Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

For many years I’ve felt ashamed about not having read “Wolf Hall”. I know it’s silly to feel shame about not reading or enjoying certain books even if they are some of the most critically acclaimed and lauded books of our time. There will always be great books I won’t have time to get to and I was initially put off from this novel because I started reading it when it was first published in 2009, but felt confused by the complicated politics of the Tudor period. It can feel tedious reading certain historical novels where I have to frequently put the book down to look up the meaning of a certain person or event on Wikipedia to feel like I really understand what’s going on in the story. So after about 150 pages I put it aside and didn’t go back to it. But, now with the third book of Mantel’s trilogy coming out soon, I felt it’s time to really immerse myself in it.

I’ve also greatly appreciated other books I’ve read by Mantel so she’s a writer I’m glad to make an effort for. This time I took steps to better prepare myself for it by reading the very detailed biography “Thomas Cromwell”. While I found MacCulloch’s book quite a bore it did give me an understanding of the most important people, events and politics portrayed in Mantel’s novel. So I read “Wolf Hall” straight through without stopping, even though the broader meaning of some scenes still went over my head. To my delight, it was a wonderfully enriching and enjoyable experience and I’m now eager to read more!

One thing that was really memorable for me the first time I tried reading “Wolf Hall” was the magnificent, emotional opening scene Mantel writes where Cromwell is a boy who has just been savagely beaten by his father. She captures the heart-wrenching physical and emotional pain of this incident. The image of Thomas as a vulnerable rejected young lad casts a shadow over the rest of his fascinating life and informs later scenes of the novel as Cromwell carefully navigates the choppy waters of court life, serving Henry VIII and being a key negotiator of the English Reformation.

It’s powerful how Mantel portrays his resilience, innate intelligence and ability to use his ingenious political skills to execute the King’s will where many of his predecessors failed. She describes how he understood better than most how to gather as much dirt on people as possible and how to use and ration out that knowledge in a way which would best benefit him and the people he represented: “A man's power is in the half light, in the half seen movements of his hand and the unguessed at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts that frightens people, the gap you open into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.” Because Cromwell came from relatively humble beginnings, his savvy ability to ascend to such prominence and become one of the most powerful men in England is impressive but he clearly never forgets where he came from and people of the royal court never let him forget his origins either.

It’s moving how Mantel occasionally writes Thomas recalling his boyhood and the threat of his father so much so that the long-dead patriarch takes on a ghostly presence in his life. In fact, there many hauntings in the novel from Henry dreaming of his dead brother and Thomas feeling the continued presence of his deceased wife Elizabeth. It feels like death is an ever-present spectre in this time period as Mantel describes continuous threats of deadly fever/plague and public executions. Given the fearsome prominence of these threats it’s no wonder that the author writes her characters as if they constantly tread the line between life and the after-life.

Mantel interweaves a wicked humour throughout the narrative as well. She portrays scenes where characters will darkly parody the downfall of others such as the arrest of Cardinal Wolsey or mockingly re-enact dramatic conversations. Late in the novel she even pokes fun at how English weather is notoriously grey and rainy when Cromwell reflects how he would have been a better man if the weather were better. This adds a wonderful levity to a story which is weighted with so much bloodshed and seriously reflects on a pivotal turning point in England’s history.

Towards the end of the novel I found it poignant how Mantel depicts the larger significance of the monumental changes of this time. Many fictional and historic accounts of the Tudors have revelled in the salacious scandal of Henry’s many wives and the political implication of England breaking from the church in Rome. But Mantel gets at subtler implications about where the general population would henceforth put their faith. The English Reformation forced people to choose if they would follow God or the King. This conflict obviously played out in many bloody battles, but also reverberated through the hearts of the entire nation. So I think it’s brilliant the complex way Mantel captures the larger psychological and social evolution to show how “England is always remaking herself.”

But, of course, the bulk of the story is made up of small moments and meetings between a few individuals who would steer the direction of the country: “The fate of peoples is made like this, two men in small rooms.” Through the dialogue of her characters Mantel shows the various powerplays at work, the promise of comradery or the making of enemies – when people will bend such as Henry Percy surrendering his engagement to Anne or when they will not bend such as Thomas More who refuses to plea for mercy. It’s especially exciting seeing what’s at stake in the meetings and exchanges between Cromwell and Anne Boleyn as well as Catherine of Aragon. And Jane Seymour appears in many scenes as well as if hovering in wait. Though this first novel only follows the tale up until the execution of Thomas More even I understand enough about the history to know that she will eventually become the third wife.

Admittedly, there were still sections of the novel which went over my head. Because of my ignorance about some of the intricacies of this historical period I wasn’t always certain about what events were taking place or who was being portrayed. There are many characters to keep track of and this can be especially difficult when so many are named Thomas, Mary or Henry. There’s even a semi-joke made at one point when Thomas becomes confused about whether Anne is talking about her sister Mary or Catherine’s daughter Mary I. But this didn’t really detract from my enjoyment of the novel as I could follow the general progression of the story through the main players.

I’m glad I put in the effort to return to “Wolf Hall” because reading it was an exciting and rewarding experience overall. Even though I obviously know what larger events will happen in the second and third books because they are rooted in history, I’m very keen to see how Mantel further develops the characters she’s made out of these figures from the past. It’s strange to say, but I feel a deep tension now wanting to know what’s going to happen and how Cromwell will eventually meet his tragically inevitable conclusion.

Booker International Prize Longlist 2020

The Booker International Prize has become one of my favourite literary awards to follow as it’s fascinating reading a wider variety of literature from around the world, it gives a much-needed platform for many independent publishers and, of course, the quality of the books chosen are often top notch. Last year’s winner “Celestial Bodies” was an excellent family saga about three very different sisters in modern-day Oman. I’ve had especially high hopes for this year’s award because it has such an excellent group of judges including Jennifer Croft, who translated previous winner “Flights” by Olga Tokarczuk; brilliant writer Valeria Luiselli whose most recent novel is the outstanding “Lost Children Archive” and the group is chaired by Ted Hodgkinson who is Head of Literature at the Southbank Centre in London which hosts discussions with many writers from around the world.

So I trust their taste and it’s a thrill to see these 13 novels which they’ve selected for this year’s longlist. I’m especially happy “The Memory Police” and “Hurricane Season” are listed as I think they’re both fascinatingly inventive novels with brilliant story-telling. I’m also very glad “The Eighth Life” has been included. This is a sweeping family epic set over a century in Georgia and is by far the longest novel on the list at 944 pages. Now, I guiltily have to admit, that because of the length this was a novel I started last Autumn but paused reading after around 200 pages. I was really enjoying it but because I try to read other books while reading such a long novel I let myself get distracted and didn’t go back. I’m looking forward to returning to it with vigour now to read it in its entirety.

Out of the remaining titles some that I’m most looking forward to are “Little Eyes” by Samanta Schweblin (which I included in a video list of my most anticipated books of the year.) Schweblin was previously listed for the Booker Prize with her creepily surreal short novel “Fever Dream”. I’ll probably also prioritize reading “The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree”, “The Adventure of China Iron”, “Tyll”, “Faces on the Tip of my Tongue” and “The Discomfort of Evening”. But I’d be curious to read all the novels – except perhaps “Serotonin” as I’m not sure Houllebecq will be an author I enjoy. If you think I should give him a try let me know.

Two of the novels haven’t yet been published in the UK: “Little Eyes” is due to be published on April 16 and “The Discomfort of Evening” is due to be published on March 19. When this occurred last year the publishers rushed them to print so that may happen again (especially because Schweblin’s novel currently won’t be available until after the shortlist is announced).

I’m sure many people will note that this year’s list (yet again) has a very European focus with 7 titles nominated. I’m not sure why this would be, but I’m guessing that more translated books from the continent get published in the UK leading to lists which lean more in Europe’s favour. However, it should be noted that nearly half the list comes from countries around the rest of the world. This is also the year that Great Britain is officially leaving the European Union so perhaps the judges are making a point that we’re still culturally connected to the continent.

A couple of novels I was hoping to see on the list were “Love” by Hanne Orstavik and “The Collection” by Nina Leger. But, based on pictures that have been posted on social media of the piles of books the judges have been feverishly reading through, it appears there was an enormous amount of competition for this year’s award. There were 124 novels submitted for it.

I’m looking forward to reading and seeing what books make it to the shortlist on April 2nd. You can also watch me discuss all the novels listed in a video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YmBowiwEDM

Let me know which novels your most interested in reading from the list.

The Illness Lesson by Clare Beams

In the 1990s there were a series of bizarre cases involving strip search phone call scams in rural areas of the US. A man claiming to be a police officer called many restaurants and grocery stores accusing female employees of theft and demanded that the manager strip search these young women. This happened in over 70 venues and, surprisingly, many of the managers carried out these invasive, humiliating searches only to later discover they were a hoax. An example from this case was dramatised in the 2012 film 'Compliance' whose story would have felt far fetched if it hadn't been based on a number of real documented cases. Institutional power can lead many ordinary people to commit outrageous acts of physical and sexual violence simply because a figure of perceived authority orders them to. I was reminded of this while reading Clare Beams' excellent debut novel “The Illness Lesson” because even though it's set in private girls' school in New England in the 1870s its themes are still very relevant today. It movingly and artfully describes how hierarchical structures can normalise such abuse, especially when men are in a position of power and have control over young women.

The novel focuses on Caroline, the only daughter of an influential intellectual named Samuel who starts a progressive school for girls. Many years prior Samuel had been one of the founders of a failed commune and he seeks to partly redeem himself with this new venture. Caroline joins in his plan as a teacher alongside another ambitious young intellectual David Moore, one of Samuel's devotees. They create a makeshift schoolhouse in the barn of the former commune and attract several adolescent girls to join as their first students. In this isolated situation the girls develop strange hysterical ailments after Eliza, the most charismatic girl among the group falls ill. As the teachers desperately seek a solution to prevent their school from failing, things quickly unravel and drastic steps are taken.

There's an engaging tension and poignant conflict to Caroline's character as she's had quite an isolated life being raised by her father after her mother died during Caroline's girlhood. She's Samuel's daughter but also a kind of protege and his minder. While she is devoted to him, she also feels unruly passions stirring within her and a desire for life outside of the intensely circumscribed boundaries of this intellectual household. She feels “They had trapped her in their plans, these men.” This claustrophobia and suppressed desire is expressed with beautiful imagery in the form of strange vibrant red birds which take up residence in their area. These birds are simultaneously alluring and intimidating as they drift through the backdrop of the story, stealing from the girls for their nests and swarming in the distance. It's such an evocative metaphor for all the conflicting inner desires that both Caroline and the girls are experiencing.

In the mid-1800s there were a number of communal experiments associated with the Transcendental movement. Most of these communities soon collapsed as high-minded thinkers quickly found the reality of agricultural living too challenging. Novels such as Hawthorne's “The Blithedale Romance” and Louisa May Alcott's “Transcendental Wild Oats” satirise these failed communes. Clare Beams also creates a novel within her novel called The Darkening Glass written by Miles Pearson, a former member and dissident of Samuel's commune. Pearson is deceased but his presence is felt throughout the story as Eliza is his daughter and each chapter of “The Illness Lesson” begins with epigraphs taken from his fictional novel. The Darkening Glass is also set on the school grounds where the commune used to be so this location is haunted both by this failed community and Pearson's fictional depiction of it. It's clever how Beams creates this layered sense of history in this location which adds tremendously to the atmosphere of the story.

There’s something classically dramatic and engaging about this novel and the situation it portrays. It’s a bit like Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ and a bit like Alcott’s “Little Women”, but has a strong feminist perspective about the way women and girls are often categorized and controlled in society. Yet it also has its own striking poetic quality which subtly describes these young women’s ambiguous feelings and how each navigates development in her own unique way. The story is also filled with a lot of tension between the girls, Caroline and David’s wife Sophia who all wrestle with their own jealousies and struggle for dominance amongst the group. This makes it a riveting tale as well as a shocking one when the ideals of this progressive school entirely collapse. Because all the action of the novel is contained in one location reading it felt a bit like watching a play. At times it seemed to me like the author was controlling the situation too tightly to keep the story at Caroline and Samuel’s country house and therefore bring the story to a crisis point. But this is a minor quibble within a book that’s so intelligent and forceful in the larger statements it makes. I greatly admire the power and passion of this novel.

How Pale the Winter Has Made Us by Adam Scovell

Sometimes when staying in a foreign city the physical estrangement you feel from your homeland can match your mental state. “How Pale the Winter Has Made Us” opens with its English narrator Isabelle learning that her father has committed suicide in Crystal Palace, London. She’s been staying in Strasbourg with her partner who has recently flown to South America for an extended trip to pursue his medical work. A typical response to such news would be for Isabelle to immediately fly home to England to attend the funeral and be with her remaining family. But instead she chooses to stay in her partner’s empty flat and roam the streets of Strasbourg researching the lives of people who’ve been memorialised in the city’s statues, museums, literature and photos found in the stalls of street vendors. She finds that “Grief does strange and terrible things to the mind; rationality disintegrates into the air.”

We only receive snippets of her own personal history with her family and partner, but these relationships are certainly strained. Amidst long passages of research there occasionally appear italicised hate-filled accusations from her mother (who she refers to as a “harridan”) which might be real messages, memories or entirely imagined. Occasional recollections of her father and his single-minded pursuit of painting are steeped in resentment. But throughout most of the narrative Isabelle blocks the intrusion of personal details in favour of her research. This process of consciously alienating herself from the reality back home and immersing herself in fragments from history is a way of avoiding the immediacy of emotion and searching for a way to centre herself again. As we follow her intellectual journey over the course of winter we witness an individual’s disintegration of self alongside the spectral resurrection of a city’s history.

Strasbourg has an interesting position being a French city situated so close to the German border and it acts as the nexus point for a number of European Institutions. It was also one of the first centres of the printing industry which was established in part during the 1400s by Johannes Gutenberg, one of the figures Isabelle extensively researches. She reads about and interviews a series of people concerning the lives of artist Jean Arp, Goethe and several other individuals connected to the city. This information is conveyed through dialogue but also photos which are reproduced in the book. These elements of the city contribute to the way Isabelle methodically maps out not only the physical space around her, but its politics and culture throughout the centuries. In doing so she in a sense become the city: “The streets were now mapped over my skin more than I had ever felt before, visibly rising on my flesh.”

Isabelle also quite literally engages with a mythological sense of time as she feels around her the presence of the Erl-King, a figure of folklore and a harbinger of death. At first this is a being glimpsed only in the corner of her vision but he also comes to visit and ravish her. These meetings exist on the border between horror and the erotic in a way which conveys a sense of masochistic pleasure to accompany her suppressed anger and grief. Since this figure of folklore leaves physical marks on Isabelle’s body it could be interpreted that she’s engaging in a form of self-harm alongside the way she practically starves herself.

I think this a book you need to consider with a lot of patience. It’s definitely not the sort of novel for a reader looking for a story rich in plot as the immediate drama is subsumed by a steady survey of history. But it’s interesting to think how Isabelle’s research acts as a way of considering the way some men from history have been valorised when her own father’s endeavours will most likely be forgotten and she even considers at one point the way he might be damned. This is certainly a melancholy tale, but one with humorous moments such as an exchange with an old grandmother. Adam Scovell’s writing is akin to authors such as W.G. Sebald and Robert Macfarlane whose work mixes the mediums of nonfiction and the novel to form a layered portrait of the world. I enjoyed the deeply meditative experience of this book which poignantly considers how a person at a point of crisis dynamically engages with the past and immerses herself in the flow of time.

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins

It’s a strange coincidence that within the novel “American Dirt” there’s a scene which takes place in a bookstore where a character remarks: “Sometimes the experience of reading can be corrupted by too many opinions.” Since this novel’s publication last month it’s been beset by heavy criticism from the Latin community, Latinx writers and the wider literary world. It’s also had defenders such as writer Sandra Cisneros and Stephen King (who, incidentally, gets name-checked in the novel when the central character finds one of his books which “transports” her to fondly-remembered better days from her past.)

A balanced look at some of the debates about this book was given in this NPR programme which I’d recommend listening to: https://www.npr.org/2020/01/29/800964001/digging-into-american-dirt?t=1582044209799

I wanted to make up my own mind about this novel but because I’ve been following how it’s been so widely debated and discussed in the media I couldn’t read it without these warring opinions in mind. Normally I prefer to read a book before looking at any reviews however with inflammatory accusations such as writer/critic Myriam Curba who calls it “trauma porn that wears a social justice fig leaf” and Luis Alberto Urrea who calls it a “minstrel show” it felt right to consider many different opinions alongside reading the novel itself. That’s not to say critics don’t get it wrong sometimes, but because the novel is partly Cummins’ self-conscious exercise to raise awareness about the migrant experience (as she explains in the afterward) it felt both useful and important to also listen to voices from the actual region it portrays.

I know this has probably unfairly influenced my reading of the novel and I certainly didn’t read it just to bash it, but it also made me vigilant about the self-conscious mechanics of its construction. My overall impression is that it is primarily a straightforward thriller where a mother named Lydia and her eight year old son Luca are on the run from a dangerous entity which frequently comes close to catching up with them. It could be any sinister force which is following them but here it is the cartel who has decimated her family and actively searches for Lydia. The story is set over a perilous migrant trail between Mexico and the United States. In other words, it’s a somewhat generic plot placed within a politically-charged setting.

I can understand the accusation that this is a novel about Mexican immigrants written for a white/American audience. Lydia is a middle-class owner of a bookshop: a sympathetic character who is probably very similar to the novel’s (presumed) reading audience. During her journey she devises a means of escaping the cartel by hiding amongst groups of migrants and has a startling moment of realisation that she won’t just be posing as a migrant but has actually become one. I think this is the point which is intended to transform the reader from being sympathetic to the plight of migrants to knowing that anyone can become one under certain circumstances. While this is an effective technique to draw the target audience in it also feels heavy handed.

The situation is also given a ridiculously heightened melodramatic element where the head of the cartel was formerly a customer in Lydia’s bookshop. Because she and this criminal leader developed a strong intellectual and emotional relationship, the chase after Lydia and her son is deeply personal. I felt this forced emotional element really pushed this book more into the generic thriller realm. It detracted from an ability to feel like this is a situation that could really happen. Likewise many of the people Lydia meets along her journey came across more like pieces in the puzzle for the migrant experience Cummins sought to portray rather than having their own integrity. They often come across as voice boxes self-consciously explaining the mechanics and terrain of being a migrant.

In terms of the writing, Cummins sometimes has awkward ways of translating emotional experience into the physicality of her characters. For instance, she describes how “Lydia funnels gratitude into the slow blink of her lashes.” I felt some laboured passages like this strove too hard to capture a visceral sensation. Again, I didn’t read this novel simply to criticise it. And there were moments when I felt emotionally engaged with Lydia and Luca’s characters. The way in which grief sometimes burst into moments of their gruelling ordeal and how they had to supress these feelings or memories in order to deal with the present was meaningfully portrayed. But overall I felt like I was being taught a lesson through a form of suspenseful entertainment rather than being presented with a humanized portrait of the migrant experience.

I think the debates surrounding this novel have raised some important issues surrounding publishing, the question of fiction’s intention and the degree to which literature can inspire empathy or complacency. However, I have to say, the whole furore has left me with a sour feeling. The excessive vitriol and hate heaped upon Jeanine Cummins feels unwarranted, but the content of this novel and the manner in which it’s been published is certainly not above critique. Cummins definitely didn’t see herself as writing in isolation about this subject matter and thanks a number of Latinx writers in the afterward of her novel. One of the good things that has come out of all the debate surrounding the book are lists of other authors that have written about this experience including this Guardian article, an article in the Texas Observer and countless social media threads giving shoutouts to other books about immigration. I look forward to reading some of these books and was glad to recently read Mexican author Fernanda Melchor whose novel “Hurricane Season” has just been translated into English. All these lists of books reinforce the fact that literature is at its best when it includes a plethora of voices rather than just one book which is hyped as “the book” about a particular subject matter.

Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor (translated by Sophie Hughes)

At the centre of “Hurricane Season” is a mysterious murder in a small Mexican village. The locals only referred to this notorious individual who is found floating dead in a body of water as “The Witch”. There are tales that she hoarded vast quantities of rare coins and valuable jewels in her home, that she had mystical powers to cast spells and that she regularly hosted depraved orgies. This makes her a figure of high intrigue as well as a target for violence. The novel gives a series of accounts from several individuals who were acquainted with the Witch and gradually explains the dramatic events and circumstances which lead to her death. Many of these characters are mere adolescents or teenagers engaged in very adult situations. In reading the dizzying fervour of their stories we get a wider view of this deeply troubled community and receive the author’s stealthy commentary upon it. It’s utterly hypnotic, gripping and filled with dexterous storytelling.

There’s a mesmerizing propulsive intensity to this novel which comes from a narrative of long unbroken sentences as well as from the raging force of its central characters. I found it hard to put down despite the horrors it describes. Not only is there physical and sexual violence, but the sensibilities of its characters are imbued with an odious array of prejudices including misogyny, racism and homophobia. There are also unsettling descriptions of female adolescent sexuality with a troubling look at the question of consent and abuse. I feel like if this novel were written by a man these aspects would come under a lot more criticism. Not that a woman can’t write misogynistic novels, but it’d be much easier for readers to confuse the intent of the narrative. However, I felt that the novel was slyly critiquing all these troubling views by embodying them so fully and presenting the full force of such unwieldy complex social power structures. By following the minutiae of these characters’ logic through the momentum of their voices, we see the complexity and contradictions of people who appear simply villainous on the surface. This creates a powerful depiction of a community of drug dealers, thieves, rapists and murderers who would otherwise be dismissed.

It’s unsurprising that in the acknowledgements at the end of the novel the author refers to reading “The Autumn of the Patriarch”. Melchor’s book has a very similar feel to a lot of Gabriel García Márquez’s writing with its documentary style of reportage and the way it circles around the same events many times from a variety of perspectives until the meaning of truth seems to be utterly obliviated. It’s also a way of depicting a certain prominent character through a series of points of view which leaves the reader still wondering about the real identity of that individual. The Witch is alternately described as a criminal, a sex maniac, a secret man, a drug fiend and a benevolent carer who helps local women get rid of unwanted pregnancies. I was left with a feeling of longing to really know the Witch’s background. But I think the novel was showing that there are people who can never be known, especially if they are the subject of lurid gossip and endless speculation. This is the real tragedy which Melchor depicts with such brilliant power.

Weather by Jenny Offill

Although I read Offill’s novel “Dept. of Speculation” over five years ago during one joyously long reading session on a plane, it stands out in my mind as so stylistically unique with a voice that seamlessly blends humour with poignant critiques on love and modern life. Her new novel “Weather” uses a similar style of narrative while engaging more overtly with current politics and social anxiety. Rather than a linear story we’re presented with clipped sections of text surrounding the life of Lizzie Benson, a librarian and mother living on the east coast of America. Brief scenes from her life are interspersed with paragraphs from journals or jokes. Together these form an impression (rather than a complete portrait) of her life and a sense of being in the time proceeding and immediately after Trump’s election. Hanging over the book is its characters’ impending sense of doom and a need to develop survival strategies for what they assume to be an inevitable disaster. 

I love how close I came to feel with Lizzie even though the author consciously leaves out so many specifics and details about her life. It’s not exactly like stream of consciousness writing, but more like snapshots of experience that build to a wider worldview. She wryly notes encounters with some patrons at the library with their oddball questions or requests – this felt very true to life especially after reading about the kinds of encounters librarians must endure on a daily basis in Susan Orlean’s “The Library Book”. Throughout the book Lizzie will often recount facts or explain the background behind certain things. When she's asked at one point “How do you know all this?” she responds “I’m a fucking librarian.”

She also describes moments with her family from tender encounters to points of conflict. Her son might casually make a dismissive, insulting remark about her or there might be a description of her recovering drug addict brother Henry’s alarming erratic behaviour. Other times she'll reflect on the puzzling nature of relationships: “Funny how when you’re married all you want is to be anonymous to each other again, but when you’re anonymous all you want is to be married and reading together in bed.” Just a small snippet of dialogue or brief detail in this novel can unfold in a way that left me feeling I’d read a much longer and more fleshed out scene. It’s an impressive technique that compresses experience down to what’s most essential and impactful.

It's interesting to compare this novel to “Ducks, Newburyport”, one of my favourite books from last year. They both capture something essential about our modern day experience: how opinions are filtered through the media to form a consensus without proper debate or facts and how a profusion of news about global issues leads to deep-felt private anxiety. Lizzie has internalized this so much she often compares reality to the structure of a disaster movie and wryly notes how everyone assumes our planet must be soon abandoned: “Today NASA found seven new Earth-size planets. So there’s that.” But where Ellmann's novel brilliantly embraces the endless barrage of her protagonist's thoughts and the hilarious peculiarities of her internal logic, Offill presents a skilfully abbreviated view of one woman's reality as she navigates an increasingly absurd world. “Weather” is such a brilliant and accomplished novel.

Strange Hotel by Eimear McBride

Staying in a hotel room on your own can inspire a special kind of self-reflection. This is a space that’s meant to simulate feelings of relaxed domesticity, but it’s more likely to make you feel anonymous. It’s somewhere you can either radically confront yourself or create yourself anew. The nameless female protagonist of “Strange Hotel” seems caught in the impermanence of this liminal space that is “A place built for people living in a time out of time – out of their own time anyway. And if that isn't always the reason why they came, it is often the reason she has.” It’s not so much an escape from her reality as it is an escape from the boundaries of time itself with all her past disappointments and anxiety about the future.

If this sounds like a novel more concerned with ponderous thoughts than plot that’s because it is. The pleasure a reader can find in it will probably depend on how much they are prepared to engage with this amount of ambiguity and intense interiority. I was in the right mood to read this novel so found it a pleasure to follow the teasing twisted path of her inner journey. Exactly who she is and what she’s doing in the many hotel rooms she inhabits around the world is never fully explained although there are oblique hints. Like taking off layers of makeup or complex clothing, it takes time to get to the real person beneath. For instance, after using room service to order a couple bottles of wine she finds “a few drinks bring the further joy of shearing away the female body’s perpetual role as ill-fitting attire.”

Inhabiting these hotel rooms is part of her process of disengaging a degree of self-consciousness which comes from performing as a social being. Early on she becomes aware of how we talk to ourselves as if we’re always being observed or trying to justify our actions: “But, she explains to no one, it’s been a very long day… The perennial problem recurs. If only no one could be banished as easily as bade. It gets wearing, the contortions of the critic in her head to whose scrutiny she must, however, submit.” I enjoy how she points out the exhausting nature of this inner dialogue when you are in fact all alone, but still feel like you must act as if you are not. Part of the pleasure of following such an anonymous protagonist is nodding along to all these astute observations about silly habits which make us human.

There are also some excellent moments of humour. For instance, she uses alliteration to mock the simultaneous ridiculousness and joy of pornography (which can be so easily ordered on TVs in hotel rooms): “Primarily pinkly personnelled pornography. Popularly, perseveringly and – periodically perceivably painfully – protractedly pursuing previously private perspectives of perfectly pumped penii practically pummelling professionally pruned pudenda”. While we’re not given a description of her watching this it’s easy to imagine a figure who is in a slightly drunken fug casually watching such a video to make fun of it while also enjoying it.

Sometimes we’re given indications that things have occurred even if we’re not entirely sure what they are. At one point she touches a cold window and feels “It’s good to know, despite all that’s passed this hour, she has a body still affected by the world.” Yet what exactly has happened in that hour is unclear. Equally she sometimes considers jumping out the hotel window or imagines punching the wall so hard her fist is bruised, but what motivates such drastic potential actions is unknown. In a sense, she doesn’t need to explain it because if this narrative is meant to be some form of pure reflection of her mind such details wouldn’t naturally surface. She already knows herself entirely. And, as a counterpoint to the Ancient Greek aphorism, she states “I knew myself. I always knew myself. Which means that kind of declaration is as impossible to make as denying the inescapable state of knowing myself has invariably made matters worse.”

I found it especially fascinating reading this new novel after Nina Leger’s novel “The Collection” which was published last year. Both these books depict an unnamed woman visiting many hotel rooms and meeting various men, but no specific details their lives are ever divulged. Part of the reason for their ambiguity seems to come out of a frustration about assumptions which are made about people when details of someone’s circumstances or background are given. This is especially true when it comes to how society categorizes women. So, in a sense, withholding such information allows the reader to understand these characters in a more meaningful, unimpeded way than if they were presented with a trolly full of such baggage.

The narrative voice Eimear McBride has established over the course of her three novels is so distinctly her own. It’s a point of view that scoops out great heaps of interior experience and puts it on display so that we can wonder at all its absurdity, contradictions and weirdness. While it appears intensely confessional it’s also opaque because true understanding always feels just out of reach. It’s also a language very much aware of all the trappings and pitfalls of its own design. “Strange Hotel” feels less poetically-charged and more abstract than “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing” or “The Lesser Bohemians” but it’s also a story that is blissfully unbothered about presenting dramatic peril. Instead, its protagonist is unbound by the specifics of identity to inhabit a freer state of mind.

The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Ta-Nehisi Coates has an inimitable reputation as a journalist and writer of nonfiction about cultural, social and political issues. So his first novel comes with a tremendous amount of expectation and it's wonderful to see those expectations have been met. I've been eager to read “The Water Dancer” since it was first published in America a few months ago and received such rapturous acclaim. Many have likened the book to Toni Morrison's fiction which is very understandable. The story concerns a man named Hiram who is born into slavery in the pre-Civil War South and possesses a magical ability to transport people over long distances using a power known as “conduction” (a talent which the Underground Railroad movement is eager to utilize.) The way the novel considers issues to do with memory, grief and history regarding African Americans is so reminiscent of Morrison's writing it feels directly descended from the late great writer. 

But it also reminded me of Charles Dickens' fiction in the tone and character of its story. Hiram is born into bondage, but his father is the plantation owner. He's tasked with serving and caring for his half brother Maynard who is entirely white so viewed as the natural successor. Hiram is far superior to Maynard in his intellectual and social abilities, but because he's mixed race can never inherit Lockless, the family's Virginian estate and tobacco plantation. So there's a dramatic tension in this injustice and it's riveting to follow how a gifted young downtrodden man might supersede his circumstances by utilizing his talents and exhibiting tremendous resilience. It feels like a very Dickensian trope to show how the progression of time results in miserly defeat for those who shore up their power and abuse the vulnerable. The way Coates traces Hiram's changing relationship to Lockless over time and the complexity of his birthright is so movingly portrayed.

What really emotionally drew me into the story though was Coates' meaningful depiction of a multitude of characters who must contend with excruciating effects caused by the manifold evils of slavery. I could feel a range of conflicted relationships to the past in each individual person Hiram meets along his journey. That Coates makes each of their experiences feel so distinct through subtle characterisation is really powerful. With lineage and familial relationships torn apart, each individual wrestles with different processes of reclaiming their heritage, trying to remember the past or consciously forgetting in order to suture the emotional wounds caused from such trauma. And at the heart of this story Hiram provides a fascinating counterpoint of someone who possesses a photographic memory but whose memories of his mother remain painfully obscured. The process he goes through as he grows into adulthood and finds a place he can claim as his home is described so intensely. It's brilliant storytelling that reinforces the immediate importance of stories themselves.

The 2020 Dylan Thomas Prize Longlist

Recently the longlist for the 2020 International Dylan Thomas Prize was announced. The prize is celebrating it’s 15th anniversary this year. It’s open to any author aged 39 or under. Since it’s one of my goals this year to read more poetry and short stories, I’m keen to follow this prize as the 12 books on the longlist include 3 books of poetry and 2 short story collections – as well as 7 novels (many of which are ones I’ve been meaning to read anyway.) You can watch me discussing all these books here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P81rIwrpRIE

Coincidentally, I’ve already read two of the books of poetry including Jay Bernard’s “Surge” which is extraordinarily powerful and one of the best books I read last year. More recently, I enjoyed Mary Jean Chan’s “Fleche” which won the Poetry category at the Costa Book Awards. I found these poems so immersive and emotional. I’ve also been very keen to read Stephen Sexton’s collection “If All the World and Love were Young” as I heard him read some poems from it at the Forward Prizes last year.

I’ve really enjoyed reading Kirsty Logan’s short stories in the past so I’m particularly keen to read her most recent collection “Things we say in the Dark” and I’ve heard lots of good things from readers in America about Bryan Washington’s story collection “Lot”.

Interestingly, two debut novels on the list represent their authors first forays into long-form fiction. Helen Mort and Ocean Vuong are both established and well-regarded poets. I’m always curious to see how authors modify their writing style when changing form. The results can really vary. For instance, I thought Garth Greenwell’s poetic sensibility works very well in his narratives, but poet Katharine Kilalea’s first novel didn’t work quite as well.

Two novels on the list I began reading but set aside are “Exquisite Cadavers” and “Stubborn Archivist”. Although I loved Kandasamy’s novel “When I Hit You” I found the high concept of this new book made it difficult for me to engage with the story. It’s a dual narrative where the author is telling a fictional story alongside all the real-life influences which went into making it. While this is an interesting idea, I found it made for a frustrating reading experience. Equally, Fowler uses a very informal style in her novel for telling the story of a woman’s migration from Brazil to England. From what I read of the novel it lacked the kind of artfulness I look for in fiction so didn’t finish it.

Out of the remaining three books I’m most keen to read Tea Obreht’s historical novel “Inland” and Madhuri Vijay’s “The Far Field” which won the 2019 JCB Prize for Literature (a literary award for Indian authors.) But, if I have time I’d also be keen to read Yelena Moskovich’s novel which sounds so atmospheric.

The shortlist for this year’s prize will be announced on April 7th and the winner on May 14th. Hopefully, I’ll be able to read a number of these books before then. Let me know which you are keen to read or, if you’ve read any, let me know your thoughts about them.

Love and Other Thought Experiments by Sophie Ward

I’ve sometimes dipped into reading science and philosophy out of a curiosity to better understand the world and the nature of being, but I often find these texts too formal and dry to engage with for very long. So it’s enlivening to read Sophie Ward’s conceptual novel which is a series of interlinked stories each exploring a different thought experiment. These are imaginative devices to contemplate a different hypothesis or unsolvable riddle which provokes questions about the meaning of consciousness, the shape of reality and the limits of perception. Each section dramatizes a classic experiment devised by scientists and intellectuals such as Blaise Pascal, Hilary Putnam and Rene Descartes. The novel literally brings these questions to life while telling a moving tale about a family which spans many decades and imaginatively dips into a variety of perspectives. At the heart of the book is a couple named Rachel and Eliza whose desire to have a child results in a multitude of unforeseen consequences. This is certainly one of the most original pieces of fiction I’ve read in some time. It innovatively manages to be poignant as well as thought provoking.

I was worried at first that this novel might be too cerebral to be emotionally engaging, but I was surprised how engrossed and moved I felt by the stories it contains. Each section adds a piece to the puzzle to give a more complete picture while also expanding the boundaries of that puzzle. This book also does something radical in its portrayal of time as not a fixed thing but something which opens up to possibilities of alternate realities. I also found it refreshing to read fiction which seriously considers the unique challenges and dilemmas faced by a same-sex couple who want to have a child. This novel doesn’t present these issues in a politicised way like in “XX” by Angela Chadwick, but looks at them from different angles. While Rachel and Eliza must contend with personal difficulties they also must balance raising their child alongside the gay couple they’ve conceived with. Though sexuality is a factor, their struggles are more based in the challenges of dealing with death and grief.

As I continued reading this novel one of the great pleasures of the experience was discovering the daring and original places it was prepared to go. I really didn’t expect it’d explore such an audacious range of points of view or cross so many genres. Sections of the novel morph from surrealism to sci-fi in a way that is so compelling and raises many interesting ideas while also bringing the story together as a whole. It’s definitely left me with a lot to think about in a haunting way like a dream. This is a truly imaginative and impressive debut novel!