Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 17

Jericho Brown & Charlie Mackesy | Mini Reviews

The Tradition by Jericho Brown

Published by Picador, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Like any collection of poetry, there were themes, styles, and individual poems in this that impacted me more than others, but on the whole, it’s another impressive selection that proves Brown’s ability to pack a punch.

Both intimate and wide-reaching, the poems are primarily concerned with trauma and the body at the intersection of Blackness and queerness. It’s possible my rating is a little harsh, as whilst I appreciated this collection, it suffered somewhat by comparison to The New Testament, another of Brown’s collections which I adored.

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

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

Published by HarperOne, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Mackesy’s artwork is incredibly charming, and the sentiment throughout this book is lovely. There’s no story; it’s simply a series of random, fleeting vignettes about a lonely, sensitive young boy who befriends some animals, the ragtag group wandering the landscape and sharing musings on life.

It’s undeniably twee and sentimental, but in a way that feels deliberate and self-aware. One of those ‘suitable for any age’ books, it would make a particularly nice gift for lovers of illustrative art, or sensitive young readers who may take courage and comfort from its messages of friendship and kindness.

You can pick up a copy of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds | Book Review

Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds

Published by Faber & Faber, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Bar the opening chapter, the entirety of Long Way Down takes place during a single elevator ride. With Will’s brother having been killed in a gang related shooting, he is on his way to exact revenge on his killer. But at each subsequent floor, the elevator stops and what appears to be the ghost of someone who was killed by the same gun now tucked into the back of Will’s jeans steps in. The memories of these people will force Will to question his resolve; to consider the implications of his actions and imagine the various potential outcomes of pulling the trigger.

Thematically, this is a swift yet incisive look at the dangers of gang violence, and its prevalence within poor, Black communities. It discusses with clarity the moral complexities of seeking revenge and the need to break the toxic cycle of violence.

The novel is written in verse, and while this stylistic choice can feel like a gimmick at times, in this instance I think it elevates both the narrative and its themes. Firstly, it adds a brevity and a sense of urgency which feel appropriate given the short span of time being covered, but it also works on a visual front. The compact nature of the text on the page reflects the book’s claustrophobic, contained setting; your eye being forced to stream down the pages in quick succession mirroring Will’s physical journey.

For the most part, the writing style itself is simple and straightforward, which works given our teenage protagonist. There are certainly some striking images peppered throughout, however, like when Will describes the murder scene: “His blood added to the pavement galaxy of bubble-gum stars”, and how he sees his mother, “hanging over my brother’s body like a dimmed light post”.

This has a lot to say socially, but it also functions as a timely and emotionally resonant story of family, community, inheritance, and agency. An excellent crossover read, I can see it working well for adult and teen readers alike.

You can pick up a copy of Long Way Down by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell | Book Review

My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell

Published by Fourth Estate, 2020

My rating:

[image error]If the word ‘important’ is used to describe a lot of books these days, in the case of My Dark Vanessa it feels entirely earned. In the era of the #MeToo movement, this emotionally exhausting and oddly enthralling novel poses a blunt yet difficult question: What if some victims don’t want to punish their abusers?

We follow Vanessa at the age of 15, when her English teacher Jacob Strane first begins to groom her, and at age 32, when a string of historic abuse allegations levied at Strane force her to re-evaluate the love she thought they shared. The use of a dual timeline works well both to reflect the lasting impact of physical and emotional trauma on someone’s psyche, and to capture the recent shift in public consciousness concerning the dangerously outdated systems and attitudes that serve to shield abusers.

Vanessa is such a fascinating and well realised heroine. It would have been very easy to present her as one of two extreme tropes in a bid to guide the reader’s response to her and her situation. But Vanessa is neither the perfect, unfalteringly naïve fallen angel, nor the wilfully rebellious ‘bad girl’ who deliberately seeks out trouble. Instead, Russell introduces us to the ‘everywoman’ equivalent of a teenager; a young girl who simply wants to do well and fit in. Indeed, it is her own realistic flaws that make her all the more relatable, and her struggles all the more upsetting.

In terms of pacing, it’s a bit of a slow burn, and yet I found myself flying through it. Though Russell doesn’t shy away from the painfully uncomfortable physical escalations in Vanessa and Strane’s relationship, it is the psychological manipulation that is particularly hard to stomach. As the reader, we are able to see the groundwork being laid by Strane to cover his own tracks from the off. Not only does he go to extreme lengths to convince Vanessa she is the one in the driver’s seat, consenting to his every whim, he employs emotional blackmail to guarantee she will never betray his trust, even if she were to see him for what he really is. By taking time to show this toxic power imbalance, Russell perfectly encapsulates the true horror of the grooming process.

This also goes some way to explain why girls like Vanessa don’t necessarily see themselves as ‘victims’ or ‘survivors’, why they may shy away from coming forward to expose people, and why their experiences are no less valid than those who want to scream their truth from the rooftop. Having been led to believe her entire existence revolves around the ‘love’ she shared with Strane, confronting the idea that she has shaped her life around something considerably more toxic is an immensely painful process. The nuance and emotional turmoil of trying to navigate the moral dilemma inherent to this situation are captured with aplomb, and I respect that Russell doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, refusing to wrap Vanessa’s story up neatly in a bow.

Where the book didn’t work quite so well for me was the glut of references to Lolita. While the focus on a paedophilic relationship between an adult man and a teenage girl makes comparisons inevitable, I felt it became too literal and heavy-handed at times. Carefully placed nods throughout the text could have worked really well to heighten the novel’s already well-drawn themes. But rather than letting the similarities speak for themselves, Russell constantly explains parallels between Vanessa’s and Dolores’s experiences in an overly meta way that threatens to feel forced.

That said, I think this book is wonderful; truly deserving of all the hype it has generated. It is the perfect read to open up vital discussions surrounding the complexities of abuse and victimhood, and a timely reminder that every individual has the right to gatekeep their own story.

You can pick up a copy of My Dark Vanessa by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

Octavia E. Butler & Klaus Modick | Mini Reviews

Bloodchild by Octavia E. Butler

Published by Headline, 2014 (originally published in 1984)

My rating:

[image error]I knew nothing about this heading in, other than I wanted to try Butler’s work and had heard this was one of her most revered stories. Boy, was I unprepared for what I got! We find ourselves on a distant planet where humans have come to coexist with a strange alien race called the Tlic. In exchange for a peaceful existence, however, these humans are required to act as living hosts for the Tlics’ eggs.

The narrative itself is bizarre yet compelling (if deliberately revolting at times). Thematically, there are lots of fascinating layers to unpick, especially for such a comparably brief work. These include the fine line between love and servitude, the physical trauma inherent to birth, the reversal of gender roles, and in a more literal sense, the human fear of parasites and bodily invasion.

Despite the short length limiting the opportunity for world-building, Butler does a good job of avoiding clumsy exposition, simply dropping us into this world and allowing us to gleam enough contextual information to find our feet.

I finished the story in a bit of a daze, unsure of what to think or how to feel. What’s certain is that I won’t be forgetting it any time soon, and I’m intrigued to explore more of Butler’s work.

You can find Bloodchild online for free, or pick it up as part of a full collection by clicking here.

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

Published by Bellevue Literary Press, 2020 (originally published in 1984)

My rating:

[image error]An ageing botanist returns to his family’s countryside home to reflect on his life and career. Though the novel promises to explore our bond with the natural world, for me it lacked direction, never managing to transcend psychobabble to find any emotional core, thematic resonance, or narrative intrigue. Presented as though our narrator’s diary, the book reads largely like scientific nonfiction, and sadly this didn’t help with the already dry tone. There is also a frankly bizarre scene involving child molestation towards the end that felt completely unearned and unnecessary.

On a more positive note, I did like the notion that language will never do justice to the beauty of nature, and that pursuing exhaustive understanding of something can lessen our appreciation for its simple wonder. There are a few nicely written passages peppered throughout, but unfortunately, I just couldn’t connect to this in any meaningful way.

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

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

Tokyo Ueno Station by Yu Miri | Book Review

Tokyo Ueno Station by Yu Miri, translated from the Japanese by Morgan Giles

Published by Riverhead Books, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Employing a touch of the supernatural, Tokyo Ueno Station explores the very real problem of poverty, highlighting willful ignorance towards widespread homelessness in modern-day Japan.

Kazu is a ghost, seemingly condemned to haunt one of Japan’s busiest train stations, the grounds of which served as a makeshift home to him throughout his final years. Observing those who come and go on a daily basis, he reflects on the events that led him to a tragic end: dejected, alone, with nowhere and nothing to call his own.

Our narrator was born into poverty in the same year his country’s emperor was born into luxury. Throughout the narrative, author Yu Miri juxtaposes the very different paths their lives took from that moment. This allows for a simple yet powerful look at class divides in Japan: the privilege and safety gifted to the imperial family by their wealth sitting in stark contrast with the financial hardship that is passed to each subsequent generation of Kazu’s family.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about books narrated from beyond the grave to go alongside it, which you can read here.

You can pick up a copy of Tokyo Ueno Station by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass | Book Review

Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass

Published by Bloomsbury Circus, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Despite being a relatively short read, Rest and Be Thankful manages to pack a hefty punch. We follow Laura, a paediatric nurse, as the physical and emotional demands of her job become increasingly all consuming. With exhaustion taking hold and her relationship falling apart, strange nightmares begin to bleed into her days. Eventually, she finds herself haunted by an elusive spectre; a menacing figure that always seems to linger just beyond her grasp.

If there’s ever a time to collectively stop taking for granted the enormous sacrifices made by healthcare workers, it’s now, and though this novel doesn’t deal with any kind of pandemic, it does a wonderful job of showing just how overworked and under-supported nursing staff are – even at the best of times.

There’s such a gentleness to much of the book, but it is this distinctly quiet grace that lends several moments their devastating power. An early example springs to mind in which Laura lovingly tends to Danny, a baby she has become particularly fond of. With Danny’s mother asleep by his side, Laura clears the baby’s airways, reads his pulse, and warms his tiny toes between her fingers. As she does this, she can tell that he isn’t going to survive, and knows his mother must be told this devastating news when she wakes up. The scene is so understated and avoids all melodrama, and yet it gave me shivers.

For a time, Laura is partnered with a young and enthusiastic student nurse. Glass uses their dynamic to explore the difficult balancing act that experienced nurses must perform, as they prepare newcomers for the reality of life on the ward without crushing every ounce of their hope and optimism. As events unfold, Glass also explores the lack of effective support in place to help nurses process the constant stress and grief they must endure. This is where the flirtations with the supernatural really come into their own, with Laura appearing to lose her grip on reality. The increasing presence of the mysterious spectre is matched by a swelling tension; a tragic conclusion feeling ever more inevitable. There are fascinating conversations to be had here, but to me, the figure itself represented a physical manifestation of Laura’s unaddressed trauma, and the threat of allowing this kind of pain to haunt you.

Away from the hospital, we see the effect Laura’s enormous work commitments have had on her relationship. In fact, the book is written largely in second person, addressed to her partner. There’s a possible interpretation as to why this is that I don’t want to discuss for the purpose of spoilers, but even taken at face value, it’s a poignant reminder that despite their unwavering commitment to their work, nurses are all individuals with their own lives, loves and losses to contend with. Just as they aren’t given ample opportunity to deal with work related issues, their insane schedules leave little room to handle personal problems either.

The writing style is interesting and I think it will split opinion. Glass employs a lot of exaggerated metaphors but there are beautiful passages that read like prose poetry. In any other context, I would agree with those who will undoubtedly feel the book is overwritten. Here, the almost cloying prose mirrors the heavy atmosphere and the increasingly hypnotic, otherworldly tone of the narrative. The best way I can describe it is that it felt to me like quicksand, pulling you in the more you resisted; a perfect metaphor in its own right for Laura’s relentless routine, her deteriorating mental health, and her inescapable fate.

While I can see this not working quite as well for everyone, I have been completely unable to shake the way this book made me feel. It offers a compelling narrative and a sympathetic heroine sure to resonate deeply in these strange times, but its impact, nuance, and perfectly pitched ambiguity transcend current events and invite further analysis well beyond the page. The longer I sit with it, the more impressed I am by the skill that was necessary to pull off what Glass has achieved with this slight, singular novel.

You can pick up a copy of Rest and Be Thankful by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

The Wicked Sister by Karen Dionne | Book Review

The Wicked Sister by Karen Dionne

Published by Putnam, 2020

My rating:

[image error]For 15 years, Rachel has been voluntarily admitted to a psychiatric unit, following the deaths of her parents when she was just 11. Though it was ruled a murder-suicide, Rachel’s only memory of the day her parents died is of her standing over her mother’s body holding a rife, convincing her that she must have been responsible. But when a new piece of evidence suggesting otherwise comes to light, she chooses to finally leave the hospital; to return to her childhood home, confront her sister Diana, and unlock her repressed memories once and for all.

I don’t want my relatively low rating to detract from the fact I found this a quick and enjoyable read. And yet, though precise details aren’t revealed until late in the game, the nature of the twist itself is both obvious and underwhelming, so it’s important you head into this with appropriate expectations. What you can hope to enjoy instead is a fun cat-and-mouse game set at a remote lodge surrounded by bear-filled woods, which lends everything instant atmosphere and tension.

The early chapters establish that both Rachel and Diana are not necessarily to be trusted; a detail that I really liked. Flashbacks to the past reveal Diana’s diagnosis of childhood psychopathy, while Rachel’s admission that she finds it amusing to trick her fellow inpatients into believing she has various different psychological conditions suggests she too is a competent liar with a potential cruel side. Though not much is done with the latter thread, its implications still added another layer to my reading experience.

It’s also established from the start that Rachel believes she is able to communicate with animals. I assumed this would be used to suggest she was indeed mentally unwell and somewhat unreliable as a narrator, but it went oddly unexplored, being used instead as a device to propel the story forward or point Rachel in the direction of clues at convenient moments. This element of magical realism felt at odds with the rest of the novel tonally, and I don’t think it added to the narrative in any meaningful or necessary way.

There’s no denying that things become a little ridiculous during the climax and reveal, but if you’re able to suspend your disbelief and take everything at face value, this is a swift read with a good use of setting that presents us with some standout tableaus on the way to an obvious if satisfying conclusion.

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

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

Supper Club by Lara Williams| Book Review

Supper Club by Lara Williams

Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2019

My rating:

[image error]It’s proving tricky to reconcile my feelings for this book, which I found simultaneously incisive and frustrating. We follow Roberta, a woman in her late 20s who sets up a supper club where she and fellow women can intentionally live to excess. It starts as a means of indulging their love of food without the scrutiny of men or the pressure to appear dainty and refined, but the gatherings become increasingly hedonistic and dangerous.

I love what the supper club itself represents: women’s desire to break free of the male gaze and societal expectations; to live freely and to unapologetically take up space in ways and places they would normally be excluded from. It’s no coincidence that many of the women attending the gatherings have had their bodies violated or policed in some way by men, be they rape survivors, domestic abuse victims, or otherwise. As such, it’s clear there’s more going on beneath the surface for many of these women – Roberta included – as they use the supper club as a means to take back autonomy of their bodies and to collectively excise their buried trauma. Flashbacks to Roberta’s time at university a decade prior build on this theme, showing how the seeds of early trauma and social conditioning can continue to influence your wellbeing, behaviour and outlook years down the line. Across both timelines, Williams also does a good job of showing how both overt and micro-aggressions can quash female resolve and cause women to internalise misogyny of their own.

My trouble is how ironically self-indulgent the book is. Clunky dialogue full of exposition regularly spells out the novel’s every thematic intention with little room for debate. When a book is otherwise tackling interesting topics well, this heavy-handedness feels particularly awkward. Whilst it’s great to read a novel with lots of casual LGBT+ representation, the handling of queerness also felt a little clumsy and tokenistic at times. The introduction of a trans woman is particularly uncouth. She is deliberately misgendered, repeatedly referred to using male pronouns, allowing for her trans identity to be revealed like a plot twist before the switch is made to her correct pronouns. Well-meaning representation, perhaps, but certainly not without its flaws.

The book occasionally homes in on the importance and complexity of sisterhood, and I think this is where its real strength lies. But while the female supporting characters all remain flat archetypes who float in and out of the narrative purely to further Roberta’s story, a lot of time is spent on the various awful men in her life. This feels like an odd choice considering the book’s supposed focus on women removing themselves from male influence. Given the novel’s fixation with transformation, I also think the ending was underwhelming somehow; important in its own way, but not as bold or subversive as the novel seemed to be striving for.

This is one of those novels that had so many good ingredients (pardon the pun) that I kept feeling like I should be enjoying it more than I was. Perhaps that means there is also an element of right-book-wrong-time at play. Whatever the case, I can understand why this one has been so polarizing, but there was certainly enough of merit that I’d be willing to check out what Williams does next.

You can pick up a copy of Supper Club by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

June Wrap Up

[image error]

The books I read in June

June was as weird a month as we’ve all come to expect, but there were definitely some positives amidst the madness, including some great books! I read 10 in all, bringing my total for the year so far up to 61. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Ghostly Stories by Celia Fremlin

[ ] These classic tales of domestic horror are at once quintessential of their period and shrewdly observant of how stifling the female experience can be. Simple yet effective, they were a nice little introduction to Fremlin’s style.

Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge

[ ] This offers a seamless blend of history, case studies, research, and personal reflection to lay bare just how deep-rooted racism is within the UK, at a structural, education, social, and cultural level. Detailed yet digestible, it’s written with clear-eyed passion and would make a great starting point for those new to race-related non-fiction.

This Book is Anti-Racist by Tiffany Jewell

[ ] I was pleasantly surprised by how wide this book’s scope was, especially considering its relative brevity. Jewell writes with clarity, compassion and warmth, articulating her every point without condescending those who may be newer to the concepts of ingrained racism and white privilege. Her approach is wonderfully intersectional and nuanced, incorporating many factors that comprise our individual identity and socioeconomic background.

The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta

[ ] Written in verse, this is a coming-of-age story about the struggle to make peace with your own identity in a society so eager to pin you down with labels. It indulges in a couple of tropes, but I loved its contemporary tone and realistic yet hopeful approach to difference and self-expression.

Mother Country by Elana Bell

[ ] A raw and honest poetry collection about the parent-child bond at both the beginning and end of life. I’m sure many will take comfort in seeing their less-than-perfect yet deeply human reality reflected here, but Bell’s style often wasn’t for me.

The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House by Audre Lorde

[ ] This slim volume collects five brilliantly sharp essays on the complex yet crucial intersections between race, gender and sexuality. It made me see some things in a new light, while expressing existing thoughts to perfection. I can’t wait to read more of Lorde’s work.

The Lightness by Emily Temple

[ ] Set at a Buddhist retreat for troubled girls high in the mountains, and carried by an intoxicating atmosphere, there are lots of fascinating themes at play here, ranging from the trappings of the female body to the often fine line between love and rivalry in friendship.

Don’t Call Us Dead by Danez Smith

[ ] This is a phenomenally well curated selection of consistently engaging, gut-punch poems detailing Smith’s experiences as someone who is Black, queer, and HIV positive. The power of Smith’s subject matter is matched by their linguistic craft.

The Color of Air by Gail Tsukiyama

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.

King and the Dragonflies by Kacen Callender

[ ] This middle grade novel transcends age range, with enough nuance and intersectionality to resonate equally well with adult readers. The novel deals with lots of big themes, like grief, identity, friendship, internalised homophobia, and systemic racism, without ever feeling rushed.

There we have it! I hope you’re all keeping safe and well, and that July brings lots of great books your way. My favourite read of the month was Don’t Call Us Dead. What was yours?

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi

King and the Dragonflies by Kacen Callender | Book Review

King and the Dragonflies by Kacen Callender

Published by Scholastic, 2020

My rating:

[image error]This is one of those brilliant novels that completely transcends age range. Though published as a middle grade title – and indeed being accessible for younger readers – there is an intersectionality and nuance to the handling of its themes that will see it resonate just as strongly with adult readers.

We follow Kingston, known as King, a Black adolescent trying to deal with the sudden death of his big brother, Khalid. Shortly before his death, upon finding out that King’s best friend Sandy (son of the racist local Sherriff) is gay, Khalid warned his little brother to stay away from him. But when Sandy shows up in King’s backyard, covered in bruises and asking for help, their friendship will be rekindled, and both will be forced to ask questions about themselves and their future.

I really appreciate how realistically flawed all the characters are in this. Callender does a fantastic job of reflecting ingrained societal prejudices, with particular focus on the problems of toxic masculinity and internalised homophobia within the Black community. Its subtle though effective commentary on police corruption is also powerfully pertinent in our current times.

There were moments when this could very easily have indulged in needless genre tropes, but I was happy to see many of these avoided. It was also incredibly refreshing to read a novel aimed predominantly at young people that avoids the trap of tying everything up neatly in a bow. The ending is filled with enough hope to satisfy, but enough unanswered questions remain to sensitively reflect the ongoing nature of navigating grief and identity.

My only reasons for docking a star were personal quibbles, rather than particular faults of the book itself. There are several instances when a fraught situation ends with King fleeing in tears, and whilst I love the attempt to normalise the expression of male emotion, the repetition grated slightly; and though the prose is perfectly competent in serving the story, it’s not a style that necessarily wowed me.

All that said, I think this is a wonderful novel that I would love to see on lots of people’s radars. King is a hugely endearing protagonist; his story one that matters now more than ever. The book’s ability to tackle big and important themes with due reverence, without condescending its young readership or alienating its adult readers, is truly impressive.

You can pick up a copy of King and the Dragonflies by clicking here.

Let’s connect: Twitter | Goodreads | Support me on Ko-fi