Oh William! by Elizabeth Strout

Some literary writers create a character who they continuously return to in a series of books and (because that character is an author) seem to be an obvious foil for the writer themselves. “Oh William!” is the third book in a series after “My Name is Lucy Barton” and “Anything is Possible”. I'm not trying to suggest Lucy is directly based on Strout's own personality and past – I think it's more that she's become a way for the author to chart feelings of what ageing and experience do to a person over time. Since it's been five years since we readers were first introduced to Lucy we're also older and more experienced (if we've been following her story since the beginning). In this new novel Lucy becomes an even more more dynamic and rounded character as we learn more about her history, her point of view and her continuing quest to understand her position in the world. 

This book picks up with Lucy later in her life after the death of her beloved second husband. When her first husband William discovers he has a half-sister Lois whom he's never met he invites Lucy to join him on a journey to Maine where Lois lives and where his mother Catherine had an early first marriage which she ran away from. It's a road trip novel, but it's also about the complex evolution of Lucy's relationship with William over time. This isn't about will they or won't they get back together. It's more about the meaning they have in each other's lives and how the people who know us the best can both support and stultify us. In some ways, it's also about the contrast between Lucy and her mother-in-law Catherine's lives. Both women came from very impoverished families but grew to succeed and inhabit respectable positions in the world yet they inhabit adulthood with very different levels of confidence.

Strout is a master at describing great subtlety of feeling using language and a style of writing that's very approachable and enjoyable to read. A large part of the pleasure of this book derives from having read the first two novels so I'm not sure I'd recommend reading this new book without having read the previous books. However, for me, it's a joy returning to Lucy's voice and disconcertingly existential point of view. She describes how “I have always thought that if there was a big corkboard and on that board was a pin for every person who ever lived, there would be no pin for me. I feel invisible, is what I mean.” Yet her understanding and sense of self grows over the course of this story and ultimately leads her to admit “I am not invisible no matter how deeply I feel that I am.” William sometimes has an abrasive demeanour and this journey reminds her of that and why they separated, but they also share a history and a heightened sense of intimacy. For instance, they still use pet names with each other. It's these interactions and the sense of a longstanding bond with William, her daughters and others which cement her place in the world rather than the accomplishments which come from being a successful author.

This is also a story about the process of memory. Although Lucy is sincere and open we're made to wonder if her memories are entirely true when she makes statements such as “It is easy to recall this now, but in my memory it is true.” There are emotionally painful subjects she often prefers to avoid and self consciously states she doesn't want to talk about or discuss anymore since they were already covered in the first two books by Strout (and the memoirs Barton has written within the story.) But there are moments and experiences she naturally circles back to as they were pivotal aspects of her life which have influenced and haunt her. These can be small details such as Catherine's tangerine coloured couch which takes such a presence in her recollections of her mother-in-law. Or she alights upon striking metaphors for encapsulating more universal experiences of the past. I love how she describes the feeling of “the curtain of childhood” around her when recalling the terror and frustrations of youth. This so accurately captures that feeling of being shrouded in naivety when we're young.

However, despite there being many poignant moments and this being such a pleasurable book to read I don't think it's Strout's best. The story itself is quite meandering and leisurely so it doesn't feel as focused as the previous novels. This is partly due to the style of narrative where we so closely follow Lucy's thought process and reasoning. Some sections end too wistfully with lines such as “But who ever really knows the experience of another?” Nevertheless, I personally enjoyed the experience of reading this book so much because it felt tremendously comforting and contains some poignant reflections. There are also points of reference and in-jokes about the experience of being in Maine such as the fact Mainers eat their meals so early which makes Lucy wonder: “When does anybody in this state eat?” But primarily I appreciate the thoughtful distinction this story makes between inhabiting somewhere and feeling like you belong. I know it will be enjoyable to go back to the previous two books and read this series in order to pick up on more clues and follow Lucy's gradual transformation. So, while this new novel might not be among the best books I've read this year, it is one of the most pleasing.

The Ruins of Contracoeur by Joyce Carol Oates

At this time of year I do enjoy dipping into some dark tales of gothic mystery and sinister horror. Recent collections of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates that fall into this tradition include “Night Gaunts” and “The Doll-Master”. The six stories which are included in “The Ruins of Contracoeur” also encompass these elements, but as they are written by Oates they include many deeper themes such as challenging family dynamics, the resilience of girls, economic division in society and the heartbreak of grief. The line between the living and the dead becomes blurred as we follow the thoughts and actions of individuals who've been wronged or wronged others. While some seek vigilante justice, there's not always a clear moral compass used by the complicated personalities which inhabit these stories. These prose are teeming with emotion, they create an atmosphere of unease in the reader's imagination and a feeling of suspense with each page that is turned. 

The story 'Mr Stickum' is predominantly narrated in the collective voice of a group of teenage girls who carry out deadly revenge upon predatory men. In 'The Cold' we find ourselves disconcertingly aligned with the mind of a grief stricken woman whose experience becomes increasingly hallucinatory. With the story 'Monstersister' we experience an alarming sensation of body horror but we're also left with a melancholy sense of what it'd be like if a distorted version of ourselves were to take our place within our own family. The story 'Commencement' may feel like it's set in the most civilized environment imaginable but it's conclusion is so shocking and barbaric you won't believe what you're reading. 'The Redwoods' is one of the most original ghost stories I've read and the title story 'The Ruins of Contracoeur' builds an environment so menacing I felt terrified for the children trapped in this dilapidated family estate. It also took me back to the territory of Oates' brilliant and wildly imaginative sequence of gothic novels. I found these stories thrilling, complex and haunting.

I hosted the launch for this collection and you can watch Lisa Tuttle, award winning author of science fiction, fantasy and horror in conversation with Oates here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJfglF6Xyp8

Sterling Karat Gold by Isabel Waidner

Isabel Waidner has invented such a unique style of writing that's a mixture of social commentary, wildly creative imagery and buddy humour. I feel like Waidner is a modern-day Joe Orton. “Sterling Karat Gold” is a play on Kafka's “The Trial” in which an innocent character named Sterling is arrested after unwittingly being drawn into a bull fight in London's Camden Town. Sterling faces prosecution by a corrupt judge, enlists the help of friends, grapples with their lost father, stages a radical theatre production and uses space ships to cross time barriers. If this sounds too fanciful let me assure you that these stretches of the imagination always feel rooted in real-world issues and reflect the feeling of being marginalized within oppressive systems. As a character named Chachki states at one point: “correcting falsified narratives is important; but conjuring counter-realities even more so.” The bizarre quest which Sterling embarks on has the effect of liberating these characters and the reader from the restrictions and limitations we are forced to live under by plotting out new possibilities. It's also fantastic fun to read and gives a warm sense of camaraderie. 

The novel begins with Sterling stating that they lost their father to AIDS. It's gradually revealed that in his football career he had an affair with Justin Fashanu who was and still remains the only major English footballer to come out as gay. He later committed suicide. In the narrative, Fashanu becomes a kind of imaginary step father to Sterling. As in Waidner's earlier novel “We Are Made of Diamond Stuff” the referencing of real-life historical figures serves as a cultural reference point for individuals who broke through the static of the mainstream narrative to make their voices heard, but were ultimately strangled by society's restrictive perceptions about their identity. In addition to considering this history, Waidner's novel is also a powerful contemplation of the absurdity of the world today reflecting the feeling that “we were non-consensual participants in a reality put together by politicians, despots, more or less openly authoritarian leaders.” This leads to dangerous disillusionment and resignation because of the sense that “we're alive in a substandard fiction that doesn't add up.” Through this visionary new fiction Waidner shows how we don't need to settle and conform to the reality we've been offered but can boldly make our presence known and reform the mainstream narrative.

Manifesto by Bernardine Evaristo

It was such a thrill to be at the award ceremony on the historic night of Bernardine Evaristo's Booker Prize win for her novel “Girl, Woman, Other”. At the time I was a great admirer of the book and was aware of her reputation, but I had no idea how many years of hard graft and dedication the author had devoted to reaching this point. Now, reading her memoir “Manifesto”, I also have such an admiration for this creative individual who has fused her experience and imagination to produce a body of literary works which artistically reflect the breadth of our culture and celebrate individuality in all its wondrous forms.

In concise sections Evaristo lays out how she got to this point by describing her diverse family background, the places she's lived, the relationships she's had, the community and politics she's engaged in, the development of her distinct form of fiction, the writers and figures who've inspired her and the ambition to persist as a creative person. She describes her experience with such charm, wit and wisdom it's extremely enjoyable to read. Evaristo wholly embraced the platform which winning the Booker Prize gave her and I've been in awe seeing how busy she has been chairing this year's Women's Prize, speaking on panels, providing endorsements for books and curating the 'Black Britain, Writing Back' series which included the excellent novel “Bernard and the Cloth Monkey” which I read earlier this year. This memoir is subtitled 'On Never Giving Up' and the book is really a wonderful testament to how the creative individual must persist and express themselves no matter what hardships are encountered. 

While Evaristo poignantly describes her fluid sexuality engaging in affairs with men and women, one of the most arresting things about her story is learning about the abusive relationship or “torture affair” she had with a woman she calls “The Mental Dominatrix”. Here she found herself in a dynamic where she was mentally and physically abused in a way which sapped her creativity and spirit. Not only does this testify to how we can become trapped in such a destructive dynamic, but it sheds new light on the section of “Girl, Woman, Other” concerning the character of Dominique who was in a very similar situation. Knowing now that Evaristo was writing from experience makes this part of her novel all the more heartrending.

I also greatly appreciated her many pithy observations about how aspects such as gender, race, nationality as well as sexuality all play a part in who we are and how we exist in society but don't define us. In an ideal world these things wouldn't even need to be defined but because of the various imbalances and prejudices which persist they still play an important role. For instance, she describes how “Men and women live in the same world, but we experience it so differently.” It means that fiction and art play such an important role in expanding our point of view to really see how other people see the world. I admire the dedicated way which Evaristo has persisted in doing so over her life no matter the peaks and pitfalls of her profession as a writer and how she will continue to reflect the world back at us in exciting new ways.

Little Scratch by Rebecca Watson

Authors have used innumerable methods and styles of writing to describe the physical and mental experience of everyday life in fiction, but Rebecca Watson has developed a technique which feels wholly unique. “Little Scratch” is the story of a day in the life of an unnamed young woman in London from the moment she wakes up to the moment she goes to sleep. The text is spaced across the page in a way which captures the repetition of the character's actions or how she might be thinking one thing while doing something else or how she might be surprised by a physical sensation like hot water. In this way we get a feel for the overlapping/simultaneous thoughts and sensory experiences she has throughout the day which at first appears to be an ordinary day like any other, but gradually it's revealed that she's really struggling to deal with a traumatic event. Encountering text which deviates so radically from the uniform paragraphs we're accustomed to might feel gimmicky or alienating at first, but it soon felt totally natural to me as I got into the rhythm of writing. It's also highly relatable because it captures something true about how we judder throughout our days getting lost in distractions or small obsessions or the tedium of office life or how we avoid thinking directly about things which seem insurmountably difficult. Watson creatively shows this to be both comic and tragic. 

Reading this book I became newly attuned to the way consciousness works. Within the process of thought we can get caught up in trivialities and possibilities which won't ever happen. I became aware how the imagination takes such a presence within our minds that we can playfully distort reality or build fictional narratives about the world around us to suit our desires. Watson demonstrates this in an early scene where the narrator observes someone with a small dog that looks like a bear and suddenly starts conjuring fantastical scenarios around it. She also shows how our laziness can become justified by thinking ourselves out of a situation. For instance, when she throws the remainder of an apricot away and misses the bin she goes on an elaborate train of thought about how it's the gesture to get it into the bin which really counts and how if she's questioned about the litter she'll refuse to accept any accountability. Obviously, it'd be much easier to just pick up the apricot and throw it away properly but it felt realistic how she avoids doing what's clearly sensible. The same proves to be true for larger issues in her life and this is conveyed in a poignant way. While the novel is mostly funny at first it slowly reveals the more serious issues she's avoiding and this is encapsulated at one point with the devastating line: “Is silence lying?”

The narrator is also a writer who frequently thinks about the book she wants to write or ways she can get into the literary scene rather than actually writing. Again, this feels highly relatable and though it can seem like a cliché to write a novel about the experience of wanting to be a writer, Watson addresses this in the text as well when reading a review about a book heavily based on an author's own life: “before having read the book, and despite liking autofiction! liking blurred memoir! still thinking, oh stop, stop with the talk about yourself, make something up, anything, anything, escape from yourself, just give me someone else's sincerity apart from your own, not your own!, trauma borrowed from yourself reads sore, feel it in me too much, no distance right now, need distance”. It seems almost contradictory that we often want authors to write what's true and important to them but also to use their imaginations to take us somewhere far from the author's own experience. It's interesting how she conveys this sense while also knowing that she doesn't want to confront the terrible thing that has shaken up her life.

Though I read this novel in its physical form I also listened to it as an audio book. When reading the physical book it's interesting to see all the gaps on the page and the way the text is creatively laid out, but it was also a unique experience hearing how this is conveyed in the audio book. Of course, pauses are used to dramatic effect but in some sections the overlapping text will be read simultaneously so you get a strong sense of how the narrator is thinking one thing while doing another. Sometimes books which use such a unique format feel like they are just being wilfully different, but this novel departs from a conventional narrative form in a way which is truly meaningful. It gets at the truth of experience to an almost uncomfortable degree. I found it highly relatable how she gets annoyed at someone on public transport because she can't read the title of the book they're reading, but I also got irritated with the narrator for being so consumed with such trivialities. However, I realise that what I'm really irritated with is myself because my mind is so often consumed with similarly petty or silly things. This novel has a disarming effect and I admire how it creatively presents experience in a way which feels truly novel.

Checkout 19 by Claire-Louise Bennett

We're accustomed to reading coming of age stories that attempt to faithfully reproduce the experience of growing up and the transition into adulthood, but “Checkout 19” by Claire-Louise Bennett takes a radical new approach. The narrative is an account of a young woman reflecting on her life thus far and roughly follows the linear trajectory of her development. Events such as period pains, moving to a rapidly-growing city, a tumultuous romantic relationship and a traumatic occurrence are recounted. However, her experiences have been refashioned by the process of memory till they feel like smoothed stones lodged in the gut: “I experience, every few years, an urge to recall this moment and the events that preceded it. Not only to recall it, but to write it down, again. Again.” We don't necessarily get a fully rounded picture of an event but an impression of the predominant feeling which remains because of certain encounters or experiences. Her account adheres to a different form of truth which is influenced as much by the imagination as it is by history. This is a life dominated by reading and writing which are just as real or more real than concrete experience. The story isn't so much a quest to know what is true, but a refreshingly honest account of this state of being. 

The reading life permeates her experience to the degree that when thinking back to certain time periods they are more dominated by lists of what authors she'd read or not read at that point rather the particulars of her circumstances. As I was reading these sections I found it geekily pleasurable mentally ticking off which authors I've also read, which I still want to read and which I've not heard of before. Moreover, Bennett writes in such a compelling and sympathetic way about the process of reading: “Certain written words are alive, active, living – they are entirely in the present, the same present as you. In fact, it feels as if they are being written as you read them, that your eyes upon the page are perhaps even making them appear, in any case, certain sentences do not feel in the least bit separate from you or from the moment in time when you are reading them. You feel they wouldn't exist without your seeing them. Like they wouldn't exist without you. And isn't the opposite true too – that the pages you read bring you to life? Turning the pages, turning the pages. Yes, that is how I have gone on living. Living and dying and living and dying, left page, right page, and on it goes.” This is such a gorgeous description of the dynamic way we interact with the text of books and why we connect so strongly to certain literature.

As she continues to read throughout her life she becomes aware of not only the sexism which permeates some literature but the gendered way readers are treated. This naturally draws her to only read female authors: “There came a point I don't know when exactly when I'd read enough books by men for the time being. It happened quite naturally – I don't recall deciding I'd had enough and wasn't going to read any more books by men for a while, it was just that I began reading more and more books by women and that didn't leave me much time anymore to read any books by men.” This is such a glorious way of putting to rest the assumed superiority certain male authors project, but equally Bennett skewers the way certain male readers arrogantly claim literature as belonging to them exclusively. “Women can't withstand poetry, seemed to be Dale's view. Women are beautiful and tender creatures and poetry breaks them, of course it does. Poetry rips right through you, makes shit of you, and a man can be made through you, makes shit of you, and a man can be made shit of and go on living because no one really minds, not even the man. The man likes it in fact, likes to be made shit of so that he can sit there and drink his head off and declaim one epithetical thing after another and all the other interminably taciturn men believe he is an exceptional man...” Reading this I found myself frantically nodding along recalling some self-consumed self-righteous male readers I've encountered.

There were plenty of other passages I connected with as well. In her childhood she describes the experience of being made to work in a group at school and how the result of these collaborative projects was disappointing compared to the quality work she knew she could do if working on her own. I definitely shared this kind of solitary work ethic. Even though I felt a strong connection to some parts of this novel, there were also other sections and tangents which eluded me and felt so abstract I honestly can't pretend to know what they are about. Perhaps my confusion partly comes from the unique way the author's account is a blend of the past and the fiction she wrote. When recounting a memory of a train journey she describes how: “I've a feeling I was wearing a green hat but I might be wrong about that, that might have been the woman I made up years later who takes a train to see friends of hers a day earlier than they expect”. Though this is intriguing and playful it can also be quite disorientating for the reader. Some parts of the book concern a fictional character named Tarquin Superbus whose quest to find the single sentence written in a library of otherwise blank books goes awry. As curious and bewitchingly whimsical as these sections are they felt at times like a distraction from the more interesting narrator's point of view.

Though the bulk of the novel is written in the first person, the opening and closing sections are narrated in the collective “we”. It feels like the individual is a twin being that is in constant dialogue with herself. She reinforces the validity of her point of view by agreeing and building upon it. This creates an oddly hypnotic rhythm which is reminiscent of a Beckett play. Part of me would have liked to see the entire novel written in this way. But then I would miss the forceful and directly personal way that this story is a celebration of books as they are exchanged, discussed, revered, dismissed and ignored. It does not just list authors but shows the physical presence of books, the room they take up, the difficulty in moving/keeping them and letting them go. It's also a testament of the impulse to create, to revise, to fashion out of experience an impression of life which is universal. It's the force which gives meaning to our existence when we're stuck in a job which is as tediously repetitive as scanning items at a store's checkout.

Matrix by Lauren Groff

I was in the middle of reading a much-acclaimed new novel recently and the experience was dragging because I wasn't gripped by it so I decided to put it aside and pick up Lauren Groff's new novel “Matrix” instead. French lesbian nuns in the 12th century! This is what I need! That's not to say that it's appealing just for the subject matter. The story delves into the mind and heart of its heroine Marie de France in such a compelling and complex way that I'm still pondering the larger meaning of this tale. On the surface it's very different from “Fates and Furies” which is the only other novel I've read by Groff. Yet, it's a continuation in the way this author so cleverly and sympathetically elevates the stories of women who mostly appear in the margins of storytelling. 

The novel begins with Marie, an illegitimate child of the royal court being written out of history as she's sent to permanently live and work as a prioress in a dilapidated and impoverished abbey in Angleterre. In this foreign land and in circumstances much more humble than the life she lived before she's meant to quietly reside out of sight from larger society. But Marie is a large woman - both in body and spirit and she's going to make her presence known. As we follow the story of her long life we see how she not only reinvigorates this rundown countryside abbey but establishes a sisterhood among the nuns who live there. It's a vividly told and dramatic tale which takes the richness of its protagonist's inner life as a given because she has so much more to offer than the opportunities she's given. Yet, the novel also really excels in how it interrogates the way Marie might unknowingly contribute society's rocky evolution.

It did take me a bit of time to get into the rhythm of this story because it moves swiftly through the years and there's a large cast of women to keep up with. Given the time period the average lifespan wasn't too long so often newly introduced figures don't last long while others continue to appear in the background. As soon as Marie becomes really established at the abbey and makes it into a profitable enterprise the novel leaps forward to much later in her life when she's going through menopause. This felt jarring at first but I suppose so much of her life is made up of routines which are only punctuated by some dramatic events such as an attempted siege of the abbey by a gang of resentful locals and the holy visions which occasionally overcome Marie. These inspire her to make dramatic changes, but are they really decreed by the mother of God or are they driven by Marie's own ambition and ego? This question is dynamically explored as the abbey comes to take a prominent place in an increasingly capitalist society. I really appreciate how this book presents the way economic changes on local levels gradually spread to affect civilization as a whole in a way similarly referred to in the novel “Cathedral” by Ben Hopkins.

Rather than living humbly the nuns find themselves with better garments and more to eat than the locals. Marie's decisions and authority start to feel more tyrannical than being concerned with the welfare of the community or even her sisters. She's also motivated by a wish to impress queen Eleanor who she's been (romantically?) infatuated with since she was a teenager participating in the crusades. The way both Marie and some of the other nuns psychologically and spiritually rationalize and act upon their romantic and sexual needs is handled in a really fascinating way. The majority of women at the abbey are people who don't fit in anywhere else because of how they look or their personalities or their position in society, yet they find bonds here which are mutually fulfilling: “in this enclosure there is love enough here even for the most unlovable women.” Of course, there are still petty arguments, disagreements and long-held grievances as there would be amongst any group of people. But the way Groff writes about the complexity of their inner and outer lives shows that these women weren't simply a benign presence in the wings of history.

Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux (translated by Tanya Leslie)

Every year there is excited debate about what author will be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature and this year one of the top contenders that readers were speculating about was Annie Ernaux. Since I had a fairly free morning and while I was waiting for the prize announcement to be made, I thought I'd get to reading the most recent book to be translated by this author whose work I fell in love with starting with “The Years”. It's very short – just under 50 pages! And it centres around the subject of a married man that the author/narrator had an affair with for a couple of years. It's an all-consuming passion which takes over her life for this period of time. Her focus is not on the details or moral drama of the affair, but the impact passion has upon an individual: “I do not wish to explain my passion – that would imply that it was a mistake or some disorder I need to justify – but simply to describe it.” In doing so, she illuminates how we can become completely entangled in heated passion in a way that defies all logic and reason. Ernaux uses her characteristically rigorous sense of self enquiry to raise larger questions about the nature of desire, imagination, time and memory. 

One of the most fascinating aspects of Ernaux's writing is the openness of her narrative to take shape in the way which will best convey the meaning and heart of her subject matter. She describes how: “I felt I was living out my passion in the manner of a novel, but now I am not sure in which style I am writing about it, whether in the style of a testimony, or possibly even the sort of confidence that can be found in women's magazines, maybe a manifesto or a statement, or perhaps a critical commentary.” This book defies genre or any conventional form. Yet, its construction feels perfectly suited to what she wants to say and there's a masterful precision to her ideas. If most writers were to do this and discuss the book's construction so openly within the text it would feel intrusively self conscious, but with Ernaux it feels like a sincere and conscientious way to explore the subject matter. The book even moves from the past to the present tense because she realises that she's gradually being released from the grip that passion has on her which traps her in memories of her lover. At the beginning she's outside of the flow of everyday life, but by the end she's rejoined the stream of time and can reside again in the present.

It's curious how feverish passion causes us to idealize the lover. In the midst of this the lover can feel like the greatest person in the world, but afterwards we can see all too clearly that individual's flaws. Ernaux is careful not to reveal many details about the lover in order to respect his privacy and because his identity really isn't the subject of this book. We do know that he comes from a country outside France and that he doesn't even speak French that well. The fact that the narrator can't communicate that clearly with him almost seems to add to the way he's fashioned into an ideal and how nothing about their relationship is clear except the sexual desire between them: “I would only ever be certain of one thing: his desire or lack of desire. The only undeniable truth could be glimpsed by looking at his penis.” However, rather than recounting the details of their encounters, Ernaux focuses instead on the excruciating interim periods between their meetings and the force with which this passion controls her life.

This is most certainly not a saccharine or nostalgic account of a love affair. Ernaux describes passion as a destructive force which leads to pernicious thoughts and grievous actions. Not only does the passion annihilate any other pleasure she has in her life, but she longs for self destruction to reclaim that sense of closeness: “One night the thought of getting myself screened for AIDS occurred to me: 'At least he would have left me that.'” Equally disturbing is her compulsion to go “to the place where I had a clandestine abortion twenty years ago... As if hoping that this past trauma would cancel my present grief.” It was quite a shock to suddenly be taken back to the incident and physical location described in Ernaux's book “Happening”. Yet, it doesn't feel like Ernaux is justifying or judging the simultaneously exhilarating and poisonous effect that passion has upon a person's life. Rather, this text functions as a kind of testament which can be a touchstone for others who have felt such passion. The fact that Ernaux ultimately judges this passion to be “meaningless” adds to the persistent mystery of why it is a force that so feverishly grips our lives.

When I finished reading this book I went online to see that Ernaux has not won the Nobel Prize this year (the award went to the great Tanzanian novelist Abdulrazak Gurnah), but I hope one day she'll receive this honour.

Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence

I've never felt that keen on reading “Lady Chatterley's Lover” because I always assumed it was a bonkbuster dressed up as literary fiction. This notion probably comes from my vague awareness it was banned for obscenity reasons in both the UK and US. But given that I'm eager to read Alison Macleod's lengthy new novel “Tenderness” which is about Lawrence's life and the fate of “Lady Chatterley's Lover” after his death I thought it'd be interesting to read the original novel first. So I was delighted by what a thoughtful and engaging book it is. The story revolves around Constance who is married to Sir Clifford, a Baronet and author of middling writing that nonetheless gets him press attention. He sustained a war injury which has left him paralysed from the waist down so their lives become purely intellectual rather than physical and consist of evenings of thoughtful debate with members of the upper classes. Gradually, Connie becomes very depressed and in her wanderings over the estate happens upon reclusive gamekeeper Mellors. Their guarded acquaintance gradually builds to a passionate affair complete with frolicking naked in the rain and giving pet names to each other's genitals. But this only comes two thirds of the way through the novel and the story is more about class division and different kinds of self realisation that can be found through love. 

Sir Clifford firmly believes that natural hierarchies are formed through class division, but Connie is naturally wary of this position and is more sympathetic to Mellors' more anarchic attitude which rebels against the traditional English social system. I appreciated the way Lawrence shows the competing positions of different characters in regards to romance and love. This includes a number of peripheral characters in addition to the central figures of Sir Clifford who develops a strong attachment to his nurse Mrs Bolton and Connie's passionate affair with Mellors. Of course, their intellectual reasoning about the dynamics of sex don't always align with how they feel when confronted with the reality and it's engaging how this plays out over the course of the story.

Though Mellors is more in the background at first he comes to dominate the text in the later part of the book when vociferously giving his opinions about women and the class system. Since the narrative cedes to his position it's natural to assume that this is the point of view Lawrence himself is most sympathetic with and the character he probably identified with the most. Some criticism I've read such as Joyce Carol Oates' essay “At Least I Have Made a Woman of Her: Images of Women in Yeats, Lawrence and Faulkner” seems to take this as a given. Certainly, Mellors' views are alarming given his grievance over his broken marriage as well as his hatred towards lesbians and Jewish people. Moreover he expresses murderous rage. But I don't like to naturally assume that Mellors is a mere cipher for Lawrence's own views. He is a character and there are certainly figures in the novel such as Connie's sister who criticise Mellors and offer alternative points of view. I assumed that his influence is felt so strongly because Connie herself has been romantically captivated by him.

The sexually explicit parts of the novel weren't nearly as cringe-worthy as I expected them to be. They did make me chuckle a bit and it's still somewhat shocking to read certain words being used knowing when this was written, but I think these sections work well because the characters also take them in good humour. They seem to revel in how filthy and explicit they're being in the way that lovers can do when totally indulging in each other's bodies. What made me more uncomfortable was an early section of the novel where Connie strips in front of a mirror and critically evaluates her body using disparaging terms such as “greyish”, “sapless” and “meaningless”. In contrast, when she glimpses Mellors washing his body outside the male form is presented in an idealized way. It makes sense to use such descriptions as the novel is about how Connie comes to fully inhabit her physical body as she engages with sensual as well as intellectual aspects of reality. Nevertheless, it feels dicey when a male author writes about women's bodies in such a derogatory way while men's bodies aren't subject to the same critical gaze in the novel.

Having recently read Sally Rooney's new novel “Beautiful World, Where Are You” I couldn't help thinking that her books are in some ways modern versions of a Lawrence novel. The way she focuses on class politics and the sometimes uneasy relationship between mind and body complement a lot of the issues Lawrence raised. Looking into it more, I was glad to see I'm not the only one who has made this parallel since it's something Claire Jarvis remarked upon in her article 'Contemporary Clothing' and James Marriott states “Lawrence's seriousness about sex should appeal to fans of Sally Rooney” in his article 'Why millennials should read Lawrence'. I feel somewhat ashamed I hesitated reading Lawrence for so long because I assumed his writing is out of date and his books are more concerned with indulging in sensuality rather than describing the complicated dynamics of sex. Though this novel certainly isn't above criticism, it's much more compelling and surprising than I expected. The pernicious effect of a novel being subjected to a famous censorship trial is that the criticisms lobbed at it seep into people's impression of a book they have not actually read and though I reject censorship it still influenced my assumptions about this novel. I look forward to reading more of Lawrence's work to discover what other curiosities his books contain.