The Book of Disappearance by Ibtisam Azem (translated by Sinan Antoon)

I was drawn to the bold premise of this novel where one day all Palestinian Arabs suddenly vanish from the State of Israel. This challenges the notion that if Palestinians were to leave the region it would solve the biggest problems of this area of The Middle East. It's an inventive way of considering this longstanding conflict and, sadly, continues to feel extremely relevant today though the book was first published in Arabic in 2014 (with the first English translation appearing in 2019.) The narrative brings this sudden occurrence to life through the voices and competing opinions of those who remain, but it's primarily focused through the lens of Israeli journalist Ariel who reads through the notebooks of his vanished Palestinian friend and neighbour Alaa while writing news articles on reactions to the ongoing situation. But before the big event occurs I was immediately emotionally drawn into the story with Alaa's description of the death of his beloved grandmother. I felt his deep sense of grief which is represented in the often repeated metaphor: “Longing for you is like holding a rose of thorns!” It's touching how her charismatic presence and staunch devotion to Jaffa seem to fill this novel even though she dies at the very beginning. Her loss which proceeds the entire Palestinian people's disappearance seems to underpin a question posed in various ways throughout the novel: what remains in a physical landscape after part of its people and their culture have gone or been destroyed?

It was compelling how the initial disappearance of the Palestinians is viewed from a number of different characters in the community whose lives are immediately impacted by the loss. Inconveniences and larger immediate problems such as the loss of manual labour, delayed buses, closed shops and the cancellation of a medical operation gradually build to larger tensions concerning how the State of Israel will function without any Palestinian Arabs. The state anxiously requires that everyone must register their citizenship as a way of definitively categorising who belongs and who doesn't. I appreciated how the author represented a wide range of perspectives from highly prejudiced to fearful to sympathetic to indifferent. From what I understand some of these points of view were taken from or at least inspired by real interviews and speeches. Though we're only given a small glimpse of a number of characters' lives, I found the way this was structured to be effective because it gave a snapshot of so many different voices and reactions. It shows the deep seeded dangerous rhetoric believed by some that Israel is the only democratic nation in this area and the Palestinian Arabs are a threatening inconvenient presence that need to be controlled. However, others assume that their disappearance must have been somehow orchestrated by the Israeli state and worry for their welfare.

I found it interesting how both Alaa and Ariel's fathers are absent for different reasons and how the reasons for their fathers' deaths influence each man's beliefs and how they are perceived within their communities. Though they are friends and there are accounts of how they socialised with one another, there are also sections which describe how they have very different beliefs which stem from competing ideological stances and their respective positions within the society. Initially I felt uncertain how much I believed in their friendship and I think that's partly with how the novel is structured, but I gradually came to feel that they have quite a complicated connection with each other. In particular, there's a very powerful scene where Alaa has a very public rant at how Ariel isn't seeing his point of view.

Ariel is quite a complicated figure as he's in some ways liberal but also adheres to Zionist beliefs. Alarming scenes from his past are gradually shown and it also grows increasingly disturbing how Ariel freely colonizes Alaa's apartment even though he's only been gone a short time. Ariel reads Alaa's notebook, sleeps in his bed, drinks his wine and finally plans to change the locks. Though they shared a friendship, it feels like Ariel reverts to the stance that any space which is abandoned by Palestinians can be freely taken and he feels justified in doing so. However, there's a tension because he hears noises as if the space is being haunted or that Alaa may return at any moment to reclaim his space. There's also an unsettling painting in Alaa's apartment of a cloaked figure staring out as if continuing to bear witness.

One of the most devastating sections of the novel concerns a much older former Israeli soldier named Dayan's memory of witnessing and being involved with the rape and terrorisation of an Arab woman and man. He's continued seeing the woman on the street for many years but now that the Palestinians have vanished he's not able to ask her for forgiveness and paradoxically he resents her for depriving him of that opportunity. This passage seemed to function as both a literal account, but it's also symbolic of how if the Palestinians were to disappear there would be no way for the Israelis to atone for their oppressive actions. Some members of my bookclub posed an intriguing question considering whether the woman in this section is Alaa's grandmother and if Dayan is related to Ariel. It certainly seems possible but I didn't think this was the case because I believe the woman disappears with the other Palestinians rather than dying before that occurrence, but maybe that's my own interpretation. I'd be keen to hear if other readers wondered this or have other theories/possible answers.

The novel feels somewhere between a documentary and piece of speculative fiction to me. The points of view of various individuals give a sense of the narrative a nation creates about itself to justify its actions and policies. This statement stood out to me: “An illusion is enough to live the lie that later becomes the truth.” As the Palestinians are being pushed out of the country, imprisoned or killed there's the danger their narrative and point of view will disappear or be erased. Alaa maintains a notebook partly because “I write to remember, and to remind, so memories are not erased. Memory is my last lifeline.” Though the novel describes a fantastical occurrence which is never explained it doesn't feel as much like speculative fiction because the disappearance of the Palestinians has been occurring in a literal way ever since the beginning of the Nakba and 1948 events which the grandmother recalls.

Some readers have expressed concerns over whether this novel gives a balanced take on this conflict given the author is Palestinian. Certainly the writer is coming from a certain point of view and she's also a journalist. However, this isn't an article or piece of non-fiction. It's a novel and like all artistic creations is by its very nature from a subjective perspective. I'm in no way an expert in this conflict, but the atrocities being experienced by both Palestinians and Israelis in the region is well documented. This novel made me think about the recent documentary 'No Other Land' (which won an Oscar earlier this year.) It feels especially relevant given that at the centre of the documentary is a friendship between an Israeli and Palestinian who are activists. It's a really powerful film and I'd highly recommend watching it.

Overall, I felt that this novel meaningfully shows how a place truly comes to life through the multiplicity of experiences and perspectives of its different citizens. The grandmother viewed Jaffa in a certain way. Alaa viewed it a different way. And Ariel views it another way. Just as Alaa longs to speak with his grandmother again to see her perspective, Ariel desires to speak with Alaa. So the loss of each individual is not only a physical absence but mean that an essential part of this place's character has also been lost. Though this is a very specific story its concept and ideas could easily be applied to many different areas of the world which have been colonized or where there are deep seeded conflicts between different cultures, religions or nationalities. It made me think of the novel “Exit West” by Mohsin Hamid as it uses a fantastical occurrence as a way to differently consider a larger political issue. As some readers have remarked and Azem has cited Jose Saramago's excellent novel “Blindness” also feels like an influence. But Azem still does something very unique in this book – not least of which is portray a grandmother/grandchild connection which feels very emotional and true.

Under the Eye of the Big Bird by Hiromi Kawakami (translated by Asa Yoneda)

“Under the Eye of the Big Bird” is definitely not a traditional sort of novel but more like islands of events separated by space and time. Hundreds (or even thousands) of years sometimes pass between sections. The chapters aren't chronological either. These could be taking place far in the distant future or perhaps the past. Certain characters seem to overlap between sections, but often these turn out to be distant relations or clones of their predecessors who use the same name. Some advanced technological progress has been made (being able to sync consciousness with others, hovercrafts) but other technologies like flying airplanes has been lost and then later hovercrafts become outmoded. There are references to calamitous events which nearly wipe out the world's human population or periods of environmental instability, but the focus is on the experience of various individuals caught in the circumstances of their particular time and community. Some of their lives more closely resemble our own, but others have been genetically modified or evolved to have different physiological traits (extra eyes, the ability for photosynthesis, etc), extra-sensory powers or artificial intelligence. Lifespans drastically differ from story to story so that some individuals only live for a few decades while others live for hundreds of years. Rather than following any individual's story across the narrative, this book is more concerned with the destiny or a possible eventual extinction or rebirth of the human race. In its quest to survive and adapt throughout the ages questions are raised concerning identity, community, intelligence, creativity, motherhood, romance and religion.

While reading this book I felt like the ground was constantly shifting under my feet as whenever I thought I could almost grasp a timeline or character's trajectory things would change. At first I tried to map out what was happening but this soon proved to be too difficult and I decided instead to let the story wash over me instead of trying to follow it like a traditional narrative. I was glad I did this because it meant I was able to ease into and enjoy where the novel took me even though I felt very disorientated. The story also (somewhat) comes together in the final two chapters where previous events are somewhat over-explained. Now that I know the meaning of many of this story's puzzle pieces I think if I went back and reread it I'd see more clearly how they all fit together. I'd be eager to do so at some point because I think this book is quite a creative imaginative feat and I'm fascinated how it challenges many of our assumptions about free will and predestination based on genetics, social engineering or technology. Later on in the novel it's observed “While you may believe that you have freely adopted your values out of the entire field of possibilities, that is hardly the case. From the beginning, your limited value systems are built up only in a single, predetermined direction.”

A curious small detail which is mentioned a couple times in the early sections of the novel is a carousel. This image haunted me while reading the book because a carousel feels very reminiscent of childhood and this novel often focuses on young people trying to orientate themselves and develop in a world which is often strangely different from what we know. Like a revolving carousel when it stops the era where these individuals end up is subject to chance. And the carousel spinning around also comes to feel like civilisation itself going through the same cycles across thousands of years. Being spun around is also very disorientating – much like the experience of reading this book! Perhaps I'm reading too much into it but this came across as quite a symbolic image which stuck with me throughout the novel.

I enjoyed how a collective who jointly raise the children in many of the communities within the stories are merely referred to as “the mothers”. This feels quite mysterious at first but it's eventualyl explained. Except for the few great mothers “the mothers” are only referred to as a collective. This made me think of “Embers of the Hands”, the non-fiction book on Vikings I read recently. The author Eleanor Barraclough remarks how almost all the historical Viking personalities we know about are male warriors and male leaders because that's what is recorded in legends and history. However, there obviously wouldn't be a next generation if there hadn't been women there giving birth, raising children and caring for the family. I wondered if Kawakami was partly referring to this sense of limited historical knowledge when using the anonymous label of “the mothers” because there's often no other way for us to know these past generations of women who ensured the survival of our species. When the identity of “the mothers” is revealed it's fascinating how this challenges traditional notions of what form nurturing should take. Being guided through time by “the mothers” is different to the often-destructive unwieldy and war-torn direction where (often) male leaders take society. It's remarked at one point that “It is never guaranteed that those of you who hold positions of power are able to look firmly and unblinkingly into the future of their own. If anything, in fact, it is more common that once you gain such positions, you become disconnected from a rational point of view.”

Individual identity is also confused as specific people are cloned to continue throughout history and retain memories of the past. This uncertainty comes into the narrative with the use of pronouns where in one section there is little distinction between “you” or “me” and in another part it's declared “Every me is me.” One tribe only uses numbers rather than names. The genetic makeup of some are mixed with technology or animals so this raises the question of what makes us human and what makes us unique. In one section there's a question over whether a character named Emma Jackson is human because she has special powers but she declares “I was as human as they were, but I could never be one of them.” A popular topic in our culture at the moment is the concern about what impact AI will have on the entertainment industry – if music, novels and movies start being AI generated does this mean the death of creativity or won't that matter if they still produce satisfying experiences? I think Kawakami is encouraging us to contemplate all these issues. We see throughout the book how individuals spring up who are different and creative (even if they've not been raised or programmed to be so.) One child loves to dance and continuously expresses herself in this way. Other characters fall in love and/or feel inclined to mate with one another even if they've not been authorised to do so by the watchers or overseeing government. So the personality of individuals and innovation breaks through cracks in this oftentimes rigidly structured society. This is sometimes encouraged and other times it's repressed/eliminated – such as a shocking scene where an individual becomes violently intolerant about a certain tribe.

So this book obviously raises lots of interesting things to consider by contemplating human civilization over a long span of time, but does that make it a satisfying read or just an intellectual exercise? Personally I was delighted by its weirdness, surprising variations in human life/social organisation that pop up over the span of years and how it questions the nature of humanity. However, it required an adjustment of expectation about what I wanted from the story. There were certain sections I'd have liked to know more about and sometimes just when I was getting a clear understanding about the complexities of a certain character the novel moved on. Oddly horrific elements like an instance of consensual cannibalism aren't developed as much as they could have been. Because of the structure, it required a lot of explanation from whoever was narrating that particular section about the nature of the present reality. I felt some narrators worked better than others. When the narrator had to overtly explain the structure of the current society in order to make it clear for the reader it felt forced – such as the chapter 'The Lake' and also 'Destination'. While this later section helpfully explained so much it also came across as a little too tidy and information-laden for me.

I found it exhilarating how this novel encouraged me to think about big questions concerning civilisation from a unique point of view. Its ambitious structure means that character development is often sacrificed so I'm not sure it worked as well as “Oryx and Crake” by Margaret Atwood or some other far-future set literary sci-fi. However, it clearly does something different and the author didn't intend to develop a traditionally structured plot. I was impressed by its creativity and the surprising strangeness of various sections. It's also satisfying how the final chapter gives the book a pleasingly circular feel and turns it into a unique origin story.

The Empusium by Olga Tokarczuk (translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones)

I've had mixed experiences reading Tokarczuk's work in the past. I didn't get on with “Flights” but loved “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead”. So I was curious to see what I'd make of “The Empusium”, especially just after reading “The Magic Mountain” as the bones of this story heavily inspired Tokarczuk's novel. This follows 24 year-old Mieczysław Wojnicz who is suffering from TB and another initially mysterious condition as he journeys to a “health resort” in the Silesian mountain range. There he encounters a number of highly opinionated men who take him on rambles through the countryside, drink a hallucinogenic alcohol named Schwärmerei and engage in conversations on a range of topics from politics to religion to the nature of reality, but most of these discussions devolve into horrifically misogynistic statements. The narrative follows Wojnicz's increasingly unsettling experiences as rumours of ritual killings in the forest and witches abound alongside persistent unsettling noises around the property. However, we also get frequent memories from Wojnicz's past as he lived under his imposing father (who is also a massive misogynist.) The story leads to a scene of intense crisis and an opportunity for new possibilities for Wojnicz.

The title of the book comes from Empusa or Empousa (who was a shape-shifting female from Greek mythology who seduced and fed on young men) but the name is combined with the word symposium. I enjoyed the chilling atmosphere of this novel where we're almost immediately presented with a body on a dining table! Threats abound from devils, the town's working class, women and even the landscape (according to his friend Thilo.) There's the question of who Wojnicz should really trust – the doctors, the gentlemen residents, terminally-ill Thilo with his cryptic warnings, the local women or the strange noises/voices that surround him. There's some gore especially surrounding food (there's a duck soup scene which is utterly stomach-churning) and the novel considers the cruelty towards/consumption of animals which is strongly reminiscent of Tokarczuk's “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead”. One of the most unsettling images are some creepy dolls (tuntschi) which are made from natural material by locals and used for sex before being left in the forest. Though the novel is subtitled as a “horror story” it's not so much about nail-biting terror, but it's fairly effective at creating a persistent eerie sensation.

It gradually becomes clear that the true horror comes from prevailing attitudes and systems of thought concerning a hatred towards women. Not only that but Wojnicz is frequently under pressure to conform to stereotypical notions of masculinity. I grew up in rural Maine where I was forced to spend time amongst groups of men on camping and hunting trips. Though they weren't outwardly misogynistic there was pressure to fit into this high-testosterone atmosphere, rise to physical challenges and submit to men's need to be “right” in whatever argument they were making (whether I agreed with them or not.) So I definitely felt for the pressures Wojnicz experienced among such men.

Interestingly, the narrative switches between a past-tense 3rd person following Wojnicz and a collective first person account in the present from some undefined entities (labelled in the opening cast list of the novel as “Nameless inhabitants of the walls, floors and ceilings”.) I liked how this later narrative voice added to the creepiness of the story as it felt like I was travelling amongst ghosts, spirits, nature or some other unknown entity. It adds to the sense that although misogynistic men control the social order of this location there's a perspective outside of this judging, undermining and wryly commenting on the proceedings. But it was also such a curious way of shifting focus from the larger action to the micro: the chinks between the slate roof tiles, droplets of water, clumps of grass, etc. To me this felt very cinematic like in David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the view of a seemingly idyllic neighbourhood narrows down to creepy undergrowth.

The novel’s story has a superficial relationship to Thomas Mann's “The Magic Mountain” with its hero newly arrived at a sanatorium, plot structure centred around conversations between gentlemen and setting prior to WWI. Tokarczuk has commented that she rereads Mann's novel every few years so it's in some ways a homage and in some ways a corrective or, as she describes, a way of “sparring” with that classic. Having just read Mann's novel, I was immensely relieved that the diatribes from different gentlemen were greatly condensed since there were so many long essayistic chapters in “The Magic Mountain”. Nevertheless, there was a meandering sense which remained in Tokarczuk's story which meant the plot felt a little lethargic in places: another day, another stroll that descends into misogynistic nonsense. However, I enjoyed how Tokarczuk explored issues surrounding Polish nationality/independence and a new take on time/space by considering both a 2 and 4 dimensional reality. I also liked that Tokarczuk reproduced the odd homoerotic imagery of pencils being stroked in adolescence which was also in Mann's novel. There are several other parallels in imagery/ideas between the two books. I certainly don't feel it was necessary to have read “The Magic Mountain” as Tokarczuk's text doesn't play off from that original in the same way that the recent novel “James” worked in parallel to “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”, but I'm still glad I read Mann's book because it is its own strange beast.

There's a surprising twist in the story and the final sections of the novel are quite thrilling. These reinforce Tokarczuk's message that reality doesn't exist in simple absolutes but in different perceptions and in-between spaces. Overall I think this was a fascinating and through-provoking read. Though I definitely wouldn't want to harken back to this time of more rudimentary medicine/treatment I did like the idea of champagne being prescribed as a cure. There are certain odd images which will stick with me such as a toad sitting on a pile of potatoes. Though the finale is gripping I felt it played out a little too quickly with the narrative summing up afterwards for all the characters. In this case I kind of preferred how Mann concluded his novel in a way which was haunting and ominous regarding the advent of WWI. The really bracing thing to me was the author's afterward where she states how the misogynistic views expressed by her characters were paraphrased from texts by some of the foremost Western thinkers/writers from the past including Charles Darwin, Sigmund Freud, Shakespeare, Yeats, etc. It shines a light on how the core of our culture is threaded through with misogynistic ideas and thus calls into question our very foundations.

The Edges by Angelo Tijssens (translated by Michele Hutchison)

A physically and emotionally scarred man returns to his hometown after many years of having lived away in the city. His mother has died and he's there to clean out her home. He also reunites with his first lover, a man who has stagnated rather than thrived in this town. There is so much tender feeling packed into this slim melancholy novella which describes the actions of his days. The tenderness is primarily sore, but it's also warm and sensual. How is it possible to describe the rollicking mixture of emotions for someone who escaped a violent childhood and has now returned to this location packed with personal significance? How can someone feel nostalgic and long to return to somewhere that was the wellspring of fathomless hurt? The narrative moves between his second and first person account as memories invade his present day experiences. There's a moving familiarity he shares with his old lover but also the strangeness of time that has passed while separated and the acknowledgement that their sexual reunion won't lead to a renewed relationship. Tijssens admirably lets the reality of the situation speak for itself and the bittersweet truth of life gradually emerges. The author is also a filmmaker and I great admired the movie 'Close' which he co-wrote. His narratives resist the impulse for confession and instead subtly present ambiguous relationships and conflicted human experiences.

Animal Life by Audur Ava Olafsdottir (translated by Brian Fitzgibbon)

I really enjoyed this thoughtful story which follows an Icelandic narrator who works as a midwife, sorting through her grandaunt's manuscripts, renovating the cluttered apartment she's inherited – all in the lead up to Christmas. It's a great thing to read at this time of year and it's got me into the festive mood – not because it directly portrays much celebration-wise (she's originally supposed to work in the maternity ward over Christmas but instead fills in a Northern Lights tour-guide shift for her friend.) But I think this is a very reflective time of the year and it especially gets me thinking about family who I don't see much outside of the holiday season. So I found it very poignant as she relates stories about her lovably eccentric grandaunt's life and considers the scattered musings she left behind. There are some older women in my family who died long ago but who were very dear to me so this book stirred memories of them.

The novel is written in a very conversational mode as it follows the narrator's observations and memories. It all seemed a bit random in the beginning but I felt it came together to say something much bigger about the cycle of life and our place within the lineage of human history. The first half is more concerned with relating the emotional impact of both her family's professions: the toll upon midwives when there are complications and how her mother who works in the funeral business sometimes locked herself away after a difficult event. It must be taxing working in either job as it puts you in such close proximity to significant life events. There's also a lot of interesting information about the mechanics of these jobs – especially midwifery – and how it's changed over time. I liked how she observes that women giving birth find it soothing to listen to David Attenborough programmes (I frequently listen to his shows when I wake up in the night and want to be lulled back to sleep.) It's a melancholy thing to consider but I've never thought before about how there must be certain rules surrounding births when there are complications and tragedies. For instance, it was sobering reading the detail about the difference between a miscarriage and still birth (length of gestation and weight.) Although people can try to prepare there are no certainties when it comes to either birth or death. So it was moving following how different people dealt with this reality when it actually occurs.

The second half of the novel is more concerned with the physical items her grandaunt left behind when she died four years ago, but also her memories and the grandaunt's systems of thought which have impacted the narrator's life. Other than the clutter of furniture, there are three manuscripts which the narrator has spent a lot of time reading and attempting to put in chronological order while trying to make sense of them. I found it quite funny when she thinks “One possibility was to send all of them in and allow the editor to pick out the best nuggets.” What poor editor would want that enormous job?!? But I understood the emotional impact of her mission reading them as it's a connection to the things which preoccupied this beloved lost family member. It was also so interesting how she tried to piece together the real meaning of these manuscripts by also considering the letters between her grandaunt and her Welsh penpal. Perhaps a cohesive message can't be taken from all these musings about human behaviour, light and coincidence. However, it does create a sense of what it's like to be a small part of the story of humankind. Any individual will only be remembered by a handful of people and one day probably won't be remembered at all. Nevertheless, each person is a part of life's continuity. So the grandaunt lives on in the narrator through the knowledge, professional expertise and objects she's left behind. Not to mention all those births she helped usher into the world accompanied by her verbal messages she gives to the babies and knitted garments. Maybe these things are soon forgotten or lost, but they added to the beginning of each new person's existence.

We're not given too many personal details about the narrator herself other than her dedication to her job. However, there are mentions of big life events such as the narrator losing a child at birth. Surely there's a bigger story here but we understand that there is a deep pain within her because this occurred. We also get small details such as the oddness of her seeing a former boyfriend arrive at the hospital with his wife in labour. The novel touches upon the lives of a number of characters who are experiencing emotional difficulties such as the depression of the electrician's wife and Margret (a woman in labour she meets while finishing her shift) losing her baby. I felt these tragedies were all the more potent and felt more true to life as they are mentioned only fleetingly.

There's a steady accumulation of detail about the atmosphere of living in Iceland. Most prominently there's the fact that the sun only appears for a few hours a day at this time of year. I enjoyed how there are frequent passages about the brief appearance of the Winter sun and her observations about the sky in the lead up to a big storm. There's also a mention of traditional foodstuff when she recalls going on a visit with her grandaunt: “blood pudding with sugar and mashed potatoes”. Sounds stomach-turning to me! But this all adds to the sense of life in Iceland and made me feel a little bit like the tourist renting the apartment above her and who she develops a bit of a connection with. I've only visited Iceland once when I toured around the country for a week. It's such a beautiful and strange landscape with all its volcanic rock and waterfalls. Sadly, I didn't get to see the Northern lights.

So overall I really enjoyed this novel – it's like a small slice of life story which meditates on the cycle of living and dying.

Clean by Alia Trabucco Zerán (translated by Sophie Hughes)

I was captivated by the narrator of this novel who immediately declares that her name is Estela Garcia. She is locked in a room (initially we don't know where this is or why she is being held there) and delivers a monologue about her life to unknown listener(s) on the other side of the wall. She's spent the past seven years working as a maid, cook and nanny to a well-to-do couple in Santiago ever since the birth of their daughter Julia. However, Julia has been found dead and through Estela's circuitous narrative we discover the circumstances and events leading up to the girl's demise. The suspense about whether she was murdered by Estela or someone else or died because of some other reason persists throughout the novel. But the more compelling mystery is about the psychology and point of view of this domestic worker who has been a near-silent presence amongst this family. There is tremendous strength in her charismatic voice though she's obediently followed orders for years. Now she is finally having her say and her observations about the uneasy balance of power in this household is riveting.

There's a sense throughout the book that larger social, economic and political troubles are brewing in the country. News of protests and public disturbances reach the household. At one point their home is invaded by thieves who cruelly humiliate Estela while she demonstrates great fortitude. Though Chile's larger conflicts aren't specifically named or deeply explored their presence adds to the sense that, like Leila Slimani's “Lullaby”, this novel is really a sly social critique dressed as a thriller. Estela initially moved to the city from the near-impoverished countryside seeking better work opportunities and a way to help support her ailing mother. She's worked six days a week for this family for years and been reduced to an anonymous being who is painfully isolated and taken for granted. The parents' rigidly formal manner towards her is gradually soul destroying so that Estela's small transgressions such as putting on the mother's new dress or feeding a stray dog feel like triumphant declarations of autonomy. Sinister descriptions of ordinary objects and actions within the house deftly add to the sense of uneasy atmosphere and building tension of this compelling story. “Clean” is a much more commercial book and less experimental than Zeran's previous novel “The Remainder”, but it's no less politically engaged and maintains an ardent commitment to centring marginalized voices.

Her Side of the Story by Alba de Céspedes (translated by Jill Foulston)

Céspedes was a mid-20th century Cuban-Italian writer whose excellent novel “Forbidden Notebook” I fell in love with last year when a new English translation appeared. There's been a resurgence of her work given her influence on Elena Ferrante and this year a new, lengthier translation of her novel “Her Side of the Story” has been published. This was originally appeared in Italian in 1949 and a heavily edited English edition was originally published in 1952 under the title “Best of Husbands”. The story draws upon the author's own life and experiences as a woman who came of age in Italy before and during WWII. Although the novel is a forceful account of the limitations women experienced at this place and time, it also centres around a frustrated love story which is much less interesting. Where this story shines are in its observations about the social milieu and the imposing force of fascism. However, it feels quite repetitive in several sections and it makes me wonder if the edited version which first appeared in English might be a stronger novel.

I found it immediately engaging following the perspective of Alessandra as she looks back at her life, starting with her childhood and working up to her marriage. She has a kind of doppelgänger in Alessandro, the brother who came before her and tragically drowned at a young age. It's interesting how his loss has a different meaning for every family member and, for Alessandra, he's a kind of shadow she must live under. She also feels him like a kind of devil-on-her-shoulder presence and her mother maintains a stronger superstitious belief in his continued presence - even taking numerous visits from a medium named Ottavia to try to contact him. I found it especially gripping and moving reading about these sessions as her mother Eleonora's grief over the loss of her son is plainly evident. Alessandra gives a highly detailed account of Eleonora's melancholy life and there's a tremendous scene where her mother gives a musical performance. I loved the detail about creating a dress from Eleonora's actress mother's former costume (it felt very Scarlett O'Hara of her.) However, her talents and beauty are suppressed by her controlling and tyrannical husband. The vile remarks he makes to his family (both to his wife and daughter) is truly odious.

Eleanora also harbours a secret passion for a man named Hervey. In a way her mother's maturity feels stunted by being forced to remain in their domestic setting except to give lessons. Alessandra describes how “Her love for Hervey, which others would have judged guilty, in my eyes enveloped her in a magic veil of innocence”. This is such a refreshingly mature perspective showing an absence of moral judgement, but given the enormous lack of affection she witnesses between her parents it's not surprising she was glad her mother could find happiness by aiming her passion towards someone else. The moments where her mother tips over into a more confessional mode (acknowledging it's probably inappropriate to be burdening her daughter with such adult concerns) were very touching and the way her determination to flee with Alessandra is stymied is heartbreaking. But I do appreciate how she notes she might be viewing her mother somewhat through rose tinted glasses since she only exists in her memory.

As a depiction of the social milieu of this Italian era focusing especially on this community of women, I think the first section of this novel is wonderful. Céspedes so powerfully evokes and thoughtfully presents the gender imbalance whereby men maintained all the authority, living for the jobs they complained about and taking for granted the women that raised their children and maintained their homes. I especially liked this line about men's misconception about female desire: “They thought love was a brief fairytale for their companions, a brief passion necessary for a woman to secure the right to be a mistress of her own house, have children, and dedicate her entire life to the problems of shopping and kitchen... none of them grasped that behind every gesture, every bit of self-denial, all that feminine bravery was a secret desire for love.” Sadly, Alessandra's observations and recollections become quite circular. Maybe this is because there was a lot of monotony to her and her mother's days which seemed largely filled with inertia and silence.

However, the repetitive nature of the story continues with the introduction of Francesco, an anti-fascist academic and later leader who Alessandra falls in love with. She is initially wary of his political beliefs because all she knows of the label is from propaganda: “Anti-fascists were outlaws, suspicious individuals, banished”. I like how the novel shows her naivety as a young person who didn't really understand what was at stake and the nature of the different political camps. However, there's a curious lack of development in her maturity and understanding of the war which consumed her country. Despite getting involved with covert operations for the resistance movement she does so more out of a desire to impress Francesco than out of her own convictions. It's only natural that younger people are drawn towards people rebelling against the establishment and are led by love instead of ideological belief but it's like she gets caught in a state of improbable desire and she's incapable of maturing.

Although I found sections of the novel depicting the intensifying war engaging I do wish there had been more descriptions of changes to the landscape and its effect upon the lives of citizens. There are references to hiding in bomb shelters, food shortages and the smell of dead horses after the bombing but considering how the entire cityscape of Rome must have radically changed during that time it felt to me like Alessandra wasn't very concerned or mindful about it. I also wish there had been a bit more context in some scenes such as when during food rationing she gets some rare flour to make pasta, but Francesco returns and insists they must listen to music all day while sitting on the floor. As a consequence the pasta goes to waste when they've seemingly only had potatoes to eat for a long time. I struggled to understand the significance or logic of this though it seemed like some momentous change must have been occurring in the city. I suppose there is a lack of contextual detail because we're completely steeped in Alessandra mind and so she doesn't feel a need to explain the situation. I'm mindful that I'm imposing what I wanted from the story over what the author might have intended but I felt it made this a less satisfying novel. I don't understand how she couldn't mature more or care about the reformation of her country after the seriousness of events like her former classmate who was Jewish and taken away.

I enjoyed how there were some references which led me to learning more about Italian culture in general. For instance, I previously hadn't been aware of the Christian tradition of name day or “Onomastico” in Italy (though it's also celebrated in other European countries as well.) This is a celebration like a birthday where people mark certain days from the saint that they are named after. Sorry if other people were already aware of this but it was new to me. Of course, in the story it merely serves as another reason for Alessandra to feel slighted because Francesco forgets to celebrate her on this day. And when he tries to make up for it it's too little too late. Francesco is definitely not a great partner because he is completely engrossed in his work and seems to expect Alessandra to be the housewife who will always wait at home for his return. However, he really can't ever satisfy Alessandra's neediness because it feels like she won't be happy unless he's constantly staring at her affectionately and repeatedly saying that he loves her.

The dramatic conclusion of the novel felt rushed and unsatisfying to me but maybe that's because I'd grown too frustrated with Alessandra's lack of progression over the course of the narrative. An explanation for her mindset seemed to come with this passage where she described her feeling that “You couldn't buy the body of a slave, but you could enjoy owning the body of a woman. You acquired it with the obligation to maintain it, just as with slaves. But if I had decided to leave Francesco, the law would have recognised his right to remain master of my body. He could prevent my making use of it for years, for my entire life... A slave has greater freedom than a woman.” If this is literally how she felt then it's not surprising she's driven to such a frenzied state. However, I take objection with this logic. Firstly, it seems quite crass to liken her experience to being “worse than slavery” in this way. I think someone who has been an actual slave would disagree. Since Francesco is physically away so much she actually has quite a lot of freedom. She frequently complained about the obligations of her domestic chores but I can't realistically see how maintaining a small apartment for two could be so demanding that she has no time for herself – even while also working a job. She flirts with a man named Tomaso who seems like a much better suitor for her than Francesco yet she refused to accept him as a romantic partner - either as a lover or leaving her husband to be with him. She also refused to simply take the advice she continuously gave to her mother when she was a teenager and leave her husband to start another life. Yes, the nature of the law and social conditions might have meant she “belonged” to Francesco but he seems quite different from her father. I feel like she got in her own way of achieving any sustained sense of happiness or contentment in becoming an adult. Though there was the tragedy of her mother's situation and the example for how a woman must live laid out by grandmother Nonna, it felt frustrating that she couldn't see beyond the confines of these restrictive mindsets.

So I'm afraid I ultimately found this novel disappointing. It seems telling in the afterward by Elena Ferrante that she focuses on the first section about Alessandra and her mother. This felt to me like the strongest part of the novel. Throughout her entire relationship with Francesco the narrative grew increasingly repetitive because she seemed locked in a circular frame of mind. I think this novel could lose quite a few pages while maintaining its central premise and meaning. By the end I felt quite exhausted with Alessandra and I was glad to finish the book. There were many parts I admired but if Alessandra stood in as a kind of cipher for the author herself I don't understand why she couldn't show the protagonist progressing towards a more successful career as Céspedes obviously did herself or Alessandra trying to enact political changes for women's rights rather than imposing a melodramatic conclusion to the story. This book felt bloated in comparison to the novel “Forbidden Notebook” which felt more artfully composed and true to life.

Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck (translated by Michael Hofmann)

What if you woke up one day to discover that your country no longer exists? That was the experience for East Germans and the protagonists of this novel in October 1990. However, the story begins in East Berlin in June 1986 when a chance encounter between Hans and Katharina spark a passionate romance which continues for years. There is a 34 year age difference between them. The first half of the novel follows the intensity of their affair where the age gap feels somewhat inconsequential when considering the span of history. Descriptions of their trysts are meaningfully paired with heart soaring pieces of music and mythology. The second half of the novel follows the unspooling of this romance which grows increasingly dark and abusive. Though this is a story of toxic love the central question of the book isn't whether their affair is right or wrong; it was clearly doomed from its inception. This couple remains together long after they clearly should have separated, but they also linger in the idea of their nation even as it crumbles around them. The real question of the book is why do we cling to our romanic and political ideals when we know they are inherently faulty and bad for us?

The novel is framed around a future point where Katharina inherits boxes of documents after Hans has died. She sifts through these remnants of the past recalling the years of their affair and the many cultural references they shared. So the book is structured like a piece of archival research, but it's also structured like a piece of music. These incongruous modes of telling would clash if it weren't for Erpenbeck's elegant way of combining them to reproduce these characters' deeply-felt experience. The narrative effortlessly flows between their viewpoints to mimic the way their consciousness has been fused amidst this passionate romance. It becomes a locked box and a territory of their own. But as their relationship sours this paradise turns into a prison from which they - and the reader - can't escape. It becomes increasingly uncomfortable to read this novel as the second half turns intensely claustrophobic and painful. This obviously isn't a pleasurable experience but it is an impactful one because it reveals how deeply lost these characters have become in the changing country and world around them. Erpenbeck brilliantly probes issues of belonging and nationhood as she did in a very different context within her novel “Go, Went, Gone”.

Hans and Katharina come from very different generations, but they hold onto one another longing for a life which is no longer possible. Hans has a shady past and part of his belief in the German Democratic Republic comes from wanting to distance himself from the armed forces he was a part of in his youth. Katharina was born long after the end of WWII, but the system under which she was raised causes her to gaze critically at the commercial and cultural imperialism which is absorbing her country. As their affair painfully persists so the marking of different anniversaries continues as if dedicating themselves to these dates can hold their imagined reality together. But they come to feel increasingly hollow and twisted. Following the dissolution of their private world is a melancholy endeavour. Persisting to the end of this novel felt challenging but I'm glad I did because the overall effect is haunting. It made me question my own assumptions having grown up with a Western mentality and probe what romantic notions I allow to unhelpfully steer my life. I'm also sure it would be valuable revisiting “Kairos” at some point to better understand the innumerable cultural and historical references it contains.

My Men by Victoria Kielland (translated by Damion Searls)

“My Men” is the story of a young Norwegian woman who moves to America towards the end of the 19th century, changes her name and establishes a new life. Eventually she's discovered to be a serial killer responsible for the deaths of at least 14 people. Kielland reimagines this historical case of Belle Gunness from the inside of her troubled consciousness. Yet, rather than poring over gory details or building a thickly plotted story of dread, the author traces the shifting emotions of this woman whose life is driven by loss, loneliness, bad faith and bad logic. There's a bewitching nature to the poetic prose style which is at once claustrophobic and achingly tender. Rather than offering an explanation for why and how this occurred, this novel is moreover concerned with meticulously recording the state of its heroine's mind.

There's a cumulative sense of Belle's bleakly abiding aloneness in the world and fractured relations to other people. It's noted how “Bella stared into life and saw herself lying all alone at the bottom” and “The world was a whole, she could see it, but it was like she was standing just outside it and there was nothing she could do but cry.” This sense of complete separateness seems to foster a sense of absolute independence where she is wholly self-reliant and governed by her own sense of righteousness. In doing so the story traces how she comes to feel fully justified in her murderous actions: “Her carnivorous heart was exactly that simple, moments of closeness, a big black wound. A whole European map of dead men.” It makes for a very unsettling and strangely haunting read.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba De Cespedes (translated by Ann Goldstein)

There's a deceptively simple premise to Alba De Cespedes' 1952 novel which has recently been published in a new English translation. Office worker and housewife Valeria Cossati impulsively purchases a notebook to secretly record her thoughts and reflections. She has the sense that this is a transgressive act and when her family consider the possibility of her keeping a diary they find it laughable because they assume she'd have nothing to write about. So the notebook is kept hidden and she becomes increasingly anxious it might be found. It's challenging to keep it concealed because her lower-middle class family live in a small apartment. This adds to the feeling that this is an individual with no space of her own and the notebook becomes her refuge. We're the only ones privy to her writings which become a journey of self discovery as well as a record of the transition her family is going through over a period of several months. It's profoundly moving following how Valeria articulates her desires and negotiates her position in the world through this conversation with herself.

There's an increasing dramatic tension as there are developments within her family but there's also an increasing fear this notebook might be found and read by a family member. Of course, it's possible someone else might be reading her notebook without her knowing about it. She becomes increasingly candid discussing her thoughts about her husband, children and romantic feelings that develop between Valeria and her boss at work. Her children are almost adults so she must re-negotiate her position as a wife and mother. It's significant her own husband Michele now calls her “mamma” instead of her name as if her identity is only centred around her being a mother. It's fascinating how she wants to break free of the constraints of this role, but she also embraces and loves her position within her family. Yet the very act of secretly writing the notebook means she must stay up late at night. This adds to her sense of fatigue on top of keeping a job as well as cleaning and cooking for her family.

So many thoughts and feelings have been building inside her for years. Now that she's found an outlet for them through the notebook it becomes almost an obsession to her. She remarks that “It's strange: our inner life is what counts most for each of us and yet we have to pretend to live it as if we paid no attention to it, with inhuman security.” It's stunning how meaningfully this narrative presents the divide between her inner and outer life. The act of writing is like dipping deeper and deeper into a well of suppressed emotion. It also presents her specific position as an Italian post-war woman grappling with financial pressures. She's caught between her more liberal daughter Mirella and more conservative son Riccardo. Even though the diaries are necessarily only from her perspective, the narrative also gives a sense that her husband and boss have their own private lives whose expression is being suppressed. Her husband Michele has written a racy film manuscript and her boss Guido goes into the office on Saturdays as a respite from the demands of family life. In this way the novel illuminates how this tension between the inner and outer life is universal.

I naturally felt very sympathetic towards Valeria and the position she maintains. But I can also see why her family would grow impatient and fearful of her. Scenes she recollects in the notebook show how she often presents quite a strict and steely exterior. It's understandable she feels the need to conceal her notebook but it also feels like a tragedy that her family can't understand her as fully as the reader does because she won't allow them to know about her inner life. At times I almost wished they would discover it in order to get a better insight into Valeria's struggles. The situation raises poignant questions about how close we really are to the people we think we know the most and what levels of honesty are possible within the structure of our familial and romantic lives. Since this novel was written over fifty years ago it also makes me reflect upon past generations of my own family and consider the secret inner lives my grandparents led which I won't ever know about. This novel is a testament to those lost interior worlds but it's also a highly compelling story which describes the human condition with candour and insight.

A Little Luck by Claudia Pineiro (translated by Frances Riddle)

As someone who now lives far away from my region of birth, I find stories about characters returning to their origins especially poignant. In “A Little Luck” Mary Lohan returns to the Buenos Aires suburb of her early life after a twenty year absence. She has a new look, eye colour (with the aid of contacts) and name which is handy because she's desperate not to be recognized. Though she nominally goes for work she's also curious to reconnect with this place that she abruptly left under mysterious circumstances many years ago. This novel drew me in on multiple levels over the course of the story. Firstly, there's a compelling tension about what made Mary initially leave and what her relationship is with someone who recognizes her. This is enhanced by a short crucial scene from her earlier life which is described multiple times like a recurring nightmare. When the significance of this event is revealed it's truly shocking. Next there's the emotional connection I felt as we get Mary's full back story. It's truly heartbreaking and tragic as she was caught in a situation with no easy answers. And finally there's the larger meaning of the story which contemplates issues such as chance, the loyalty of family and the precarious nature of insular communities.

The circumstance Mary found herself in is so difficult because the choices she made are understandable but it led to a horrific accident. Because the community is wracked with grief it's easier to blame Mary and conspire against her rather than forgive her. It made me reflect on incidents from my own past which could have turned out very differently for better or worse. The story also asks a powerful question about how strong we are as individuals, as a family and as a community when we're tested by terrible circumstances. The relative success or failure of individuals is often due more to chance than willpower. Mary reflects how “Some mothers have all the luck; life never puts them to any kind of test. I only have a little luck.” It's poignant how the novel details how Mary's own mother was the victim of bad luck herself. Though she is severely tested, Mary also finds an opportunity to recreate herself with the help of another kind soul. While this story is centred around a tragedy it's beautiful how it also offers a hopeful message as she is able to survive the worst kind of loss.

The Faculty of Dreams by Sara Stridsberg (translated by Deborah Bragan-Turner)

I first became aware of Valerie Solanas amidst my teenage obsession with Andy Warhol. During this period I loved reading books by and about Warhol as I was entranced by how this nerdy awkward kid of Polish descent from Pittsburgh grew to be the famed leader of an art movement. Solanas was one of the interlopers who frequented Andy’s factory and starred in one of his films, but in 1968 Solanas shot Warhol and almost killed him. Her story was brilliantly realised by Lili Taylor in the 1996 film I Shot Andy Warhol. Solanas was a radical feminist and anarchist who wrote a book called the “SCUM Manifesto” which encouraged women to overthrow society and eliminate the male sex. She was evidently very troubled and difficult, but an absolutely fascinating person. Sara Stridsberg reimagines Solanas’ story in her novel “The Faculty of Dreams” which was longlisted for this year’s Man Booker International Prize. We follow Solanas from childhood through to her sadly impoverished later years with frequent leaps backwards and forwards in time simulating the fragmented consciousness of this highly-intelligent and problematic heroine. In doing so Stridsberg captures Solanas’ frustrated brilliance as well as her obsessive mind, mental breakdown and how she was one of many radical outsiders who were scorned and swept under the rug of society.

Stridsberg doesn’t hide the fact she feels a deep sympathy for Solanas and sometimes intervenes in the text to say so in dialogues between a “Narrator” and Solanas. But this isn’t just a fan’s tale. The story she creates conveys Solanas’ deep complexity and hardship from early abuse/emotional neglect to her evident struggles with mental illness – but she also recounts opportunities Solanas didn’t fully take advantage of such as her university accolades and how Solanas’ resolutely combative nature alienated her even from people honestly trying to help her. The style of Stridsberg’s narrative conveys Solanas’ extremely strained mental state where internalized abuse and trauma start to sound like an echo chamber from which she can’t escape: “there was nothing left to cry about except America would keep on fucking me and all fathers want to fuck their daughters and most of them do and only a few don’t and it’s not clear why except the world will always be one long yearning to go back.” This effectively produces a sense of claustrophobia in the reader who becomes equally trapped in Solanas’ circular and exhausting thought process.

Of course, this makes some parts of the books difficult to read. While I appreciated Stridsberg’s stylistic choices such as presenting dialogue like a script and creating impressionistic lists it was often disorientating trying to locate where we were and it sometimes felt tiring reading Solanas repeating the same withering verbal onslaught against men (including gay men who she branded “faggots” and women who comply in a male-dominated society.) This was effective in conveying how Solanas was a tragic figure as you witness people becoming increasingly alienated from her and how she’d plead for money from someone while simultaneously attacking them. But I wished for a bit more clear-sighted detail about her downward spiral especially in the breakdown of her relationship with a woman named Cosmo that she strongly connected with at university. Nevertheless, there are some heartrending moments like when Solanas calls her mother Dorothy while she’s at university hoping for her approval but only getting her mother’s soporific mourning for Marilyn Monroe. There are also some fascinating periphery characters such as her early friendship with a gay prostitute called Silk Boy and strange bond with her psychologist Dr Cooper. Stridsberg shows how there were bands of outsiders across the country and these are the people’s whose stories are so seldom told.

Valerie Solanas

It's curious how Stridsberg continues to be fascinated by and drawn to Solanas though she’s very aware that Solanas would most likely refute her. The author playfully alludes to this in the metafictional line: “no sentimental young women or sham authors playing at writing a novel about me dying. You don’t have my permission to go through my material.” Yet this is exactly what Stridsberg does so if Solanas is the high priestess of SCUM this book is a kind of sacrilegious act. But Stridsberg clearly sees value in Solanas’ extreme point of view within the feminist movement. She gives Solanas lines which still feel compelling in thinking about sexual politics today: “Your gender isn’t a prison. It’s an opportunity. There are just different ways of telling. Write your own account.” This feels like a thought that will strongly resonate with members of a newer generation who refuse to define their gender. Equally, Solanas represents a voice from a diminished class of people whose only source of income is begging or prostitution. She states “A room of one’s own is a fiction that doesn’t work.” It feels like her point of view is an important repost to the privileged classes that typically dominate the narrative of history.

I greatly admired this book’s inventive style and faithful desire to give such a controversial historical figure a better ending than the one she actually got.

Can You Hear Me? by Elena Varvello (translated by Alex Valente)

I can’t remember reading a thriller that is as eerily intense as Elena Varvello’s “Can You Hear Me?” This novel is partly a coming-of-age story and partly a mystery. It’s narrated by Elia who recalls the summer of 1978 when he was sixteen and living in a rural Italian town with his parents. His father Ettore Furenti was disconsolate and paranoid after being laid off from his job. The entire town was suffering from economic depression after the local cotton mill closed down, but Ettore’s behaviour became especially erratic as he spun conspiracy theories and disappeared from home for mysterious periods of time. At the same time, a local boy recently went missing and was later found murdered. The narrative alternates between Elia’s memories of that summer and a girl that Ettore has picked up in his car to drive to a remote location. Together these create a chilling account of an abduction and a boy desperately trying to come to terms with his dangerously unhinged father.

While this novel is obviously far removed from my own circumstances, the style and subject of Varvello’s story invoked a deep sense of nostalgia in me. Elia is a somewhat awkward young man who makes a loose friendship with a boy named Stefano. Their friendship develops organically. They don’t necessarily have a huge amount of shared interests but are pulled together more because of circumstances when there is no one else to spend time with. A lot of childhood friendships seem to be formed in this way and the only other book I can recall that got this so well is Tim Winton’s novel “Breath”. During their summer together they spend time swimming at a remote water hole. I have strong memories of doing something similar and the representation of this uneven friendship felt very real. But their companionship becomes complicated when Elia realizes he’s increasingly attracted to Stefano’s mother Anna. This gets even more emotionally complex when Elia realizes that his librarian mother Marta used to know Anna and scorns her.

While Elia tries to deal with these normal issues surrounding any young man’s development, he also grows increasingly wary of his father who believes that he’s been cheated out of a job and becomes increasingly absent from the home. Marta seems to bury her head in the sand about her husband Ettore’s behaviour and withdraw into herself. So this boy is mostly left to struggle with all of this on his own. Because of this, the story develops an increasing level of emotional poignancy as it goes on at the same time as it grows more unsettlingly tense. Varvello’s captivating writing style drew me in and had me gripped in that way that made me really resent having to stop reading it at the end of my commutes or lunch breaks. It’s a powerful book that reminds me of some of Joyce Carol Oates’ novels in the way that Varvello so effectively builds suspense amidst a plot involving friendship and embittered economical hardships. And (coming from me) you know that means I think very highly of it!

A Whole Life by Robert Seethaler (translated by Charlotte Collins)

It’s my birthday today and my tradition is to read a book I’ve never got around to reading but always wanted to. I’ve been doing this for many years now. This year I picked off my shelf a novel I heard great things about when it was first published in English last year and that I bought earlier this year at the newly opened bookshop Libreria. “A Whole Life” by Robert Seethaler feels like the perfect novel to read on a birthday because of the brief intense panoramic view of a life that it gives. Using straightforward prose, it recounts mountain man Andreas Egger’s life throughout the early twentieth century. He lives through a difficult childhood, love, war and the development of the barren slopes around him into a fully inhabited holiday village. It’s an extremely meditative novel which patiently considers through the eyes of a man with simple values and simple aspirations what’s most important in life.

The story begins with Egger trying to rescue a dying man named Horned Hannes from his hut. As he begins carrying him on his back towards the village the old man slips off and runs into a blizzard. What becomes of him isn’t uncovered until many years later at a point when Egger has experienced all the pleasures, pains, disappointments and contentment that life can give. Hannes acts as a kind of double through whom Egger can think of all the possibilities in life he didn’t pursue. It’s observed that “In his life he too, like all people, had harboured ideas and dreams. Some he had fulfilled for himself; some had been granted to him. Many things had remained out of reach, or barely had he reached them than they were torn from his hands. But he was still here.” In a way, it feels too simple to say we experience regret or disappointment when considering the paths we’ve not taken in life. This retrospective view of life is at once more complex and more simple than that. Things turned out the way that they have and our continued existence is all that matters.

It’s especially interesting how the novel looks at Egger’s work life. As a hardy muscular man, he spends many years doing manual labour laying foundations for the growth of the countryside around him. His manager points out that “You can buy a man’s hours off him, you can steal his days from him, or you can rob him of his whole life, but no one can take away from any man so much as a single moment. That’s the way it is.” What I take from this is that although we spend the majority of our lives labouring to earn a living, this work doesn’t define us. Our moment to moment experiences and thoughts are who we are. We posses this outside of whatever job it is we do all year and there’s a sort of comfort in owning that.

The first time Egger sees a TV he sees Grace Kelly waving and thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

There is a quiet, considered nobility to this novel. For the deep impression it makes, it’s remarkably compressed. I found something movingly dignified in Egger’s mostly solitary life and the way the narrative focuses so intensely on his circumscribed experience outside of the politics or large scale changes happening around him. The movement of time in this novel reflects how you witness the world changing around you, but in some essential way you feel like the person you always were. So it can be surprising when you see physical changes to familiar places. Later in his life Egger might walk past a place where his house once stood or glance at a television to see a man stepping on the moon. It’s a testimony that society and the world around you is moving on, but you’re still here older but essentially the same.

It’s difficult not to get reflective on birthdays, especially now that social media can allow such quick easy contact with the majority of people who have been most important to you in your life. While I read about the full span of Egger’s long simple and passionate life in the mountains I received a stream of notices on my phone from friends and family wishing me happy birthday. It gave me a funny awareness of how you can be so solitary, but still exist in the net of other people’s lives. Egger oftentimes felt very much alone, but he was a presence who existed in the consciousness of people around him. Despite all the hardships and conflict in life, there’s a stoic beauty in just existing.

The International Dublin Literary Award 2016 Shortlist

I know I’ve been posting a lot about book prizes recently, but I was very intrigued to see the shortlist for this prize posted this week as it’s a really fascinating list and a very special literary award!

The Dublin Literary Award (formerly the IMPAC Award) is unique in many ways. Firstly, it’s an award presented annually by Dublin City Council to a novel written in English or that’s been translated into English. Quite exciting that a major literary award recognizes translated literature! Secondly, the prize is huge totalling €100,000 (if a translated novel wins, the author receives €75,000 and the translator €25,000). Four books on the shortlist are translations so it’s great to know that both author and translator will be rewarded so lucratively if their book wins. Finally, nominations for the award are made by over 400 libraries from major cities all over the world. Yes, librarians make up the nominations for this prize! And they know good books so you know the initial enormous longlist selection is all quality.  

I’ve read four of the ten books on the shortlist. Marlon James’ “A Brief History of Seven Killings” is such an epic, complex novel about several people surrounding an attempted assassination of Bob Marley. Definitely a challenging read, but so worthwhile! It is probably one of the best known on the list as it won the Booker Prize, but I was delighted to be on the panel of judges for the Green Carnation Prize last year where we also selected it as our winner. Mary Costello’s “Academy Street” is a brilliantly compact tale of a woman’s life from her Irish roots to her later years living in NYC. Jenny Offill’s “Dept. of Speculation” has such a powerful voice and unique perspective on relationships that it’s a book I often think back on now and then still puzzling over its meaning. “Lila” by Marilynne Robinson was absolutely one of my favorite reads of last year. Its protagonist is so strong-willed, yet vulnerable and someone who fearlessly forges her own identity far from her impoverished beginning in life.

Of the other six titles shortlisted I’m most interested in reading Jenny Erpenbeck’s “The End of Days”, Scholastique Mukasonga’s “Our Lady of the Nile” and Javier Cercas’ “Outlaws”. How about you? Have you read any on the list or are they any you're interested in reading?

The winner is announced on June 9th.