Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 16

Igifu by Scholastique Mukasonga | Book Review

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

Published by Archipelago, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Set mostly in Mukasonga’s homeland of Rwanda, this collection of short stories explores the various hardships faced by the Tutsi people during the Rwandan genocide.

Though the threat of a brutal execution lingers in the background throughout most of the stories, this overt violence is never the focus. Instead, the author tends to home in beyond the wider context of civil war and focus on the ripple effects that national unrest and persecution can have – like poverty, cultural erasure, displacement, and exploitation. I thought this was really effective, showing us the often-forgotten impact beyond the senseless killings, as those who survived attempted to carry on with or rebuild their lives.

The strongest entries for me were definitely the collection’s opening and closing stories. The former, the title story, personifies the debilitating hunger of those facing severe poverty, while the latter follows a woman’s return to Rwanda (after previously escaping as a refugee) when she receives word that her entire family has been killed in the massacre. These are definitely the ones that will stick with me.

Mukasonga’s prose is simple yet effective, capturing the richness of the Tutsi people’s culture, and the sadness of their plight. Aside from the two previously mentioned stories, however, I thought there was a homogenous nature to the collection as a whole. I believe they are semi- autobiographical, which may explain the uniformity of pace, tone, and narrative voice, but as fictional pieces following different characters, I think the collection would have benefitted from more variety within the writing itself; allowing each piece to land with greater emotional punch.

In this respect, Igifu is a collection I will remember for its overall feel more than I will for its specific characters and plots. Still, it’s a very worthwhile piece of own voice literature from a perspective western audiences don’t engage with enough.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review. You can pre-order up a copy of Igifu by clicking here.

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Of Salt and Shore by Annet Schaap | Book Review

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

Published by Charlesbridge, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Of Salt and Shore can be read as an imagined follow up to the original version of The Little Mermaid, and I’m pleased to say it retains the contrasting menace and charm that characterise classic fairy tales. We follow Emilia, nicknamed Lampie, the daughter of a lighthouse keeper. When she is held responsible for a terrible accident that takes place during a storm, Lampie is sent to work off her debt at the Black House, the ominous home of the absent Admiral. It is said that a monster resides within the Black House, but what she finds is much stranger and far more complex.

I found this such a thrilling and enchanting read, with Lampie and the ragtag group she meets along the way endearingly flawed characters. Schaap both indulges in and subverts fairy tale tropes, creating an atmosphere that is somehow both befitting of the classic tales that came before it, and refreshingly original. I also appreciated the bigger themes she managed to weave into the story to add extra resonance for contemporary readers, with commentary on the likes of parental abuse, finding family, othering, and self-acceptance all enhancing the narrative.

Though the climax was suitably dramatic, I did think things came to a rather abrupt end, with a couple of threads left hanging a little too loose for my liking. This felt like an especially unusual choice for a novel that is both fairy tale inspired and middle grade, both of which tend to favour neat resolutions. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed every moment I spent with this whimsical story; grateful that it neither shied away from the dark lifeblood that runs throughout authentic fairy tales, nor lost the messages of love and light that make them timeless.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review. You can pick up a copy of Of Salt and Shore (also published under the title, Lampie) by clicking here.

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Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi | Book Review

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

Published by Zed Books, 2007 (first published in 1975)

My rating:

[image error]Set in the author’s home country of Egypt, and inspired in large part by the real life of a woman sentenced to death in Qanatir Prison whom she met during her research into female neurosis, Woman at Point Zero is a damning exploration of systemic misogyny.

The book continues to resonate strongly on a narrative and thematic level despite being written more than forty years ago. This is testament both to Saadawi’s perceptive writing, and her grasp of just how prevalent the patriarchy was (and continues to be). By having Firdaus narrate her own story to us, from early childhood to imprisonment, we see the relentless influence and abuse inflicted upon her by men throughout her life, both on an individual level and by the system at large.

From enforced genital mutilation to having her passion for education ignored, and from domestic violence to rape and exploitation; Firdaus certainly endures a lot of suffering. And yet, I thought Saadawi did a good job of allowing her heroine’s fierce spirit to consistently shine through, opting for a sense of tragic realism over needless gratuity.

Given that we know from the off the story will culminate in Firdaus being convicted and sentenced to death for killing a man, the author is able to explore the notion of culpability; asking us to consider at which point Firdaus crosses the line from victim to criminal, or if, indeed, she ever does. For a relatively brief and seemingly straightforward novel, there’s a nice amount of nuance along the way; from commentary on suppressed sexuality and corruption within religion, to the deception of power dynamics within the sex industry.

There’s certainly an argument to be made that Saadawi perpetuates the stereotype of Middle Eastern men being ruthlessly violent towards women, but given the narrative’s real-world basis, the timing of the book’s creation, the wider context of everything our heroine endures, and the thematic purpose of the novel (to show how women, particularly those who threaten the status quo, are browbeaten and silenced by society), I felt it was largely justified in this case.

It’s easy to see why Woman at Point Zero is considered something of a modern classic when it comes to feminist literature. It’s both impressive and upsetting how relevant much of its message continues to be, and I’m glad to have experienced its power for myself.

You can pick up a copy of Woman at Point Zero by clicking here.

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Many People Die Like You by Lina Wolff | Book Review

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

Published by And Other Stories, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In principal, this collection of short stories held lots of promise, as I love the idea of wicked, wry twists on every day domestic life. But if there was a running theme throughout the stories, it was an interesting setup that just never seemed to go anywhere. I don’t mind a lack of narrative conclusion in a piece of short fiction if there is some obvious thematic or emotional resonance in its place, but sadly I just failed to connect with Wolff’s style in any meaningful way. As each story fizzled out rather limply, I was consistently left wondering what the author even intended to say.

If there was one standout that made the collection worthwhile, for me it would have to be Misery Porn. We follow a man who begins a relationship with his neighbour, who livestreams footage of herself crying as entertainment. He is soon drawn into his girlfriend’s work, but as things escalate, it becomes clear that she thrives on heartache in ways that make him deeply uncomfortable and which could endanger them both. Again, I think it would have benefitted from a stronger ending, but it offered an interesting reversal of the abuser/victim dynamic, commenting on toxic relationships and society’s obsession with suffering.

Other near highlights were a story about a man who discovers his wife has been cheating on him when her lover turns up on their doorstep asking for a place to stay, and a story about an elderly woman who embarks on a fling with her much younger piano teacher, much to the shock of their community. It was setups like these that proved Wolff has great ideas when it comes to plot and character dynamics; I just couldn’t gel with the execution in the vast majority of cases, unfortunately.

On a more positive note, however, some of the stories were written while the author lived in Spain, and I think she is able to invoke both Swedish and Spanish settings with the same ease. For those who love subtly discomfiting, slice-of-life stories that explore an idea more than a narrative or an emotion, this may work considerably better for you than it did for me.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review. You can pick up Many People Die Like You by clicking here.

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Waking Lions by Ayelet Gundar-Goshen | Book Review

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

Published by Pushkin Press, 2016

My rating:

[image error]Combining a thriller-esque setup with incisive commentary on contemporary Israeli society, Waking Lions should appeal to genre enthusiasts and literary fiction fans alike.

With a successful career, a wife in the police force, and two young sons at home, Dr Eitan Green appears to have it all. But his life comes crashing down around him when, speeding along a desert road one night, he hits and kills an African migrant. Though he chooses to flee the scene, the dead man’s wife comes knocking at Eitan’s door the following morning. With evidence of his crime and an unexpected ultimatum, this enigmatic woman will draw Eitan into an even greater web of secrets and lies.

Though the pace is much slower and more ruminative than a typical thriller, there are several revelations along the way that I don’t want to risk spoiling. Suffice to say that throughout the narrative, Eitan will be forced to confront not only the reality of taking someone’s life, but his own long-held racial prejudices, and the strength of his commitment to his family.

Gundar-Goshen does a fantastic job of fleshing out her characters. None of them are wholly good or bad; each of them existing within a complex, moral grey area that highlights the intersection between action and motivation. As in her novel, Liar, she also looks at the potential ripple effects of a single lie throughout several people’s lives, and asks where we should draw the line on culpability. There is also clear critique of the systems that exist to protect those already within them, and exclude those without.

I already mentioned the book’s slower pace, and while it’s true this allows for greater exploration of the book’s characters and themes, I must admit to thinking the mid-section lagged a little at times. My attention was consistently held (and I read its 400-odd pages in just a few sittings), but I did think it detracted somewhat from the sense of drive and tension that had been so well established in the early chapters. Thankfully, the book hits its stride again as we move towards the climax.

All that said, this is another intelligent, layered, and compelling read that cements Gundar-Goshen’s place among my favourite literary thriller writers.

You can pick up a copy of Waking Lions by clicking here.

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Fear and Trembling by Amélie Nothomb | Book Review

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

Published by Faber & Faber, 2004 (first published in 1999)

My rating:

[image error]Belgium’s Amélie Nothomb is an author known to split opinion. Having finally tried her work for myself, I can honestly say I’m… not sure what to think. This heavily autobiographical novel follows a young Belgian woman as she moves back to her childhood home of Japan for a year, to work within a vast, faceless corporation. Constant culture clashes and misunderstandings with her superiors see her stripped of more and more responsibility, but Japanese protocol dictates on both sides that it would be a dishonour for her to depart the company before her contract has ceased.

There are several interesting themes that come into play. There is clear critique of strict hierarchal systems within the business world that stifle creativity, talent and individualism, as well as the patriarchal structures that define a woman’s role within the workplace. Along that same vein, Nothomb also lambasts the impossible standards that Japanese women, as far as she sees it, are expected to live up to.

It’s also possible she’s warning against the naïve pursuit of childhood dreams. Our narrator has longed to return to Japan since departing at the age of five, but having been so young, her romanticised imaginings of what the country represents could never possibly be met. By insisting she remain within a company clearly unsuited to her, simply to save face and chase a failed dream, she prolongs and exacerbates her own unhappiness.

On a negative note, it has to be said the book reinforces a lot of clumsy racial tropes. Given its satirical nature and the fact it was written more than 20 years ago, it’s tempting to give the book the benefit of the doubt when it comes to these exaggerated stereotypes, in the hope they were included to deliberately emphasize the theme of culture clashes. Either way, I must admit they sat uncomfortably with me at times, the tone often feeling needlessly cruel. Other prejudices like fat phobia are undeniably present and uncalled for, satire or no satire.

Putting aside potentially problematic self-inserts from the author, the book does have some worthwhile things to say about the bewilderment of trying to live and work within a culture unlike your own, and the folly of serving systems that serve no one in return.

You can pick up a copy of Fear and Trembling by clicking here.

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The Bird Tribunal by Agnes Ravatn | Book Review

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

Published by Orenda Books, 2017 (first published in 2013)

My rating:

[image error]Following a scandal, historian and TV presenter Allis Hagtorn has abandoned her life and career in favour of voluntary exile. Responding to a job ad for a housekeeper and gardener at a remote house on an isolated fjord, her employer is not the frail old man she expected, but an elusive 44-year-old awaiting the return of his wife. As they fall into their own unconventional routine, a strange tension simmers between the two, with both eager to coax out the other’s true nature while guarding secrets of their own.

The strength of this novel is its atmosphere, with Ravatn able to imbue even the most seemingly mundane interactions with a sense of threat. Subtle literary allusions to the likes of Rebecca and Bluebeard also work well to heighten the feeling of impending menace. Combined with the cool sparsity of Nordic noir, the book has a singular tone that really draws you in.

That said, the taut build up is handled so well that the eventual “reveal” felt somewhat lacking in comparison to the horrors I’d been imagining. In that respect, it would be wrong to describe this as a conventional thriller. Instead, it reads far more like a psychological character study of two self-appointed misfits navigating a complicated relationship fuelled by shame and regret. With the dynamic between the two explored to pin-sharp precision, it is almost impossible to tell at times who truly holds the power, or what each hopes to gain from the other. It is this understated intellectual cat-and-mouse game that leaves the greatest lasting impression.

You can pick up a copy of The Bird Tribunal by clicking here.

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July Wrap Up

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The books I read in July

Another month, another wrap up. I managed to finish 11 books throughout July, bringing my total for the year so far up to 72. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Supper Club by Lara Williams

[ ] Overall, I’d describe this as a book I liked more in concept than in execution. When it homes in on sisterhood and the concept of women taking up space unapologetically, it’s pleasingly incisive, but flat supporting characters and some clumsy queer rep stopped me from ever feeling fully engaged.

The Wicked Sister by Karen Dionne

[ ] This thriller about a woman returning to her childhood home to recover supressed memories surrounding her parents’ deaths requires a hefty suspension of disbelief. The twist itself is underwhelming but there’s a decent cat-and-mouse feel in the build-up, and I liked the use of a remote woodland setting. It becomes a bit silly and isn’t particularly original, but it’s a swift and enjoyable enough read.

Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass

[ ] This gentle yet powerful novel is an ode to the sacrifices made by nursing staff. It may be slight but it packs quite the punch, chronicling the physical and mental deterioration of a paediatric nurse haunted by a strange spectre that lingers just beyond her grasp. It’s a compelling read with a sympathetic heroine, but there is enough nuance and perfectly pitched ambiguity to invite deeper thought. I found it oddly thrilling and deeply impactful.

Bloodchild by Octavia E. Butler

[ ] This sci-fi short is a bizarre yet fascinating look at the fine line between love and servitude, the physical trauma inherent to birth, the reversal of gender roles, and the human fear of bodily invasion. It may be slight, but it’s certainly memorable.

Moss by Klaus Modick, translated from the German by David Herman

[ ] Supposedly a meditation on the importance of the link between man and nature, I found this novel dry and directionless. A few nicely written passages and the potential for some interesting ideas sadly weren’t enough to elevate this beyond psychobabble.

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell

[ ] Emotionally exhausting yet strangely gripping, this is an intelligent, layered look at the difficulty of facing up to historic abuse. It shows how the framing of an experience can completely change someone’s perception of it, dissecting what it really means to be a victim. I thought it was a little over reliant on literary references at times, but it’s a powerful read destined to spark important conversations.

Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds

[ ] Set almost entirely during one elevator ride, this is a swift yet incisive look at the cycle of toxic violence born of gang warfare, and its disproportionate impact on poor, Black youth. Written in verse, it captures a sense of urgency perfectly suited to the narrative and its themes.

The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.

The Tradition by Jericho Brown

[ ] While I didn’t adore this as much as Brown’s other collection, The New Testament, it still showcases his ability to balance intimate, personal reflection with wide-reaching social commentary through concise, impactful poetry.

The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy

[ ] Charming if sentimental, this combines Mackesy’s lovely illustrations with comforting musings on life. There’s a particular focus on the importance of friendship and kindness, making this a book that’s applicable to readers of any age.

You Are Invited by Sarah A. Denzil

[ ] A flawed yet fun read that brings a distinctly modern touch to classic gothic-horror tropes. While some potential wasn’t capitalised on, I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with this one.

There we have it! This was a very strong reading month overall. My favourite picks were Rest and Be Thankful and The Pull of the Stars. What were yours?

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Let’s Recommend | Women in Translation

August is Women in Translation Month. As the name suggests, it’s a time when we’re all encouraged to reach for and discuss books written by women in translation, to combat the gender imbalance that continues to persist within international literature. Last year, I recommended 8 titles for those looking to get involved, and while I stand by those picks, I wanted to highlight some more in case anyone is particularly keen to boost their TBR before the month kicks off!

I’ve linked to each book in case you’d like to know more or pick up a copy, but without further ado, here are 10 excellent books by women in translation.

Loyalties by Delphine de Vigan | France | Translated from the French by George Miller

[image error]As the title suggests, this is primarily a look at the concept of loyalty in its various forms. With each of the 4 main characters keeping a secret on behalf of someone else, de Vigan explores the moral complexities inherent to balancing trust with honesty. The undercurrent of tension and claustrophobia that builds throughout had me enthralled, and I loved its subtle commentary on sexism and the nuance of what constitutes abuse.

Tender Is the Flesh by Augustina Bazterrica | Argentina | Translated from the Spanish by Sarah Moses

[image error]Deliberately repellent and utterly compelling in equal measure, this all-too-plausible dystopian looks at what might happen if animal meat was toxic to humans, and cannibalism became the norm. Bazterrica is unflinching in her portrayal of society’s degradation, but there’s so much depth to revel in, with commentary on the role of language, genetic modification, hunting for sport, human trafficking, and class disparity all woven in seamlessly.

Liar by Ayelet Gundar-Goshen | Israel | Translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverstone

[image error]At once a searing social commentary and a gripping page-turner, Liar looks at the ease with which our words can take on a life of their own, when a 17-year-old girl falsely accuses a minor celebrity of assault. The novel’s real strengths are its fantastically well-realised characters, who are painfully flawed, complex and believable, and Gundar-Goshen’s stunning prose, which can make even the smallest moments shine.

The White Book by Han Kang | South Korea | Translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith

[image error]Loosely tied around our narrator’s struggle to come to terms with the death of her baby sister, this experimental little gem is part novel, part memoir, part prose poetry collection. Beautifully written, I found it as linguistically stimulating as I did emotionally impactful, and loved witnessing its constant push and pull between fact and fiction.

Waves by Ingrid Chabbert & Carol Maurel | France | Translated from the French by Edward Gauvin

[image error]Inspired by the author’s real life, this graphic novel explores the difficulty of navigating grief, and the importance of finding hope, when two women’s journey to have a child culminates in tragedy. Accompanied by Maurel’s dreamlike artwork, it’s a moving story handled with due sensitivity, and the normalised queer representation was a very welcome touch.

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata | Japan | Translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori

[image error]The concept and prose may seem straightforward in this exploration of society versus the individual, but it’s shrewdly observant and quietly impactful. Ultimately, Murata asks us to consider the extent to which we should sacrifice the things that make us happy, if simply for the sake of fitting in and avoiding scrutiny. With moments of poignancy and understated humour, she also touches on ingrained misogyny and class divides, all carried by her heroine’s charmingly unique world view.

Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir | Iceland | Translated from the Icelandic by Quentin Bates

[image error]The gripping pace of a thriller can often come at the expense of character depth. Not so in Snare. This excellent example of noir fiction takes us into Iceland’s underbelly, as a woman turns to drug smuggling to fund a custody battle over her young son. Page-turning tension, a tangled web of morally ambiguous characters, engaging subplots, and emotional complexity elevated what could have been a nondescript crime flick into something decidedly more memorable.

The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist | Sweden | Translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy

[image error]There’s an unexpected tenderness to this speculative dystopian tale, in which those who remain unmarried and childless over the age of 50 must enter a Unit. Here, they live a life of luxury but must participate in clinical trials and forced organ donation. Though easy to fly through, the book has interesting things to say about how society defines value in life, as well as class snobbery and the role of women. Chiefly, it ruminates on why certain types of love are given credence over others.

Horizontal Collaboration by Navie & Carole Maurel | France | Translated from the French by Margaret Morrison

[image error]An elderly grandmother finally divulges the details of a tragic love affair that played out during Occupation in this heartbreaking yet hopeful graphic novel. Set largely in one apartment block in 1942, we glimpse a microcosm of society at the time, with the author brilliantly capturing the moral dilemmas people were forced to navigate day-to-day under Nazi rule; the divide between those who acted in aid of the greater good and those who served only themselves.

Tokyo Ueno Station by Yu Miri | Japan/South Korea | Translated from the Japanese by Morgan Giles

[image error]Employing a touch of the supernatural, Tokyo Ueno Station explores the very real problem of poverty, highlighting wilful ignorance towards widespread homelessness in modern-day Japan. The tone throughout is one of nostalgia and melancholy, as our deceased narrator looks back on a life of crippling poverty, missed opportunities, and lost love. The book offers heartfelt insight into the cost endured by those pushed to the fringes of society as a direct result of their socioeconomic standing.

I’ll leave it there for now, but I’d love for you to recommend some of your favourite books by women in translation in return. Happy reading!

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You Are Invited by Sarah A. Denzil | Book Review

You Are Invited by Sarah A. Denzil

Published independently, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Contemporary horror stories are often criticised for failing to reflect modern technology and conveniences (characters being without their phones, acting as though the internet doesn’t exist, and so on). Many authors clearly struggle to reconcile a sense of isolation and fear with the constant connectivity of modern tech, but with You Are Invited, Sarah A. Denzil uses a bold and original setup to prove the two can work in excellent harmony to actually ramp up the tension.

When the story opens, we find Cath on the final leg of a long journey to Transylvania. From thousands of applicants, she is one of a handful of influencers chosen to participate in The Event, a unique project that will see popular internet personalities cohabit in a newly renovated monastery. Millions of subscribers from across the globe will pay to livestream their every move, and to request they take on various tasks specifically for their entertainment. But the monastery itself is haunted by stories of a brutal past. When strange events begin to unfold and viewers flood the stream with warnings of an ominous figure lurking in the shadows, tempers begin to fray.

Despite the distinctly modern slant, I was pleased to see the book fully lean in to gothic traditions that instantly dial up the atmosphere. We have a setting that could have been lifted right out of Dracula, locals whispering of horrific murders, strange figures looming just out of sight, the howl of wolves from the surrounding forest, and a cast of characters clearly keeping secrets from each other. I loved all of these elements, and thought they made for a gripping, pacy read that felt paradoxically familiar and fresh.

The main character suffers from schizophrenia, heavily implied to stem from childhood trauma. This is used to good effect to heighten the air of uncertainty and paranoia, but for the most part, I felt the author avoided obvious and potentially harmful mental health tropes. That said, the speed and flippancy with which she is said to be able to stop taking previously vital medication at one point did grind my gears. I fully respect that everyone’s treatment and recovery journey is different, but the implication that meds are a quick fix until you address the ‘real’ problem isn’t exactly a favourite trope of mine.

After laying all the groundwork with excellent tension building and narrative intrigue, the climax seemed to abruptly drop a lot of potential on these fronts in favour of something a little too melodramatic for my taste. I can’t deny how much fun I had throughout my time with this novel, though. It ticks almost all the boxes you’d want from a classic, ghostly tale, while also offering interesting commentary on the distinctly modern issue of the potentially toxic relationship between creators and their audience; the pressure and manipulation that can affect both sides.

Thank you to the author and Netgalley for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.

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