Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 18

Tropic of Violence by Natacha Appanah | Book Review

Tropic of Violence by Natacha Appanah, translated from the French by Geoffrey Strachan

Published by Graywolf Press, 2020

My rating:

[image error]This swift yet impactful novel set on the French islands of Mayotte weaves together multiple voices to paint a harrowing picture of the damage being done to children caught up in the refugee crisis.

Marie is a nurse working in Mayotte, a cluster of French territory islands in the Indian Ocean. When a young refugee from nearby Comoros abandons her baby, Marie takes him in and raises him as her own. Thirteen years later, Moïse finds himself orphaned for a second time when Marie dies abruptly, forcing him onto the dangerous streets that are ruled by gangs of fellow wayward children who have fallen through the cracks of this fractured society.

Moïse is a clever choice of central character to base this particular story around. His faltering sense of identity means he is uniquely positioned to expose just how pervasive the poverty and violence sweeping across Mayotte have become. Though he was raised by a white local, his black skin serves as a clear indicator of his refugee beginnings, and the residents of Mayotte act with increasing hostility towards perceived outsiders like him who they feel are taking over their land.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the struggles being endured by the people of Mayotte to go alongside it, which you can read here.

You can pick up a copy of Tropic of Violence by clicking here.

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Don’t Call Us Dead by Danez Smith | Book Review

Don’t Call Us Dead by Danez Smith

Published by Chatto & Windus, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Reviewing a collection of poetry is often a tricky task. The styles and themes on display are typically so wide reaching that some pieces feel less successful than others; the gems losing their power by the virtue of diminished returns. I can confidently say, however, that Don’t Call Us Dead is a phenomenally well curated selection of consistently engaging, gut-punch poems.

The opening sequence imagines an afterlife for all the Black men wrongfully killed by police, and it is as discomfortingly joyful as it is devastating. From there, the collection shifts into more personal territory, with Smith detailing their experiences as someone who is Black, queer, and HIV positive, exploring what it means to feel your body under threat from both external and internal forces beyond your control. Though there’s a clear sense of focus and thematic cohesion throughout the collection, it’s also pleasingly nuanced, with complex notions such as internalised racism within the Black community itself adding additional depth.

Entire poems had me breathless on occasion, but there was barely a single piece without at least one standout line that earned the poem its place. This is all to say that Smith’s linguistic craft is as compelling as their choice of themes. Indeed, there are stunningly evocative images peppered throughout, such as:

the forest is a flock of boys

who never got to grow up

blooming into forever

afros like maple crowns

reaching sap-slow toward sky

I can’t recommend this collection highly enough. While there’s no denying that, as a Black, non-binary writer, Smith’s work has taken on even greater urgency in recent times, the talent, wisdom and empathy on show here are timeless.

You can pick up a copy of Don’t Call Us Dead by clicking here.

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The Lightness by Emily Temple | Book Review

The Lightness by Emily Temple

Published by William Morrow, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Set largely across one balmy summer, The Lightness follows Olivia as she enrols herself in a program for troubled girls at a meditation retreat high in the mountains. With her father having attended the same retreat just before he disappeared, Olivia hopes understanding his Buddhist passions will help her feel closer to him – and perhaps even to figure out why he never returned home. Quickly befriending a small group of enigmatic outcasts, the girls become increasingly obsessed with proving true the rumour that it’s possible to levitate, taking you one step closer to true enlightenment.

This is one of those books that I don’t want to say much about, because despite a few quietly powerful revelations along the way, not a huge amount actually happens. Instead, the success of the novel is reliant on the brilliant execution of its atmosphere; one of disorientating adolescence and mounting, claustrophobic tension that swell towards an inevitable though no less thrilling climax.

The novel is told in first person, with an older Olivia recalling the summer in question. This is effective on a number of fronts, allowing for a more mature narrative voice, greater self-reflection, and an omniscience that permits the laying out of clues that lend the whole thing a sense of impending doom – keeping us hooked despite the relatively slow progression of events.

There are lots of fascinating themes at play, from the trappings of the female body, to the often fine line between love and rivalry in friendship. As secrets are revealed, the reasons why the girls may wish to escape the physical confines of their bodies become tragically apparent, with subtle plays for power revealing the hidden manipulations and selfish motivations that can drive us to betray our own.

Though the ending is a little heavy on exposition, The Lightness is a tense and hypnotic read throughout. At once melancholic and strangely hopeful, it explores the allure of faith, and the desperate measures some of us will take to find purpose and belonging.

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

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

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The Master’s Tools… By Audre Lorde | Book Review

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

Published by Penguin Classics, 2018

My rating:

[image error]This slim volume brings together five essays by self-described ‘black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet’, Audre Lorde. Originally published between 1977 and 1982, they are all powerfully yet frustratingly relevant today, focussing on issues of Black identity, womanhood, queerness, and the vital roles that art and community must play in overcoming patriarchy.

The arguments presented in each essay compliment the others beautifully, making this a very well curated selection. That said, each still manages to stand out distinctly and make its own valid points, so I’ll talk about each individually.

Poetry Is Not a Luxury is a brief offering about the power of words in processing, understanding and expressing our innermost thoughts. It felt like a nice setup for the eloquence and intellectual ferocity that was to follow. – 4 stars

Uses of the Erotic draws an important distinction between the pornographic and the erotic, explaining that the demonisation of female sexuality has long been used to oppress women and encourage self-policing. – 4 stars

The title essay is a fiercely perceptive and timely discussion about the need for intersectionality within feminism. Lorde details why it is vital to embrace the reality that different women face their own oppressions (Black or white, queer or straight, etc.), rather than deny it. With the structures of patriarchy existing to deliberately divide communities – and thus reduce the power of their voice – it is only by overcoming internal differences that women (and their allies) will be able to form a truly united front that is strong enough to overthrow sexism. – 5 stars

Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism builds on the title essay, explaining that female anger (particularly Black female anger) has been painted as a negative quality in order to keep women quiet, and thus, oppressed. Lorde goes on to explain that anger can in fact be a powerful tool for positive change when channelled correctly. – 5 stars

Learning from the 1960’s is about the importance of not repeating the mistakes of the past, a message that hits especially hard with everything that’s going on in the world right now. It’s about pushing ahead with the fight for justice even when change feels impossible, and the importance of all oppressed communities (women, people of colour, queers, the elderly, the disabled, the poor, and so on) working hand-in-hand if they are to outnumber the supposed ‘norm’ (straight, cis, wealthy, white men), and thus be able to bring about lasting, systemic change. – 5 stars

This was such a fantastic introduction to Lorde’s work, and I will undoubtedly be seeking out more. I highlighted so many passages; ones that made me see things in a new way, and ones that articulated my existing thoughts to perfection. If you too are looking for a succinct entry point (or a compact refresher) of Lorde’s oeuvre, I cannot recommend this volume highly enough.

You can pick up a copy of The Master’s Tools… by clicking here.

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Celia Fremlin & Elana Bell | Mini Reviews

Ghostly Stories by Celia Fremlin

Published by Faber & Faber, 2019

My rating:

[image error]These classic tales of domestic horror are at once quintessential of their period and shrewdly observant of how stifling the female experience can be. In the first, a teenage girl’s delight at being left home alone soon dwindles when the phone won’t stop ringing and the doorknob starts to rattle. In the second, a woman is haunted by distressing dreams that her adult niece is in danger.

The prose is simple yet effective, and both follow a defined arc that culminates in a satisfying twist. Neither felt particularly ground-breaking, but I enjoyed both and would certainly read more of Fremlin’s work.

You can pick up a copy of Ghostly Stories by clicking here.

Mother Country by Elana Bell

Published by BOA Editions, 2020

My rating:

[image error]This collection of poems juxtaposes two extremes of a parent-child bond, as Bell attempts to balance the struggles of conceiving and caring for a child with the pain of gradually losing her own mother to Parkinson’s disease.

There were times when Bell’s poetic style really didn’t gel with me; lines running together jarringly and imagery that felt overblown. There were definitely moments that shone, however, with poems that capture both the physical and mental strain of miscarriage, and the difficulty of grieving for someone who is technically still alive. Most memorable are the poems that boldly examine one of motherhood’s greatest taboos; admitting to the shortfall between the expectation and reality of parenthood, as Bell navigates what appears to be postnatal depression.

Raw and honest, I’m sure many will take comfort in seeing their less-than-perfect but deeply human reality reflected here. Perhaps those who do will connect with Bell’s style more than I did.

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

You can pre-order a copy of Mother Country by clicking here.

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The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta | Book Review

The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta

Published by Blazer + Bray, 2020

My rating:

[image error]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. We follow Michael from infancy through to his university years; a mixed-race gay adolescent born in Britain to a Greek Cypriot mother and a Jamaican father. We watch as he embraces his sexuality, reconciles his disparate heritages, and ultimately finds his own sense of community and empowerment through the world of drag.

The book is written in the first-person, and considering the vast span of the protagonist’s life that is being covered, I think Atta does a great job of having the narrative voice age-up appropriately as time passes. The book is also written in verse. While I don’t think this necessarily added much linguistically, it did give the narrative an almost diary-esque quality, helping us feel more intimately invested in Michael’s perspective. It also lends the book a lot of pace and flow, allowing for seamless jumps in time when necessary.

I really like how contemporary the book feels, not only in its pop culture references, but in the modern attitudes and opportunities it reflects. Yes, Michael still faces racism and homophobia – both deliberately antagonistic and systematic – but he is able to come out of the closet fairly comfortably in his mid-teens, and finds many people of his generation who are open-minded and relaxed about issues of gender and sexuality. Upon starting uni, he is able to try out groups specifically for LGBT and Black students, before finding his feet in the drag society, and he regularly enjoys nights out in gay clubs with both his queer and his straight friends. In this respect, I think Atta does a fantastic job of reflecting both how far we’ve come as a society, and how far we still have to go, when it comes to diversity and inclusion.

I also really appreciate the complexity of the characterisation, with Atta doing well to reflect the duality that can often exist within people – even supposed allies. For all their love and support of Michael, his mother and his best friend are not without their own ingrained prejudices to overcome.

Though I enjoyed every second I spent with it, it’s fair to say it’s not a perfect book. It indulges in the YA convention of employing one or two small twists that feel unnecessary, and when it comes to dialogue, characters definitely feel like overly-rehearsed mouthpieces for the author on occasion. I also think a couple of threads could have been explored in more depth. I like that not everything was wrapped up too neatly (this felt appropriately symbolic of the ongoing nature of navigating identity), but the foundations of a potentially fraught relationship between Michael and his father could have been capitalised on a lot more. There are definite suggestions that Michael and his mother worry about a potential lack of acceptance from his Jamaican side of the family, and with the intersection between Blackness and queerness known to throw up a lot of difficulties, I think more could have been done here.

That said, I love that this book exists, particularly for younger readers. There is a (largely justified) legacy of depressing queer lit out there, but something about this feels incredibly optimistic and charming. Atta doesn’t shy away from showing the difficulties young people often still face when confronting the realities of their own race and queerness, but he also shows how joyous it can be to explore your identity; the excitement of experimentation, the freedom of expression, and the beauty of found family. If The Black Flamingo is about any one thing, it’s about embracing your gender, sexuality, and ethnicity entirely on your own terms, and never with the aim of appeasing others.

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

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This Book is Anti-Racist by Tiffany Jewell | Book Review

This Book is Anti-Racist by Tiffany Jewell

Published by Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 2020

My rating:

[image error]I sincerely hope this is stocked in every school library across the UK and US, but though it is indeed aimed predominantly at a YA audience, there is still so much that adult readers like myself can take from it. Every point discussed is applicable and educational no matter your age, and I was pleasantly surprised by how wide the book’s scope was, especially when considering its relative brevity and the complexity of the issue it’s addressing.

Jewell writes with clarity, compassion and warmth, articulating her every point without condescending those who may be newer to the concepts of engrained racism and white privilege. Her approach is wonderfully intersectional and nuanced, incorporating many factors that comprise our individual identity and socioeconomic background. I think she struck a perfect balance between personal experience and wider societal examples when backing up her arguments, and though most historical detail is centred around the UK and US, she does draw on instances of systematic racism from throughout the world. This was a very welcome touch, as it’s something not often seen in a book that feels as succinct and digestible as this does.

I also adore how self-aware Jewell is as both an anti-racism campaigner and a human being. She is not at all shy in highlighting her own privileges and flaws, even detailing specific examples where she feels she as a biracial woman handled race-related issues poorly. By showing that we’re all constantly learning and improving, she essentially gives her readers permission to make mistakes when tackling societal prejudices and their own inherited biases, thus fuelling them to always strive for better within themselves. After all, you can’t make mistakes if you aren’t trying, and trying is proof that you care.

Calls to action and activity suggestions at the end of each chapter encourage us all to be more proactive and self-critical when considering how we (singularly and collectively) can tackle racism moving forward. They provide excellent opportunities to reflect on and analyse where we stand at any given time, and equip us with the tools necessary to safely recognise, challenge, and overturn everyday racism.

You can pick up a copy of This Book is Anti-Racist by clicking here.

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

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

Published by Bloomsbury, 2017

My rating:

[image error]This offers a seamless blend of history, case studies, research, and personal reflection that lays bare just how deep-rooted racism is within the UK, at a structural, education, social, and cultural level. Detailed yet digestible, the book is written with clear-eyed passion, while every argument is backed up by quantifiable facts and specific examples; from Britain’s early involvement in the slave trade right up to current everyday discrimination.

It’s worth pointing out that those already of the firm belief that racism and systematic white privilege are considerable problems in the UK are unlikely to find any viewpoints that feel particularly revolutionary here. That said, this would certainly serve as a great starting point or refresher for anyone feeling galvanised by current world events, or those who are keen to dip their toe into critical race theory that doesn’t feel too academic.

I was pleased to see some intersectionality come into play, with chapters that focus on the correlation between race and feminism, and between race and class. Perhaps this could have gone even further (queer Black people face a very specific kind of prejudice, for example, and this wasn’t addressed in any depth), but then this never set out to be an entirely comprehensive text, and what it covers it covers well.

As it is, Eddo-Lodge presents an excellent overview of how and why racist attitudes in the UK have continued to simmer beneath the surface of supposed equality. This is an eloquent, well-researched, intelligent response to anyone who may suggest that “racism isn’t as bad in the UK” or that “all lives matter” when confronted with the realities of the Black Lives Matter movement. If you’re looking to pick up some non-fiction on the issue, you could do a lot worse than starting here.

You can pick up a copy of Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race by clicking here.

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May Wrap Up

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The books I read in May

May was a bit all over the place for me reading wise. Things got off to a shaky start, and I felt the onset of a slump hanging over me for much of the month, but I then went on to pick up 2 five-star reads, both of which I can see being in solid contention for my books of the year list. They were also both by women in translation, which is a cool coincidence!

I read 10 books in all throughout May, bringing my total for 2020 so far up to 51. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

The Man Who Saw Everything by Deborah Levy

[ ] There was lots to admire here, with Levy posing big questions about the nature of time and memory. She handles a complex narrative with skill, but I found much of it surprisingly alienating and don’t think I was in the right headspace to give it due attention.

Wave If You Can See Me by Susan Ludvigson

[ ] This poetry collection is focussed on illness, bereavement, and the healing power of art. The poet’s style didn’t resonate with me hugely, but there was some lovely imagery throughout.

Praising the Paradox by Tina Shumann

[ ] Those who enjoy free verse poetry with a stream of conscious inspired approach may take more from this collection, but sadly I found the gems to be too few and far between.

Sea Wife by Amity Gaige

[ ] There is lots of potential in this novel’s setup, and there are certainly lots of great themes bubbling beneath the surface, like gender roles, political divides, and latent trauma. Sadly, I felt too much time was spent meandering around these ideas without ever saying much, with the book itself unsure of what it wanted to be.

Loyalties by Delphine de Vigan, translated from the French by George Miller

[ ] There is so much that I adored about this understated look at the dark side of loyalty, the nature of abuse, and ingrained patriarchal structures. Compelling characters and a tense, claustrophobic atmosphere lead us to a breathless climax, and I can’t wait to read more from this author.

The Body Lies by Jo Baker

[ ] This clever novel is as much a thriller in its own right as it is a dissection of the genre. Focusing on women and their bodies as seen through the male gaze in genre fiction, it’s a gripping and meta read that I very much enjoyed.

The Bitch by Pilar Quintana, translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman

[ ] Capturing the balmy heat of Colombia’s Pacific coast, this is a deceptively simple look at suppressed trauma, the pressures of motherhood, and man’s misguided efforts to tame nature. I appreciated a lot of what this book had to say, but felt its solid thematic foundations weren’t quite fully capitalised on.

Cold Wind by Nicola Griffith

[ ] This dark, folkloric short from Tor Books evokes a crisp, unsettling atmosphere to great effect, reaching an otherworldly, visually striking climax befitting of the genre. The prose itself is largely suited to the fantastical subject matter, but does feel a tad overblown at times.

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

[ ] Review to come for BookBrowse.

Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica, translated from the Spanish by Sarah Moses

[ ] This horrifying dystopian from Argentina is set in a speculative future, in which a virus means animal meat has become toxic to humans, and the consumption of human flesh has been legalised. It’s deeply disturbing but richly rewarding, with complex thematic commentary on everything from power dynamics to capitalism, and from the corruption of government to the role of language.

There we have it! My reads of the month were Tender is the Flesh and Loyalties. What was your favourite read in May?

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Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica | Book Review

Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica, translated from the Spanish by Sarah Moses

Published by Pushkin Press, 2020 (first published in 2017)

My rating:

[image error]In this horrifying gem from Argentina, a virus has made all animal meat toxic to humans. In a frighteningly short span of time, the consumption of human flesh has been legalised, with breeding centres now commonplace and the public largely desensitized to what’s going on. Marcos works in one such slaughterhouse, and the novel opens with him attempting to balance increasing frustration towards his job with the heartbreak of bereavement in his personal life. When he is gifted a ‘domestic’ human to keep and later eat himself, this inner conflict will increasingly rise to the fore.

The world-building and pacing throughout this speculative, all-too-plausible dystopian are handled brilliantly. There’s no clumsy exposition, and every detail we learn about the degradation of society is more disturbing than the last. I want to keep plot details to a minimum, to allow you to experience the creeping dread and visceral horror for yourself, but suffice to say this is not for the faint of heart. It’s a book about what it means to be human, and what it means to have loved and lost. It’s also a book about power, complicity, family, and mankind’s unwavering instinct to both survive and dominate. I found it (deliberately) repellent and utterly compelling in equal measure. On that front, it’s also worth pointing out that, despite many vile scenes, it somehow never feels gratuitous. Much of the book’s success lies in its unwillingness to sugar-coat a difficult subject, thus highlighting the hypocrisy of those who are willing to support certain industries and practices without being educated about the reality of their repercussions.

Bazterrica is unflinching in her examination of this world and how worryingly plausible it feels. She repeatedly forces us to ask why, as a society and as individuals, we value some lives above others – be that from species-to-species, or from person-to-person. For all its boldness, there’s also a lot of nuance, however, with commentary on the likes of genetic modification, hunting for sport, human trafficking, and class disparity all woven in seamlessly. It was particularly interesting to read this during an actual virus-based pandemic. I thought Bazterrica did an excellent job of capturing the endurance of capitalism, the corruption of government, and manipulation of the people in an intelligent way that hit very close to home.

Easily one of my favourite threads throughout the book was its look at the power of language – a theme I adore when it’s handled well. In this society, human flesh to be consumed must never be referred to as such. It is known instead as ‘special meat’, with a whole host of other terms having been coined by the industry and the powers that be to dehumanise victims and shield people from the reality of what they are condoning. Bazterrica draws parallels with real-life examples from the meat trade which have long been used to normalise an otherwise morally and ethically fraught subject. After all, we say ‘trotters’ instead of feet, ‘offal’ instead of organs, ‘carcass’ instead of body, and so on.

As much as I loved this, there’s no denying the subject matter, and the intensity with which Bazterrica forces us to confront deeply upsetting ideas, will mean it simply doesn’t work for a lot of people. I think it’s a phenomenally well executed and multi-layered work of genius, however; one I heartily recommend to those who feel they can stomach it.

You can pick up a copy of Tender is the Flesh by clicking here.

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