Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 20

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo | Book Review

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo, translated from the Korean by Jamie Chang

Published by Anansi International, 2020 (first published in 2016)

My rating:

[image error]In this very readable little novel, Cho Nam-Joo lays bare the systematic misogyny levied at Korean women throughout each stage of their lives. Our titular protagonist is presented very much as an everywoman. She has the most common name for girls in Korea; her parents are referred to throughout as ‘the mother’ and ‘the father’; any sense of individuality or autonomy are stripped away from her; and, in the excellent cover design, her face has even been obscured. All of this combines to insinuate that Jiyoung and her experiences are not unique. On the contrary, the prejudice she faces at every turn, and the cumulative ripple effect it has on her mental wellbeing, are applicable to all women of her generation.

I admire the author’s boldness in tackling her desired themes. She has a point to make about women’s roles within Korean society, and she’s going to make, leaving no room for misunderstanding. That said, it does result in many moments that feel way too on the nose for me, personally. The book walks us through the various stages of Jiyoung’s life, highlighting the injustices she must weather throughout each. The author does an excellent job of showing us these issues and how normalised they have become, making it feel redundant and frustrating that in every instance, she summarises each point by having a character eloquently articulate the issues that have just been encountered by Jiyoung, and how or why things should be fairer for women. There are even instances when the book starts reeling off survey stats or findings from reports that back up the points being made re: the gender pay gap, etc. When you’re exploring your themes effectively, there really is no need to ‘tell’ us what your book is saying in this clumsy manner.

The prose itself is very matter-of-fact, but this sense of emotional detachment works given the narrative and its framing (her life story is being relayed to us through the eyes of a male psychiatrist, which is in itself another clever nod to women having their voices silenced and their agency taken). I also like the way the author shows that social progress and improvements in policy aren’t necessarily as effective in reducing inequality as one would think, so ingrained are our existing prejudices and societal roles.

Overall, this was a quick and enjoyable read. I can’t say if offers anything particularly revelatory or memorable within the sphere of feminist fiction, but I certainly found myself nodding along and feeling appropriately angry on Jiyoung’s behalf.

You can pick up a copy of Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Reading the Women’s Prize Longlist | Wrap Up, Wish list & Shortlist Predictions

Despite being initially unsure as to whether I’d be able to commit to reading the whole of this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist, I managed to finish doing so recently – and just in time for the shortlist announcement on 21st April!

I’ll follow the same format I used to wrap up last year’s prize, starting with a list of the longlisted titles in the order I read them. For each, I’ve included my star rating and a link to my full review in case you’d like more in-depth thoughts.

Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo |
Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell |
Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner |
Girl by Edna O’Brien |
A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes |
Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara |
Dominicana by Angie Cruz |
The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo |
Weather by Jenny Offill |
How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee |
Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson |
Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie |
The Dutch House by Ann Patchett |
Actress by Anne Enright |
Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams |
The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel |

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The 16 longlisted titles

GENERAL THOUGHTS

It’s a shame to start things on a negative note, but if I could sum up my thoughts on this year’s selection in a word, it would be ‘underwhelming’. My average star rating across the 16 longlisted titles was just 3.06 (and it’s worth pointing out that whenever I was torn between two ratings, I always chose to round up rather than down, meaning this figure is generous, if anything). I would never expect to love every title on such an extensive longlist, but it’s clear I have very different taste (and a different opinion on what constitutes a great ‘Women’s Prize read’) than this year’s judging panel. Alas, that’s the subjective nature of art.

Despite there being several solid enough reads, I didn’t find any stand-out favourites, and few felt like they warranted a place on a major literary prize longlist. For comparison, I didn’t award a single 5 star rating this year, while last year I gave two books from the longlist a 5 star rating (Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss, and Normal People by Sally Rooney). While both of them ended up on my top reads of the year list, several reads from this year’s batch are already fading from memory, such was their lack of impact.

On a more positive note, it’s not a terrible list in terms of diversity of authorship (considering the rules stipulate that the books must have been written in English and published within the UK, at least). Six authors are from the UK, six are from the US, two are from Ireland, one is from Singapore, and one is from India. Nine of these authors are white, and seven are people of colour. (shoutout to Rachel for compiling these figures, which I stole because I have no shame.)

As with last year’s list, however, there is quite a bit of crossover in theme and content, which seems an odd choice when aiming for broad appeal and diversity of perspective. Many of the books paint a dire picture of motherhood, several explore the struggles of rich, white people, several are family sagas, and the inclusion of both Girl and How We Disappeared is frankly baffling, considering they both explore the exact same primary themes, but where the latter excels, the former falls flat on every front.

THE ONES THAT GOT AWAY

On that note, here are some of the eligible titles that weren’t included that I think were deserving of a place on this year’s longlist, with each offering a certain quality that I felt was missing. For the sake of fairness, I’ve only included titles that I’ve read personally, so I’m sure there are lots of others that were unfairly snubbed – many of which I’m still excited to get to myself!

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave; an evocative piece of historical fiction, inspired by the real-life witch trials of Norway. A beautifully written, emotionally compelling look at the toxic history of othering, and the enduring strength of sisterhood.

Long Bright River by Liz Moore; a hugely readable novel that offers a seamless blend of gripping narrative and wider commentary on contemporary socioeconomic issues.

The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins; a rich and transporting read that looks at the historic trappings of race, class, gender, and sexuality, when a former slave is accused of murdering her master.

Follow Me to Ground by Sue Rainsford; a dark and visceral exploration of women’s bodies, and the vilification of female power. Bold and singular, it leaves a haunting impression, and would have brought a welcome touch of experimental, fabulist fiction to the list.

A few others: What Red Was by Rosie Price (a painfully honest look at recovery and friendship); Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips (a look at the interconnectedness of community, through the lens of a mystery); Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson (a playful riff on Frankenstein that looks at gender, identity, and the relationship between man and technology); My Name is Monster by Katie Hale (a dystopian novel that looks at the notions of survival, belonging, the enduring influence of societal roles, and the complexities of motherhood); and 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak (a structurally unique look at found family).

HOPES FOR THE WINNER/SHORTLIST

As I said, there wasn’t really an obvious frontrunner for me this year, but I’d be happiest to see either Actress by Anne Enright or How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee take the win. They’re very different, but both are well crafted and offer a level of emotional depth and thematic nuance I found lacking in many of the other titles.

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My top picks

Taking into account how much I enjoyed each book, as well as factors such as literary merit, originality, thematic variance, social commentary, and how well each has stayed with me over time, my shortlist would look as follows:

How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee
Actress by Anne Enright
Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara
Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell
Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo
Weather by Jenny Offill

These aren’t necessarily my six ‘favourites’. There are a couple I enjoyed reading more than Weather, for example, but its look at the idea of living with constant anxiety about the state of the world is so timely, and its stream of consciousness, vignette style brings an experimental touch to a list that would otherwise feel very conventional.

WISHLIST PREDICTIONS

If the above list would be my favoured shortlist, which titles do I actually think the judges will select? Based on the qualities they seem to be looking for, and the critical and commercial successes the books appear to have enjoyed, this is my prediction for the official list:

The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel
Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo
The Dutch House by Ann Patchett
Weather by Jenny Offill
Dominicana by Angie Cruz
Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

The list may not have been the strongest the prize has ever put together, but there’s definitely still a feeling of satisfaction that comes with having completed it in full. Big shoutout to my bookish friends for keeping me sane with our endless chats and rants throughout the process: Emily, Hannah, Marija, Naty, Rachel, Sarah, and Steph.

I’m also loving following along as other great bloggers continue to make their way through the list – Gil, Hannah, Laura, and all the rest!

LET’S CHAT

Have you read the longlist? What did you make of it compared to previous years? Which title would you most like to see win? What book that didn’t make the list are you most salty about?

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Wolf Hall Trilogy by Hilary Mantel | Mini Reviews

Full disclosure: I fully anticipated that this series wouldn’t be my cup of tea, but having determined to read the entire 2020 Women’s Prize longlist (which includes the third book in this trilogy), I had to make my way through all three volumes. Here are some thoughts!

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Published by Fourth Estate, 2009

My rating:

[image error]Mantel’s multi-award-winning trilogy chronicles Henry VIII’s desperate attempts to bring about a male heir, from the perspective of one of his most trusted advisors; the ruthlessly ambitious Thomas Cromwell, who endures his own meteoric rise to power, and spectacular fall from grace.

Let’s start with what I liked! It’s immediately apparent that Mantel is a very talented writer. Her prose is rich and poetic, engaging the senses and painting vivid pictures of the historic setting, with a fantastic eye for the finer details. The plot is intricate but skilfully handled, with Mantel capturing the many subtle manipulations inherent to the characters’ struggles for power.

That said, the book can feel bloated by these details, resulting in a novel that is very long and slow. With all of the main players being rich, self-important egomaniacs who care only about getting as close to the throne as possible, I found it hard to feel invested in the stakes. This is particularly true given that it’s the kind of book in which much of the action takes place ‘off-screen’, with the bulk of the narrative comprised of conversations discussing what has been taking place elsewhere. And while I admit this is unavoidable given that she is writing about real people, it is incredibly irritating how many of the characters share the same few names, making it tricky to keep track of who everyone is and how they fit into the bigger picture.

Overall, this was the kind of book that I could respect for its craft, but which never managed to engage me on an emotional level.

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

Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

Published by Fourth Estate, 2012

My rating:

[image error]I enjoyed this more than the previous book! Covering a shorter span of time, it was considerably easier to keep track of the various threads and characters, and it felt like the narrative was gathering some steam. Though not a slim or pacy read by any means, it’s also a fair bit shorter in general than Wolf Hall, meaning it doesn’t suffer from the same bloated feeling.

Mantel’s prose continues to be rich and inviting, and I thought the handling of Anne Boleyn’s character was a particular highlight.

You can pick up a copy of Bring Up the Bodies from Book Depository by clicking here.

The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel

Published by Fourth Estate, 2020

My rating:

[image error]I must say, the way this final novel brought everything to a head (lol, pun) was very satisfying. It’s certainly the one that managed to elicit the strongest semblance of emotional investment. It’s a shame it took until this late in the day, but still impressive in its own way, considering I knew how everything was going to pan out.

I admit this is an odd criticism, given that the books are so heavily informed by real events, but I couldn’t help but find it a little clunky that each of the three novels essentially ends in the same way. Unavoidable given the facts, perhaps. Intended to reflect the cycle of violence that defines history, very possible. I do appreciate that Mantel had to adhere to certain details and divide the narrative according to natural moments of crescendo and climax. And yet, from the perspective of storytelling craft, something about it bothered me.

Her prose is at the height of its power, however, with some gorgeously evocative passages that continue to bring the past to life. Though once again, this has the side-effect of slowing down the pace and story progression to quite an extent at times.

Having now completed the trilogy, my presiding feeling towards it is one of respect rather than enjoyment. Mantel took on a series of complex events, populated by a cast of equally complex characters, and managed to consistently reflect both in a suitably intricate and nuanced way; breathing a kind of life into them that history textbooks never will.

You can pick up a copy of The Mirror and the Light from Book Depository by clicking here.

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared | 11. Red at the Bone | 12. Nightingale Point | 13. The Dutch House | 14. Actress | 15. Queenie

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

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams | Book Review

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

Published by Trapeze, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Queenie is essentially a coming of age story about the importance of acknowledging the past, and learning to value yourself. In the novel, our 25-year-old titular heroine finds herself sliding increasingly towards rock bottom. Off the back of a messy breakup, she embarks on a string of casual sexual encounters with men who fetishize and manipulate her to the point of abuse. Queenie also feels undervalued in her job at a newspaper, where her requests to cover advancements in the Black Lives Matter movement are constantly rebuked. On top of all that, she feels pressurised to live up to the high standards placed on her by her family, and struggles to deal with events from her childhood that left her relationship with her mother in a poor state.

There’s a good emphasis placed on Queenie’s mental health throughout the book, and this makes her an easy character to root for. Her desire to better herself, and her tendency to use humour to deflect from her own pain are endearing and relatable qualities. This, coupled with the very readable, straight-forward prose, made the novel a breeze to fly through.

I think the success of the book’s attempts to tackle big issues (like institutionalised racism, the long-term impact of suppressed trauma, and the abuse and fetishization of black, female bodies) is partly dependent on the angle from which you look at the novel. When taken as the commercial fiction it is generally marketed as, its social commentary fleshes out the characters at no cost to the novel’s readability – which is great! When analysed from a more literary perspective, however, (which seems unavoidable now it has started cropping up on book prize longlists), it’s trajectory feels too predictable, and its handling of wider themes too simplistic and heavy-handed. Carty-Williams very much adopts the ‘tell’ approach, rather than the more nuanced method of ‘showing’, with her characters spelling out in no uncertain terms every point she ever set out to make with the novel – even when it feels clumsily woke and self-aware.

You can agree with everything an author is saying, and respect the significance of the topics being addressed, but still not want to have everything spoon-fed to you through the narration. That was my only real issue with Queenie; that it left no room for interpretation, and invited no further contemplation or discussion beyond the page.

This is a fine enough book overall; easy to read and hard to complain about, but in no way as bold or subversive as it could have been.

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

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared | 11. Red at the Bone | 12. Nightingale Point | 13. The Dutch House | 14. Actress

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

Actress by Anne Enright | Book Review

Actress by Anne Enright

Published by Jonathan Cape, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In Actress’ opening pages, our narrator, Norah, tells us that her mother, renowned Irish actress Katherine O’Dell, suffered a very public fall from grace, which culminated in her shooting a film producer, being institutionalised, and dying whilst only in her 50s. Despite this bold and shocking setup, the rest of the novel is surprisingly gentle, as Norah attempts to make sense of the fraught relationship she and her mother shared, and to understand what pushed Katherine to such a tragic end.

Enright’s prose is gorgeous. The complicated blend of reverence and frustration that Norah feels towards her mother is captured perfectly in a tone that is equal turns warm and melancholic. The timeline is very much non-linear but never difficult to follow, and it feels reflective of the way memories flow in and out of focus.

I will say, however, that the book did occasionally drift off on tangents that didn’t add anything for me. The narrative is always at its strongest when it homes in on the complex dynamic between Katherine and Norah, and I felt it lost steam whenever the focus shifted to a largely extraneous character for often long stretches of time. The use of second-person (addressed to Norah’s husband) also felt unnecessary. At first, I thought Enright was going to explore the idea that it sometimes takes describing events to a third party to see them clearly, or that women’s stories are often relayed in relation to a man, but neither idea came to fruition, leaving me to wonder why she bothered with this strange framing device. It also leads to several moments where Norah is describing conversations and events that he was present for (à la, “You said this, then you did that,”) which feels clumsy; why would he need his own life recounted in such intimate detail?

There end my complaints, however, as I really enjoyed the time I spent with this book, and I think it was crafted with real skill and emotional depth. Norah and Katherine are fantastically well-realised characters. Through their experiences, we see how flawed and painfully human they both are. Enright explores the unique blend of love and rivalry that can exist between mothers and daughters, highlighting the jealousies and small betrayals that push the characters apart, and the fierce love that pulls them back together.

The author also turns a critical eye towards fickle Hollywood culture, with particular attention given to the intense pressure levied at women to maintain their youth and beauty, and the skewed balance of power when it comes to gender. It seems appropriate to quote the great Carrie Fisher here (not only did she and her mother Debbie Reynolds share a different but equally fascinating bond within the public eye, but the two are pictured together on the UK cover, as shown above): “Celebrity is just obscurity biding its time.” This is one of the novel’s core themes, and though Norah knows it to be true, there is great pathos in watching Katherine’s stubborn refusal to accept her ever-dwindling fame, and the increasingly few opportunities afforded to her as she ages.

The book is also set against the backdrop of The Troubles. This allows Enright to show just how difficult it was for women to exist within the world in general – when violence was a constant looming threat – and to introduce further tension to the narrative, with Norah and Katherine not always falling on the same side of the political divide.

Ultimately, however, this is a love letter from Norah to Katherine, which Enright uses to dissect the concept of female inheritance in several forms. For all her lauded film and stage work, it is arguable that Katherine’s greatest performance was that of wellness and functionality, when inside her mind was being fractured piece by piece; that the most important role Norah will ever take on is that of a daughter willing to forgive.

I would be thrilled to see this nuanced, heartfelt offering advance to the Women’s Prize for Fiction shortlist. These characters will stay with me for quite some time, and I will definitely be picking up more of Enright’s work.

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

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared | 11. Red at the Bone | 12. Nightingale Point | 13. The Dutch House

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

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett | Book Review

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

Published by Harper, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Upon the death of their father, siblings Danny and Maeve are exiled from their family home by their stepmother, Andrea. We follow them across several decades that follow, as they try and fail to move on with their lives.

Patchett’s prose is pleasant enough and easy to read, and in that respect, this at least never felt like a chore to get through. If you’re willing to pick it apart, there are probably some interesting ideas in here concerning family, privilege, inheritance, and fate. The trouble is, I never felt invested enough to bother analysing it for any depth beyond the largely vapid and stereotype-ridden narrative. The author was clearly going for a fairy tale-vibe with the setup, but the wronged siblings and wicked stepmother tropes contribute nothing when they go entirely unexplored. Indeed, I found all of the characters frustratingly one dimensional.

The handling of the female characters was particularly poor. This would bother me in any read, but a novel written by a woman that has been longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction? I definitely expected better. All of the women (Maeve, Andrea, the children’s mother, the staff at The Dutch House, and Danny’s wife) all exist and operate almost exclusively in relation to Danny. Perhaps this was a deliberate attempt to criticise how oblivious men are to the sacrifices women make to ease their lives, but if so, I shouldn’t have to reach to make that conclusion; there should be enough depth in Danny’s narration to make use of such a nuanced theme. Beyond this, Danny’s wife and sister come to detest each other for no apparent reason, and this irritating trope of pitting women against each other also goes entirely unexplored.

As for Andrea, there is no light and shade to her character, nor is there any context given to suggest why she is such a cartoonishly cruel stepmother. She is placed in contrast with Danny and Maeve’s largely absent birth mother, who, despite effectively abandoning her children, is repeatedly excused within the narrative since she is a ‘good’ and ‘Saintly’ person, off doing worthwhile charity work in India. Utilising such starkly opposite archetypes felt like lazy shorthand for character development on both fronts. I also found the end of Andrea’s arc incredibly problematic. ***Slight spoiler warning for the rest of this paragraph, though I would say the novel isn’t particularly plot driven anyway.*** Andrea ends up suffering from Alzheimer’s, becoming frail, bedridden, and confused. If this was a push to incite sympathy for the character by supposedly adding another dynamic to her characterisation, it fails, as in no way does it explain or justify her prior behaviour. If, instead, it’s supposed to be some sort of comeuppance or poetic justice, it’s nothing short of tasteless.

The characters also act in absurd ways on several occasions. With all of them lacking discernible motivation, rational thought, and relatable outlooks, they never feel believable beyond the confines of the story. As such, I found it impossible to root for – or even care about – any of them.

The book is supposedly set in the aftermath of WWII, but aside from occasional historic references that actually served to jolt me out of the narrative more than anything, a sense of time and place are almost entirely absent. Again, this may have been a deliberate move to lend the story a timeless feel – a trait often inherent to fairy tales – or it could simply be another flaw in the book’s construction. Either way, I found it odd and disappointing; an evocative setting could have really elevated things somewhat, especially given the importance of the eponymous Dutch House.

In general, I found the whole thing flat and directionless, but the many rave reviews elsewhere suggest others will get on a lot better with it than I did. Patchett’s style is clearly not for me, and I won’t be in a hurry to pick up more of her work.

If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or if you’re making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist like me, you can pick up a copy of The Dutch House from Book Depository by clicking here.

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared | 11. Red at the Bone | 12. Nightingale Point

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

Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie | Book Review

Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie

Published by HarperCollins, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Paradoxically ambitious and reserved, Nightingale Point touches on so many brilliant themes and ideas, but lacks a clear enough sense of direction to hit home with the kind of power it could have had. Despite that, I found it immensely readable throughout, and was captivated by the complex characterisation.

The story follows multiple residents of the titular apartment block in the build-up to and aftermath of a horrific accident that changes their lives forever. Reading this from the UK, it was impossible not to draw parallels with the Grenfell Tower disaster, and this instantly added a whole other layer of resonance. This was particularly true when the book touched on the poor handling of the fallout, and the resulting dehumanisation and supposed abandonment of survivors, most of whom are from working class minority groups. Goldie specifies in the author’s note that this was indeed a major source of inspiration for the book, and it makes me wish all the more that she had pursued this thread in greater depth.

Goldie does an excellent job of establishing each of her characters, flaws and all, by exploring their individual struggles and prejudices in equal measure. She shows how private hardships and familial dramas endure even in the wake of collective suffering, and the ways that a crisis can both push communities together and tear them apart – a notion that resonates with particular punch right now.

The book is split largely into before and after the disaster, but the incident itself is painfully (and brilliantly) drawn-out. By slowing down the pace and forcing us to constantly relive the events from each character’s perspective, Goldie hits home the horror of what is unfolding, and humanises those caught up in it, emphasising the reality that this single moment will dominate and define the rest of their lives.

The primary theme across the various viewpoints is the lengthy process of recovery, encapsulating the likes of survivor’s guilt, PTSD, grief, and regret over missed opportunities. Vast in scope, however, the book also looks at topics as varied as race, ableism, abuse, and the concept of found family. It’s certainly true that the book would have benefitted from a greater sense of focus; its desire to tackle so many ideas meaning it sometimes can’t decide what it wants to be. On several occasions, it feels like the book is building towards saying something meaningful, but it never quite manages to pull off the sucker punch, its need to balance so many plates resulting in some untapped thematic and narrative potential.

That said, I was so invested in the dilemmas being faced by the characters, big and small alike, that I remained hooked throughout. The emotional stakes are huge, and I think Goldie did a great job of capturing a microcosm of modern society, and the many difficulties and contradictions inherent to the human experience. Perhaps my rating is a little generous for a novel that fails to fully deliver on many of its promises, but given how underwhelmed I’ve been by a lot of this book’s fellow Women’s Prize for Fiction nominees, there’s a lot to be said for picking up a genuinely compelling story that feels strikingly contemporary and engaging, populated by characters that are as frustrating as they are endearing; and who feel all the more human as a result.

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

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared | 11. Red at the Bone

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

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson | Book Review

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

Published by Riverhead Books, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Told in small vignettes, and coming in at just shy of 200 pages, Red at the Bone is testament if ever it was needed that a vast word count is not necessarily required to successfully craft a sweeping family saga. Opening at the coming-of-age party for 16-year-old Melody, the scant narrative jumps back and forward through time, shifting perspective between Melody, her parents, and her grandparents, to explore the complicated dynamic between them all; one that simmers with equal parts tension and fierce love.

The crux of the novel is that Melody was conceived when her parents were just 15. Whilst her father, Aubrey, embraced the situation wholeheartedly, finding genuine meaning and joy through parenthood, her mother, Iris, felt unprepared and stifled by the sudden responsibility. With Iris choosing to step away from the family, focussing instead on continuing her education and exploring her own identity, she and Melody have always had a fraught relationship. The novel is definitely at its strongest when it homes in on this particular dynamic, with Woodson making some wonderful yet subtle commentary on the expectations of gender.

That said, it’s impressive how many themes she manages to touch on, with the family’s experiences throughout the years inviting commentary on the likes of class, race, love, and sexuality, without ever feeling rushed. It also takes skill to balance several viewpoints across a highly non-linear timeline, without the reader ever feeling lost, but Woodson pulls this off as well. As for the prose itself, I found myself torn. It’s undeniably beautiful, with some gorgeous passages and wonderfully perceptive moments of human observation. On the other hand, it can feel overdone at times. This is particularly true in first-person sections where characters are waxing lyrical about each other with unrealistically flowery language, and in the brief yet no less irritating chapter where a character vividly remembers their own birth. It was these moments that hindered me from submitting myself wholly to the characters; my ability to see the author through her work stopping them from ever feeling like real people.

Whilst being wary of spoilers, I will also say there’s a particular plot development at the end that didn’t quite sit right with me. I’ve seen several readers say they found it impactful, so it’s likely a personal thing, but I couldn’t help but feel its sudden and largely unexplored inclusion was emotionally manipulative; a quickfire means of adding additional unearned weight to the narrative without actually contributing to any of the previously established themes.

Overall, in spite of its flaws, I found this a very pleasant read. While characters and plot points beyond the central mother and daughter may not stay with me, the heartfelt look at the complexities of family, and the brilliant air of melancholy and nostalgia that hangs over the whole thing just might.

You can pick up a copy of Red at the Bone from Book Depository by clicking here.

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather | 10. How We Disappeared

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How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee | Book Review

How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee

Published by Oneworld Publications, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This novel chronicles the life of Wang Di, an elderly woman reflecting on her struggles to survive when she was captured during WWII and forced into sexual slavery. Kept as a so-called ‘comfort woman’, she is one of many who suffered when Singapore was occupied by Japanese forces. Running in parallel, 12-year-old Kevin secretly explores his family’s past following a shocking confession made on his grandmother’s deathbed. Through the weaving together of these two stories and timelines, Jing-Jing Lee tells a powerful story of family, trauma, guilt, and the complex road to recovery.

In some instances, it can feel redundant to directly compare two separate books, but given their strikingly similar core setups, and the fact that both have been longlisted for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction, it feels almost impossible not to contrast this with Edna O’Brien’s novel, Girl. Put simply, this achieves everything that Girl set out but failed to do. Where O’Brien’s narrative felt flat and lacked resonance, Lee’s is both harrowing and poignant; where Girl felt like a relentless succession of brutal events, How We Disappeared takes time to let its emotional beats land; and where Girl failed to properly explore the long-term mental ramifications of captivity, and the post-war stigma faced by those forced into sexual servitude, this novel explores both with aplomb.

This also lacks the arguably problematic authorship that hindered Girl: where O’Brien is a white, Irish author writing about the experiences of Nigerians from an entirely removed perspective, Lee was born and raised in Singapore, and has drawn in part from her own family history to craft her book’s narrative. While there are undoubtedly upsetting moments throughout, the trauma feels raw, honest, and earned, never dipping into needless exploitation or gratuity. Lee’s prose and pacing also do well to evoke a strong sense of time and place, particularly in the sections detailing Wang Di’s past.

For the vast bulk of the novel, Lee does a great job of bringing disparate characters and timelines increasingly together. It’s a shame then that the novel indulges in a couple of info dumps at the final hour; the finding of historical documents (letters and audio recordings) feeling like an all too convenient device to quickly fill in any gaps in the narrative. It’s for this reason that I docked a star, but I must say I was still satisfied by the skilful way in which the author ultimately brought everything together on a thematic level.

Books documenting the impact of WWII aren’t exactly new, but Lee shines a light on a too-often overlooked aspect of the conflict. By showing the impossible moral decisions people were forced to make in order to survive, the deep-rooted shame felt by those survivors, and the prejudice they had to endure long after the bombs stopped falling, we gain a deeper understanding of why so many people still feel compelled to bury the past. Above all else, she explores the redemption that can come from speaking the truth, allowing yourself to be forgiven, and finding a sense of family.

You can pick up a copy of How We Disappeared from Book Depository by clicking here.

WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line | 7. Dominicana | 8. The Most Fun We Ever Had | 9. Weather

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

March Wrap Up

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The books I read in March

March has been a very weird month for reasons I don’t need to explain, but I did still manage to get quite a bit of reading done, which is nice. I read 9 books in all, with the majority of them being titles from the Women’s Prize longlist, bringing my total for the year so far up to 29. Here are some thoughts on each of them, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.

The Rib Joint by Julia Koets

[ ] These personal essays explore Koets’ experiences growing up as a closeted queer woman in a conservative, religious community in the American South. She explores the murky intersection between friendship and love, desire and self-loathing, and freedom and suppression with clarity and self-reflection.

Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner

[ ] Brodesser-Akner’s flawed, frustrating characters are used to examine gender stereotypes, and the unique brand of delusional, self-inflicted struggles that can affect the middle and upper classes. I found it surprisingly nuanced and readable, but felt it suffered from needlessly convoluted narrative framing.

Girl by Edna O’Brien

[ ] This is inspired by the real-life kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls at the hands of the terrorist organization Boko Haram in Nigeria, 2014. Despite the succession of brutal, harrowing details, there’s a bizarre sense of emotional disconnect that left the whole thing feeling flat. Pacing issues, untapped thematic potential, matter-of-fact prose, and potentially problematic authorship did little to elevate things.

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes

[ ] This retells the story of the Trojan War from an entirely female perspective, attempting to reframe beloved mythology from a more feminist angle, and to show the myriad ways to fight a war. It’s very readable and I admire its intention, but it offers little that we haven’t seen from prior retellings, with some of its many perspectives feeling shoehorned in.

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara

[ ] This follows three young friends in an Indian slum naively attempting to solve the mystery behind a string of disappearances. Anappara pulls off a convincing child narrator, and weaves in lots of clever social commentary on everything from gender roles, poverty, and education, to religious tension and fear of the unknown. It’s a very readable yet intelligently subtle dissection of modern Indian society.

Marguerite by Marina Kemp

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.

Dominicana by Angie Cruz

[ ] Sadly, I found this look at the immigrant experience derivative and lacking in nuance, with several stereotypes going unchallenged. The prose itself is very approachable on a technical level, but on the whole, I found it clumsy and overblown.

The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo

[ ] This family saga is at its best when it examines the unique hybrid of love and rivalry that can exist between siblings, and the established idea that money cannot buy happiness. There’s some interesting (if not fully capitalised on) commentary on the disconnectedness of the upper classes, but at more than 500 pages, it does feel needlessly bloated at times; some of its potential impact hindered by a meandering pace and extraneous detail.

Weather by Jenny Offill

[ ] I found this look at the experience of trying to balance the mundanities of modern life with the knowledge that mankind is slowly killing the planet – and the constant, low-level anxiety this brings – more compelling in concept than execution. A lack of drive in plot or character progression left me feeling largely lukewarm, but it does capture the atmosphere of contemporary society with some flair.

There we have it! My favourite reads of the month were Marguerite and Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line. What was your favourite read in March?

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