Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 33

April Wrap Up

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The books I read in April

It’s time for another wrap up! Throughout April, my main aim was to finish making my way through the Women’s Prize longlist, which I did, so that was exciting (even if the announced shortlist was less so)! I read 10 books in all, bringing my total for the year so far up to 42. Here are some very brief thoughts on each, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli

[ ] This timely book critiques the US’s handling of migrants, by drawing parallels between past and present. I respect it for this, but thought the glut of literary references felt self-congratulatory, the characters inauthentic, and the brand of empathy somewhat clumsy.

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

[ ] This chronicles the breakdown of a marriage, when the couple are separated by a miscarriage of justice. I wish its social and political themes had been driven home with more force, but I felt invested in the characters, and enjoyed its unbiased look at the idea of power and ownership within a relationship.

Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

[ ] Overly long, thematically vapid, and packed with problematic characterisation, this boring novelisation of Truman Capote’s later life was sadly not for me at all.

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi

[ ] A rich, layered, and thought-provoking look at the complex relationship between mind and body. Beautifully written, Freshwater draws on Igbo folklore to explore the nature of identity, and the pain of feeling disjointed from your inner self.

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

[ ] A retelling of the Iliad from the perspective of Briseis that adds depth and nuance to the characters, whilst capturing the brutality of war, and the lack of agency granted to women.

Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li

[ ] I was pleasantly surprised by this look at a dysfunctional Chinese-American family’s various struggles with the issues of identity, lineage, and duty versus desire. It had its flaws, but there are the bare bones of a great book in here.

Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton

[ ] This follows several generations of an African-American family through the period of slavery and Emancipation. It’s brutal at times, but its look at the finding of family fills it with much needed hope.

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor

[ ] A short and brutal little tale that employs a wonderful sense of mounting dread, and very effective foreshadowing. The narrative packs a punch, but there are also interesting undercurrents of religion and morality to mull over.

The Sealwoman’s Gift by Sally Magnusson

[ ] This look at a forgotten piece of Icelandic history explores the power of storytelling, female agency, and a clash of cultures. The settings are painted beautifully, but I felt the book suffered slightly from uneven pacing and my own admittedly high expectations.

I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya

[ ] This memoir/essay explores the pervasive harm of living under the fear of masculine energy. Written by a trans woman of colour, it offers an insightful, perceptive, nuanced, and intersectional viewpoint, by highlighting how ingrained misogyny is in all of us, and offering hope for a better future. I adored it!

***

There we have it! If any of the books I mentioned caught your eye, you can find them with free shipping over on Book Depository. My favourite read in April was I’m Afraid of Men. What was yours?

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I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya | Book Review

I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya

Published by Penguin Canada, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Phenomenal. This book should be required reading. To say so much, so succinctly, about the pervasive harm of masculine energy, whilst offering hope for a better future, is frankly awe inspiring.

I am neither trans nor a person of colour, as Shraya is. For that reason, I would never deign to suggest I understand the extent of fear and suppression she has experienced. That said, as a gay man, I still felt so seen by this book. I don’t hate that I’m gay, but I hate that being gay makes me constantly police my own body language, appearance, and behaviour, through fear of ridicule, aggression and intimidation (all of which I have experienced as a queer person). I’ve never seen an author capture so eloquently and vividly how exhausting and frustrating it is to feel compelled to live your life this way, nor the kind of self-loathing it incites. This, in itself, helps to systematically uphold the patriarchy, the fear teaching us to publicly reject the parts of ourselves that ascribe to traditional feminine norms.

The use of direct address when relaying stories lends the book an intense immediacy. I also adored how nuanced and intersectional it is. No one is spared their rightful lampooning, with Shraya highlighting the kind of prejudices brought on by life under a misogynistic regime that plague us all: The gay men who are repulsed by the thought of vaginas; cis people who refuse to accept their trans counterparts; the ones who invalidate bisexual relationships; the straight women who have internalised misogyny to such an extent that they actively uphold heteronormative societal roles, and stand by in the face of injustice.

The book is also very self-aware, Shraya pointing out that queer and non-conforming people don’t want pity, and shouldn’t have to share experiences of trauma to earn respect or understanding. And yet, here we are, the shock of reality sometimes all we have to fall back on to be given a platform or taken seriously.

Shraya ultimately asks us to destroy the pedestal that upholds the concept of ‘The Good Man’. With the standard of ‘goodness’ in cis/straight men set so low, it excuses the failings of the typical man. We all have to strive for better. By dismissing gendered expectations, we will all be free to explore and express ourselves as individuals. After all, if there are no set roles to conform to, there can be no fear of non-conformity.

Frank, compact, perceptive, and eye-opening, I implore you all to read this absolute gem.

***

If you’d like to pick up a copy of I’m Afraid of Men (and again, I can’t urge you strongly enough to do so), you can find a copy of it with free shipping by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Sealwoman’s Gift by Sally Magnusson | Book Review

The Sealwoman’s Gift by Sally Magnusson

Published by Two Roads, 2018

My rating:

[image error]In The Sealwoman’s Gift, Sally Magnusson imagines what life may have been like for the real-life Icelanders who were seized by Barbary pirates in the early 1600s and sold into slavery in Algiers. Having evidently put a lot of heart into researching the subject, she focusses primarily on the case of a pastor and his family. Though his records tell us that he would reunite with his wife, Ásta, after ten years apart, next to nothing is known of what she and their children went through in that time. This book is an imagined version of those years.

The theme that drew me to this the most, and one I enjoyed very much, is the power of storytelling. The richness of Iceland’s sagas and folk tales is the cultural link that provides comfort and keeps Ásta connected to her homeland. Beyond that, the book also explores the kind of stories we tell ourselves to keep hope alive, when the truth may be too painful to face up to.

The novel is split between two main settings: the cold, harsh terrain of rural Iceland, and the decadent, sweltering palaces of Algiers. Both are captured with equal fervour, Magnusson’s evocative prose painting vivid pictures in the mind’s eye. The disparate nature of the settings is reflected in the culture clash Ásta and the others experience. When forced to adopt a new religion on top of their whole new way of living, the very nature of what they believe and what they truly want from life is called into question. Sometimes the line between freedom and captivity can start to blur, and the confusion of this is presented very effectively.

I really appreciate that Magnusson chose to make Ásta the focus of the narrative. In historical records, she and most of the other women affected are referred to only as the wives of their respective husbands. Here, Magnusson gives a voice to a woman who outwardly had no agency, and reflects on what it really meant to always long for something more.

Given all these highlights, why the middling rating? The truth is, I went into this with very high expectations. Historical fiction set partly in Iceland that explores female agency and the power of storytelling? That could not be more firmly in my wheelhouse if it tried. The fact that this is a good novel, when I was hoping for an excellent one, is arguably not the book’s fault.

However, I do think it has its specific faults. Namely, the uneven pacing. I loved the book’s first and final quarters, but I have to concede that the lengthy mid-section dragged somewhat. Some events and ideas are explored ad nauseam, spread across several chapters. In other instances, whole years are skipped over in a mere paragraph. This felt odd to me, and stopped me from ever feeling fully invested in the characters’ turmoil. Because of this, several of the emotional beats just didn’t hit as hard as they should. It’s tricky to pinpoint more precisely than that, but something was always just stopping me from being fully hooked, no matter how much I appreciated the book’s merits.

All that said, this is a beautifully written novel that adds a big dose of humanity (and just a little dash of whimsy) to a forgotten part of history. With a little more oomph, perhaps it could have been the new favourite I was hoping for.

***

If you fancy giving The Sealwoman’s Gift 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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Reading the Women’s Prize Longlist | Wrap Up, Wish List & Shortlist Predictions

I recently finished my readthrough of all 16 books on this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist. With the shortlist due to be announced in less than a week, I thought I’d collate some thoughts here, and see how my wish list compares with my actual predictions when it comes to which ones will make the cut.

To kick things off simply, here is a list of the 16 contenders, in the order I read them. I’ll include my star rating for each, and links to my full reviews should you like to know more in-depth thoughts. Some have improved in my mind over time, others less so, but in the interest of fairness, I have honoured my original rating for them all.

THE LONGLIST

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1. Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss | | Review

2. Milkman by Anna Burns | | Review

3. My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite | | Review

4. Praise Song for the Butterflies by Bernice L. McFadden | | Review

5. The Pisces by Melissa Broder | | Review

6. Circe by Madeline Miller | | Review

7. Ordinary People by Diana Evans | | Review

8. Bottled Goods by Sophie van Llewyn | | Review

9. Normal People by Sally Rooney | | Review

10. Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli | | Review

11. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones | | Review

12. Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott | | Review

13. Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi | | Review

14. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker | | Review

15. Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li | | Review

16. Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton | | Review

MY THOUGHTS

First off, I’m so glad I committed to reading the longlist. The Women’s Prize is the book prize I tend to be most drawn to, and I’ve often toyed with the idea of making my way through the whole longlist in time for the winner announcement. Overall, I think this year’s line-up is a solid offering. There were new favourites (like Ghost Wall and Normal People); unexpected gems I wouldn’t otherwise have picked up (like The Pisces and Remembered); and only one I categorically hated reading (Swan Song). My average rating across all 16 was 3.44 stars. I’m happy with that, to be honest. It means there were more books on there that I enjoyed than ones I didn’t.

In terms of diversity of authorship, I think it’s a pretty good list. We have the first non-binary author included in the mix (Akwaeke Emezi), which brings up interesting points of discussion regarding the very title and aim of the prize. Multiple countries are represented, and there are several writers of colour on the list, too.

I do think, however, that the list could have been a little more varied in terms of theme and content. The more I mull them all over, the more I see distinct pairings amongst the books. For example, we have two Greek mythology retellings with a feminist slant (Circe and The Silence of the Girls); we have two books that follow the disintegration of a black couple’s relationship (Ordinary People and An American Marriage); and we have two books that examine historical enslavement and its echoes throughout future generations (Praise Song for the Butterflies and Remembered). In all instances, I think the latter offerings were the stronger of the two. In the interest of having a rich selection of topics covered, and therefore the broadest possible appeal to the general public perusing the longlist, I would possibly have omitted the former titles in favour of other books. After all, the concept of something specific like a Greek mythology retelling will either appeal to you or it won’t. If it doesn’t, that’s two books right from the off that you aren’t going to be interested in reading, if you see what I mean.

Whilst taking each title as an individual contribution, there are some that weren’t my cup of tea at all, but I could still admire their intent. In that respect, I could understand the justification behind their inclusion on the list – particularly where topical themes are concerned. The only one I can personally see no argument for is Swan Song. Not only was it damned hard work to get through from a narrative perspective, it was riddled with clichés and problematic characterisation, and I found it thematically vapid. I would certainly have bumped it from the list.

But all that said, I never expected to like everything on the list, and by and large, I can’t complain with what they came up with. If nothing else, there are lots of books on there that will get people talking!

THE ONES THAT GOT AWAY

I’ve mentioned a few titles that I think could have been left off the list, but which eligible books do I personally think were overlooked? Which books did I either love or admire enough to think they warranted a place in their own right? Here are a few I’ve read over the past year that spring to mind, all of which would have added a certain flavour to the longlist in terms of plot, theme, genre, or atmosphere that I think was otherwise missing:

The Dreamers by Karen Thompson Walker, Everything Under by Daisy Johnson, The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner, House of Glass by Susan Fletcher, Winter by Ali Smith, The Water Cure by Sophie Mackintosh, Bitter Orange by Claire Fuller, and XX by Angela Chadwick.

HOPES FOR THE WINNER/SHORTLIST

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I’m officially backing Ghost Wall!

The book from the longlist that I would most love to see go on to win is Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss. It is short and nuanced, but my goodness does it pack a punch. It draws on the past to make shrewdly observant comments about gender and power in the present day, and the tension is palpable, building towards a truly haunting final scene. It has so much to say, and it is so wonderfully written; and yet, it can be read in a single sitting. For me, it strikes the perfect balance between thematic impact, beautiful prose, and stimulating plot that makes for a worthy Women’s Prize champion; able to appeal to both seasoned literary enthusiasts and casual readers alike. It’s also a book that stands to gain from the publicity (a perk that some titles don’t necessarily need as much).

In terms of the ones I don’t want to be on the shortlist, Swan Song is the only one that would make me outright angry. On another note, however, if I’m being brutal, I think the one that needs it the least is Milkman. You could easily argue its case, but it won the Man Booker, and you don’t really get a bigger literary endorsement than that. In that sense, it would be nice to see some others get a shout out.

In an ideal world, my shortlist would look as follows:

Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss
Normal People by Sally Rooney
Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi
The Pisces by Melissa Broder
Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton
The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

And honestly, I’d be happy if either My Sister, the Serial Killer or An American Marriage were on there as well.

SHORTLIST PREDICTIONS

If the titles listed above are the ones I’d be most happy to see on the shortlist, which ones do I actually think are most likely to appear, taking into account the judging panel, the current political climate, and so on? Hmm. I’ve never predicted a shortlist before, but here goes!

Milkman by Anna Burns
Circe by Madeline Miller
Normal People by Sally Rooney
Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli
Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss
Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton

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My prediction for the shortlist

I could be way off, and I’ve swapped a few in and out a couple of times, but that’s the prediction I’m going to go with. I’ll be very interested to see how many (if any) I guessed right!

LET’S CHAT

Have you read the longlist? Which titles are you rooting for? Which ones do you think will actually make the cut?

I have to end this post by giving a massive shout out to my fellow members of the Women’s Prize Squad: Rachel, Hannah, Naty, Sarah, and Steph. I’ve loved sharing our thoughts throughout this whole thing. Our group chat/venting space, glorious spreadsheet, and mutual encouragement have made this experience SO much fun! I’m cheering you all on to the finish line now!

***

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Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton | Book Review

Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton

Published by Dialogue Books, 2019

My rating:

[image error]I’m glad to say I rounded off my reading of the Women’s Prize longlist with a strong contender. Remembered opens in 1910, as a mother rushes to her son’s hospital bed. Charged with committing a serious crime, and on the brink of death, she vows to tell him the truth of his origins, so that he may ‘find his way home’ in peace. We then travel back to the 1840s, and ultimately follow three generations of this family, showing us how we ended up at this tragic tableau, and highlighting repetitions throughout the timeline of the African-American experience.

The novel is a lot more brutal than I expected, this being a story of slavery, and the struggle that many black people faced to rebuild and find acceptance in the wake of Emancipation. Violence, deprivation, and cruelty are a near constant presence, but that’s not to say the book lacks hope or beauty. On the contrary, the finding of family, and the preservation of joy in the darkest of times are both major threads that run throughout.

The narrative voice feels very authentic. Though the informal approach to grammar takes a little getting used to for those unaccustomed, once you find the rhythm of the prose, it flows beautifully, helping to set the book in its rightful time and place. The characters themselves are richly drawn, and I found myself caring deeply about their fate.

There is an element of magical realism; our heroine able to see and communicate with the ghost of her sister. I sometimes struggle with this kind of thing in an otherwise raw and realistic story, but in this instance, I thought it was handled wonderfully. Not only do the sisters’ scenes together deliver equal parts pathos and snark, but the ghost’s presence serves as a clever symbol of the book’s main theme: the importance of facing up to the past, lest it continue to haunt us. Indeed, there are undeniable parallels between the historical events described, and every generation leading up to the world we live in now. Battle-Felton has written a powerful yet sensitive rallying call, telling the real story between the headlines that so often went untold. In it, she urges us to remember those who have suffered. Together, we can make sure no one need suffer as they did again.

***

If you’d like to read Remembered, 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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Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li | Book Review

Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li

Published by Pushkin Press, 2018

My rating:

[image error]This is where I confess that I was dreading picking up this book. The blurb did little for me, and the lukewarm average rating on Goodreads didn’t exactly fill me with confidence either. With my aim of reading the entire Women’s Prize longlist, however, I was determined to push on regardless. Now, how much my enjoyment was down to it being a genuinely good read, and how much was down to my very low expectations being easily surpassed, I’ll never be sure. But I am both pleased and relieved to say I ended up really liking this book.

The plot centres around several generations of a Chinese immigrant family who run a restaurant together in the US. With one brother having ambitions beyond the family name, and the others each harbouring secrets or desires of their own, conflict and drama begin to unfold. And though I won’t go into specifics, I was surprised by the amount of stuff that actually happens in this book; from organised crime and underhand deals, to love affairs and unlikely friendships.

Li doesn’t strive to make her characters particularly likable, but for that they feel all the more believable. Perhaps not on this scale, admittedly, but what family doesn’t have its own share of secrets, betrayals, rivalries, and resentment to contend with when pressure mounts and the cracks begin to show? I love the way she explores the theme of duty versus desire, with each of the characters wrestling in their own way with honouring the commitments they feel they should uphold, and chasing after what they really want from life. The inescapable ties of familial loyalty, particularly in a culture that puts so much emphasis on lineage, is captured very effectively. So too is the struggle to find your own sense of individuality within the hierarchy of a family or business (or both, as the case may be). Notions of grief and guilt are also touched upon, as is the complexity of language, communication, and cultural identity within an Asian-American family.

The restaurant itself serves as the nucleus of the family, repeatedly drawing them all back together no matter their attempts to leave; like a physical representation of their bond. A sense of longing and quiet loneliness permeates the book, and I found this effective, too. It allows for moments of both black humour and melancholy to help balance out the melodrama that unfolds.

All that said, the novel is far from perfect. The prose, whilst fine at propelling the story forward, neither grabbed nor moved me at any time. There are some sections that feel bloated, and I think the book would have been stronger had it been streamlined in some way; allowing for a more incisive examination of each character’s emotional turmoil.

There is also a fleeting inclusion of the tired disfigurement-as-a-sign-of-evil trope that just doesn’t belong in contemporary fiction. Physical difference (in this instance, a missing finger) is an outdated and lazy way to indicate to the reader that a character is in some way bad, but writers should know by now to show us this through the character’s actions and words, and not to tell us by falling back on harmful stereotypes. In fairness, it’s mentioned only twice (I think), and both times very briefly, so at least it isn’t hammed up. It’s so inconsequential to the plot or the development of the character, however, that it’s clearly only there as an indicator of the man’s ugly personality. Frankly, an editor should have been on it like a hawk.

This, for me, was a good book. But with so much potential thrown up by the various plot points, characters, and themes that were at play, it could have been a great one. It simply needed to be brought together with a little more finesse. Still, given how much I expected to dislike it, I’m counting this one as a resounding success!

***

If you’d like to give Number One Chinese Restaurant 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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The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker | Book Review

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Put simply, The Silence of the Girls is the story of the Iliad, retold from the perspective of Briseis. Myth retellings are notoriously tricky. You’ve got to honour the timeless nature of much beloved characters and stories, and yet offer a fresh perspective that makes the effort feel worthwhile, enhancing the impact or themes of the original in some way. It must please those who are passionate about the core myths, and yet be accessible for those who are entirely new to them. On all fronts, I thought Barker was very successful.

The handling of the characters was excellent, as she managed to add depth and nuance without contradicting the existing canon. They are each fleshed out in a suitably complex way, Barker showing us that times of conflict can bring out both the best and worst in a person. The brutality of war, the horror of enslavement, and the lack of agency granted to women are all captured with raw vigour.

Briseis herself was a fantastic heroine, and I felt instantly drawn to her narrative voice. The fact that she narrates almost the entire story to us in first person, and yet speaks outwardly only a handful of times throughout the novel, is a stroke of genius, tying in beautifully with the title. Women like Briseis may well have been silenced, but they were still living, breathing, thinking, and feeling; far more perceptive than most of the men around them realised. Barker captures this idea with real flair.

That brings me to my only real critique of the book, which is the third person chapters from Achilles’ point of view. I understand that the context gleaned from these sections was important, but the shift to third person felt jarring, and my investment in Briseis was so great by the first time it happened that I resented any interruption to her telling of this story. As with Circe (another myth retelling with a feminist edge that is on the Women’s Prize longlist), there are also a few particularly modern, colloquial phrases that felt clumsy given the setting and tone – though this is obviously a stylistic choice.

The prose in general is wonderful, however. It’s so readable, and yet is packed with beauty; a balance that must have been especially hard to achieve given both the scale and harshness of the world she was writing about. Indeed, Barker manages to capture the grand, epic moments we expect, and the quiet, introspective character moments we don’t with equal aplomb. The way she brought everything together was so skilful, in fact, the final scenes almost made me emotional.

***

You can pick up a copy of The Silence of the Girls from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Book to Film | The Silence

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The Silence’s book cover (left) and film poster (right)

As much as I like to make these posts, comparing a film adaptation to the book that came before it, this particular film is already subject to another comparison altogether. So, let’s start by addressing the elephant in the room, which is how strikingly similar The Silence’s concept is to that of A Quiet Place. Both follow a family with a deaf teen, attempting to survive an apocalyptic world, in which deadly creatures hunt people using sound. Though I concede wholeheartedly that The Silence suffers by this comparison, A Quiet Place being the far superior film, I think it’s entirely unfair to write off The Silence as a mere rip off, as many have. The book was penned long before A Quiet Place was conceived, and both films were in production at the same time. That The Silence now has to contend with inevitable comparisons to A Quiet Place is simply a case of unfortunate timing.

Now that that’s out the way, how do I actually feel about the film adaptation of The Silence? Lukewarm, sadly. Though it sticks fairly close to the source material, both the tension and the fun of the reading experience just didn’t seem to translate to the screen. The major problem, for me, was the pacing. The opening section was rushed, giving us no time to feel invested in the characters, and omitting the slowly mounting sense of panic and claustrophobia that I loved in the novel. Things then stall, the atmosphere never tense or scary enough to carry a film with almost no dialogue, and the emotional beats just not hitting home.

There are some good moments, the climax in particular, but the film is neither as serious as it wants to be, or as fun as it could have been, meaning it all sits firmly in the realms of mediocre.

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The film’s principal cast, from left to right: Stanley Tucci, Kiernan Shipka, Kate Trotter, Kyle Harrison Breitkopf, and Miranda Otto

The performances are fine, but no one is given a proper moment to shine, the characters feeling flat and emotionally underdeveloped. That said, I think Kate Trotter did particularly well with her role. It’s also worth pointing out that the actress playing Ally should have been deaf. I know little of Kiernan Shipka, and hold casting directors accountable more than I do her, but good parts for disabled actors are hard enough to come by, without handing out the few there are to hearing or able-bodied actors.

In short, this was a perfectly fine watch, and since it’s on Netflix, it’s worth giving a go if the concept appeals. When taken on its own, it probably seems like a solid enough flick. But when held up against the book (and, yes, A Quiet Place), it fails to live up to the hype, or to capitalise on its full potential.

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi | Book Review

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi

Published by Faber & Faber, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Having deliberately gone into this with little idea of what to expect, I was both impressed and delighted by how rich and complex it proved to be. Beautifully written, and highly thought-provoking, it is far more spiritual than I had anticipated, but ultimately explores identity at the murky intersection of culture, history, psychology, gender, sexuality, religion, mental health, and circumstance.

The plot follows Ada, a young Nigerian woman who must attempt to understand and make peace with the various parts of her fragmented psyche. Presented as ogbanje, spirits from Igbo folklore thought to plague someone with misfortune, these disparate voices take turns to narrate Ada’s story as they compete for control of their host, and look for a way to break free.

There are so many layers at play here. When taken literally, the folkloric nature of the story is darkly fascinating and fantastical, but there are undoubtedly thematic parallels with the trans/non-binary experience, and multiple personality disorder. The book examines how physically and mentally destructive it can be to live inside a body that feels in some way disjointed from your inner self (or indeed, selves). The ties to psychology and medicine become particularly prevalent here. With characters eager to label or diagnose Ada, we see both the stigma of mental health, and the arrogance of the Western world, which is quick to dismiss ideas from cultures it knows little about; even when it comes to something as diverse and unknowable as the human mind.

On that note, the book can also be interpreted as a look at the mind’s ability to fragment and compartmentalise to protect us from trauma; different ogbanje rising to the fore to shield or guide Ada when necessary. It also ruminates on the complexity of religion; how it can both offer salvation and encourage self-loathing.

The prose itself is excellent. There’s a sensual, flowing quality to the whole thing that lends it an almost ethereal edge. This works well given how much the narrative is informed by folklore, which is itself steeped in the art of storytelling.

This is the kind of novel that is driven more by its introspective ideas and stimulating themes than it is by plot, and as such, it’s one that offers more questions than it does answers. But the utterly unique narration and the incisive look at the relationship between mind and body make for a truly memorable reading experience.

***

If you’d like to read Freshwater, you can find a copy by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott | Book Review

Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

Published by Hutchinson, 2018

My rating:

[image error]I should preface this review by making one thing clear: I always knew this book wasn’t going to be my cup of tea. Reading the blurb, and various reviews, it didn’t appeal to my bookish tastes at all. Normally, I would have steered clear. Alas, as part of my efforts to read the entire Women’s Prize longlist, it was a box that needed to be ticked. In that sense, I don’t doubt it will work considerably better in the hands of other readers.

The story is a fictionalised account of the life of Truman Capote and his circle of close friends; socialites collectively known as his ‘swans’. When he writes a thinly veiled exposé, revealing their trusted secrets, scandal and backlash ensue.

I’ll start with what I did like. The book paints a portrait of a man from lonely beginnings, who seeks validation through his work, and his association with the rich and famous. There is tragic irony in the fact that his own thirst for attention causes him to betray the very people who give him companionship, threatening to leave him more alone than ever as he slips into a fugue of addiction and lies. The use of narrative voice is also interesting, the ‘swans’ narrating the story as a collective ‘we’.

However, this doesn’t feel like an examination of a complex man, nor a fleshing out of his enigmatic ‘swans’. Rather, it resembles a painfully drawn out gossip column. Honestly, my predominant thought throughout was thus: If the Mail Online’s sidebar of shame had existed in the 70s, it would have read like this book. I hoped it might offer a feminist, insightful view of these people; one that defied expectations and gave the women agency. Instead, it all felt incredibly vapid, reinforcing every socialite trope there is.

There’s also just no need for it to be so long. The book is stuffed with tangents that offer no depth or development, other than to repeatedly show us how vain, shallow, cruel, and catty most of these people are. Yes, the women’s obsession with image and reputation is almost certainly down to harsh societal pressures, but I didn’t find any of them sympathetic or compelling enough to care. And whilst the shared narrative voice did indeed throw up lots of potential, it ultimately resulted in a blending together of the women. They all descended into an exhausting mass of white privilege, from which individuals were hard to discern.

The prose in general feels convoluted and overdone. It’s as though the author is trying hard to elevate the impact and merit of the content beyond its worth; unnecessary and melodramatic metaphors abound.

The lack of a satisfying plot would have been easier to contend with had the characters been presented well, but I thought the handling of Capote was verging on offensive. Poorly drawn characters is one thing, but when you’re dealing with real people, it’s even more problematic. Yes, Capote was openly gay, petite in stature, and known to be quite eccentric, but my god does Greenberg-Jephcott revel is reminding us. Over. And. Over. Again. He is consistently infantilised, invariably referred to as ‘the boy’; not to mention the frequent, unchallenged use of terms like ‘elfin’, ‘midget’, ‘effeminate’, ‘girly’, ‘fag’, and even ‘twisted dwarf’ throughout the narration. Granted, this kind of language was somewhat commonplace back in the 70s, but there are more nuanced, intelligent ways to authentically capture an era than to constantly beat readers over the head with slurs. It’s such a wasted opportunity to write a book centred around a fascinating, iconic figure, if you’re simply going to reduce him to a caricature of gay stereotypes. (And the man was 5’3”, for crying out loud – hardly short enough to warrant a reminder every single time he is mentioned.)

I cited a couple of positive points, and will admit that the final quarter included a few considerably more interesting scenes. That said, I just couldn’t justify a higher rating. The moments of interest were too few and far between to make up for how much the rest of the book felt like hard work, or how troublesome I found the characterisation. Also, this was my 12th pick from the Women’s Prize longlist, and whilst there have been a few that weren’t to my personal taste, I always understood and respected their inclusion in the mix. This is the first one that has genuinely puzzled me. The whole thing felt mean spirited, boring, and clumsy, and offered no obvious thematic value. There’s also the unavoidable irony that this book is criticising Capote for writing about the sordid lives of a group of unpleasant people without their consent, under the guise of ‘fiction’, when this is doing exactly the same thing.

We can’t like them all. I just hope others have enjoyed this more than I did.

***

If you think you’ll have better luck than I did with Swan Song, and fancy trying it for yourself, you can pick up a copy by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts.

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