by Millwood Hargrave’s description of the physical effects of grief and depression, and by her sensitive portrayal of the central (lesbian) romance. A wonderful historical yarn to curl up with on cold nights.

9781526601094Rest and Be Thankful, by Emma Glass (19 March): Curious, this: Glass’s depiction of a NICU nurse who is overworked, desperately sleep-deprived, and already prone to chronic anxiety and depression is extremely affecting, but also feels very one-note. There is nothing in the book other than the protagonist Laura’s increasing inability to keep herself together, her physical deterioration (red, cracked hands and greasy hair) mirroring her mental and emotional decline. Her boyfriend, who leaves her, is clearly a dickhead, but one also struggles to blame him for wanting more out of his relationship than the miserable zombie he’s currently living with. Hints that Laura is struggling with a deeper trauma hidden in her past go some way towards clarifying her state of mind, but the final-page revelation feels slightly unearned. Perhaps if I read it a second time I would get more out of it.

71zwt2vovwlMy Dark Vanessa, by Kate Elizabeth Russell (31 March): I put off reading this (the hype! The overt Nabokov, specifically Lolita, intertext! The teacher/student romance thing!) I was, eventually, blown away by it. Russell gets everything so right: the way that English teacher Jacob Strane grooms fifteen-year-old Vanessa, making her feel special and clever, playing on her emotional intelligence to push her into wanting to be “cool” and “mature”, and therefore not reacting negatively when he at last touches her. The way that Vanessa, seventeen years later, struggles with revelations that Strane did this to other students; the way that, as she tells her therapist, she doesn’t see herself as a victim; the way that she has to tell it to herself as a love story—because if it isn’t, how can she bear it? I recognized so much of myself in Vanessa’s reactions and longings that it scared me: if the right (wrong) person had come along when I was fifteen, I was nearly as vulnerable as she was. A lot of girls are. Russell deals with an incredibly difficult, complex subject with the nuance and shading that it deserves, while never being unclear about the dreadful effect Strane has had on Vanessa’s life. Believe the hype.


What are you looking forward to reading in January?

vital details

It was such an ordinary evening, but every detail of it would matter; every detail would become vital.

Wed Wabbit, Lissa Evans. 2017.

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Lissa Evans had my heart with Old Baggage, a novel for adults about a suffragist’s attempt to impart meaning to her life after the battle for the vote has been won, which came out in 2018. Seeing that Wed Wabbit was released just a year before that only increases my sense of admiration. How talented do you have to be to produce not only a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and complex adult novel, but also a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and cacklingly hilarious children’s novel, within the space of two years? Pretty bloody talented.

Our heroine is ten and a half-year-old Fidge (her mother named her Iphigenia, and her little sister Minerva; her father acquiesced on the condition that he be allowed to give the children unfussy nicknames, so they are Fidge and Minnie). She and Minnie live with their mum. Their dad, a firefighter, died (of cancer or a similar terminal illness) a little over a year ago, a fact with which Fidge is struggling: she hasn’t let anyone hug her since then. Minnie, age four, is going through something of an obsessive stage: her favourite animal is a stuffed red velvet lapine to whom she lispingly refers as “Wed Wabbit”, and her favourite book, which Fidge is obliged to read over and over again, is a nauseatingly cheery and reductive story entitled The Land of Wimbley Woos:

The first picture showed a group of happy-looking Wimblies. Each was a different colour, but they were all shaped like dustbins with large round eyes and short arms and legs, and they radiated a sort of idiotic jollity. Fidge turned the page and continued reading in a bored, rapid mutter.

“Yellow are timid, Blue are strong, Grey are wise and rarely wrong. Green are daring, Pink give cuddles, Orange are silly and get in muddles. Purple Wimblies understand The past and future of our land.”

“Wead it pwoply, with expwession,” commanded Minnie.

Fidge is a tough cookie, but she is looking forward, with heartbreaking intensity, to an impending outdoor-activities holiday. On a last-minute shopping trip into town the day before, her mum’s slowness combined with Minnie’s need for the latest Wimbley Woos book causes them to be too late to buy the flippers that Fidge so desperately wants. Mutinous with resentment, she kicks Minnie’s beloved Wed Wabbit—intending only to take out her frustration—directly into traffic. Minnie runs out after him, and…well, no, it’s a children’s book. But she is hospitalized, and Fidge—now wracked with guilt—sent to stay overnight with her Uncle Simon, Auntie Ruth, and cousin Graham. Graham is hopeless, apparently terrified of everything and overprotected by his parents but convinced of his own superior intellect, “large and pale, like a plant that has been heavily watered but kept in the dark”. While Fidge is there, there’s a thunderstorm, and something extremely odd happens. In Evans’s own, deliberately hand-wavey explanation,

Fact: when Fidge had thrown all Minnie’s toys down the stairs at Graham’s house, the thing that had happened next—the huge soundless static explosion—must have somehow churned them together, and who knew what might—

Yes: Fidge, and Graham, and all of Minnie’s toys (including a pink and purple elephant named Ella and a bright pink diamanté mobile phone that makes a very annoying sound when it rings), and Graham’s “transitional object” (a plastic promotional carrot from a supermarket, which his rather dippy parents are hoping will serve as a locus for all of his fears and help him cope with change), are in The Land of the Wimbley Woos. And not just in a generic sense, either: they are, specifically, in Minnie’s copy, and therefore in Minnie’s version of Wimbley Land. (The Purple Wimblies, upon all of which she has drawn moustaches in felt-tip in her copy of the book, are moustachioed here.) Much more problematic, though, is the fact that Wed Wabbit is also in the book—and here, in what is clearly some corner of Minnie’s fearful and confused psyche, he is extremely powerful. In fact, he has overthrown the Wimbley King (who doesn’t mind, mostly because his greatest ambition is to be left alone), and established himself as a vast (literally; everything is bigger in Wimbley Land, so Wed Wabbit is about twenty feet tall) and terrifying dictator.

Well, terrifying to the Wimbley Woos, anyway. When Graham and Fidge first meet this tyrannical incarnation of Wed Wabbit, the inherent ridiculousness of the situation brings them together for the first time:

“WIMBLEY LAND HAS BEEN WUN IN A WEGWETTABLE WAY, BUT NOW THE TIME OF WECKONING HAS COME,WEQUIWING A BWEAK FWOM THE PAST AND A CWACK DOWN ON TWEATS AND WELAXATION. IT WILL TAKE AN EXTWEMELY STWONG STWUGGLE TO WIGHT THESE WONGS AND I—”

Graham let out a huge snort, and Fidge found she couldn’t hold back any longer and they were suddenly both yelping with helpless, uncontrollable laughter—Graham doubled up, Fidge with tears actually running down her cheeks.

(That’s not a formatting error above, by the way; Wed Wabbit speaks in 62-point all-caps.)

In order to depose Wed Wabbit, Fidge and Graham—plus Ella, the carrot (who demands to be referred to as “Dr. Carrot”, despite Graham pointing out that the “DR” printed on her base stands for “Douglas Retail”, the name of the shop where the vegetable promotion was occurring), a plucky Pink Wimbly and a somewhat long-winded Grey Wimbly—must bring all the Wimblies together to take out the Blues, who serve as castle guards.

Honestly, I’m nearly 1000 words into the review and we’ve just about sorted the meat of the plot. Wed Wabbit pretty much defies description in that regard, but in the best possible way. It is an intensely weird premise and there is no point in pretending it is not—but then, Evans knows, and is entirely uninterested in, its level of weirdness. The mechanism by which Fidge, Graham and the toys get into Minnie’s book—much less get out again—is never explained and hardly dwelt upon. Wed Wabbit isn’t about believable world-building; it’s about using the structure of a quest narrative (free Wimbley Land from tyranny!) to intelligently parallel an arc of internal emotional development. Both Fidge and Graham need to let go of something that is holding them captive: Fidge, her refusal to give or receive hugs (which here are metonyms for affection and the vulnerability that comes with being demonstrative), and Graham, his terror of everything and his belief in the superiority of intellect above pragmatism or kindness. Both of them, in other words, have their own Wed Wabbits lurking in their hearts.

For the most part this is fairly subtly done (at least, I imagine a ten-year-old wouldn’t necessarily twig). There is one moment, I think, where Evans slightly overplays it:

“But why?” asked Graham. “What does he get out of it? OK, so he’s the boss and the whole country’s terrified of him, and everyone rushes about obeying his orders, but he’s stuck in the castle, he never gets out, he never does anything or talks to anyone or has any fun or…” He suddenly became aware that Dr. Carrot was looking at him in a significant way. “What?” he asked defensively. “You’re not trying to say that’s like me, are you?”

Why, yes, yes indeed.

Fidge’s turn, when it comes, is better managed: having done what they believe necessary to defeat Wed Wabbit, she realizes one final thing is in order, and—reluctantly—hugs him. Instantly, he shrinks, colour returns to Wimbley Land (amongst other things, he has been draining everything to white), and good governance is restored. (Not, mind you, by the re-installation of the Wimbley King. The Oldest and Wisest of the Grey Wimblies, who has by now learned the art of brevity, is elected ruler in his stead.)

Fidge and Graham’s personal quests, though a hook to hang the rest of the book from, are not really the funny bits. Those are mostly to do with the Wimblies, who can only communicate in the singsong rhyme scheme of their book, and whose self-conceptions are entirely based around the assumption that each color Wimbly is only good at one thing. (This is, in fact, key to the strategy that ends up overthrowing Wed Wabbit, but I won’t spoil everything for you.) The rhyming provides almost infinite opportunities for wit, and Evans takes full advantage of them. The Wimbley King’s apathy, for instance, is delightfully articulated by the fact that he frequently can’t be bothered to think of end rhymes:

“Sorry, I didn’t hear your question./This muesli’s rather good./Bim bestion.”

When Wimbley Land is freed, it’s not just from Wed Wabbit, but from the shackles of trochaic tetrameter. A Pink Wimbly thanks Fidge in the structure of a limerick:

“But it’s us who can’t thank you enough/We know that your journey’s been rough/For such a brave fight/Your talents were right/You’re clever and stubborn and tough.”

“It wasn’t just me,” said Fidge.

A Purple with green blotches clapped Graham on the back.

“One straw is so weak,” it bellowed. “But take and weave a handful—/Such strength together!”

“That didn’t rhyme,” said Fidge.

“Blank verse,” said Ella.

(I think, actually, it’s a haiku.)

The strength of Wed Wabbit, therefore, isn’t necessarily in its plot: even though describing it takes ages and sounds quite mad, it’s in the service of a not-so-unusual story, about how to find strength at moments when you feel weak, about how to make friends and move through fear. Where it shines is in its complete dedication to being batshit, its ability to convince us that yes, of course, a four-year-old’s idea of a terrible dungeon would indeed include squashy bananas and warm milk with a skin on it, because those are the things she hates. That’s what makes it, not just a good children’s book, but a good book, like Pixar doesn’t just make good movies for kids but good movies in general. In fact, I’d quite like to see Pixar adapt this.

a bit of most things

Not everything I’ve read since my last post, but a fair amount of it.

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Mortal Engines, by Philip Reeve: An addition to the shelf of books that prove children’s literature need not be any less morally complex, engaging, or surprising than adult books (Philip Pullman’s complete oeuvre also lives there). You no doubt know the premise of this already, from the film: in an ecologically ravaged future, cities have become mechanized and mobile, and the principle of Municipal Darwinism encourages larger settlements to hunt and consume smaller ones. (This accounts for Reeve’s justly famous opening line: “It was a dark, blustery afternoon in spring, and the city of London was chasing a small mining town across the dried-out bed of the North Sea.”) Tom Natsworthy, a young apprentice historian, saves a famous adventurer from an assassin and, during the struggle, is flung from the city into the wastelands below. He must team up with a physically and emotionally scarred girl named Hester Shaw, not only to get back to London, but to foil a plot brewing within the city itself that threatens what remains of the world. There’s also a third point-of-view character: Katherine, the sheltered and protected daughter of the man whose life Tom saves, who mounts her own investigation from within the upper echelons of London society.

Both Katherine’s and Tom’s moral arcs bend towards disillusionment and the assumption of responsibility, and Mortal Engines is so good because that development is paced so well. Tom and Hester argue periodically about the legitimacy of Municipal Darwinism, and for more than half the book, Tom cannot quite understand why anybody would want a different system; Katherine trusts in the good faith of the authority figures around her for a very long time, even as she continues to uncover proof of corruption. It’s a realistic depiction of how difficult it is to face the flaws in your own beliefs, and it’s infinitely more convincing than the remarkable readiness of, e.g., Katniss Everdeen to overthrow everything she’s ever known. (Reeve also writes with a restraint and sureness of touch that makes his more emotional sequences unbearably effective: a sudden death near the end of the book is conveyed in a paragraph the rhythmic balance and deftness of which made me cry.) I’ll be reading the rest of the series.

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The Jewel, by Neil Hegarty: Back to adult literature for a bit, with Neil Hegarty’s second novel, which was published on 3 October. It centers around the theft of an almost miraculous artwork: a painting buried with its artist as a shroud, but later exhumed and hung on the walls of a Dublin gallery. It draws the attention of the public for its uncanny freshness: the nature of the materials means the colours should not have remained bright for as long as they have. A short opening sequence is from the perspective of the late Victorian female artist who painted the piece; when it is stolen, the chapters shift between the perspectives of the thief, the specialist tasked with recovering it, and the curator in charge of the robbed gallery. It is, in a way, a novel about a stolen painting, but it is not an art-world heist caper; it is very much more about the lives led by three people brought together by a piece of art that is meaningful to each of them, about what sorts of experiences form a person and how that formed personality can sometimes be blazed away, for an instant, by something other. Probably more to the point, though, Hegarty’s character sketches are precise and painful: the corrosive effect of cynicism on a man’s soul, the revelation of the cancerous depth of abuse in a supposedly loving relationship, the searing trauma of a sister’s death in silent, repressive late-twentieth-century Ireland. Some are more effective than others. I was never quite as convinced by Roisin, the gallery curator, and the story of Ward, the recovery specialist, is by far the most emotionally engaging. But these are quibbles that raise themselves weeks after reading the book; while turning the pages, all of these characters are real. And Hegarty’s prose is just so trustworthy, which is much rarer than it sounds.

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Homecoming: Voices of the Windrush Generation, by Colin Grant: Also published on 3 October. Grant is a journalist and Homecoming (or Home Coming; reviews have been published that spell it both ways) is an oral history of black Caribbean-British life from the 1940s onwards. Like many books that use this research method, Homecoming is often not quite clear about when its sources were interviewed, presumably because Grant has visited some of his interviewees multiple times, then cut and shaped their testimony (Svetlana Alexievich’s books are not dissimilar). The book also borrows transcripts from other projects of this kind: from BBC documentaries on the black British experience going back as far as the 1950s, for example, or from memoirs by black British writers. Although this can lead to a kind of historical vertigo, it also has the effect of layering generations of testimony, sometimes in a surprising and enlightening manner; there is a whole chapter dedicated to racist violence in Notting Hill in 1958, but there are also several interviewees who state frankly that Enoch Powell’s notorious “Rivers of Blood” speech, ten years later, made little to no impression on their daily lives. It’s one of many salutary reminders in the book that people live, as Margaret Atwood puts it in The Handmaid’s Tale, “as usual”–that patterns we retroactively read as abnormal or catastrophic are often experienced much less dramatically by the people alive at the time. The point is not that racism never existed or wasn’t as bad as news reports suggested; it’s that no two people of Caribbean descent in Britain have experienced the same things in the same ways. Homecoming goes a long way towards challenging the still-prevalent idea of a monolithic racial narrative.

song of the lark

The Song of the Lark, by Willa Cather: Still on a Cather kick, and I think this might be the best one so far, although possibly that’s because it’s about something that fascinates me: namely, the artistic development of a musician. Thea Kronborg grows up the daughter of a Lutheran pastor in Moonstone, Colorado, but her talent as a pianist, and later as a soprano, lead her to Chicago, Germany, New York, and beyond. Cather’s strengths are here in full force: her apparently effortless evocation of the lands of the American West; her subtle and entire grasp of the complications of human character; and her innate understanding that artistry involves sacrifice, and that involves decisions that other people can’t always empathize with. (Thea chooses, for example, not to come home when her mother is dying; if she stays in Germany, she will have the chance to sing the role of Elizabeth in Wagner’s Tannhauser, which becomes her breakthrough role. The people in her life are divided primarily into those who understand this perfectly, and those who never will.) Structurally, Cather thought the novel a failure, and AS Byatt, in her introduction, agrees: she cites what Cather seemed to think of as the weakening effect of the final section of the novel, during which Thea is seen at the height of her career. Cather’s regret is understandable; the novel would be strong enough if it ended just as Thea goes off to Germany, her development as a singer now well underway. This isn’t really a book about success: it’s a book about work, which makes a whole section on success a little redundant. But it’s worth it, just about, to know that the work pays off.

also read recently:

  • Trick Mirror, by Jia Tolentino, undoubtedly the most intelligent and rigorous essay collection on the Internet age, and specifically Internet feminism, that I’ve yet read. Tolentino’s a New Yorker staff writer and she is not content with platitudes about millennial culture or about the deleterious effects of social media on our attention spans; she’s much more interested in dissecting how things happen, what the exact circumstances are that result in malaise, or trolling, or a specific cultural phenomenon. Outstanding.
  • Priests de la Resistance, by Fergus Butler-Gallie, a moving and also charming collection of biographical chapters focusing on religious individuals (mostly ordained or consecrated but some not) who have fought Fascism in the twentieth century. The usual suspects are present (Maximilian Kolbe, Dietrich Bonhoeffer), but also some names quite new to me (Sister Sara Salkhazi, Pietro Pappagallo). He also doesn’t just stick to WWII-era resistance, but glances also at the religious foundations of the US civil rights movement. A bit more balance would have been welcome, but maybe that’s for volume three? In any case: an excellent collation of humans who, whatever you think of theology in general, felt themselves called to save lives. We could all do a lot worse than to follow these particular examples.
  • The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood, my first audiobook in… maybe ever. Our household didn’t really do audiobooks when I was a kid, and I’ve always assumed I’ll find them annoying. This was technically a re-read, since I read it first at fifteen, but this time around, Atwood’s novel felt much more immediate and daring and vital. For a long time I’ve been quietly skeptical of what all the fuss is about, having only faint memories of the book I read twelve years ago, and now – especially thanks to Elisabeth Moss’s dry, softly-spoken narrative style – I get it. Occasionally Atwood shows signs of the slightly too on-the-nose jokes that have started to mar her recent work (“pen is envy”, recently cited by a reviewer of The Testaments, turns up for the first time in The Handmaid’s Tale, and I’m not at all convinced by the likelihood of portmanteaux such as “Prayvaganza” or “Particicution”, although the grim euphemism of “Salvaging” is plausible). But mostly, it’s as fresh and terrifying a guide to the ways in which women can be enslaved – and complicit in the system that enslaves them – as ever.

 

 

 

05. Dressed, by Shahidha Bari

Reader, I DNFd it.

Most likely it’s a problem with me, not with Dressed itself. You can hardly fault a book just for not being the thing you wanted it to be. Still, I was really hoping for some fairly specific, example-grounded analysis of garments and styles, and what I got—at least for the first thirty pages or so—was a series of rather superficial, if lyrical, pronouncements. The back cover quote is (for once) illustrative: “Clothes tell our stories, some that we would rather not tell, others that we hardly know ourselves.” As an introduction to a section that delves into specific instances of garments that reveal more than they’re intended to about the person wearing them, that sentence would be okay; still a little dull, but it’d do. As the precursor to several other sentences that are, substantively, exactly like it, it doesn’t convince. Perhaps Bari is more amenable to citing evidence that backs up her statements later on in the book, but life is short, books are many, and I’m never going to get that far.


I don’t intend to replace this in my official 20 Books of Summer list; it’s okay not to finish things. Dressed was published by Jonathan Cape on 13 June.