Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 19

The Easy Part of Impossible by Sarah Tomp | Book Review

The Easy Part of Impossible by Sarah Tomp

Published by HarperTeen, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In this meaningful YA novel, Sarah Tomp juxtaposes the thrill of young love with the pain of facing abuse, shining a spotlight on the sporting world’s greatest taboo.

Teenager Ria Williams is a skilled diver. She is on track to compete at the Olympic level, but injury forces her to abandon this dream and walk away from all she’s known. With time on her hands to reevaluate what she wants, she finds herself increasingly drawn to Cotton, an old friend with autism who has a passion for cartography and cave exploration. As their friendship blossoms into something more, Ria is pushed to reflect on the dynamic she shared with her former diving coach, Benny — to finally see him for the abuser he was. When an offer comes along that could reignite her diving career — at the cost of having Benny back in her life — she struggles to separate the thing she loves most from the trauma she has endured.

Rather than exposing the reader to repeated examples of Ria’s physical and mental suffering, the abuse looms on the periphery of the narrative for much of the novel, and this is effective on a number of levels.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the benefits of sport for people living with ADHD to go alongside it, which you can read here.

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Pilar Quintana & Nicola Griffith | Mini Reviews

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

Published by World Editions, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Written in spare yet sharp prose that captures the balmy heat of Colombia’s Pacific coast, The Bitch is a deceptively simple look at suppressed trauma, the pressures of motherhood, and man’s misguided efforts to tame nature.

Childless and approaching 40, Damaris takes in an orphaned puppy and is instantly besotted with her. Though at first she must attempt to keep the dog safe from external sources (the creatures of the jungle, her aggressive husband, the dog’s own natural instincts, and a society not adverse to drowning or poisoning animals it deems a nuisance), it soon becomes clear that there is a potential for cruelty lurking within Damaris herself, born from a failure to properly address pain from her past.

There’s an undercurrent of violence that simmers beneath the narrative to good effect, and metaphorical commentary on both the pressure women face to take on the role of motherhood, and what a thankless task it often is when they do. The narrative reaches an inevitable conclusion, and though it is certainly tragic, I think a lot of the solid thematic foundations aren’t capitalised on with the level of power and nuance they could have had.

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

You can pre-order The Bitch by clicking here.

Cold Wind by Nicola Griffith

Published by Tor Books, 2014

My rating:

[image error]A woman enters a bar on a cold, wintry night and begins to trail an enigmatic customer.

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.

You can read Cold Wind online for free by clicking here.

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The Body Lies by Jo Baker | Book Review

The Body Lies by Jo Baker

Published by Doubleday, 2019

My rating:

[image error]While The Body Lies is indeed a thriller, it also functions as an examination of the genre itself. Our unnamed narrator is a published novelist who accepts a job at a remote university in an attempt to escape the trauma of a random attack she suffered several years prior. Once there, she must attempt to balance the strain of a long-distance marriage, parenting a toddler, assimilating into a new community, and mediating heated debates in her MA writing course. Things take a sinister turn when it becomes clear she is the focus of the novel being written by one of her students; a student who seems to be unhealthily fixated on her.

Though this has all the hallmarks of a typical thriller (a mystery to be solved, a dangerous adversary to be thwarted, and a sense of mounting tension that builds towards a breathless climax), it’s important to be aware that much of the novel is slower, more ruminative, and character focussed than typical examples of the genre. This is deliberate, with Baker primarily focussed on dissecting and subverting the common trope of thrillers opening with the body of a woman. The narrator and her students have several discussions about the topic, bemoaning the victimisation of women, the objectification of their bodies, and the use of female figures as plot devices devoid of context or agency, used to further the stories of men. Baker’s novel opens with the same motif, but not only does she go on to uncover who this girl was – and who she could have been – she also takes the time to craft a complex, believable heroine who is never defined by her relationship to a man despite the attempts of those around her to quash her sense of control.

Baker shrewdly suggests why women in thrillers are typically presented the way they are, highlighting the parallel struggles they face in the real world to rid themselves of the male gaze; to retain true autonomy and live without fear in a society that constantly puts them at risk. The narrator’s job as a creative writing teacher allows the book to organically discuss its own themes in a pleasingly meta way – often playing with the line between reality and fiction – while also providing commentary on the treatment of women in academia.

It’s not a perfect read, however. Though it invites lots of discussion around the role of women in genre fiction, it is guilty of falling back on a couple of equally common mental health tropes that go disappointingly undeveloped. It also falls into the trap of providing a rather twee concluding chapter that reads like a checklist of loose ends that need to be wrapped up. That said, this is definitely one of the more interesting thrillers I’ve read in a long time, with strong prose and thematic depth that should see it appeal to fans of genre fiction and literary fiction alike.

You can pick up a copy of The Body Lies from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Loyalties by Delphine de Vigan | Book Review

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

Published by Bloomsbury, 2020 (first published in 2018)

My rating:

[image error]This is one of those books that has been on my radar for a while, despite not hearing many people talk about it. Having finally picked it up, I’m delighted to say it exceeded my every expectation. We follow four perspectives: Théo, an adolescent boy from a broken family who finds himself increasingly reliant on the escapism offered by alcohol; Mathis, his friend, who is growing ever more concerned about Théo’s behaviour; Hélène, their teacher, who is convinced Théo is being abused at home; and Cécile, Mathis’s mother, who has recently discovered a distressing secret about her husband.

As the title suggests, the book is primarily a look at the concept of loyalty in its various forms. I want to avoid specifics to let you experience the unfolding of the plot for yourself, but each of the four characters is attempting to keep a secret to protect someone else. Though they all have valid reasons for wishing to remain loyal, we see the negative implications their well-meaning lies have on all parties involved. As such, de Vigan is able to explore the idea that sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone you care about is in fact to breach their trust and reach out for help – before it’s too late.

The book isn’t a thriller in the traditional sense, but the undercurrent of tension and claustrophobia that builds throughout had me enthralled. The weaving together of the four narrative threads is handled with such skill, and though there is a palpable sense of inevitable tragedy looming over the whole thing, it’s no less impactful and emotionally devastating when everything starts to come to a head. I will say, the ending is left deliberately open in certain respects (though there is simultaneously a subtle victory that I think is so beautifully handled). This will undoubtedly frustrate some readers, but for me, within the context of the climax’s breathless execution and the book’s wider themes, it really worked. Anything too neat would have felt like a contradiction, and would have been to the detriment of the book’s lasting impact.

There was some very clever, nuanced commentary on sexism throughout that I loved. There are direct instances of this (like Cécile being belittled for being a housewife), and understated examples, like the fact that our four narrators are all women and children, lying (and suffering) to protect a man in their life. With this, I thought de Vigan offered a subtle yet incisive critique of our patriarchal society, highlighting the ways we have all been conditioned to uphold the position and reputation of men ahead of securing our own physical and mental wellbeing.

The book also asks us to consider what constitutes abuse. Hélène, having been beaten by her father as a child, wrongly assumes that Théo is going through the same ordeal, and it’s this that pushes her to increasingly test the boundaries of professional intervention. Though we know she’s technically mistaken, it’s arguable that the neglect and mental strain Théo is suffering as a result of his parents’ behaviour is proving just as harmful as if he was being abused.

It’s interesting to note that the two women’s perspectives are written in first-person, while the adolescent boys’ sections are written in third-person. At surface level, this helps to further differentiate the four POVs, but I think it also hinted at something greater. As adults, Hélène and Cécile both have command over their own voice and fate, while as children, Théo and Mathis lack the same agency. Without ever being heavy-handed, I think de Vigan was able to say a lot about the need for adults to recognise when children are struggling, and to interject accordingly.

I could keep rambling about the various ways this slim gem of a novel worked for me, but suffice to say I think it was expertly crafted. It’s the kind of book that functions at face value as a gripping read with characters you feel truly invested in, and the kind of book which only improves the more time you take to analyse its vast thematic depth and the unassuming skill of its construction. I can’t wait to read more from this author.

You can pick up a copy of Loyalties from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Sea Wife by Amity Gaige | Book Review

Sea Wife by Amity Gaige

Published by Alfred A. Knopf, 2020

My rating:

[image error]This was one of my most anticipated releases of the year, and it’s very possible that such high expectations contributed to my unfortunate disappointment. We follow a family embarking on a year at sea. The contrast between their isolation from society and their claustrophobic family dynamic exposes underlying issues between the parents. Namely, fundamentally different political beliefs, the lasting impact of childhood trauma, and resentment concerning gender roles.

I love this narrative setup and the vast thematic potential it presents. Sadly, much of the novel is spent meandering around these topics with little sense of drive or direction. The plot itself is presented to us via both parents’ perspectives; the journal Michael kept during their journey, and Juliet’s first-person narration in the present day. Because of this framing device, there’s little tension regarding how everything will turn out, as it’s all pretty clear from the off. But with commentary on the book’s many themes also largely surface level, I was often left to wonder what point the author was even trying to make.

Indeed, I think one of the book’s greatest issues is that it doesn’t know what kind of novel it wants to be. Its marketing sets it up as a thrilling page-turner, but I found this to be far from true, with much of the book given over to rather pedestrian descriptions of the practicalities of life at sea. It tries to offer meaningful social commentary on the impact that politics can have on relationships, but never seems to stick any kind of landing on this front. It tries to examine the difficulty of overcoming supressed childhood trauma, but again, it introduces the idea too late and fails to dive very deep. At one point, it takes a rather bizarre shift towards murder-mystery, though this thread wraps up just as quickly (and anti-climactically) as it appears. And to top it off, the final chapter is a somewhat experimental multi-media affair that felt like a bizarrely dry and unsatisfying note to end on.

Overcoming frustrations with the plot may have been easier had the characters really shone (I do think it also wants to be a character study, after all), but they often suffered from the common issue of not sounding like real people (especially the 7-year-old daughter). This, coupled with a lack of a satisfying end for most of their arcs, stopped me from ever feeling invested in them or their problems.

On a more positive note, I will say the author’s prose is very readable, she paints vivid pictures of life at sea, and though she failed to explore them with the kind of depth and impact I hoped for, the themes she touches on are very interesting and topical. However, I can’t deny feeling distinctly underwhelmed overall, left to ponder what could have been.

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

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Two Poetry Mini Reviews

Wave If You Can See Me by Susan Ludvigson

Published by Red Hen Press, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Throughout this collection, Ludvigson focusses largely on her husband’s illness and subsequent death, interspersed with musings on her forays into art. Conceptually, I thought this was excellent, showing how creativity and artistic expression can help to both distract and heal in times of suffering.

For me, Ludvigson’s writing was at its strongest when evoking the beauty of the natural world – another source of solace. It’s clear that the content was fuelled by a wealth of personal pain, but her actual poetic style failed to resonate with me on an emotional level. In that sense, it’s a collection I could admire from an abstract perspective, despite ultimately finding it stronger in concept than in execution.

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

Praising the Paradox by Tina Schumann

Published by Red Hen Press, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Though there were some nice lines throughout, this collection was very hit-and-miss for me, unfortunately. The poems that focus on the loss of the poet’s mother, and the resulting fear of impending loss that now hovers over her dementia-suffering father, are particularly strong. With the book being somewhat longer than your average poetry collection, however, these gems felt too few and far between to really hit home. Instead, my lasting impression was that the collection lacked focus. Perhaps a more streamlined selection and a clearer sense of thematic cohesion would have allowed for greater impact overall. That said, those who like their poetry collections to have a free verse, almost stream of consciousness feel, may take more from this.

Thank you to the publisher for a free copy in exchange for an honest review. You can pick up Praising the Paradox by clicking here.

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Marguerite by Marina Kemp | Book Review

Marguerite by Marina Kemp

Published by Viking, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In her impressively nuanced debut novel, Marina Kemp explores the destructive pain of guilt, the search for redemption, and the deceptively fine lines between life and death, and love and hate.

Marguerite Demers arrives in Saint Sulpice, a sleepy farming village in the south of France, to commence her role as Jerome Lanvier’s live-in nurse. Once the most powerful and revered man in town, an elderly Jerome now languishes in his large, secluded home, embittered by his fall from grace. The surrounding community is not used to outsiders, and Marguerite’s arrival disturbs the balance in a way that will force long-suppressed tensions to rise to the fore. But she is guarding secrets of her own; her cool and professional demeanor masking years’ worth of sorrow.

Though the novel appears to be set in the early 2000s, the atmosphere and setting are such that it often feels as though the action is taking place much further in the past. This is effective on two fronts. Firstly, it allows Kemp to pay homage in subtle ways to the classics of gothic fiction. Secondly, it serves as a successful reminder that small rural communities like Saint Sulpice often lag behind the times when it comes to the progression of liberal social views – hence why everyone is so keen to guard their secrets, lest they be judged and ostracized.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the corruption of home in gothic literature to go alongside it, which you can read here.

You can pick up a copy of Marguerite (also published under the title, Nightingale) from Book Depository by clicking here.

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The Man Who Saw Everything by Deborah Levy | Book Review

The Man Who Saw Everything by Deborah Levy

Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This was a far more bizarre and disorientating reading experience than I had anticipated, and I concede that I probably wasn’t in the right frame of mind to grant it the attention it demands. It’s a book that is difficult to talk about. Firstly, because much of its success hinges on the delivery of a structural ‘twist’ half-way through the narrative, and secondly, because it offers so few answers in response to its many questions that it’s almost entirely open to interpretation on a thematic level.

There’s no denying that Levy is in full control here. We might not always know what she’s doing, but she certainly does; repeated clues, patterns, and motifs tying the seemingly disparate threads together with skill. There are lots of interesting ideas to dive into, including commentary on the nature of memory, time, history, politics, gender, sexuality, and identity (both personal and national). It’s incredibly ambitious to tackle so much in such a slight novel, but things never feel rushed; the atmosphere one of such entrancing wonder that you are guided along gently – even when things dip into the nonsensical, and err dangerously close to the it-was-all-a-dream trope.

The most interesting aspect to me was the use of recurring motifs related to sight and the ways we document the world around us – eyes, lenses, photography, and surveillance. In many ways, the book felt like it was about what we choose to see, what we cannot face up to, and what we choose to ignore entirely. This imagery builds on that idea nicely. I also liked the contrast Levy highlighted between a still image, which captures a single moment in time, and the reality that every event in our lives is informed by the burden of past, present, and future; time bleeding together in ways both literal and figurative.

I also really enjoyed Levy’s playful use of gender roles, particularly the reversal of the artist and muse dynamic, and the book’s look at the idea that history repeats itself in spite of seeming social progress (a divided Germany of the 1980s sitting in effective contrast with the Brexit fallout of the present day).

This is one of those rare books that left me so torn, I can understand the response of those who adored it as much as I can those who found it impenetrable. It’s such a singular and at times alienating read that expectation and headspace will undoubtedly pay a key role in how much you’re able to engage with its many riddles. As it is, I could glimpse and admire the novel’s brilliance, but only ever through a dense haze; one that kept characters and emotional resonance just beyond my grasp.

You can pick up a copy of The Man Who Saw Everything from Book Depository by clicking here.

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April Wrap Up

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The books I read in April

April was another weird and not so wonderful month, but I did get a lot of reading done, so there’s that! I finished 12 books in all, bringing my total for the year so far up to 41. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

[ ] Objectively, I could appreciate that this was very well written and hugely evocative of its historical setting. It was simply too slow and bloated by extraneous details for my taste.

How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee

[ ] A powerful look at family, trauma, guilt, and the complex road to recovery, set largely throughout the Japanese occupation of Singapore during WWII. Lee weaves multiple timelines and perspectives together with skill, and pays due respect to the sensitive subject matter of sexual slavery.

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

[ ] This slight novel captures the air of a sweeping family saga, and manages to touch on a range of big themes (including family, class, race, love, and sexuality), all in just shy of 200 pages. I found this a very pleasant read with some lovely prose, but an emotionally manipulative twist felt entirely out of place, and it has proven to be ultimately forgettable.

Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie

[ ] Though this failed to capitalise on a lot of its thematic potential, I found it surprisingly compelling on a character and narrative front. Goldie creates a microcosm of modern society, and looks at the many difficulties and contradictions inherent to the human experience.

Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

[ ] I thought the quality of the pacing, prose, and characterization improved in this sequel to Wolf Hall, even if it was still never going to fully win me round. Anne Boleyn was a particular highlight.

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

[ ] Though easy enough to read, I found this novel flat and directionless. It incorporates fairy tale-esque stereotypes, but fails to challenge or dissect them in any meaningful way. The handling of its female characters was particularly poor.

Actress by Anne Enright

[ ] In gorgeous prose, Enright paints a fascinating portrait of a unique mother-daughter relationship. Nuanced and heartfelt, it weaves in commentary on the fickleness of fame, the pressures put on women, political divides, and the performance of wellness. The use of an unnecessary framing device and a few narrative tangents aside, I thought this was a very strong offering.

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

[ ] Queenie is easy to read and hard to complain about, but never quite as bold or subversive as it could have been. It’s essentially a coming-of-age story, documenting one young woman’s journey towards self-acceptance, touching on the Black Lives Matter movement, the long-term impact of suppressed trauma, and the fetishization of black female bodies, carried by an endearing heroine.

The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel

[ ] I felt satisfied by the way Mantel brought everything together in this final volume of the Thomas Cromwell trilogy. Her prose is arguably at its strongest here, but my presiding feeling is still one of respect more than enjoyment.

Tropic of Violence by Natacha Appanah

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo

[ ] This look at institutionalized misogyny in South Korea is very readable, and unabashed in its dissection of the prejudices big and small that must be endured by the nation’s everywoman. Though I found myself feeling suitably sympathetic and angry on the protagonist’s behalf, an emotional disconnect, and a tendency for the author to be too on the nose were a little jarring.

The Easy Part of Impossible by Sarah Tomp

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.

There we have it! It was satisfying to complete my readthrough of the Women’s Prize longlist in April, but I must say, I’m looking forward to the freedom of reading by whim more in May. Here’s hoping we all discover some great new books!

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What If? | Women’s Prize [Squad] Longlist

Those of you who follow my posts with any regularity will know I recently finished making my way through the 2020 longlist for the Women’s Prize for Fiction. The highlight of the process was easily the many bookish chats I had with fellow blogging buddies about this year’s selection, and while the general consensus amongst us was that the list wasn’t nearly as strong at it could have been, it got us thinking… What if we had the chance to put together our own longlist? So, that’s exactly what we’ve done!

On the spur of the moment, we decided to use a random draft system, where each of us could select two books for the longlist. Handily, there were 8 of us involved (Emily, Hannah, Marija, Naty, Rachel, Sarah, Steph, and myself), resulting in a longlist of 16 books, as per the official prize. We adhered to the same rules of eligibility, meaning they’re all books written in English by female writers, published in the UK between April 2019 and March 2020. We intend to make our way through the list, comparing notes along the way, before voting on a shortlist and eventual winner.

I’m sure it goes without saying that we aren’t affiliated with the actual Women’s Prize for Fiction in any way. We simply want to have some fun and carry forward the ethos they represent, by championing exciting works by female writers. We haven’t set a precise timeframe for all of this yet, but we decided we’d share the list in case anyone else wants to read along with us (or is simply on the lookout for female-authored book recommendations). So, without further ado, here are the books that made it onto our longlist. For titles I’ve already read, I’ve linked my review, and all are linked on Book Depository, in case you’d like to learn more about them or pick up copies for yourself.

The Man Who Saw Everything by Deborah Levy
My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell
Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo
Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo (Review)
The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave (Review)
Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann
The Body Lies by Jo Baker
The Fire Starters by Jan Carson
Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips (Review)
Bunny by Mona Awad
Supper Club by Lara Williams
by Katie Hale ()
Actress by Anne Enright (Review)
Call Down the Hawk by Maggie Stiefvater
The Bass Rock by Evie Wyld
Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson (Review)

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Our 16 longlisted titles!

As I said, this was put together very spontaneously, purely for fun. It’s not meant to be a perfect list (I’m well aware of how predominantly white it is, for example). It’s merely a bunch of books that between us, we either love or are very excited to get to. We’d be delighted if anyone wanted to pick up some or all of the titles over the coming weeks and months (I will of course share an update if and when we set specific dates for a shortlist/winner). In the meantime, happy reading!

Have you read any of these books? Are there any you plan to pick up?

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