Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 28

Turbulence by David Szalay | Book Review

Turbulence by David Szalay

Published by Vintage, 2019

My rating:

[image error]In a series of interconnected short stories, we follow twelve strangers as they cross paths on a succession of journeys from country to country. Though the book claims to show “the ripple effect that, knowingly or otherwise, a person’s actions have on those around them”, I would argue this is not entirely accurate. The interactions between the characters are mostly incidental, and have no bearing on each other’s circumstances or perspective. It’s a shame the book is slightly misrepresented in that sense, as what it actually does is equally as fascinating as that concept sounds.

As we travel across the globe, we are given snapshots of twelve different people’s lives. Each of them is dealing with some kind of, dare I say, turbulence. This includes illness, grief, domestic violence, struggles with their sexuality, and so on. Though each one suffers in silence, feeling disconnected from the world around them, Szalay shows us, quite literally, how universal these struggles are. By having these people unwittingly cross paths in a chain from one to the next, he explores the idea that it’s the human worries seemingly isolating us that unite us above all else.

The prose itself is very readable, but our time spent with each character is so fleeting that there’s no real opportunity for narrative or emotional development. The slice of life approach is certainly effective in reflecting the notion that everyone is fighting their own private battles despite outward appearances, but it does mean there’s a consistent lack of resolution.

Admittedly, the way the book comes full circle and connects the last story to the first is very clever and satisfying. That said, the final story also becomes needlessly heavy handed, when we are told the main character has the following quote framed on their wall: “For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this same planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children’s future. And we are all mortal.” If the golden rule of fiction is ‘show, don’t tell’, Szalay misses the mark here by spelling out the theme he’s just spent the duration of the book trying to explore. When you’ve done so as successfully as he did, there’s no need to hit the reader over the head with it in this way.

A solid and thoughtful reading experience, I very much appreciated the book’s concept and effective use of structure as a means of storytelling. Though this underwhelmed slightly due to its want of emotional and thematic nuance, I would certainly read more of the author’s work.

***

If you’d like to give Turbulence a go, you can pick up a copy with free shipping from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Crucible | Theatre Review

Show: The Crucible

Venue: Pitlochry Festival Theatre

Date: 4th September 2019

Director: Elizabeth Newman

Writer: Arthur Miller

Principal cast: Harry Long (John Proctor), Barbara Hockaday (Mary Warren), Claire Dargo (Elizabeth Proctor), Fiona Wood (Abigail Williams), Ali Watt (Reverend Parris), Marc Small (Reverend Hale), & Deirdre Davis (Danforth)

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If there’s a play that manages to transcend time and repeatedly find new forms of resonance, it’s surely The Crucible. Inspired by the events of the Salem witch trials of the 1690s, in which a culture of fear, mistrust, and othering led to false accusations of witchcraft, it was written to serve as allegory for McCarthyism, under which the US government of the 1950s persecuted those suspected of being communists without relevant evidence. Today, in the era of Fake News, rising nationalism, and pushback against the #MeToo movement, the play’s themes of accusation, truth, justice, and power strike a chord yet again.

For those unfamiliar with the setup, the strange and unruly behaviour of a group of young girls draws the attention of their Puritan neighbours. Accused of witchcraft and facing persecution, the girls claim to be under the influence of The Devil, pointing the finger at various members of the community they say are possessed. As accusations run rife, buried secrets rise to the fore, the girls become ensnared ever deeper in their own lies, and those falsely accused face an impossible decision: Invite the death penalty by maintaining their innocence, or condemn their families to a life in exile by admitting to a crime they didn’t commit.

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Claire Dargo as Elizabeth Proctor (left), and Barbara Hockaday as Mary Warren (right). Picture courtesy of Pitlochry Festival Theatre

The ensemble cast all gave great performances, but the real standouts were Barbara Hockaday and Claire Dargo as Mary and Elizabeth respectively. Elizabeth’s calm yet passionate commitment to the truth when she herself falls under suspicion, and Mary’s mental disintegration as she crumbles under the weight of her lies were portrayed with real punch.

Though this was a largely faithful adaptation of Miller’s original script, a few stylistic choices really enhanced its impact. The set design included a dominating partial replica of a well-known bridge found not far from the theatre. This disconcertingly familiar sight from the local area somehow served to make the story feel closer to home. Whilst still set in Salem, the actors deliberately spoke in a broad range of accents from across the UK. This was done to once again ground the story in something more familiar, but also to reflect the melting pot of different cultures and backgrounds that make a community, enhancing the theme of othering and mistrust. On top of this, the chief judge of the court, Danforth, was played by a woman. Though historically inaccurate, the gender swap instantly casts a fascinating new perspective on the story, by shifting the power dynamic. Here we have women accusing women, presided over by an all-powerful woman. The story and dialogue may have remained the same, but it’s amazing how profoundly such a small change can alter the implications of the narrative and its take on the notion of sisterhood.

Masterfully plotted and powerfully delivered, it’s easy to see why The Crucible has become a classic of the theatre. By exploring the most selfish and selfless reasons people lie, it shows us that, whilst telling the truth in the face of hardship is rarely the easiest option, it’s almost always the right one.

***

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Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson | Book Review

Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson

Published by Jonathon Cape, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Past, present, and future collide to glorious effect in Jeanette Winterson’s Frankissstein. Thematically rich, linguistically stimulating, and narratively enthralling, it’s a book that begs deeper thought and discussion; somehow both of its time and yet utterly timeless.

Lake Geneva, 1816. Mary Shelley, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, John Polidori, and Claire Clairemont hunker down to await the passing of a storm. Conversations on the nature of life and death lead a teenage Mary to begin working on her magnum opus, Frankenstein. Meanwhile, in modern-day Brexit Britain, transgender doctor Ry Shelley, sexbot businessman Ron Lord, journalist Polly D, and the evangelical Claire become entangled in scientist Victor Stein’s research concerning AI and human nature.

Riffing on the life and work of Mary Shelley, whilst weaving Shelley’s own story into the narrative, allows Winterson to explore many thought-provoking themes. Chief amongst these is the intersection between mind and body, and the very definition of being human. With advancements in AI and technology making the concepts of transhumanism and digital eternity all the more plausible, our present-day characters find themselves debating the ethical and moral implications of separating consciousness from biological matter. Is life defined by our inner voices (the thoughts, feelings, and memories that make us who we are), or is it the physicality of change, interaction, and sensation within our bodies that make a life worth living? Does life require death to lend it meaning?

These may feel like particularly modern questions and concerns, but Winterson shows us the timeless nature of the debate surrounding the self. Just as the present-day characters fear that AI threatens to make them obsolete, the characters in Shelley’s day are unsettled by the coming of the industrial revolution, which threatens to unbalance society and rob them of their jobs. The juxtaposition between an insatiable thirst for progress and a fear of the resulting implications is a fascinating one. The Parallels between the two narratives show us both how far we’ve come (with Shelley’s fear that science could make autonomous artificial life possible having been realised) and yet how much our primary concerns remain the same. We are always destined to play at being gods, seeking to transcend the limits of our bodies and overcome death.

Comparing past and present also allows Winterson to comment on the changing role of women, and our ever-evolving attitude towards gender and identity. She also deliberately blurs the line between fact and fiction, perhaps toying with the idea that art is itself a form of creation. It is not coincidental that, whilst most of the present-day characters are representative of real people, Victor Stein has stepped quite literally from the pages of a book. If fiction is a construct, what is reality, and where do the two meet?

It’s not that Winterson deigns to hand us all the answers to these huge, existential questions. But I would implore you to come away from this without your mind in a spin. Through the actions of her title character, Mary Shelley warned us that just because something is scientifically possible, it doesn’t mean we should pursue it. Winterson shows us how close Shelley’s nightmarish vision of the future really is, and asks us to consider our collective next steps very carefully. At once a beautiful slice of historical fiction, an unexpectedly funny satire of our current political climate, an arresting speculative tale about the near future, and a love letter to the genius and foresight of Mary Shelley; Frankissstein offers a truly singular reading experience that is not to be missed.

***

If you’d like to give Frankissstein a go, you can pick up a copy with free shipping from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d live to hear your thoughts!

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August Wrap Up | Women in Translation Month

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The books I read in August

I managed to commit to Women in Translation Month for the whole of August, meaning my wrap ups for both have dovetailed nicely into one post.

I finished 11 books by women in translation throughout August, representing authors from 9 countries, writing across 8 languages. I’m pretty happy with that overall. But of course, reading broadly is something we all could and should strive to do year-round, and there are definitely gaps in my intake of translated lit that need addressing. Here are some very brief thoughts on each of my picks, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Lust, Caution by Eileen Chang (China | Translated from the Chinese by Julia Lovell et al.)

[ ] Quiet slice of life stories that capture a period of societal transition in post war China, this collection was hampered by its use of numerous translators, which led to an uneven narrative voice. Still, I enjoyed Chang’s look at the role of women and the dramas of every day domesticity.

The Good Lover by Steinunn Sigurðardóttir (Iceland | Translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton)

[ ] This offbeat, contemplative novel is a rumination on various kinds of unrequited love, and the pain of yearning for the unattainable. Being driven by its themes more than its plot, characters speak and act in somewhat inexplicable ways, but it was an interesting, singular read nonetheless.

Liar by Ayelet Gundar-Goshen (Israel | Translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston)

[ ] Very nearly a five-star read, I loved this stress-inducing and atmospheric look at the dangerous ripple effect of lies, and our moral obligation to honour the truth. The prose is stunning, and for all its page-turning readability, it poses a lot of big, thought-provoking questions via its complex, flawed, and very believable characters.

Blue is the Warmest Color by Julie Maroh (France | Translated from the French by Ivanka Hahnenberger )

[ ] I’m glad I decided to revisit this graphic novel. Though it doesn’t offer the most original narrative arc when it comes to queer coming of age lit, it’s told with a lot of heart and visual flair.

The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist (Sweden | Translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy)

[ ] There’s an unexpected gentleness to this speculative dystopian tale. I loved its subtle critique of class snobbery and the role of women, as well as the flawed way that we as a society define success and value in life.

The Iliac Crest by Cristina Rivera Garza (Mexico | Translated from the Spanish by Sarah Booker)

[ ] Themes at play here include toxic masculinity, the way we use language to divide the sexes, and the concept of borders – both real and imagined. Fascinating though they are, the plot and characters are held at such a distance that I felt no emotional connection.

Alseep by Banana Yoshimoto (Japan | Translated from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich)

[ ] Three melancholic and quietly mystical novellas that look at grief and forbidden love, this is the kind of collection that is more successful in creating a certain mood than it is in crafting standout narrative moments.

Horizontal Collaboration by Navie & Carole Maurel (France | Translated from the French by Margaret Morrison)

[ ] This excellent graphic novel shows the everyday struggles that persisted in France during Occupation, with a particular focus on the forbidden love between French women and occupying German forces. Navie’s characters are believably flawed and complex, with Maurel’s striking art bringing their emotional struggles to life with real flair.

The White Book by Han Kang (South Korea | Translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith)

[ ] Part novel, part memoir, part poetry collection, this book is presented as a series of vignettes that muse on life and death. In stunning prose, it explores the role that language plays in navigating grief and pain, and the burden of living a life intended for another.

The True Deceiver by Tove Jansson (Finland | Translated from the Swedish by Thomas Teal)

[ ] This is a deceptively simple tale that ruminates on the likes of art, community, love, and change, whilst asking us to consider which is worse: lying to others, or lying to ourselves. I felt engaged at the time of reading, but the promise of tension and atmosphere never quite reached a fever pitch.

Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir (Iceland | Translated from the Icelandic by Quentin Bates)

[ ] Page-turning tension meets emotional complexity in this fantastic example of Nordic noir. We follow a tangled web of brilliantly well-realised characters, each as complex and morally ambiguous as the next, as they struggle with their own forms of obsession or addiction in this solidly written, well-paced, and seamlessly translated romp.

***

There we have it! I had a lot of fun committing so fully to Women in Translation Month this year, and I discovered some great books along the way – the real standouts being Liar, The White Book, Snare, and Horizontal Collaboration. I also added lots of great sounding reads to my TBR based on other people’s posts, so it’s been a big success on that front too!

August took my total number of reads this year up to 84, and I look forward to seeing what books September will bring my way.

What was your favourite read in August? What’s your favourite book by a woman in translation?

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Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir | Book Review

Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir | translated from the Icelandic by Quentin Bates

Published by Orenda Books, 2018 (first published in 2015)

My rating:

[image error]In some instances, the gripping pace of a thriller can come at the expense of character depth. Not so in Lilja Sigurðardóttir’s Snare. This excellent example of noir fiction takes us into the underbelly of Iceland, following a tangled web of brilliantly well-realised characters, each as complex and morally ambiguous as the next.

Sonja is struggling to make ends meet in the wake of a messy divorce which saw her lose custody of her young son. Drawn into a dangerous crowd, she now works as a drug smuggler, bringing cocaine into Iceland to raise the funds she needs to try and get her son back. Customs officer Bragi is growing increasingly suspicious of Sonja’s activities, the two quickly becoming involved in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. But Bragi has problems of his own, with fears that his wife – who is suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s – is being mistreated in her care home. Meanwhile, Sonja’s sort-of-girlfriend, Agla, is struggling to come to terms with their budding relationship and what it means for her sexuality. Working in banking, she is also undergoing investigation for misconduct in relation to the financial crisis that hit the country hard.

As you can glean from the above, there’s no shortage of exciting subplots to keep you hooked throughout the entire narrative. The various threads link together directly, but they are also connected thematically, with each character’s story looking at obsession and addiction in some shape or form. Though she struggles with the labels that come with a same-sex relationship, Agla can’t keep her distance from Sonja, and speaks of being literally addicted to her. Her reliance on alcohol also sits in interesting contrast with Sonja’s drug smuggling, which is undoubtedly fuelling the addictions of others. Bragi, meanwhile, could be described as being addicted to his job, the threat of retirement looming uncomfortably close. The case he’s drawn into will force him to question just how far his loyalty can be pushed. With no one wholly good or bad, the author urges us to question where we draw the line on the issue of justice, and if there’s ever a valid reason for good people to do bad things.

The backdrop of the financial crash, and the Icelandic streets dusted with volcanic ash from the famous eruption of Eyjafjallajökull, help to add a certain grittiness, whilst also setting the story firmly in a specific time and place. Solid writing, great pacing, and seamless translation saw me fly through Snare. Page-turning tension and emotional complexity elevated what could have been a non-descript crime flick into something decidedly more nuanced. It could easily be enjoyed as a standalone, but it is technically the first in a trilogy. My eagerness to see where the author takes these characters next despite how rarely I reach for a multi-book series speaks volumes in itself.

***

If you’d like to give Snare a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository with free shipping by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Translated Literature Book Tag

I’ve been committing my reading time fully to Women in Translation Month throughout August, which makes taking part in this tag all the more appealing. Thanks to Rachel for tagging me, and to Diana for creating it. Let’s just jump right in!

1. A translated novel you would recommend to everyone:

[image error]I’m going to go with The History of Bees by Maja Lunde, translated from the Norwegian by Diane Oatley. Set across three different timelines, the scale of this novel is pretty epic, and it incorporates elements of several different genres, hence why I think it will have fairly broad appeal. Family drama, environmental commentary, historical fiction, futuristic dystopia; there’s something for everyone!

2. A recently read “old” translated novel you enjoyed:

[image error]‘Old’ is fairly subjective, but I recently read The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist, which was first published in its native Swedish back in 2006. The translation into English was handled very well by Marlaine Delargy, the story itself offering a surprisingly gentle take on the speculative dystopian genre.

3. A translated book you could not get into:

[image error]I want to like Clarice Lispector, and perhaps I’ll give her work another shot one day, but I could not get into the stories in Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady for the life of me. A classic Brazilian writer who wrote in Portuguese, she is famed for her singular style, and in fairness, I did see a few people criticizing the quality of the translation in the edition I read, so perhaps that was part of the problem. Sadly, I found the prose too incoherent, and took nothing but frustration from the reading experience.

4. Your most anticipated translated novel release:

[image error]Maja Lunde, whom I mentioned earlier, has a new novel coming out in its English translation this October. The End of the Ocean seems to utilize multiple timelines to comment on environmental issues, and to explore the timeless, universal struggles of being human – both of which she handled excellently in her first novel. In 2019, an elderly woman named Signe is haunted by the loss of her lover, and she determines to cross an entire ocean in only a sailboat to make it back to him. Meanwhile, in 2041, a father is fleeing a war-torn, drought-ridden country with his young daughter when he finds Signe’s abandoned sailboat, miles from the nearest shoreline. If the author’s previous offering is anything to go by, I expect their narratives to increasingly weave together as we build towards an emotional climax.

5. A “foreign-language” author you would love to read more of:

Having recently read and loved Liar by Ayelet Gundar-Goshen, I definitely want to check out more of her work. It was beautifully written, and served as both a gripping page-turner and a powerful social commentary. Thankfully, she already has a couple of other novels available in English, all of which have been translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston.

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6. A translated novel which you consider to be better than the film:

[image error]I haven’t actually seen the film, so take this answer with a pinch of salt, but I’m going to go with Blue is the Warmest Color by Julie Maroh. Whilst not the most original offering, this graphic novel is a queer coming of age story handled with a lot of warmth and honesty. The film was a pretty big hit too, but caused controversy with its overly titillating sex scenes and lack of authentic gay representation within the cast and crew. Queer stories portrayed by and for straight/cis audiences can often miss the mark, and the author herself felt this was at least partially the case here.

7. A translated “philosophical” fiction book you recommend:

[image error]Han Kang’s The White Book feels like a great pick for this. Blending fiction, memoir, and poetry, this gem of a book is presented as a series of vignettes that ruminate on life, death, and grief, as well as the philosophical concept of living with multitudes; our narrator feeling the burden of living on behalf of both herself and her deceased sister. The translation from Korean is handled beautifully by Deborah Smith, with the entire book held together by the motif of white-based imagery, which has a number of important thematic resonances.

8. A translated fiction book that has been on your TBR for far too long:

[image error]You Should Have Left by Daniel Kehlmann probably feels like it’s been on my TBR for longer than it has. Firstly, because I really want to read it, and secondly, because I’ve tried looking for it in a number of bookshops – to no avail. Translated from the German by Ross Benjamin, this horror novella about a writer’s time spent in an eerie (and possibly haunted?) house sounds right up my street. I really must find a copy soon!

9. A popular translated fiction book you have not yet read:

[image error]Belgian writer Amélie Nothomb is much revered, both in her native French and in translation. I’m yet to try any of her work, and though it’s not her most famous offering, I think I’d like to start with Sulphuric Acid. A blackly funny and satirical look at society’s obsession with celebrity, it’s about a reality TV death camp, and an audience increasingly hungry for bloodshed.

10. A translated fiction book you have heard a lot about and would like to find more about or read:

[image error]I’ve seen a lot of hype around Argentine author, Samanta Shweblin, particularly the novel, Fever Dream. It sounds dark and surreal, which I tend to either love or hate depending on whether I click with the narrative voice. In that sense, I shall approach her work with an equal mix of excitement and nervousness.

***

Thanks again to Rachel for tagging me. I’m going to tag Naty, Emily, and Susana. If you’ve already been tagged or don’t fancy it, there is of course no pressure! Anyone else who wants to get involved can also consider themselves tagged. Let me know if you do it – I’d love to see what books you all pick!

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The True Deceiver by Tove Jansson | Book Review

The True Deceiver by Tove Jansson | translated from the Swedish by Thomas Teal

Published by Sort of Books, 2009 (first published in 1982)

My rating:

[image error]Tove Jansson’s The True Deceiver is a deceptively simple tale that ruminates on the likes of art, community, love, and change. We follow two very different women who have both isolated themselves from society in their own ways. Katri is emotionally distant, but takes her role as guardian of her teenage brother very seriously. Anna is an artist, known for illustrating a popular series of children’s stories. The book opens with Katri vowing to initiate herself into Anna’s life – and home – by any means. It’s not a spoiler to say she makes this happen, but what ensues is a strangely understated game of cat and mouse, in which we are forced to ask who really holds the power, and who stands to gain the most from this unconventional arrangement.

The prose itself is simple, Jansson’s use of language proving very economical. That said, the Finnish landscape is evoked well, the gradual thaw from winter into spring reflective of the characters’ letting go of old habits, and their gentle opening up to new ways of thinking and living.

It’s the kind of book that provoked thought and made me feel engaged whenever I picked it up, but which left me feeling entirely apathetic by the time I reached its end. For a novel so driven by its imagery (it draws on several fairy tale motifs) and thematic ideas, I felt it lacked a certain punch, its promise of atmosphere and tension never quite reaching a fever pitch. Still, I would be open to trying more of the author’s work, and I would recommend this one to anyone intrigued by the notion of a quiet character study that explores the concept of justified lies, whilst asking us to consider which is worse: lying to others, or lying to ourselves.

***

If you’d live to give The True Deceiver a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository with free shipping by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The White Book by Han Kang | Book Review

The White Book by Han Kang | translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith

Published by Portobello Books, 2018 (first published in 2016)

My rating:

[image error]Part novel, part memoir, part prose poetry collection; this is Han Kang’s most abstract and experimental work to be translated into English thus far. Even so, I found it more linguistically and emotionally engaging than both The Vegetarian and Human Acts, confirming the writing/translating partnership that is Kang and Smith as one of the most exciting on the international literature scene.

The very loose narrative that ties this book together is our narrator’s struggle to come to terms with the death of her sister, who lived for just two hours. The knowledge that she only exists as a direct result of her sibling’s prior death weighs heavily upon her, and she suffers under the burden of living a life originally intended for another:

“Looking at herself in the mirror, she never forgot that death was hovering behind that face. Faint yet tenacious, like black writing bleeding through thin paper.” […] “This life needed only one of us to live it. If you had lived beyond those first few hours, I would not be living now. My life means yours is impossible.”

Forgoing traditional structure, the book is presented as a series of vignettes, each capturing a single, fleeting moment. These musings reflect on life, death, and grief, seen largely through the scope of white based imagery – snow, ice, fog, bandages, etc. Why the fixation with white? Firstly, it allows Kang to play with composition to enhance the book’s central themes. Passages of text are separated by blank pages, creating the notion that these thoughts are disjointed from a coherent sense of time and place. This reflects our narrator’s feeling of disconnection from the world around her, as though she is literally adrift. This idea is furthered by the recurring motif of snow blanketing the landscape; numbing, quietening, and obscuring everything it touches. White’s universal association with peace and purity also cannot be escaped; reflections on white birds and bandages a nod to our narrator’s search for hope and healing.

The book is also notable for its shift between first and third person perspectives, as the focus dances between our narrator’s life, and an imagined version of the life her sister never had. Moving between POV styles can sometimes feel like a gimmick, but I found it highly effective in this instance. To me, it was reflective once again of our narrator’s fragmented sense of self, and the idea that she lives with multitudes; responsible for living on behalf of both herself and her deceased sister. It also serves as a nice nod to the book’s autobiographical elements, its push and pull of intimacy forcing us to question how much of what we’re reading is fictional, and how much is based in Kang’s own experiences.

After all, The White Book is first and foremost an exploration of language’s ability to help us navigate our way through grief and pain. The text’s intention is made clear from the off: “If I sift those words through myself, sentences will shiver out, like the strange, sad shriek the bow draws from a metal string. Could I let myself hide between these sentences, veiled with white gauze?” It is fascinating to consider how much of the author is indeed hiding between these beautiful sentences.

Which brings me, of course, to the book’s biggest success, which is its stunning use of language. There is beauty to be found on every page. Striking images evoke powerful emotion, and not a word feels out of place. Long may the creative collaboration between Kang and Smith continue.

***

If you’d like to give The White Book a go, you can pick up a copy with free shipping from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Horizontal Collaboration by Navie & Carole Maurel | Book Review

Horizontal Collaboration by Navie (writing) & Carole Maurel (art) | translated from the French by Margaret Morrison

Published by Korero Press, 2019 (first published in 2017)

My rating:

[image error]“Horizontal collaboration” is a term coined to describe French women who embarked on romantic or sexual relationships with German soldiers during Occupation. This graphic novel opens in the present day, with a young woman visiting her elderly grandmother, lamenting the complexities of modern love. This inspires her grandmother to finally open up about her own past, divulging the details of a tragic love affair she became entangled in back in 1942.

Though the context of war clearly plays an important part in setting up the story, and it does indeed loom ominously in the background, the focus is placed firmly on the characters and the intricacies of their everyday lives. With much of the story set in a single apartment building, weaving in and out of the various inhabitants’ lives, we are presented with a microcosm of society at the time. This allows the author to show us the universal struggles that continued to dominate even in times of international crisis. From petty squabbles with the neighbours, to issues of domestic violence, and from secret love affairs, to quiet struggles with sexuality; this book touches on so much of the human experience.

The characters themselves are realistically flawed and complex. Within the relatively short scope of the story, the author manages to paint a picture of the moral dilemmas that people were forced to navigate day to day, and the divide between those who acted in aid of the greater good, and those who served only themselves.

The book has its moments of charm and hope, but it doesn’t shy away from the harsh reality many people faced under Occupation. Indeed, there were at least four occasions when I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. My only slight critique is how fast moving the narrative was on occasion, which meant it took me some time to get to grips with the dynamic between the numerous characters. That said, the art is a huge factor in the success of any graphic novel, and Maurel’s style is gorgeous; ideally suited to the story being told. Rich, vivid and expressive, her work is at its best when she employs aesthetically striking and emotionally haunting imagery. If the story was a solid 4 star read for me, the artwork more than earned the book that coveted 5th star.

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An example of the book’s typical art style (left), and some of the more abstract imagery employed during key moments (right).

I’ve deliberately avoided plot specifics, as I went into this somewhat blind, and would encourage others to do the same if possible. I loved watching the highs and lows of these characters’ lives unfold, and it’s a story I know will stay with me. I sincerely hope Navie and Maurel will team up again in the future; their styles working here in perfect harmony.

***

If you’d like to give Horizontal Collaboration a go, you can pick up a copy with free shipping from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Asleep by Banana Yoshimoto | Book Review

Asleep by Banana Yoshimoto (translated from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich)

Published by Faber & Faber, 2001 (first published in 1989)

My rating:

[image error]The three novellas in this collection share no overlap in character or plot, but there is a synergy in the setups, themes, and tone that ties them all together. Each story focuses on a young woman afflicted by a strange sleep habit. One, mourning her lover, begins to sleepwalk. Another, embarking on an affair with a married man whose wife is in a coma, finds herself increasingly unable to stay awake. The third, once embroiled in a love triangle, finds her dreams haunted by the ‘other woman’ she was pitted against.

As striking as these concepts are, the stories themselves aren’t hugely plot driven, in that not a lot actually happens. There’s no gut punch or unexpected twist. There’s no big moment of revelation or development for the characters. Instead, the author simply gives us a snapshot of these women’s lives, in an almost voyeuristic fashion. That said, there are certain motifs present in all three stories, and it’s when you examine these similarities that the book’s overall themes become more apparent. All of the protagonists have recently suffered a bereavement, for example, with Yoshimoto presumably commenting on the quieter, psychological ways this can affect someone, and the sense of detachment from the world that it can lead to, particularly where a lack of closure is concerned. Each of the women has also at some time been involved in a relationship that was in some way taboo, perhaps hinting at the complexity and messiness of love.

The narrative voice is also very similar throughout, meaning the air of melancholy, nostalgia, and mild whimsy that is established early on continues to hover over the book. Yoshimoto is often lauded for her ability to capture the voice of her generation, so perhaps making her heroines read similarly was a deliberate move; a nod to the idea of a contemporary Japanese everywoman. Personally, I would have preferred a little more differentiation between each protagonist.

I see all of these overt parallels from story to story as both a plus and a minus. Though it means they feel similar, and thus work as a cohesive collection, it can result in a certain bleeding together of finer details. I can already feel the line between the three stories beginning to blur, and as such, it seems to be the kind of collection that is more successful in creating a certain mood than it is in crafting standout moments.

Highly readable, the prose itself is simple, but she captures a moment well and generates a sense of calm that I found oddly compelling. I can’t fail to mention, however, that one of the stories makes frequent unchallenged use of a slur when describing a character with dwarfism. Genuine misuse of terms, clumsy translation, or a sign of the book’s age, I can’t be certain, but it’s a word so removed from general use in the UK these days that I found it incredibly jarring.

With fantastic core concepts in each story, some really interesting character dynamics, and possible flirtations with something magical adding a whole other layer of interpretation, this book had a lot of potential. It was certainly worthwhile, and I’m glad to have read more of Yoshimoto’s work. But as with the stories in Kitchen, I couldn’t help but wish these novellas had ended with a little more oomph, rather than a gentle fizzling out.

***

If you’d like to give Asleep a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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