Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 21

Weather by Jenny Offill | Book Review

Weather by Jenny Offill

Published by Granta Books, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Weather is generally described as a climate change novel, and whilst this isn’t technically untrue, it’s also not entirely reflective of what you can expect from it. There is, in fact, very little plot to speak of. Instead, the book has a stream of consciousness vibe, structured more like a series of vignettes that give us tiny snapshots into the thoughts, moments, and feelings that occupy our narrator, Lizzie’s, mind. With Lizzie being largely a blank canvas, however, she could be interpreted as something of an everywoman; the vessel through which Offill presents us with a state-of-the-nation report.

Our narrator has just started a job answering emails for a podcast focussed on climate change (hence why this is often flagged up as the book’s supposed focus), but really this serves as an in to the book’s presiding theme: How and why should we carry on with the mundanities of everyday life when society as a whole appears to be doomed? This is clearly a huge question (not to mention a particularly prescient one given recent real-life developments), so I wouldn’t have expected Offill to hand us all the answers. That said, I found the book too lacking in focus to discern any notable commentary, and it left me wondering what, if anything, she wanted to say. For a book that appears to be all about the now common experience of living with a constant undercurrent of dread, I would have expected to at least feel some kind of emotional connection.

Far more prominent than the climate change thread, I’d say, is the narrator’s ongoing concern for her brother, who is a recovering addict. Again, she could have dived a lot deeper, but I thought she captured this second-hand anxiety and sense of familial duty pretty well. There are also fleeting references to the current political landscape, and the marked increase in racial and religious tensions, which firmly establish this as a book of the here and now.

I don’t have much else to say about this one, which possibly speaks for itself. I had no real complaints about it, but it left me entirely lukewarm. On the whole, I’d describe it as a book that is far more compelling in concept than execution. It’s excellent in establishing a clear and relatable sense of time and place, but too scant on narrative or character development to engage in a memorable way.

You can pick up a copy of Weather 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

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

 

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave | Book Review

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

Published by Little, Brown and Company, 2020

My rating:

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The divide of gender, the dark side of religion, and the resilience of the human spirit are placed beneath the microscope in this evocative historical novel, inspired by real life tragedy.

It’s 1617 and a violent storm has claimed the lives of 40 fishermen off the coast of Vardø, a remote Norwegian settlement. Aside from a handful of elders, this amounts to almost the entire male population, leaving behind a devastated community of women and children. These women spend the next three years establishing a newfound self-sufficiency while navigating their immense collective grief. This matriarchy is interrupted by the arrival of Absalom Cornet, a God-fearing Christian and renowned witch hunter from Scotland. He is summoned by the King of Norway to bring the women of Vardø to heel once more, and to stamp out any lingering trace of native Sámi culture—its spiritualism and strong ties to the land considered an obstacle to establishing absolute reverence for his own God.

With subtlety and tact, Kiran Millwood Hargrave explores the ingrained societal roles that define and separate us, with a particular focus on the trappings of gender and religion. Though distressed by their losses, the women of Vardø experience an unexpected liberty when forced to take over duties once reserved for men.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. You can also find a piece I wrote about the real-life victims of the Vardø Witch Trials.

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

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

The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo | Book Review

The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo

Published by Doubleday, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This follows three generations of the same family, looking at the various ways their lives are impacted by the unexpected return of a 15-year-old boy, previously given up for adoption as a baby.

There’s definitely some worthwhile social commentary in here. Jonah, the teenager stumbling back into the family he has never known, grew up within the care system. As such, he’s been completely deprived of the comfort and excess afforded to the wealthy Sorenson clan. The arrival of this outsider with a completely different perspective on life forces them to confront their own privilege for the first time, and it’s interesting to note the defensiveness they tend to display, as though embarrassed by – and unwilling to fully acknowledge – their own advantageous position.

It’s also true that several of the characters make cruel or insensitive jokes towards those of lower classes, and show a lack of empathy where others’ struggles are concerned; ingrained, throwaway comments that highlight the inherent obliviousness and sense of disconnect often experienced by those who have grown up surrounded by money. Whilst I certainly interpreted these moments as critique rather than endorsement from the author, I would have appreciated a little more development for this particular thread. I liked that she wasn’t afraid of showing her characters’ flaws, but she could have tackled them head on, rather than skirting around them.

Primarily, however, the book is an exploration of the established idea that money cannot buy happiness. Despite ostensibly coming across as the perfect family, we soon learn that each of them is suffering in some hidden way; the need to keep up appearances and please their seemingly saintly parents forcing them to hide the truth of their pain from each other as much as from the outside world. Through the four sisters at the heart of the novel, Lombardo does a great job of reflecting the unique hybrid of love and rivalry that can exist between siblings, and the notion that it’s the people closest to us that we’re capable of hurting the most.

The timeline shifts between the present day, and the past, starting from the first meeting of the sisters’ parents, Marilyn and David. These two timelines move ever closer, and though the structure serves to eke out the reveal of certain details, and to emphasise the various obstacles they’ve all been forced to weather (even Marilyn and David, whom their children have always regarded as the epitome of love and happiness), it does make the book feel bloated at times. At more than 500 pages, there is a feeling of diminished returns when we see the same thematic point being made time and time again. In that regard, I felt the book could have been edited down significantly, allowing key moments to hit home with more punch, rather than feeling swamped by a meandering pace and extraneous detail.

In the end, I found the book very readable, and felt it had a lot of potential in its plot points, character dynamics, and themes. It was simply too long and lacking in focus to land with the level of impact it could have had.

You can pick up a copy of The Most Fun We Ever Had 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 

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

Dominicana by Angie Cruz | Book Review

Dominicana by Angie Cruz

Published by John Murray, 2020

My rating:

[image error]My biggest issue with Dominicana is its paint-by-numbers approach to reflecting the immigrant experience. We follow 15-year-old Ana, who moves to New York from the Dominican Republic in the 1960s following an arranged marriage, with the hope that her family will soon be able to follow. Instead, she finds herself trapped in a loveless relationship, largely confined to a cold apartment.

From there, we hit pretty much every narrative beat you’d expect, with the story adhering to a very predictable and uninspiring trajectory. Harmful stereotypes (like Ana’s abusive, immigrant husband) go frustratingly unexplored; historical details (like the assassination of Malcom X, which takes place right outside Ana’s door) are so plonked in and glossed over they feel like a lazy attempt to establish emotional resonance; and the supporting characters are entirely one dimensional, resulting in a lot of untapped potential.

This may have been easier to contend with if the prose had been outstanding, but sadly this wasn’t the case either. Though Cruz’s prose is certainly readable on a technical level, it’s also very clumsy at times, weighed down by overblown metaphors (“César [is] the color of the crunchy skin off of juicy roast chicken thigh, creamy hot chocolate, buttered toast, dark honey, the broth of slow-cooked sancocho.”).

The one thread that holds initial promise is Ana’s sense of isolation and cultural bewilderment when she first arrives in the US. But as with everything else, it feels underdeveloped – and it’s arguably undone when Ana falls for another man with whom she quickly finds the connection and company she lacked.

I’d like to give this the benefit of the doubt and say my mind wasn’t best equipped to engage with it given everything that’s going on right now, but I suspect even that is being generous. In truth, this just wasn’t for me, unfortunately. Perhaps those with experiences closer aligned with Ana’s will feel a connection to the story; for me, it felt familiar, flat, and underwhelming.

If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or if you’re also making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist, you can pick up a copy of Dominicana 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

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

Let’s Recommend | Feel-Good Nonfiction

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Let’s recommend some feel-good nonfiction!

Now more than ever, books can help to offer some much-needed escapism. That said, I know a lot of people will struggle to process or lose themselves in fiction given how overwhelmed they feel by everything that’s going on around us. On the whole, I find nonfiction easier to ingest and to dip in and out of as and when I feel I have the mental capacity to read. It’s also nice to remind ourselves sometimes that not every aspect of real life is a dumpster fire. And so, here are some nonfiction recommendations that I hope will offer some distraction and joy in these uncertain times – or any time, for that matter.

Where possible, I’ve linked to each title on Book Depository, in case anything piques your interest. As always, I encourage you all to share your own recommendations in return!

The Bookshop Book by Jen Campbell

If you’re reading this post, chances are you already love all things bookish, so what better than a book that celebrates all sorts of weird and wonderful bookshops from around the world? This really is a love letter to bookshops as safe spaces, and the booksellers who work hard to cultivate and protect that environment, no matter the obstacles they may face.

Iris Grace by Arabella Carter-Johnson

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Iris and Thula

Written by her mother, this book is about a young girl with severe autism, who was almost entirely uncommunicative until the family took in a very special cat named Thula. The extraordinary bond between the two, coupled with Iris’s remarkable flair for art, sees her begin to blossom in ways her family could never have imagined.

Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by Rani Shah

This book is essentially a series of reminders that animals always put their own safety and wellbeing first, and how humans could learn a thing or two from that ethos. Granted, a few of the self-care tips are somewhat tenuously linked to our animal counterparts, but you’ll pick up lots of interesting facts about nature, and perhaps come away from the book resolved to be a little kinder to yourself.

Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher

I’ve never known anyone with a knack for finding humour in even the darkest of times quite like Carrie Fisher. Though she never shies away from the struggles she endured, particularly with bipolar and addiction, there is such a sense of warmth and wisdom to her stories – not to mention razor sharp wit and genius wordplay – that you feel like you’re putting the world to rights with a friend. No matter how bad things get, we still need a good laugh. As Carrie put it herself, “If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true, and that is unacceptable.”

Flying the Nest by Hannah Dale

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An example of the JOY that is Hannah Dale’s work.

Look, maybe there are times right now when you feel like your brain capacity won’t allow for much beyond looking at adorable portraits of baby animals. I hear you, and I’ve got you covered with this delight of a book. I love Hannah Dale’s art, and don’t worry, there’s a little bit of information about each species featured alongside the portraits, so you are still technically reading.

Gifted by anonymous

Subtitled “The Tale of 10 Mysterious Book Sculptures Gifted to the City of Words and Ideas”, this is about the fascinating project that saw an anonymous female artist leave 10 striking art pieces created from old books in arts venues across Edinburgh. Each was accompanied by a note that explained why that venue had been chosen, with the project essentially serving as an extended and very public celebration of her wish to appreciate and protect art and culture. With many such venues about to face very difficult times, this is a sentiment I’m sure most of us here could heartily get behind.

Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia & Katy Horan

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Toni Morrison, as depicted by Katy Horan.

Suggesting that the power of good storytelling, and the ability to conjure worlds and emotions, is a kind of magic in and of itself, this book celebrates some of the most ground-breaking and inspiring female writers from throughout history. It’s fantastically diverse, with a great mix of literary giants and virtually unknown writers from across the globe being featured. Each receives a short, evocative vignette that offers a poetic snapshot of a key aspect of their life or work, as well as a more traditional biographical note, and recommendations from their oeuvre. The big selling point, however, is Horan’s artwork, with each writer represented in a stunning portrait that cleverly draws on iconography from their body of work. It’s a glorious celebration of female writers, and an excellent means of picking up some new recommended reads!

The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida (translated by K.A. Yoshida & David Mitchell)

Structured largely like a Q&A, this was written by a sensitive, intelligent, and assured 13-year-old Japanese boy who wished to dispel myths about life with autism. It has its poignant moments, absolutely, but it does wonders to break down barriers, and remind us all to be kind and patient with one another; a message that arguably feels timelier than ever.

Have you read any of these? What feel-good nonfiction would you recommend?

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

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara | Book Review

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara

Published by Chatto & Windus, 2020

My rating:

[image error]When fellow children from his community begin to disappear, 9-year-old Jai resolves to use the skills learned from his beloved detective shows – and the aid of his two best friends – to figure out what’s going on. Anappara uses the naïve yet charming perspective of a child to dive into the underbelly of India’s slums, interlacing a gripping narrative full of intrigue with deft social commentary on class, gender, corruption, and religious division.

Pulling off a convincing child narrator can be tricky, but I felt Anappara handled it very well on the whole. She did a great job of reflecting just how perceptive and intuitive children can be, without having her young protagonists feel like mere mouthpieces for adult ideologies. Choosing to frame everything through the eyes of a 9-year-old was a clever move, in fact. It allowed her to touch on big and potentially upsetting subject matter with suitable reverence and realism, while always maintaining a lightness of touch, and successfully avoiding any trace of gratuity.

As the number of disappearances begins to grow, so too does the tension between Hindus and Muslims living within Jai’s basti; the former singling out the latter as potential suspects. The book thus comments on the societal structures that incite fear of the other, and the violence and segregation born from religious intolerance. With Jai and one of his closest friends being Hindus, and their other friend being a Muslim, Anappara is able to show just how observant children are of the prejudices around them, and how much more tolerant of difference they tend to be than adults.

I thought the commentary on education throughout the novel was interesting without ever feeling heavy-handed. Anappara shows both how an unreliable school system puts children at risk, and how applying yourself to education can grant you a ticket to a better future. I also really appreciated the commentary on gender that was woven into the story. By simply showing the different expectations placed on Jai and his male friend, Faiz, compared to his sister and his female friend, Pari, she manages to say a lot about ingrained societal roles. It’s also very interesting to note how differently the community reacts to the disappearance of younger, ‘innocent’ children in comparison to a 16-year-old girl rumoured to be somewhat promiscuous, and who favours a Westernized style of dress.

In terms of class divides, Anappara reflects how literal a sense of disconnect has become, with the rise of gated communities separating the rich from the poor. The latter struggle to get by in destitute slums that wallow in the shadows of the luxurious tower blocks that house the wealthy. By exploring the money that is to be made from preserving the suffering of the poor, the reasons behind the seeming disinterest of the police concerning missing children become frustratingly clear. It’s also true that the actions of certain characters may prove infuriating given the seriousness of their situation (like adults continuing to leave their children unattended for large chunks of time), but Anappara justifies this by showing the impossible reality they face; if they don’t work, their families don’t eat.

I can’t say the prose itself particularly wowed me, but anything too ornate would have felt unrealistic given the age of the narrator. In that sense, it served its purpose well, driving the narrative forward and painting vivid, immersive pictures of India’s claustrophobic, heady slums.

Without dipping into spoiler territory, I will say I thought the ending was pitched pretty well. It offered a sense of conclusion without falling into the trap of tying up every loose end in a neat bow. Having drawn inspiration from the many unsolved (and often undocumented) cases of missing children who disappear in India every day, it would have felt unjust to imply that every family is granted the happy ending and concrete answers they desperately crave.

There’s a real subtlety to Anappara’s execution that I greatly admired. She has crafted a story so readable and driven by intrigue that you fly through the pages. It’s only upon reaching the end that you realise just how extensively she has dissected modern Indian society and the many struggles faced by its poorest residents.

You can pick up a copy of Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line 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

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

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes | Book Review

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes

Published by Mantle, 2019

My rating:

[image error]A Thousand Ships is a paradoxically exciting and underwhelming read; a great example of how the timing of a book’s publication can make or break its impact. Attempting to retell the story of the Trojan War and its aftermath from an entirely female perspective, the novel’s aim is to give voice to those usually pushed to the periphery, and to reframe classic mythology from a more feminist angle. This is an ambitious concept, but its similarity to recent high-profile releases – notably Circe by Madeline Miller and The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker – leaves it open to inevitable comparison, and a frustrating, if unfair, feeling of familiarity.

First off, the book is incredibly readable, and I found myself flying through it. Haynes does a fantastic job of showing the myriad ways a war can be fought beyond physical combat; the upsetting lack of bodily autonomy experienced by most women in times of conflict; the heartbreaks both big and small that must be endured; the sense of sisterhood between friends and enemies alike; and the stoicism shown by those left to pick up the pieces once the dust begins to settle. Her handling of both goddesses and mortals within the same sphere is also effective; the former feeling suitably powerful and ethereal, yet engaging and approachable on an emotional level.

The book’s greatest ambition – to inhabit the voice of almost every major female figure touched by the war – was ironically one of its greatest missteps for me. With so many point-of-view characters, certain perspectives are inevitably more compelling than others. The anguish of Cassandra, doomed to foresee the future but never be believed, and the sorrow of Gaia, the Goddess of the Earth who must watch mankind destroy everything she loves, are particularly well portrayed, for example. I also liked that the initial ingrained misogyny shown towards Helen (by both men and women) was directly challenged by the character herself; Helen asking other women why they hold her solely responsible for the outbreak of the war, and not her abductor or her husband (though I do wish this thread had been pushed much further moving forward).

Other characters, like Calliope and Penelope, are much less convincingly drawn, sadly. The former often feels like a mouthpiece for the author, a character through whom Haynes clumsily declares her book’s themes. The latter’s chapters are presented in the form of letters to her absent husband, recounting in the second person his own adventures (à la, “You did this, then you said that.”). Not only does this make little narrative sense (why would he need a detailed description of his own recent actions?), it also does little to offer Penelope a sense of worth or independence beyond her link to her husband, which feels like the exact opposite of the book’s intention. On the contrary, her contribution comes off as a thinly veiled means of shoehorning the story of The Odyssey into the narrative without utilising a male perspective.

Moving between so many characters at such a fast pace can also lead to some confusion as to the many links between them all, and how everyone slots into the bigger picture. For people completely new to mythology or retellings, I can see it proving more than a little daunting trying to make sense of the intricate web entangling the many players. All that said, I feel the book would have been stronger had it had a greater sense of focus, with Haynes choosing a few key women and homing in on their viewpoints.

I enjoyed this, but never felt wowed or moved by it in the way I – or the book – hoped I would be. A few years ago, this book would arguably have broken ground by offering a very underexplored take on beloved myths. Though not the author’s fault (this will almost certainly have been written long before publication of books like Circe or The Silence of the Girls), it now feels like a solid enough if lukewarm entry in a genre that is at risk of becoming oversaturated.

You can pick up a copy of A Thousand Ships 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

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

Favourite Book Covers

As much as the old saying tells us not to, we all judge books by their covers. I also feel like the cover design game has been particularly strong recently, and why not celebrate that by sharing a few of my favourites? Compiling them for this post, I quickly noticed an obvious (if very specific) trend that I clearly adore when it comes to design: realistic/anatomical images combined with floral/natural motifs. I suppose it makes sense, as there’s something beautiful and unsettling about the unlikely mix, which is basically my ideal vibe for a book.

After grouping all of the covers that fell into that category together, I expected the rest of my favourites to be a mishmash of random designs, but as it turns out, they also fit a type: bar one, they’re all illustrative rather than photographic, they all incorporate animal imagery, and there’s a very definite colour palette. Evidently, I know what I like on a cover, even if I didn’t realise it before making this post! Without further ado, here they are; my favourite covers, organised into the two groups mentioned above.

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What are some of your favourite book covers?

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Girl by Edna O’Brien | Book Review

Girl by Edna O’Brien

Published by Faber & Faber, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This novel is inspired by the real-life kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls at the hands of the terrorist organization Boko Haram in Nigeria, 2014. Given the subject matter being explored, and the extremist views of the group responsible for the act, this is understandably an upsetting read, with major trigger warnings for everything from rape and mutilation, to emotional abuse and murder.

From the off, I want to make clear that I found it difficult to reconcile my feelings towards this book. Aside from the obvious fact that the content is horrifying, making this the kind of book you’re never going to ‘enjoy’ anyway, its very authorship is grounds for possible discomfort. On the one hand, I have considerable respect for what O’Brien has set out to do. A vast amount of research has clearly gone into the novel’s creation, and it’s fuelled by anger, empathy, and humanity. Stories like this one need to be told, and I admire her for using her platform to try and spark conversation, and amplify voices that have otherwise been silenced. On the other, part of me will always feel this simply wasn’t her story to tell. For as long as marginalised groups are pushed out of the mainstream, it’s important that allies with the comparative privilege of an audience pave the way for ‘own voice’ literature. But I can’t deny an undercurrent of unease reading a story about real-life, modern-day enslavement, human trafficking, terrorism, and abuse in Nigeria, as interpreted by the gaze of the white, Western world. To justify her decision to write this story, O’Brien’s perspective needed to add some kind of additional insight that amplified things in some way. As it is, I was simply left wondering why a white, Irish author would choose to tackle this subject at all. The right to freedom of expression through fiction is always going to be a complex issue with no easy answers, and I can respect arguments on both sides of the debate. In this particular instance, I felt the author’s intentions were absolutely in the right place, but that she fell short of inhabiting the culture, experiences, and voice of her heroine in an authentic and believable manner.

Even looking beyond these hesitations, I had several issues with the book’s execution, unfortunately. In the first half, the pace is relentless, walking us through a rapid succession of ghastly events at breakneck speed, with no time given over to reflection or analysis. With nothing being granted the necessary space to breathe within the narrative, I was left feeling strangely numb to everything that was happening; the lack of emotional resonance particularly notable given the distressing nature of the subject matter. I can understand that this may have been a deliberate attempt to avoid gratuity, and to reflect the relentless nature of the girls’ suffering, but a book as heavy as this is begging for greater nuance. Indeed, though the pace slows down substantially in the second half, the look at the lasting impact of our heroine’s experiences is still very base level. Any semblance of character development is reserved for her desire to be a mother to the child she conceived in captivity, with little exploration of her own psyche, despite the huge amount of potential that lay in the trauma, PTSD, and survivor’s guilt that were merely hinted at. Without wanting to spoil any plot specifics, I will say the author did a good job of reflecting the idea of lost innocence, societal stigma, and the long journey to freedom that lies beyond escape.

On another negative note, however, O’Brien’s matter-of-fact prose also did little for me. Again, in fairness, the simplistic nature of the language and the dot-to-dot narrative style arguably make sense given context. After all, the book is written in the first-person from the viewpoint of a young woman who was robbed of the chance to even finish her education; it’s unlikely she would be concerned with showcasing much in the way of literary merit. From a reader’s perspective, however, greater linguistic beauty may have helped to counter the narrative’s immense darkness, and to lift the book well above the realm of shock value; something I can see several accusing it of from time to time. It also would have made the book’s listing for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction considerably more understandable.

In short, as much as I sympathise with what O’Brien set out to achieve, this just didn’t work for me. Whether stylistic choices in search or realism or not, the spare approach to character, plot, and emotion kept me held at too great a distance. For a story that should have kicked me in the gut, I was left feeling frustratingly apathetic.

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

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

Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner | Book Review

Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner

Published by Random House, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Fleishman Is in Trouble follows a recently divorced, middle-aged man whose newfound sense of sexual freedom is brought to an abrupt halt when his ex-wife Rachel disappears and he must assume sole responsibility for their children. A social satire in many respects, Brodesser-Akner uses this setup to dissect the nature of marriage, gender roles, class disillusionment, and the pressure felt (particularly by women) to live the seemingly ‘perfect’ life.

The author is very successful in establishing complex and frustrating characters, with none of them being particularly easy to root for. Fleishman’s pompous and often selfish behaviour makes him instantly unlikable, but we soon see how much of this stems from a sense of insecurity and abandonment, as well as how eager he is to be a good father. Rachel too is painted as a cold, distant mother, but the book really hits its stride in the final quarter when we begin to unravel the true reasons behind her apparent disconnect, and eventual disappearance. This is where the strength of the novel really lies, with Brodesser-Akner exploring the idea that how we view a situation is entirely dependent on perspective; with society’s judgement almost always falling in favour of men.

What I found really interesting to consider are the gender stereotypes Brodesser-Akner employs; which ones she chooses to indulge, and which she chooses to subvert. Do we judge Rachel more harshly for being an absent parent because she is a woman? Do we feel more sympathetic towards Fleishman’s single parenthood, and more blasé towards his sexual promiscuities, simply because he is a man?

There’s also some interesting critique of the unique brand of delusional, self-inflicted struggles that can affect the middle and upper classes. Both Fleishman and Rachel have successful, high paying careers, affording them a comfortable existence and many luxuries they take for granted – like nannies and expensive summer camps for their children. As such, any financial stresses they experience are born purely out of their desire to relentlessly climb even higher on the social ladder, making them seem entirely unaware of their own privilege.

On the other hand, the novel’s weak point was its narrative framing, which I found needlessly convoluted. Though ostensibly focussing on Fleishman for much of the novel, in reality, this is Rachel’s story. While Brodesser-Akner could have said something interesting here about women having their voices silenced by the weight of patriarchy – how society reframes female suffering as male inconvenience – Fleishman himself is not our narrator either. Instead, every intimate detail of their lives is relayed to us via Fleishman’s female college friend, Libby. Her wholly unbelievable omniscience added nothing thematically that couldn’t have been explored as effectively from Fleishman’s and Rachel’s own perspectives. It’s arguable she was trying to represent the complete breakdown of communication between the couple by involving a third-party, or to comment on a lack of privacy when people are navigating difficult times, but it’s also possible that’s just me reaching to try and make sense of a stylistic choice that didn’t provide enough of a pay-off to justify how much it slowed down the narrative.

This was altogether surprisingly readable. I must confess to only picking it up because it was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and I fully expected to dislike it. I was pleasantly surprised therefore by the depth and nuance it had to offer within its social commentary. If only the narrative structure had been less contrived, allowing for fewer distractions and a more incisive look at the psychology of Fleishman and Rachel. The bones of a great novel are in here somewhere. As it is, I thought it was fine.

You can pick up a copy of Fleishman Is in Trouble from Book Depository by clicking here.

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