Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 15

Peach by Emma Glass | Book Review

Peach by Emma Glass

Published by Bloomsbury, 2018

My rating:

[image error]With its truly singular approach, this intense, captivating novella explores the physical and psychological fallout of sexual assault like no other fiction I’ve encountered. For those worried about trigger warnings, this is undoubtedly a graphic and upsetting read, but it’s also worth noting that the assault itself takes place off-the-page; the narrative opening with our protagonist stumbling home in the moments afterwards.

Written in short, staccato sentences and regularly employing surreal imagery, the book’s unorthodox, bewildering style seems guaranteed to alienate readers who generally struggle with experimental prose (as I myself often do). The short length helps to counteract this, however; allowing the book to hit home like a swift punch to the gut while also sparing us the strain of suspending our disbelief for too long.

Not only does the writing style encapsulate our narrator’s fragmented, shellshocked mindset – her sheer inability to face the real world in its overwhelming entirety – it also allows the author to play with language and rhythm in a lively, engaging way. In fact, the book often feels like an extended prose poem that would benefit from being read aloud.

Beyond this, the surreal elements serve to make our narrator, in some ways, unreliable. The truth of her attack is never in doubt, but how much of the fever dream that follows is real, and how much is a trauma response reflective of her damaged psyche becomes unclear. As the line between the two becomes increasingly blurred, the feeling of tension and claustrophobia builds, with Glass commenting on the nature of obsession, the price of revenge, and the horror of being consumed in mind and body.

While it’s true of every book that it won’t be for everyone, the sentiment feels particularly true here. But for those able to submit themselves to its wholly original style, Peach is a powerful, visceral experience that simmers with equal parts rage and compassion.

You can pick up a copy of Peach by clicking here.

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The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue | Book Review

The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

Published by Little, Brown and Company

My rating:

[image error]Set during the final months of World War I just as the so-called Spanish Flu was hitting its peak, The Pull of the Stars chronicles three harrowing days in a makeshift maternity ward in Dublin.

Julia Power is a skilled nurse working in a dangerously understaffed hospital in Ireland’s capital. With the population already decimated by war, the arrival of a deadly flu pandemic is the last thing the hospital is equipped to deal with, but on a tiny improvised ward for heavily pregnant women who have contracted the virus, Julia continues to serve with compassion. Throughout the three intense days depicted in the novel, she is aided by Kathleen Lynn, a political radical and pioneering female doctor, and Bridie Sweeney, a novice volunteer with a tragic past and a big heart. The contrasting trauma and beauty of what they experience together will teach them as much about themselves as each other; their unwavering dedication a testament to the endurance of hope even in the darkest of times.

Donoghue succeeds in capturing the abject horror of a city blighted by the cumulative effects of war and disease. Though she never shies away from detailing the utter devastation racking people’s bodies (indeed, there are several deeply upsetting and visceral sequences), there’s a tenderness to Julia’s perspective that grounds the narrative and stops it from tipping into gratuitous suffering.

You can read my full review over at BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the 1918 flu pandemic to go alongside it, which you can read by clicking here.

You can pick up a copy of The Pull of the Stars by clicking here.

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Strange Flowers by Donal Ryan | Book Review

Strange Flowers by Donal Ryan

Published by Doubleday, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In 1973, 20-year-old Moll Gladney disappears without warning from her home in rural Ireland, leaving behind her devastated parents and gossip-hungry neighbours. Five years later, Moll returns, but this time she isn’t alone. In little more than 200 pages, Donal Ryan has created a sweeping family saga that chronicles three generations’ worth of secrets and longing, looking at how love can help us overcome even the greatest losses and the most fundamental of differences.

If the book could be distilled down to its very core message, I would describe it as being about the complexity and diversity of love within a family unit – a true celebration of the unconventional. Repeated motifs of parents being separated from their children, and lovers kept apart due to internalised and societal prejudices allow for a poignant look at the pain of suppressing your heart’s true desires, and the ruling influence of reputation.

Beyond this, Ryan does a wonderful job of capturing the duality of religion; its paradoxical ability to incite misguided fear of the other, and bring comfort in times of need. He also manages to comment on class divides with relation to the land, raising the thorny issue of ownership versus heritage, and which should take precedence. The recurring theme of difference – and the importance of acceptance both internal and external in the pursuit of true happiness – is also handled really well.

It’s difficult to talk more about the novel’s most successful and affecting threads without resorting to plot spoilers. Suffice to say that Ryan handles big topics with due sensitivity and empathy. However, I must concede that, given the nature of the story’s characters and themes, there were moments when I struggled to see past the book’s authorship to fully lose myself in the narrative. There’s also a ‘story within a story’ segue in the book’s midsection which sees one of the characters rewrite a Bible story so it mirrors one of the novel’s major themes (about how society causes more harm than good by trying to change someone in order to ‘help’ them or make them fit in). I adored the theme in itself, but these sections felt like an unnecessary distraction from the characters I already loved, with the device being somewhat heavy-handed given how wonderfully nuanced Ryan’s writing is naturally.

The prose itself is as beautiful as I’ve come to expect from Ryan, punctuated by his characteristically gorgeous turn of phrase. Lengthy run-on sentences, a lack of marked speech, and a non-linear timeline may frustrate some, but they lend the book a feeling of breathless unburdening; a purging of long-held pain that stretches across generations. This, in itself, is hugely reflective of the book’s narrative arc, and thus felt very well considered.

In short, this is another excellent novel from a writer I now feel confident including among my favourites. Ryan’s ability to get to the very heart of his characters, and to imbue even the most domestic situations with intense emotional weight is truly impressive. I will continue to follow what he publishes with much excitement.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review, and to the lovely Cathy for seeing it make its way to me safely. You can pick up a copy of Strange Flowers by clicking here.

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August Wrap Up | Women in Translation Month

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The books I read in August

August was Women in Translation Month; a time when we’re encouraged to celebrate and support works in translation from women writers around the world, to counteract how male dominated the translated literature market is. I always love getting involved in this project, and am happy to have committed my reading exclusively to it throughout the whole of August. I finished 13 books in all, bringing my total reads for the year so far up to 85. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

The Bird Tribunal by Agnes Ravatn, translated from the Norwegian by Rosie Hedger

[ ] Set on an isolated fjord, this is a slow burn psychological cat-and-mouse game between two self-exiled loners; each determined to expose the other’s true nature while guarding secrets of their own. Though the outcome proves easy to predict, Ravatn is able to build tension with pin-sharp precision, imbuing even the most mundane interactions with a looming sense of threat.

Fear and Trembling by Amélie Nothomb, translated from the French by Adrianna Hunter

[ ] There are undoubtedly some clumsy, outdated prejudices that show through in this novel from one of Belgium’s most well-known and divisive authors, but it has some interesting things to say about culture clashes, the role of women within the workplace, and the folly of serving corporate systems that serve no one in return.

Waking Lions by Ayelet Gundar-Goshen, translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston

[ ] Set in the author’s native Israel, this layered novel about guilt, blackmail, loyalty, and culpability is filled with morally complex characters and incisive commentary on pertinent social issues like racial prejudice and corrupt systems. Intelligent and compelling, it confirms Gundar-Goshen’s place among my favourite literary thriller writers.

Many People Die Like You by Lina Wolff, translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel

[ ] Several of the subtly discomfiting stories in this collection of domestic life gone awry had an interesting setup with lots of potential, but they almost uniformly fizzled out with little in the way of narrative or thematic impact.

Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi, translated from the Arabic by Sherif Hetata

[ ] A woman awaiting execution in an Egyptian prison relays her life story in this damning indictment of systemic sexism. For all the suffering our heroine endures, her fierce spirit consistently shines through, with Saadawi exploring the notions of abuse and culpability in incisive ways that continue to resonate long after the book was first written.

Of Salt and Shore by Annet Schaap, translated from the Dutch by Laura Watkinson

[ ] This is an imagined sequel to the classic tale, The Little Mermaid. It feels fresh and original but calls on fairy tale archetypes to pay suitable homage to the stories it so clearly draws inspiration from. It’s a fun, enchanting read, but it embraces the sinister undertones inherent to original fairy tales, and incorporates interesting themes.

Igifu by Scholastique Mukasonga, translated from the French by Jordan Stump

[ ] Set mostly in the author’s homeland of Rwanda, this collection of short stories chronicles the various hardships faced by Tutsi people during the Rwandan genocide. She reflects the richness of Tutsi culture very well, but aside from a couple of standout stories, I felt the collection would have benefitted from greater variation in voice and tone.

The Dog Who Dared to Dream by Sun-mi Hwang, translated from the Korean by Chi-Young Kim

[ ] I get why lots of people like this, but it’s presented in a style I struggled to click with. Feeling very much like a fable about perseverance in the face of hardship, the animal characters are personified just a little bit too much for me to be able to suspend my disbelief. It has its moments, but on the whole, I found it somewhat twee.

Happening by Annie Ernaux, translated from the French by Tanya Leslie

[ ] An entirely unsentimental reflection on Ernaux’s experience of illegal backstreet abortion in 1960s France. For such a brief and focussed account, it manages to detail the lasting physical and emotional toll she endured, while pulling back to comment on the ongoing importance of victim testimonies, and access to safe healthcare.

Island by Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen, translated from the Danish by Caroline Waight

[ ] A quiet rumination on the intersection between place, home, history, and family, as a young woman journeys to her grandparents’ homeland in search of her roots. The Faroese setting is evoked well but I found the shifts in time and perspective a little convoluted at times, sadly.

A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir, translated from the Icelandic by Larissa Kyzer

[ ] An elderly woman who works in the theatre is drawn to a new, up-and-coming playwright, but her fascination with the young woman will force her to confront demons from her own past. This character study has some very interesting things to say about the healing power of the creative arts, and the conflict between duty and autonomy, but its kaleidoscopic narration holds the reader at a distance.

Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami, translated from the Japanese by Louise Heal Kawai

[ ] A charming and incredibly readable novella that masks a surprising amount of thematic and emotional depth. With subtlety, Kawakami captures the trials of adolescence, when we must learn to be true to ourselves, find our people, overcome peer pressure, and face life’s most difficult goodbyes.

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jaqueline Harpman, translated from the French by Ros Schwartz

[ ] A uniquely contemplative take on the dystopian genre, this follows a group of 40 women who must make their way in a completely deserted world when they escape the underground bunker they have been held prisoner in for over a decade. It presents fascinating ideas about the value of knowledge and the persistence of humanity in the absence of society, but several holes in plot and logic require a suspension of disbelief.

There we have it! It was a pretty strong and productive reading month overall, but my favourite reads were probably Happening and The Bird Tribunal. What were yours? Did you discover any great new authors through #WITmonth?

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I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman | Book Review

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman, tr. from the French by Ros Schwartz

Published by Vintage, 2019 (First published in 1995)

My rating:

[image error]From the quality of the prose, to the big, philosophical questions it poses, this understated dystopian novel from Belgian author Jacqueline Harpman feels destined to become a modern classic. Its concept is instantly enthralling: a group of 40 women who have spent years being held prisoner in an underground bunker with no knowledge as to why finally escape on a stroke of luck, and must attempt to survive in the sparse, deserted world they find above.

Harpman confronts the reader with some fascinating ideas, from the value of knowledge in a world that no longer requires it, to the qualities of humanity that should endure in the absence of society. Wandering a largely barren landscape, the few tableaus her characters do encounter are made all the more vivid and haunting.

The constant search for answers (who are these women? Why were they kept prisoner? Who were their captors? What happened to the rest of humanity?) are so compelling that I found myself powering through the book. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say we never gain any of this context, however. It certainly ties into the theme of how much importance and meaning we place on having knowledge and understanding of the world around us, but it also results in a lack of closure that is sure to alienate some readers.

The biggest stumbling block in submitting myself to the book’s singular world for me was not a lack of answers, however, but a number of holes in both plot and logic. The women (particularly our narrator, who was so young when she was taken prisoner that she has no recollection of the outside world) adapt far too quickly to their newfound freedom. There’s no sense of them being blinded by the sunlight or daunted by the vast, open plains that await them above ground when they’ve only known a single, windowless room for more than a decade. I’ll leave out specifics to avoid spoiling what little plot there is, but suffice to say they also seem to be equipped with a range of skills that is frankly baffling given their background.

And whilst it’s interesting to read from the perspective of a heroine who is intelligent, eloquent, resourceful, rebellious, and snarky, none of these qualities feel believable in a teenage girl who has never known affection or education; whose physical and cognitive development would have been severely impeded by her captive upbringing. Her ability to be writing the account of her life at all (which is how the novel is presented) feels like a huge stretch, especially given how good Harpman’s prose is.

A big pet peeve of mine is when smaller plot holes – like how buildings continue to be powered by electricity for decades despite no sign of any power source – are acknowledged briefly by the characters but never actually addressed. It feels like a lazy way of avoiding a problem the author simply doesn’t want to deal with. While I have no issue whatsoever with a writer holding back information to enhance a book’s narrative or themes in some way, I don’t like when it comes across as though they themselves simply didn’t have the answers.

Despite having several complaints, and this review likely coming across negatively as a result, this was still a very worthwhile and stimulating read; my frustrations stemming from how much I wanted to adore it based on its enormous potential. For those who are better able to suspend their disbelief, or who don’t mind plot and character being used as thin veils for an author to ruminate on interesting themes, this is well worth checking out. Taking a much quieter, more contemplative approach to dystopian fiction, it stands unique amidst a crowded genre, and I’m certain it’s one that will keep me thinking for a while.

You can pick up a copy of I Who Have Never Known Men by clicking here.

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Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami | Book Review

Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami, translated from the Japanese by Louise Heal Kawai

Published by Pushkin Press, 2017

My rating:

[image error]The charm and immense readability of this slim novella hide a deceptive amount of emotional maturity. We follow a young boy who becomes infatuated with the enigmatic woman who works behind a supermarket sandwich counter, returning to study her nearly every day. That is, until more pressing issues start getting in the way, like his beloved grandmother’s advancing illness and his tentative new friendship with a girl at school.

I really liked the way Kawakami played with expectations regarding the ‘manic pixie dream girl’ trope that is so prevalent when presenting Japanese women in fiction. Our narrator’s fixation with so-called Ms Ice Sandwich’s huge eyes, electric blue eyeshadow, and mysterious nature all play up to this stereotype initially, but her independent spirit and pointed refusal to appease those around her grant her a dynamism and autonomy rarely afforded to characters like her. She may hover on the periphery for the majority of the book, but her influence and subtly handled arc manage to satisfy, nonetheless.

It’s also incredibly interesting to watch the way our narrator’s attitude towards Ms Ice Sandwich changes the moment he hears other people speaking ill of her. On this front, Kawakami does a fantastic job of capturing the precarious point of adolescence when life forces us to grow up and find our own voice, however reluctantly. Indeed, there’s a youthful naivety to the narration that makes our hero very believable, and which adds real pathos to a couple of the story’s more poignant moments.

It’s a quick read, so I don’t want to go into any more detail regarding the plot, but with touching, clever commentary in here on being true to yourself, finding your people, overcoming peer pressure, and learning to say goodbye, it’s safe to say I was heartily impressed by the sheer depth Kawakami managed to pack into so few words.

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A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir | Book Review

A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir, translated from the Icelandic by Larissa Kyzer

Published by Amazon Crossing, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Elín Jónsdóttir has spent decades making props and prosthetics for the stage and screen. Now in her 70s, she is hired to work on the debut play of Ellen Álfsdóttir, a 19-year-old playwright tipped to be Iceland’s next literary sensation. But something about the eccentric young woman awakens feelings and memories in Elín that she had long since buried. The more her obsessive interactions with Ellen prompt journeys into the past, the more her grip on reality begins to slip.

This is predominantly a character study of two enigmatic women who mirror and contrast each other in fascinating ways (the similarity in their names and experiences can be no coincidence). There is certainly a plot to anchor the novel (as we delve into both women’s pasts and move towards the play’s opening in the present), but the narrative always feels like it’s playing second fiddle to the book’s thematic intent. This is not strictly a criticism, but it’s a stylistic decision that seems destined to divide readers. As Elín’s narration becomes more and more unreliable, and the book moves in an increasingly non-linear fashion, the plot seems to slip ever more out of focus. This does, however, allow the author to explore the fragmented nature of memory and self, particularly where facing up to historic trauma is concerned.

I thought the author had some really interesting things to say, albeit subtly, about the healing power of creative expression. Both women channel their personal pain into their job, with beautiful passages detailing the painstaking yet tender work that Elín puts into crafting her prosthetics, and the escapism this affords her. Having suffered bodily trauma in the past, it also seems deliberate that more often than not, she is hired to work on Nordic Noirs; tasked with creating photo-realistic body parts and defiled corpses of women.

The author also raises questions about the search for autonomy, and role reversals between parents and children. Ellen is the daughter of a much-celebrated writer, and she comes to wonder if her work stands on its own merits, or if it is merely tipped for success because of its association with her father. She also feels morally obligated to look after her mother, who is suffering from poor mental health, despite the obvious emotional toll this is taking on her.

The prose is very nice and the translation into English has been handled beautifully. Despite flirting with excellence on many occasions, and having so many wonderful ingredients to work with, however, I was held at too great a distance to ever fully engage with its vast potential. Kaleidoscopic yet heartfelt, I’m intrigued to see what else Kristín Eiríksdóttir will write, and hope more of her work is translated into English.

You can pick up a copy of A Fist or a Heart by clicking here.

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Island by Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen | Book Review

Island by Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen, translated from the Danish by Caroline Waight

Published by Pushkin Press, 2020

My rating:

[image error]When her immigrant grandmother dies, a young Danish woman travels to the Faroe Islands to trace her family heritage, and to explore the land she has always considered home, despite never having lived there.

Thematically, this is such an interesting and ruminative little novel, exploring the concepts of place and home by asking us to consider what constitutes the latter; why some may choose to leave, and why others may choose to return. The prose is peppered with evocative imagery, particularly when describing the landscape. I thought this worked especially well considering the importance of the book’s setting in relation to its themes.

Less successful for me was the book’s handling of perspective and overall structure. The narrative weaves between multiple characters and timelines in a way that feels disorientating. It’s possible that this was deliberate, but I found it somewhat jarring nonetheless. Covering three generations of a family in two separate countries, the non-linear approach and abrupt shifts in focus made it difficult to keep track of how everyone fit into the bigger picture at times.

Semi-autobiographical and fairly light in plot, it’s a novel that won’t work for some readers, but for those interested in musings on the intersection of home, culture, heritage, and family, this is a sensitive and thoughtful offering worth having on your radar.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.

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Happening by Annie Ernaux | Book Review

Happening by Annie Ernaux, translated from the French by Tanya Leslie

Published by Seven Stories Press, 2001

My rating:

[image error]In this highly focussed memoir, Ernaux looks back on the trauma of seeking out an abortion in 1963, when the practice was still illegal in her homeland of France.

Her writing is straightforward yet impactful, and she certainly doesn’t shy away from depicting the physical and emotional toll of what she went through – a botched attempt to self-administer the treatment, a visit to an abortionist, the resulting miscarriage, and hospitalisation following complications. It’s upsetting and visceral to read at times, but so too was the experience itself.

Though relatively brief, the account also reflects on the kind of social and religious stigma that surrounded the issue – and which continues to cause divides to this day. With this, she raises the killer question: is something illegal because it’s wrong, or is something wrong because it’s illegal?

It was Ernaux’s reasons for documenting the experience that really struck me. Her story highlights how far we’ve come medically and socially, but also the very real issue of many people still not having access to safe abortions. She explains the lasting impact the event had throughout the rest of her life, and sees putting it on the page as a way of processing it on a personal level, but she also recognises the importance of people sharing experiences publicly to acknowledge the suffering that can result from patriarchal systems and a lack of access to proper healthcare. After all, progress does not erase history; it is built on it.

There are no big moments of revelation here, and no grand conclusions to be drawn; this is simply a woman determined to reclaim her truth decades on. By chronicling the traumatic ordeal she was forced to endure by a system that failed her, she and fellow victims may at last feel vindicated rather than vilified.

You can pick up a copy of Happening by clicking here.

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The Dog Who Dared to Dream by Sun-mi Hwang | Book Review

The Dog Who Dared to Dream by Sun-mi Hwang, tr. from the Korean by Chi-Young Kim

Published by Abacus, 2016

My rating:

[image error]Following a dog named Scraggly and the various hardships she must endure in her attempt to live a happy life, this reads very much like a fable about perseverance in the face of difficult times.

I can see why lots of people love this, as it’s easy to sympathise with a scrappy runt determined to overcome the odds, but it’s presented in a style that I struggled to click with, unfortunately. The setup alone threatens to be twee, but I also found it too relentless in its sorrow for Scraggly’s suffering to really hit home. This emotionally manipulative approach coupled with the animal characters being personified a little too much stopped me from being able to submit myself to the narrative. After all, within this kind of context, I can deal with fictional animals being able to narrate their inner thoughts and feelings, but full-blown inter-species conversations and dogs “bursting into tears” requires greater suspension of disbelief than I can muster.

The book also purports to explore the friendship between man and dog, but without giving away any spoilers, I thought the dynamic between Scraggly and her owner was too fraught and slight to make this claim, or for the ending to feel earned.

There are certainly some poignant moments throughout this that were loaded with thematic potential, but sadly it failed to resonate in the way I hoped. This is especially frustrating considering how much I’m usually impacted by the very niche subgenre of ‘emotional animal stories’. Ultimately, I felt this particular offering was too repetitive, and so laboured in its desire to make a Point that it ironically failed to make one of any real significance.

You can pick up a copy of The Dog Who Dared to Dream by clicking here.

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