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.

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.

Study for Obedience by Sarah Bernstein

There are some books which I find difficult or disappointing when I initially try to read them. I don't feel it's necessary to finish reading a book I'm not enjoying or understanding because there are so many more titles waiting to be read. However, some books warrant a second attempt. When I first tried reading “Study for Obedience” late this Summer I found it so arduous I put it down after fifty pages. The protagonist's subservient personality and cryptic narrative frustrated me. However, many readers who've appreciated this novel urged me to give it another try and it's since won the Giller Prize in Canada as well as being shortlisted for the 2023 Booker. But, more than being intrigued by any hype, I primarily picked it up again out of a curiosity to see if I could understand the meaning of Bernstein's book. I'm glad I did because I subsequently appreciated it much more. I can't say it's an enjoyable experience because it's often frustrating and there are elements I still don't understand. However, it's worth persisting with it. I think it partly worked better for me because I went into it without the expectation I'd get a traditionally plotted story.

The premise of this novel is quite straightforward. An unnamed young woman moves to an unnamed northern country to become the housekeeper for her eldest brother. She doesn't speak the language of this rural territory though her ancestors came from this region. As she gradually tries to become part of the community she's treated with suspicion and blamed for unfortunate events which occur. That's really all there is to the story and that's all that happens. Readers who require more drama in their novels will be disappointed by this book. Instead, this tale embeds us in a discomfiting personality and creates a certain mood. It's difficult to sympathise with the protagonist because she makes herself compliant, accepts the blame for things which aren't her fault and remains wilfully ignorant (or appears to do so.) She's not so much a character I want to root for but shake and tell her to stand up for herself. Once I let go of the desire to like her I became more compelled by the alternative perspective she offers.

There is little overt violence in this story but there is a sinister edge and a building tension. She is perilously isolated and her best efforts to integrate only further ostracise her from the local population. In fact, actions such as spreading decorative twigs around the town and volunteering instead make her a target for the villagers frustrations. We're limited to her perspective so it may be that her actual interactions might be different from how she presents them. There's a question about how innocent she really is because she realises that “it seemed to me that my obedience had itself taken on a kind of mysterious power. And if I had been granted this power, by some grace, against my wishes, must I not then make use of it in some way?” The villagers overreact to her presence in an exaggerated way. This highlights the absurdity of groupthink in certain communities which needlessly ostracise people who are different or who aren't native to the region. It also shows how fear and superstition often lead to violence.

This meaning is underpinned by the fact that the narrator's ancestors from this area were persecuted for being Jewish and there are overt references to the Holocaust. However, the lack of names used for locations or people only emphasizes the universal nature of this struggle. It's easy to think of contemporary parallels where large groups are forced out of their homes or killed because another group of people believe they are entitled to that space. The narrator doesn't see herself as blameless in these ongoing struggles. Rather, she states “Every single one of us on this ruined earth exhibited a perfect obedience to our local forces of gravity, daily choosing the path of least resistance, which while entirely and understandably human was at the same time the most barbaric, the most abominable course of action. So, listen. I am not blameless. I played my part.” This naturally caused me to reflect on the ways I might minimize myself in order to comfortably get by or remain blind to horrors unfolding around me on both a local and global scale.

In this way, the novel compelled a level of self-reflection and contemplation that I wasn't expecting after first trying and failing to read the book. I believe there's a special power and uniqueness in this novel. However, unlike some difficult books which took me a lot of time to appreciate this isn't one I'll be eager to revisit anytime soon. It's unrelentingly bleak and the protagonist still aggravates me. Her meandering perspective is like listening to someone who has been isolated in a cabin for years that I want to make a stealthy escape from, but I suppose in that way it's faithfully representing what this character goes through. Despite all this, I found reading the entire novel a worthwhile experience and expect it will have a lasting effect upon me.

Biography of X by Catherine Lacey

There are some novels that feel perfectly aimed at me. “Biography of X” is absolutely one of them because its story and central subject matter are the sort I most enjoy reading. Like in Hustvedt's “The Blazing World”, Lacey's new novel considers the phantasmagoric life of a fictional female artist. It's an intelligent exploration of the meaning of identity considering whether this is formed through inherent characteristics, self-creation or projections from other people. This is clearly a preoccupation for the author as her novel “Pew” explored this meaningful question from a different angle. Yet the premise of this new novel is in some ways more ambitious and expansive as it's a very playful mixture of fact and fiction which also pursues a central intimate mystery. Ultimately, this tale is also about the dilemma of how much we can truly know the people we love the most because no matter how close we feel to them there will always be aspects of their lives which will remain hidden and unknown.

A complex artist named X has died. Her widow CM embarks on researching X's life and interviewing people from her past in order to write an account to set the record straight and learn more about her own puzzling wife. In the process she describes how X's life intersected with a fascinating array of real historical and current artists, writers and cultural figures. It's so fun to see how personalities such as Susan Sontag, Andy Warhol and Max Porter enter the story. However, the more CW learns about her deceased wife the more she realises how little she understood her. X's elusiveness was part of her work as a shapeshifting figure in the manner of artists such as Sophie Calle or Cindy Sherman. Her process of radical reinvention from country life to cosmopolitan “it girl” is also akin to the character of Holly Golightly – if Capote's character were a radical artist. Additionally, X needed to escape her past as this novel presents a revisionist history where America became politically divided in a way even more outwardly extreme than what exists today. Like in the first section of “To Paradise”, in this version of America same sex marriage has been legal for much longer than it has been in reality. Gradually we come to understand the various ways in which X's artistic mission was both personally and politically motivated.

Alongside Lacey's text there are a number of photographs throughout the novel which further blend fact and fiction as well as illuminating the biographical detail of X's life. It's so creative how Lacey explores the way events in history might have differently played out and how certain figures such as Emma Goldman could have had a key political role if circumstances had been slightly different. As with many biographies, the text can reveal more about the biographer than the subject. CW must gradually separate what she wanted X to be from the person she actually was. As she's confronted with the versions of X that existed for the subjects she interviews a blurry understanding of the real woman appears. But how much can you truly know such a human changeling and how much can you really understand someone when, as the philosopher William James described, we have as many personalities as the people we know? These universal questions are poignantly applied to a wildly entertaining story that's like a masterful puzzle and an exposé of a sumptuous hidden history.

I'm a Fan by Sheena Patel

The unnamed protagonist of “I'm a Fan” isn't really the protagonist of her own life as she spends much of her time following online (and borderline stalking) two individuals. There is “the man I want to be with” and “the woman I am obsessed with” who is also having an affair with this man. Both the narrator and the man she wants to be with are in longterm relationships with other people that are pushed to the periphery of this toxic love triangle. It's a messy state of affairs and the narrator relates her (seemingly) unfiltered thoughts and feelings about this situation while commenting on the nature of social media/the internet as well as issues to do with class and race dynamics. In many ways the frankness of her voice discussing these subjects in short punchy chapters is very refreshing. The dedicated documentation of such a doomed love affair reminded me somewhat of Annie Ernaux’s “Simple Passion”. It’s also tantalising to observe how a private obsession can be poisonously fostered by the act of online following as small details are seized upon as clues to be scrutinized in detail. This is partly because Instagram updates from “the woman I am obsessed with” aren't so much capturing fleeting aspects of her daily life as they are glib public pronouncements of her values, aesthetics and commercial products since she is an influencer. While the narrator severely critiques and abhors this woman she also covets her status and following. It's compelling and challenging how Patel describes this modern conflict.

My issue with the novel isn't, as some readers have complained, that all the characters are “horrible” people – the most likeable people being the man's neglected wife, the narrator's neglected boyfriend and the narrator's mother whose marriage is a compromise. Rather, I became frustrated that in the narrator's rigorous analysis of power dynamics no room is left for genuine human interactions. Every in real life (IRL) meeting with both the woman and man are part of a ploy towards some goal of simulated closeness or strategy for achieving an advantage in this dynamic. This is partly because of the narrator's fragile self esteem which is partly the product of all these larger historical and social issues. It's meaningful how the novel shows this isn't just theoretical: part of the reason the man desires the narrator is because of the colour of her skin and the woman she's obsessed with blithely lives in luxury while the narrator struggles to buy a home. But there's no growth in her character which allows her to progress in her own life or establish any sort of meaningful connection with these figures she obsessively fangirls.

Perhaps Patel is saying in this story that the state of our society and the poisonous effect of social media mean that no true interaction is possible. But such pessimism is stultifyingly glum and not true to life where such borders between very different individuals can disintegrate when moments of honest connection form. Certainly such a relationship might not be possible with the figures that the narrator is fixated upon, but the story would have felt more radical if she could have found someone who she could establish a bond with that wasn't defined by division. It's a sad effect of relationships that are mediated through social media that so much is left unsaid (even though it's a medium which is all about making pronouncements.) I appreciate how this tale looks through the screen to focus on someone who is viewing and calling out virtue signalling. She also finds herself haplessly playing into a system that grants more advantage to those who are already advantaged. Instead of being able to progress she instead finds herself circulating in the vacuum. It's a position which will hopefully become quickly dated as more and more people eschew platforms that are all about hollow interactions. I'm (obviously) not against social media or the internet in general, but I hope there's a future where the major fallibilities of these platforms can be changed and more honest interactions can occur to bridge our differences.

Birnam Wood by Eleanor Catton

Eleanor Catton's prize-winning and best-selling novel “The Luminaries” has a special place in my heart – not only because it's a tremendous story which is brilliantly written – but because it partly inspired me to start this blog in the first place. When I finished reading that intricate and impressive book I felt so compelled to discuss it with other people I went online. It's the first book I posted about here and the conversations which followed encouraged me to continue engaging with the virtual book community. So naturally I'm thrilled that now (nearly 10 years after that novel first came out) she's finally published a new novel “Birnam Wood”. The title is taken from a line in the play 'Macbeth' when the weird sisters predict that “Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him.” It's certainly not necessary to know the implications and meaning of this to appreciate Catton's new novel. The story plays upon themes of ambition and power, but I don’t think the Shakespearian influence is explicit until very late in the book.

At the centre of the book is a New Zealand guerrilla gardening group or farming collective who use the name Birnam Wood. They utilize unused land to cultivate crops to be distributed to those in need. This is both a political act and environmental/humanitarian initiative whose methods aren't often strictly legal. So when the group's founder Mira researches a large tract of land bordering a national forest which has been seemingly abandoned following a natural disaster she sees an opportunity for a large-scale planting project. However, an American billionaire and pioneer in drone technology named Robert Lemoine is under negotiations with the land owners to purchase this tract of land – purportedly to build a doomsday bunker. When Lemoine proposes to the collective that he can charitably fund their activities some members of the group feel that they are making a deal with the devil. What follows is an ecological thriller, in-depth psychological study and social commentary about modern day politics/technology.

Many readers may grapple with getting into this book because Catton front loads the story with a lot of character detail. Long sections describe the primary characters' backgrounds, ideologies, mentalities and conflicts. This means that most of the initial scenes of the novel occur internally as a psycho-drama concerning members of Birnam Wood (especially central members Mira and Shelley), renegade journalist Tony, scheming Lemoine and newly anointed Lord and Lady Darvish who own the property. Reading such a rich portrait of these individuals and their relationship to each other is interesting but there is little action involved until some of the later parts of the novel. It's like spending a long time sitting in a revving car before it launches forward at great speed. But when it does get going the story is absolutely gripping – especially in the final 150 pages. The trouble is that there are 275 pages before getting to that point. I think some readers' patience will have worn thin by then. Again, that's not to say these early sections aren't interesting but they are slow moving. However, I found the thrilling ending and the larger meaning of the book that I was left with extremely compelling. So overall I think it's a worthwhile reading experience and I was glad I went on this journey.

I'm not sure why Catton chose to structure the novel in this way. Typically the information which she relates in great big chunks would be integrated more into scenes where the characters interact and more dramatic action occurs. Yet in this story most of their psychological makeup is related while they scan the internet or their phones or surveillance footage. Characters spend a lot of time justifying their points of view to themselves or projecting into the future how they want events to play out. When verbal exchanges occur such as in a group meeting (hui) or telephone conversation or a dinner party it's more like the characters are delivering monologues without really listening to others. This occurs in a Jane Austen style which makes sense given that Catton recently wrote a screenplay for a new film version of “Emma”.

I think perhaps Catton might be commenting on the way our online lives are so internally focused. When we think we're communicating on the internet we're actually talking more to ourselves or within a narrow group of likeminded people whose opinions are all in agreement. Catton has also commented that when planning the novel each character could be seen as Macbeth as it revolves between their perspectives. This is an intriguing idea to consider in regards to each character's ambition and their relationships to each other and power. However, if these were the things that the author was trying to convey it unfortunately sacrifices the theatrical impetus of a large section of the story. As a result I felt more intellectually involved with this novel rather than emotionally invested. Nevertheless, it's an interesting modern day tale that engages with many environmental and political issues. If Catton weren't an author I had read before I probably wouldn't have finished reading this novel, but this is a book that possesses a subtle power which means that it's worth sticking with till the end.

Acting Class by Nick Drnaso

People who are socially awkward often suffer from a sense of being alienated and not wanted – particularly in environments that are new to them. Most people experience this on some level but it's more acutely felt by certain people. It's difficult to know whether these feelings are self manifested or if this rejection comes from being different and not conforming to common social behaviour. At the start of Drnaso's latest graphic novel, we get snapshots of several such individuals who feel isolated in different ways. They come together in response to a general ad for an acting class which is described as a “unique opportunity” that is seemingly more about building self confidence than training to become a professional actor. The class is lead by John Smith, an affable man with a disturbingly commonplace name. He asks for no payment for the first set of classes and though his motives seem purely altruistic at the beginning his plans for these students become increasingly mysterious. Through a series of scenes which switch between these individuals' outside lives and acting prompts performed in class the line between reality and artifice becomes worryingly blurred. The story raises poignant questions concerning what constitutes an authentic self and the degree to which socialising inhibits or enhances self expression.

Any book that immediately gives short introductions to a wide cast of characters poses a challenge to the reader to remember and keep track of who all these people are while experiencing the story. This difficulty is increased by Drnaso's drawing style where many of the characters appear quite similar to each other. However, this isn't a criticism as this aspect of the book enhances the story's themes which probe the nature of individuality and whether our personalities are innate or self-created. The unsettling anonymous effect is somewhat similar to the film 'Anomalisa' where animated facial features and voices are disturbingly uniform. Naturally, as “Acting Class” continues the identities and personal histories of these characters become clearer as information is revealed through their interactions with each other. We also get a better sense of how these characters variously conceal, evade or manipulate when conversing with others. Equally, their insecurities and earnest desires to be good people spill out as they struggle to connect.

It's visually striking when the characters are acting in a scene and suddenly the background behind them will change from one panel to the next to show an entirely new environment to fit the imaginary space they're inhabiting. This feels like a playful commentary on the way in which we sometimes feel like we create our own reality. As these individuals improvise scenes the characters and situations they invent are naturally inspired by real life and disturbing things sometimes emerge. I enjoyed the ambiguity and discomfort of the moments where the other characters aren't sure if their acting partner is still acting or confessing something true. It explores the degree to which this occurs in real life where constructed social identities break down and real feelings emerge. One of the most poignant relationships in the novel is between a couple who are struggling to maintain their relationship and strategise to reignite the spark by starting over as if they're strangers. It reminds me of the protagonists of Vesna Main's “Good Day?” where a couple write a novel about a couple. Drnaso shows how certain tensions remain even when a long term relationship is reset as if they are meeting for the first time.

The central question of this novel revolves around the choice between fully inhabiting reality or committing to an imagined narrative. This is dramatically represented in a dilemma as the participants engage in a final immersive exercise. Naturally, the line between experience and the imagination is much more blurred in our day to day existence and Drnaso's amplifies the crisis to create an impactful and eerie effect. I found it very moving how the story plays out as the characters become lost in hostile landscapes of their own creations. As in his previous graphic novel “Sabrina”, Drnaso skilfully interjects small visual elements into certain panels such as tiny colourful stars or a frame around the panel which suggest there are deeper emotional changes occurring beneath the surface of certain scenes. It's also impressive how the themes of the novel build to such a degree where panels which show barely anything can become so emotionally charged. This novel is a striking and impressive meditation on the tension between being and becoming.

Tides by Sara Freeman

Why would someone walk away from the life she's built and everyone she knows? That's the haunting question which hangs over the delicately-paced story of Sara Freeman's debut novel “Tides”. Mara arrives in a seaside American town just as the busy tourist season is waning. It's achingly appropriate that she chooses to go somewhere in a season out of sync with the pattern of most people's lives. She's fallen out of time's rhythm and now she's in a dangerous free fall. Though this community is affluent she is terrifyingly aware of her limited funds and she doesn't want to use any credit cards because she might be traced. She gets by on scraps of food, sleeps rough, swims in the sea at night and takes a menial job in a local wine shop. A connection she forms with a man who appears similarly adrift is less about starting a new relationship and more about acknowledging their parallel disconsolate realities. Though her existence seems perilously reduced “This is exactly what she wanted, she must remind herself: to slip into a blind spot, to run out on her life.” Written in a spare, emotionally-charged style, this novel gradually unfolds to reveal the aching truth of her past and raises stirring questions about the narratives we use to shape our lives. 

What's so moving about this story aren't the sombre facts of Mara's life, but the way it patiently lays bare the psyche of its protagonist. Ample blank space is allowed on the page between passages as if to represent the vacant spaces of time Mara's new wayward existence gives her. Her motives aren't necessarily to rebuild or to start afresh as with most characters who've experienced a devastating loss, but to disentangle her ego. Does her mother really resent her? Is she really inferior to her brother? Did she really fail her husband? These are issues which plague her and it's difficult to know whether this was her actual position in relation to those closest to her or if she's brutally recasting her role in their lives as a form of self punishment. There's a sense that she wants to lose her former self and become someone new but she's unable to shake her personal history. “She can feel it, the past, grabbing, pulling... It takes her wherever it wants her to go; this is the mind's undertow.” Physical encounters with the sea and imagery about the ocean are poetically built into the narrative. It's poignant how this suggests a daily pace to the world which Mara can no longer keep up with because of the enormity of her grief. Though this novel has an undeniably melancholy tone it's not devoid of hope and I appreciate how its extreme example shows how self doubt has the potential to utterly devour us if we don't meet society's expectations or reach the milestones set before us. It gives the reader a lot to quietly consider and reflect upon.

The Child by Kjersti A Skomsvold (translated by Martin Aitken)

Since the experience of pregnancy and motherhood is one I can never have it makes me all the more interested in reading about it. I've never even felt inclined to be a father but I want to understand the process and emotional repercussions of parenthood. Kjersti A Skomsvold is a Norwegian author who has published an utterly captivating, beautifully-written and poignant account of a woman in the first several months following the birth of her second child. What's so compelling about her point of view is the way her identity transforms amidst this new responsibility but retains a consistency. It's like the tectonic plates of her personality shift to lay bare the core of her being with all her passion, strengths and insecurities. She's an author who endeavours to keep writing amidst the responsibilities and emotional strain of her life. At the same time it's fascinating how her experience is paired against others such as her great aunt who is experiencing dementia, a writer friend who committed suicide and her partner Bo with whom she's had a complicated relationship. Through her interactions we glean an awareness of all the stages of life experienced at once as the roles she plays constantly switch and are paired against the lives of others. 

The narrative is composed of short impressionistic accounts of her daily experiences, memories and reflections. They are also directed at the child so it's written in the second person making it feel like both a confidential letter to her progeny and a hymn expressing her innermost soul. It gives an immediacy to this book which is emotional and moving. This style also creates a narrative tension as we only gradually come to understand her past and the circumstances of her life. I found it poignant how when comparing herself to her contemporaries she feels that she's come late to things like having a stable relationship and giving birth to children: “Becoming adult is so very much harder when you haven't the strength.” Gradually we come to understand her abiding feeling of loneliness and depression which have also hindered her ability to fully connect with others: “it's because of loneliness I can hear if my heart's beating. Even with a child inside me I was filled with loneliness, and after the child had come out I felt empty. Loneliness lingered like a phantom pain.” I appreciate how she honestly divulges the mystery of these emotions and allows us to connect with them without feeling the need to try to explain them. Though the obsessions and minute sentiments which attend a volatile relationship grew trying to read about at some later sections of the book I did find many observations very powerful such as “I thought love meant discovering a new person, but it's more discovering yourself, and that's painful.”

It's interesting to compare this novel with Jessie Greengrass' “Sight” which also describes a very close-to-the-core account of motherhood with all its trials and uncertainties. While these bravely honest and confessional testimonies yield a lot of insights they also present a consciously limited, subjective view of these characters which left me longing to understand some of the more practical circumstances of their lives. For instance, I wondered how Skomsvold's unnamed protagonist managed economically amidst the responsibilities of having children but we never get details about this. I'd have appreciated it if the author would have dropped in a line or two about whether she had savings or whether her writing enables her to fully subsist. As a point of comparison “Ghost in the Throat” by Doireann Ni Ghriofa gives a very intimate account of motherhood while also making the reader aware of the challenging financial strain of having a growing family. However, this was only a slight reservation I had about “The Child” because overall it's a very thoughtful, moving and poetic account full of candour and insights.

A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam

On the surface it's easy to summarize what happens in “A Passage North”. Krishan, a young man who has returned to live and work in his native country of Sri Lanka after the recent Civil War, travels to the war-torn Northern Province to pay respects at the funeral of Rani, his grandmother's former care-giver who died suddenly. This journey comprises the bulk of the action in this story. Readers who prefer a novel with a lot of plot-driven physical drama won't find it in this novel. The power of this book and the complexity of its tale comes from Krishan's meditative process. He was absent from the genocide which resulted in the death of many thousands of fellow Tamils. Though his father was a casualty of one of the Tiger bombings in Colombo, he didn't directly witness or feel the effects of this calamity. However, Rani was a witness to these horrific events and experienced tragic losses which left her severely traumatized. The question for Krishan is how to reconcile what he knows with what he has not directly seen and what steps should be taken to positively contribute to his country which has been ravaged by war. While he is contending with this enormous issue he's also simply a young guy who likes to hang out with his friends and smoke. He spends long periods of time wandering while staring out at the horizon and pines for his lover Anjum who's become a committed activist. Through the course of this novel we get a poignant sense of his state of being at a significant crossroad in life.

The author is a student of philosophy and this is heavily reflected in the narrative which meaningfully considers a number of dilemmas to do with the nature of life, time and reality. This is clear from the opening page which begins with the question of inhabiting the present moment. His meditative process offers a moving and new perspective on a number of issues. For instance, the world now witnesses significant conflicts online through first-hand footage shared by individuals embroiled in the action. However Krishan is cautious about granting these images legitimacy: “his initial reluctance to acknowledge the magnitude of what had happened at the end of the war, as though he'd been hesitant to believe the evidence on his computer screen because his own poor, violated, stateless people were the ones alleging it, as though he'd been unable to take the suffering of his own people seriously till it was validated by the authority of a panel of foreign experts, legitimized by a documentary narrated by a clean-shaven white man standing in front of a camera in suit and tie.” The question of authority is now a difficult one as we're wary of being manipulated, but also want to empower the real experience of individuals and resist being swayed by subliminal racial biases. This signifies a difficult modern issue we now all face that is not just to do with the act of witnessing but about the validity of what we see, who we choose to believe and how we interpret it.

Krishan considers issues which are both universal and specific, but his point of view does feel very rooted in his youth and this is acknowledged: “thinking as he lay there, in that naïve and moving way of adolescents”. Obviously, he does not have all the answers – nor should he – but some of his diatribes are more meaningful than others. I found his insights into migration particularly striking - especially how the trauma of war means some citizens can't bear to live in their native country any longer. Equally, I appreciated his sensitivity in considering not only his own perspective as a young man in a heterosexual relationship but that of women, queer people and hijras. A scene where he makes eye contact with another man on public transport also gives a dynamic perspective on masculinity and how men respond to one another. However, I found some other meditations he indulges in less enlightening such as the meaning of sight loss as one grows older and an extended lesson in the difference between desire and yearning. His musings do occasionally stray into overly-ponderous and pedagogical Alain de Botton territory. His ruminations aren't wrong, per say, but I don't read novels to be lectured to. Similarly, some sections recount versions of mythology or folklore and, later in the novel, the stories of dissident political figures. These stories are interesting and have points which relate to the dilemmas Krishan faces, but aren't very artfully blended into the overall narrative.

Where this story comes most alive and feels three-dimensional is when it describes the characters of his grandmother Appamma and her carer Rani. Krishan's interactions with Appamma are funny and endearing so I wish we were given more of that in the story. Equally, Appamma and Rani form a unique relationship impacted by Appamma's failing health and faltering mental state as well as the serious trauma which Rani struggles to live with and the electroshock therapy she regularly receives to treat it. The descriptions of these characters and their scenes are very powerful and I'd have been glad to read a whole novel just about them. Krishan's dilemma is significant and he offers a refreshing point of view which I'm very sympathetic with, but I felt his detailed and extensive thought process often prevented me from really getting to emotionally connect with him as a character. His most endearing scenes concern the timid formation of his relationship with Anjum and the conflict they face as a couple where their motivation to make an impact in their country overshadows their ability to be together. Krishan's melancholy over this state is conveyed in a moving way, but felt secondary within a narrative that sometimes drifts into overanalysis. There are many sensitive and considered insights in this book, but I'm not sure Arudpragasam has yet found the sweet spot where his philosophical perspective blends with the art of storytelling.

The Great Mistake by Jonathan Lee

There's a strange irony in how a man's influence can be felt everywhere in a city, but the man himself is mostly unknown. Andrew Haswell Green was considered “the Father of Greater New York”. He was a city planner responsible for some of the city's most notable landmarks and institutions including Central Park, the New York Library and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This businessman and lawyer created a tremendous legacy, but when he was 83 years old he became the victim of a strange murder case which occurred in 1903. The mystery surrounding the inner life of this figure is the subject of Jonathan Lee's new novel “The Great Mistake” and Green comes to feel like a chimera the author is chasing in order to understand him – even when Green seems not to know himself. The story is framed around the peculiar circumstances of his death and gradually we come to discover the motive behind it, but the real enigma is Green's inexpressible desire which accompanies him throughout his life and never finds fulfilment. In this way, Lee captures a tender sense of loneliness and these grand spaces for the public good which Green created are underlined by a solemn yearning for human connection. 

Green comes from humble beginnings and we follow the story of his life as he works his way up in the world. But he comes to ruefully look back at the trajectory of his ascent when asked to recount it to people around him: “People liked all that Dickensian nonsense.” Though Dickens earnestly wanted his readers to pity his characters, Green repels such sentimental notions though we come to sympathize with how his father rejected him, the gruelling ordeal of his apprenticeship and the intimacy which always seemed to elude him. Whenever he becomes emotionally and physically close to other men in his life, the connection is severed with a warning. Wrapped in this is a desire which the narrative itself never names but is felt everywhere. Lee embeds in his prose a sensuality which is intense even if it isn't explicit: “Their shadows touched on the ground.” As such the author describes an intangible wanting which mirrors the state of Green's consciousness. His queerness is not labelled because Green wouldn't have described himself that way but it is coded in descriptions of his relationship with his mentor Samuel who is “his most beloved friend”.

What's interesting is that although being gay has come to be understood as a badge which should be defiantly worn to insist upon social acceptance, there are other dynamics which admit the nature of being a homosexual without naming it. I found it touching the way this novel portrays Green's relationship with his brother where a misunderstanding divides them but it shows how his brother accepts Green in a way he didn't expect. Though tacit forms of approval come with their own hazards, this shows how the real issue perhaps comes from Green's unwillingness to admit or accept his own desires and state of being. Trauma certainly leads to suppression, but Lee suggests early in the novel that Green is almost fated never to live the life he really desires: “At times what he felt, late at night, during these years, was a kind of helpless nostalgia, an emotion that he knew he had not yet earned. But it wasn't nostalgia for times he had already lived through. It was nostalgia for versions of himself he hadn't yet been.”

As a counterpoint to Green's character is the enigmatic figure of Bessie Davis who is haplessly linked to the murder case. She's a fascinating person who perhaps deserves a novel herself, but though her profession demands intimacy it comes with no affection. As such her fulfilment is not found with others: “She had never felt lonely when alone. It was simply not a sensation she had ever in her life experienced. But the loneliness she felt in the presence of other people? That indeed was a force.” In both these characters we get a sense of personalities who must uncomfortably navigate a society which doesn't accept them or allow them to succeed by being fully themselves. As such they must carve and build physical spaces which permit possibilities that they themselves can never entirely realise. There's a chilling moment towards the end of the novel when Green enters a subterranean space of the city and finds there a comfort which he never felt on the surface. I enjoyed how this poignant novel elegantly describes the tension between our inner and outer reality which can make us strangers even to ourselves.

You can read a preview of the novel here: https://www.jellybooks.com/cloud_reader/previews/the-great-mistake_9781783786244/L3Leb

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez (translated by Megan McDowell)

It's so exciting to read new fiction that imaginatively blends the surreal and supernatural to tell inventive (oftentimes horrific) literary tales. In Enriquez's short stories the narrators are often haunted by ghosts or plagued by curses. Spirits enact their revenge. Communities are driven into a frenzy by fear. These stories frequently focus on or are told through the points of view of the vulnerable and maligned: children who are impoverished or abused, disenfranchised teenagers or deviants. Neither the protagonists or the ethereal beings often adhere to a moral code. Many act deviously, tyrannically or selfishly. An abused woman is entrapped by a hotel's ghost. The “evil” which plagues a family is transferred onto an innocent girl. A young filmmaker knowingly films and sells videos of children swimming in a pool to a paedophile. The depiction of the sheer chaos of this society which doesn't necessarily reward the good or punish the bad is in many ways more terrifying than the sensational violence or gross details portrayed. It suggests a world that is restless and unhinged. These tales are filled with a lot of tantalizingly dark detail and imagery, but the problem is they too often rely on a twist or gimmick in their plotting. This frequently left me reeling (or rolling my eyes) from the shock of what's revealed rather than being moved by any profundity or psychological insight. 

Interestingly, I felt the final story in this collection 'Back When We Talked to the Dead' was the most successful. This is narrated from the collective point of view of a group of girls recalling a time when they secretly met to use a Ouija Board in order to contact or locate people they've lost. Their connection with the spirits is severed one night when a session ends in a terrifying way. This story hints at institutionalized violence which has led to people disappearing or falling between the cracks of a dysfunctional social system. The point of view evocatively brings to life the voices of friends who were once united but have grown apart because of age and the abiding fear of their actions. It's also genuinely tense and scary as we discover what freaked out these girls so much. Sadly, too many of the previous tales feel like they are self-consciously striving to disturb the reader. Two stories feature people defecating in the streets and multiple female characters aggressively and violently masturbate. I'm not prudish but the repetition of these kinds of details simply revolted me rather than engaged me. I can't see anything revelatory in this specific realism; it's just stomach turning.

The longest story in this book 'Kids Who Come Back' is almost novella-length and explores a theme common to many of the stories. Children frequently disappear in this collection only to return in an altered state where all innocence has been lost. This lengthy story is narrated from the point of view of a woman named Mechi who literally maintains an archive of lost and disappeared children in Buenos Aires. She becomes fascinated by a beautiful missing girl named Vanadis who abruptly returns one day, but not in as the person she was before. Many other lost children also reappear including many of whom definitely died and they are the same age they were when they vanished. People grow to fear them and see them as shells of the children they once were. This is a premise somewhat similar to another Argentinian story 'Underground' by Samanta Schweblin. I feel like Enriquez is able to more effectively build and draw out tension and mystery in this longer story. It better describes doubles or doppelgängers which appear in several tales. It's also more pointed in how it encapsulates a frequent theme of this collection where a neighbourhood or area and a group of people are “tainted” by a scandal or popular myth so they are in a sense “cursed”. The resulting social alienation is just as cruel as the rancour of the spirits. Perhaps the many positive elements of this longer story mean that I'd find Enriquez's fiction more successful in the form of a novel where her rich imagination can be given a constructive amount of room to stretch.

The Manningtree Witches by A.K. Blakemore

In times of social, economic and religious strife within misogynistic societies women are much more likely to be unfairly persecuted and suffer at the hands of authoritarian men. One historical example where this was made blatantly obvious was in the mid-17th century witch trials in England – especially during the civil war and Puritan era. There's a blood-curdling sensational aura to the witch hunts that occurred as they are endemically associated with hysteria, the occult and horrific means of state-sanctioned punishment. But A.K. Blakemore brings an insightful and refreshing lyrical realism to her fictional depiction of a period in East Anglia and the Home Counties when hundreds of women (and men) were condemned by a charismatic and pious man named Matthew Hopkins who proclaimed himself to be a Witchfinder General. Thankfully this opportunistic charlatan isn't at the centre of the novel and Blakemore focuses instead on the much more interesting perspectives of a group of women who were often persecuted because they were convenient scapegoats or simply didn't conform to the accepted norms of the time living more on the fringes of society. 

The story is told from the point of view of Rebecca West, the daughter of a lively, opinionated widow who is looked down upon by her community and struggles to eke out a living within this gloomy landscape. Rebecca is very clever, observant and seeks to become educated by a scholar she fancies named John Edes. But her plans for romance and social progression are stymied when local speculation about supernatural occurrences reaches an increasingly feverish pitch. It's very effective how Blakemore conveys the gradual transformation of the local population's sensibility. This combined with chilling and creepy atmospheric descriptions means that the narrative which starts at a slow trot eventually develops a galloping pace and becomes absolutely gripping. Though there is no mystery about the tragic fate of the accused witches, the story shines in the sympathetic and complex portraits of these women who come alive through their high-spirited dialogue. It's also so compelling seeing what leads to a crucial decision Rebecca makes amidst the psychologically and sexually twisted interactions she has with Hopkins. This skilfully written historical novel fully transports the reader to these bleak and desperate times while bestowing integrity to these vilified women.

Gay Bar by Jeremy Atherton Lin

Journalists have been noting the rapid closure of gay bars for years and the economic strain of the past year's pandemic has certainly added to the demise of many more of these venues. So it feels especially poignant to read Jeremy Atherton Lin's nonfiction/memoir “Gay Bar” now as he catalogues his personal experience going to gay bars and other historic examples of notable establishments where gay people congregated. From this he considers the meaning of gay identity itself, notions of intimacy and the political/personal importance that these physical locations played in queer communities. The subtitle of this book “why we went out” feels especially poignant when considering why he and his long term partner 'Famous' went to bars to make friends, view the “scene” and have sex with other men. I really valued how candidly and explicitly he describes his experiences and what a positive example this gives of how sex is a part of Lin's own evolving sense of being a gay man and how an open long term relationship can work. His life, sensibility and values are very different from my own but I appreciate the intelligent and skilful ways he considers how experiences in gay-designated spaces can positively and negatively contribute to our personal and collective sense of gay identity. 

Though Lin's experiences span decades and nations, it's perhaps telling how surprisingly small the gay community really is given that a number of the bars he describes are places I've been to and even some of the people he encounters I've met myself. I'm not someone who enjoys going out that much so I understand how the experience of gay bars can sometimes be tedious and even stifling given how self-conscious the gaze of men in these venues can make me feel. Yet, I've also had some wonderfully empowering and liberating experiences at gay bars whether that's been dancing to Kylie in a Prague bar, drunkenly playing pool with a stranger in a London gay pub or having a heart-to-heart talk with an older drag queen in Cleveland dive. What Lin describes so well is how these experiences are, of course, particular to the individual but they also allow the potential for instant connections no matter where you are in the world. The interactions that occur in these spaces also contribute to an ongoing community conversation we're having about how to negotiate living in a largely straight society as gay men. I think it's clever how the author balances playful points such as how San Francisco blow jobs differ from Los Angeles blow jobs with more series accounts of how gay bars became meeting grounds to launch gay liberation and inspire AIDS activism. This book is a valuable historical document which manages to be both intellectually rigorous and arousing.

Earthlings by Sayaka Murata (translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori)

When “Convenience Store Woman”, Sayaka Murata's first novel to be translated into English was published a couple of years ago it became a cult hit with many enthusiastic fans (including me!) She was already a well-established writer in Japan having published ten books and won multiple prominent literary awards. Now more of her books are being translated into English including “Earthlings” which explores a lot of this author’s familiar themes such as alienation and societal pressures but the story dramatizes them from a surprising new angle and contains more shocking twists. The novel centres around Natsuki, an adolescent girl who develops a strong bond with her cousin Yuu as the pair believe they are aliens who've come from a planet called Popinpobopia. Many years later Natsuki forms an unconventional marriage with a socially awkward man named Tomoya. They refer to society as The Factory wherein they are expected to function as mechanical parts by creating babies and serving specific functions: “Everyone believed in the Factory. Everyone was brainwashed by the Factory and did as they were told.” To escape this fate, the pair travel to Natsuki’s remote family home Akishina where they create a new connection with Yuu and try to establish a way of being outside of social expectations.

Murata’s writing is so compelling in the way she gives voice to outsiders - people who don’t quite fit into mainstream society and feel they must grudgingly obey unwritten social rules in order to survive. It makes it very easy to relate to the author’s central characters who take a weary view of people who do excel at being model citizens. For instance Natsuki observes of her friend Shizuka that “She had always been exemplary in learning to be a woman, truly a straight-A student. It looked excruciatingly tiring.” There’s an implicit humour in this wry view of others, but there’s a distinction between being socially-awkward and a sociopath. Murata’s characters tread that line and this makes her plots so compelling because it feels like at any moment the story might stray into violence, tragedy and madness.

This novel also exposes the hypocrisy of living in a patriarchal society where the authority of a good-looking man is valued over the testimony of an adolescent girl. During Natsuki’s childhood, her handsome teacher Mr Igasaki takes a predatory interest in her. However, nobody believes Natsuki’s account especially not the other women in her life – not even female friends she confides to in her early adulthood. It compounds her feelings of being an outsider and makes her even more mistrustful of following the expectations which are placed upon her.

Many will be shocked by the extremes this novel goes to. The ending of “Earthlings” is really wild and it’s likely to divide the opinions of different readers. Like with the novel “A Little Life”, I think many readers who initially feel sympathetic to the characters and story might become repelled by how far the author goes. In some ways, I found it frustrating as it does feel like Murata sacrifices a consistency with her characters for the sake of shock value. The attitude of Natsuki’s cousin Yuu changes very quickly and her husband Tomoya’s fear of physical contact is abruptly abandoned. But I don’t think this is simply a case of the author prioritizing a rhapsodic plot over the integrity of her characters.

There are a number of different interpretations you could make about the ending. It could be viewed in the realms of pure fantasy where the characters are what they believe they are. It could be seen as a form of joint hysteria. Or you could interpret it as a very intense example of how people will sometimes do terrible things to alienate themselves from society in order to violently free themselves from its rules. When his family try to take charge of him Tomoya desperately seeks a way to do something so shocking he’ll be permanently outcast. Similarly, at the end the trio go so outside the realms of convention they are absconding from any hope of being integrated into normal society again. It could be viewed as a radical form of liberation.

In some ways “Convenience Store Woman” felt like a more restrained and accomplished novel with hints of potential horror – whereas “Earthlings” tips into full-blown terror as its protagonists become lost in fantasy and violence. But it’s fascinating how this novel gives an interesting perspective on feelings of alienation. It’s common to imagine oneself as having been born in the wrong time or place when feeling crushed by expectations which go against one’s instincts. Here the characters really believe themselves to be aliens, but because we’re so entrenched in their perspective it’s so-called conventional people who come to seem like aliens with their banal rituals and rigid expectations. Murata inventively traces the way different outsiders cope by submitting to, rebelling against or escaping from the dominant ideologies of a society they are forced to live in. It makes for a vivid, thrilling and thought-provoking reading experience.