Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 34

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones | Book Review

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Published by Oneworld, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This is the story of Celestial and Roy, a passionate and promising young couple torn apart by a miscarriage of justice. Though both know him to be innocent, Roy is imprisoned on an accusation of rape, the novel following their doomed attempts to stay together whilst circumstances tear them apart. Matters become even more complicated when Roy’s conviction is overturned, five years into his twelve-year sentence; just as Celestial begins to move on with another man.

I admired the way Jones manages to present her characters without judgement, despite the increasingly melodramatic events, and the often toxic dynamic. There’s no Team Celestial or Team Roy approach here. Both are flawed, complex human beings, and the author avoids pushing us into siding with one over the other. The perspective moves between the two (and Andre, Celestial’s childhood-friend-turned-lover), and each narrative voice feels distinct and consistent. The prose in general was very readable, in fact, but it’s punctuated by some lovely imagery that made it easy and enjoyable to fly through.

I will say, the pacing and structure felt a little off balance at times. The epistolary style in the book’s first section worked really well to show the tragic disintegration of Celestial and Roy’s relationship, and to reflect the frustration of being kept apart by forces beyond their control. In the latter portion, however, things slowed down, and the focus seemed to shift. Whilst the American justice system and the prejudice faced by black people are undoubtedly important factors throughout the novel, they take something of a backseat as the narrative progresses, moving ever more towards a conventional love triangle. I felt invested in the characters’ emotional struggles by then, absolutely, but I would have liked the political and socioeconomic themes to have been driven home with more punch. This is a good book, but if it had followed through on the potential presented by its context, it could have been a fantastic one.

That said, my attention was held invariably. I enjoyed Jones’s look at the idea of power and ownership within a marriage, and the messy intersection between love and hate in the search for happiness.

***

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

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli | Book Review

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli

Published by 4th Estate, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This is one of those instances in which I could see and respect a lot of what the author was trying to do, but stylistically, I just couldn’t connect with it.

The story follows a blended family as they drive across America. The parents are documentary makers, specialising in capturing sound. As they educate their kids about the Apache people (the subject of the father’s latest project), we see parallels with the present-day news stories playing out on the radio; migrant children being detained, pushed out, imprisoned, and displaced as they attempt to cross the US/Mexico border.

This is undoubtedly a timely novel, and yet it ruminates on the timelessness of humanity. I enjoyed its efforts to reflect the idea that events of the past echo throughout time (mirrored in the parents’ work with sound), and its look at the importance of documenting lives and experiences, so that we, and future generations, may learn from them. Luiselli’s prose is great at times, and she implements some fantastic imagery.

I did have a lot of issues with the execution, however. I love literature, and adore when an author can weave meaningful references to other works into their own. In this case, Luiselli shoehorns in so many references that it becomes farcical. Aside from lengthy passages of dialogue discussing books, every chapter opens with an epigraph, and some chapters literally just list book titles. It stops feeling like Luiselli is trying to draw thematic or narrative parallels, and starts to feel pretentious and self-congratulatory; a cringy effort to show-off how cultured and well-read she is. I doubt this was her intention, but it’s how it read to me.

The character development also felt off. There’s a lot of telling, rather than showing, particularly with the supposed tensions between the parents. We’re often told that they’re fighting and on the brink of a breakup, but the context of this felt lacking. The children fear that a separation would result in them being split up, thus ‘lost’ to each other. It becomes clear that this is supposed to be a thematic mirroring of the migrant children lost in the desert, but these are hardly problems of the same calibre. It all starts to feel like a terribly middle-class, privileged, and clumsy brand of empathy.

When the POV switches to that of the ten-year-old son half-way through, I found him very inauthentic as a narrator; the adult writer always visible through his words. By the time I reached the now infamous 30-page-long sentence (not a chapter, not a paragraph; a sentence), I just felt weary and emotionally disconnected.

There was also an element of expectation versus reality, which I concede is not strictly the book’s fault. I had been under the impression that the narrative would switch back and forth between the family and a group of migrant children. It doesn’t. The children, around whom the book is supposed to focus, are defined by their absence. Deliberate, yes, but a wasted opportunity, I felt. The book could have been a platform for migrant voices to shine. Arguably it is, but not at all in the way I hoped.

The aim of the book is one that I (and anyone with a shred of moral decency) can support 100%. It’s to deride the indignity of the way the current US administration treats migrants, and to highlight the country’s repeated mistreatment of those it deems ‘other’ or ‘undesirable’, by comparing what’s happening now to the experiences of Native Americans. Good intentions don’t equal a good book, however. The almost mythic quality given to the migrants doesn’t exactly help to humanise them. Nor does the rhetoric surrounding Native Americans, which seems to imply that they are resigned wholly to history books, sit very comfortably.

The number of glowing reviews for this prove that it can work in the hands of the right reader; the ability to gel with Luiselli’s singular style evidently key in connecting to the narrative. Sadly, I couldn’t.

***

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

March Wrap Up

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The books I read in March

And so, we reach the end of March, AKA attempting-to-read-as-many-books-from-the-Women’s-Prize-longlist-as-possible-month. I finished 11 books in all, bringing my total for the year so far up to 32. Here are some very brief thoughts on each, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Milkman by Anna Burns

[ ] An intelligent, shrewdly observant, and original reading experience that captures the atmosphere of institutionalized violence and oppression that reigned during the Troubles. Its stream of consciousness style can be frustrating at times, but the effort was certainly worthwhile.

The Dreamers by Karen Thompson Walker

[ ] As gripping to read as it is thought-provoking, this quiet dystopian about the spread of a mysterious sleep sickness puts the emphasis on its characters, and poses big questions about the nature of time, and the wonder of dreams.

Paradise by Edna O’Brien

[ ] This was a nice little taster of O’Brien’s fiction, with lovely prose, a quietly off-kilter tone, and some striking imagery. To me, it spoke of how mentally destructive it is to try and change yourself to appease others, as well as the self-serving, toxic brand of pride that can arise when the wealthy try to ‘help’ those beneath them on the social ladder.

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite

[ ] A sort-of-thriller meets a character study, this explores the bond of sisterhood, and the limits of familial loyalty, when a woman is called upon to help her sister get away with murder. There’s a satirical edge, and some subtle social commentary, but above all, it serves as a fun, fast read.

Praise Song for the Butterflies by Bernice L. McFadden

[ ] Whilst I admired the message McFadden aimed to impart, I found the execution of this one frustrating. It educates about a forgotten part of African history, and draws parallels with the current day, but a distant narrative voice, and clumsy handling of several plot points let it down.

The Pisces by Melissa Broder

[ ] A lesson in reading outside your comfort zone; I ended up loving this strange gem of a book, which is driven by its bold, unsentimental, singular narrative voice, and its look at sexuality, loneliness, and longing in the modern era.

Circe by Madeline Miller

[ ] Whilst I appreciated the agency and emotional depth that Miller granted Circe, I wish she had deviated a little more from the core myth, allowing for greater freedom in the narrative’s otherwise linear, repetitive structure.

Dinosaurs on Other Planets by Danielle McLaughlin

[ ] A solid collection of short stories that captures an overall tone of melancholy, and the ache of longing, from various different perspectives. The individual stories didn’t wow me, but I appreciated the feel of the collection as a whole.

Ordinary People by Diana Evans

[ ] A good set-up and some nice prose sadly weren’t enough to win me round with this one. The meandering pace, a jarring supernatural element, and a failure to capitalise on the potential of its themes left me feeling underwhelmed. Still, it offers an introspective snapshot of modern relationships.

Bottled Goods by Sophie van Llewyn

[ ] A wholly unique reading experience, this novella-in-flash is a tapestry of moments that explores 1970s communist Romania, with a flair of something decidedly magical.

Normal People by Sally Rooney

[ ] A brilliantly perceptive exploration of love, friendship, miscommunication, and the need to be needed. Everything about this felt wonderfully authentic, and I adored it.

***

There we have it! If any of the books I mentioned caught your attention, you can find them with free shipping over on Book Depository by clicking here, or on the image below.

My favourite read this month was Normal People, but I also loved The Dreamers and The Pisces. What was your favourite?

Normal People by Sally Rooney | Book Review

Normal People by Sally Rooney

Published by Faber & Faber, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Normal People is a quiet powerhouse of a novel. Shrewdly observant, to the point of feeling almost voyeuristic, we follow Connell and Marianne as they attempt to navigate the complexities of life, and to make sense of their feelings for one another.

Rooney captures the angst of young love in a way that avoids all the pitfalls of a typical romance novel. Indeed, to class this as a romance would feel somehow dismissive of how fully it encapsulates the human experience. Never have I seen an author so successfully reflect the frustration and anxiety of over-analysing everything someone says and does; the paranoia of wanting to be wanted.

As circumstances repeatedly push Connell and Marianne to and from each another, the novel examines various forms of miscommunication, and the notion of wasted opportunities. Chief amongst these is the failure to understand our own feelings, let alone how to articulate them to those around us. Through her characters’ interactions, Rooney also explores the idea that the ones we love are the ones we hurt the most; the unique brand of power that comes with mutual affection, and the need for affirmation to combat our own self-loathing. The reality of modern-day class divides, and the bewilderment of trying to move between social circles, is also handled with aplomb.

Reading this was almost painful at times, so many of my own experiences looking back at me from the page. As such, I felt hugely invested in the characters, utterly convinced by their authenticity. And whilst it would be easy for some to dismiss Rooney’s prose as simplistic, there’s an honesty and a perceptiveness to her work that belies its readability.

This is one of those books that I loved so much, it’s difficult to talk about without resorting to rudimentary gushing. I simply want to urge as many people as possible to experience it for themselves. If Sally Rooney truly is the author-of-the-moment, long may she reign.

***

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

Bottled Goods by Sophie van Llewyn | Book Review

Bottled Goods by Sophie van Llewyn

Published by Fairlight Books, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Set in 1970s communist Romania, Bottled Goods is a novella-in-flash, chronicling Alina’s attempts to escape her homeland after she and her husband become persons of interest to the secret police. This unique structure, in which every chapter could theoretically stand on its own, is a clever and effective way to portray the idea that our lives are a tapestry of individual moments; vignettes that add up to form a bigger picture. The constant shifts in narrative style, from first to third person, and from letters to lists, etc., made for a unique and memorable reading experience that also reflected the erratic interruption to normality that became commonplace at this tumultuous time.

For the most part, the book captures the kind of stifling oppression that dictated people’s everyday lives, and the culture of fear and betrayal this engendered, with hardboiled realism. There are, however, moments of something decidedly more surreal, particularly in the book’s final third. These dalliances with the otherworldly will likely alienate some readers, but in this particular instance, I thought it worked. The glimpses of magical realism served up some striking imagery, and acted as a mirror for the strong folkloric heritage of Romania. This, to me, introduced the notion of drawing on one’s past, and holding onto wonder in the face of darkness and tyranny.

Getting back to the plot itself, there were moments of genuine tension and claustrophobic discomfort, the brutality of the regime deftly captured without ever becoming gratuitous. The final scene was striking and thought-provoking; one that begs discussion with fellow readers. As a heroine, I enjoyed following Alina’s perspective. Not only does she show emotional growth throughout the narrative arc, but she is realistically flawed, definitely not immune to the brand of cruelty that can arise in the struggle for self-preservation in times of corruption.

Sophie van Llewyn’s prose feels largely understated, but there’s deceptive nuance, and some wonderful passages that had me re-reading just to soak in the beauty: ‘There’s something in the way hope creeps up behind our backs and presses its palms against our eyes, leaving us smiling, but blind to the future. And we are both reluctant to speak its name, for fear that it might vanish. There’s something in the way we hold each other at night, like shipwrecked passengers, like that summer when the sea was licking at our toes, like the first time we met. There’s something in the way we say, We will, We will, We will, ringing in our ears like music.’

An altogether singular and engaging reading experience, this had been on my radar for a while, but I’m thrilled its longlisting for the Women’s Prize pushed me to finally pick it up. It’s heartening to see a unique piece of literature from a small press recognised by a major prize in this way.

***

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

Ordinary People by Diana Evans | Book Review

Ordinary People by Diana Evans

Published by Chatto & Windus, 2018

My rating:

[image error]This book is perfectly fine, and though reading it was never a chore for me (as it seems to have been for some others), it never really grabbed me either. The set-up has promise, Evans introducing us to two black couples living in the UK during the time of Obama’s election win. But despite the theme of contemporary race relations running throughout the background of the novel, it focusses far more on disintegrating relationships, and the kind of pressure that comes with getting married and having children. From this angle, I don’t think the book offers anything particularly new to an already saturated genre, nor do the plot or characters develop in a fresh or engaging way.

Evans’ prose is lovely at times, and there are some great passages in here, in which she shares shrewd observations on gender, race, relationships, grief, and parenthood. Indeed, the book is at its best when it details a character’s struggles to hold on to their sense of self whilst dealing with the pitfalls of everyday life. However, I do think she has a tendency to over explain things; a classic example of telling rather than showing. This lends the book a meandering quality, and serves to slow down the pace considerably.

There’s also a supernatural thread that looms over the whole thing, one of the characters convinced that her house is haunted. It’s subtle at first, but it swells towards the climax. Though I found it intriguing, it feels completely out of place within the context of the rest of the story. By the end, it fizzles out, dismissed in a single line that would be easy to miss. I can only imagine that the character’s desire to escape the house itself was supposed to be a metaphor for her stifling relationship, but the tangent offers no obvious narrative or thematic gain, and it left me with more questions than answers as to why it was included in the novel.

The real trouble is, despite having just finished the book, I would already struggle to tell someone what happens in it, a combination of the plot never really going anywhere; its themes not being properly capitalised on; and its general failure to hold my interest as a result.

I don’t doubt this will work considerably better for other readers. Namely, those in search of a slow, quiet, and introspective snapshot of modern relationships. It’s just not my cup of tea. That said, it’s good to push beyond your comfort zone every now and then, and I was happy to tick off another read from the Women’s Prize longlist with this one.

***

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

Iceland

Hello! Sorry if I’ve been a little quiet on here over the past week. I kept up as best I could whilst I was away, but am otherwise getting back to normal now. Those of you who follow me on Twitter or Instagram are probably sick of me talking about how incredible my third trip to Iceland was, but I still wanted to put together a little post sharing a few of the highlights nonetheless. I hope you can indulge me, and that the pictures convey even a small amount of the beauty the country has to offer.

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Hraunfossar, a series of waterfalls flowing off the edge of a lava field.

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Barnafoss, a neighbouring waterfall that runs through the valley, so cold, clear, and powerful that the water appears blue.

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Walking through a series of tunnels and caves carved inside a glacier, 30 metres below surface level.

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They even have a bar and a chapel down there!

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The way light played off the ice crystals was amazing.

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Seljalandsfoss, found near the south coast. Notice the tiny person in red on the right for an idea of scale.

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The Icelandic countryside, and a charming old turf church.

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Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon, where ice breaks from a glacier and is carried out to the ocean. I was blown away by the sheer scale and overwhelming presence of this place. It’s a cliché, but pictures will never do it justice.

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With the ice constantly melting and shifting in the tide (you can literally hear it creaking as it moves), the view is ever changing.

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Skógafoss, another powerful waterfall found in the southern region.

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Harpa, Reykjavik’s main concert hall, and The Sun Voyager, a Viking inspired sculpture.

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Hallgrimskirkja, from outside and in.

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The garden at the Einar Jónsson Sculpture Museum, which is free to look around, and features some gorgeous pieces.

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Dusk at the old harbour in downtown Reykjavik.

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A lovely view of the city, against a backdrop of the ocean and mountains beyond. This was taken from the top of Perlan, a fantastic museum, planetarium, man-made ice cave, and viewing station.

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Needless to say, I had an amazing time…

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… and I’m already eager to plan a 4th visit.

Edna O’Brien & Danielle McLaughlin | Two Mini Reviews

Here are brief reviews for a couple of recent reads. Both are Irish lit, #readingirelandmonth19 having been the perfect excuse to finally pick them off my shelves!

***

Paradise by Edna O’Brien

Published by Faber & Faber, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This short and engaging story follows a young woman as she sets off on vacation with her wealthy, much older partner. Upon learning that she is unable to swim, he hires an instructor to teach her, with the understanding that she will display her newly learned skill for him and his friends at the holiday’s end.

This was my first experience of O’Brien’s fiction, and though brief, it has certainly piqued my interest. She successfully creates a quietly off-kilter tone; the simmering threat that we are building towards something uncanny. This, coupled with her evocative prose and strong imagery made for a great little taster of her work.

There’s definitely some allegory at play, but O’Brien doesn’t deign to hand us all the answers, which leaves the latent meaning open to interpretation. To me, it spoke about how mentally destructive it is to try and change yourself to appease others, as well as the self-serving, toxic brand of pride that can arise when the wealthy try to ‘help’ those beneath them on the social ladder.

You can pick up a copy of Paradise by clicking here.

***

Dinosaurs on Other Planets by Danielle McLaughlin

Published by John Murray, 2017 (first published by Stinging Fly Press, 2015)

My rating:

[image error]This was a solid and competently constructed collection of contemporary short stories. Nearly all of the eleven offerings are united by a general tone of melancholy; captured in a kind of quiet, everyday loneliness, and the theme of yearning for a sense of connection or escape. As an overarching concept, I thought this worked very effectively, and made the collection feel cohesive.

On the flipside, however, it also meant the stories began to blend together somewhat, with few standout moments to help differentiate individual tales. As a result, it’s the kind of collection that I will remember for its feel, rather than its plot or character arcs. I think, therefore, that it would have benefitted from a greater sense of variety; some light and shade to add definition and impact. Still, McLaughlin clearly has a knack for crafting a specific mood, and I’d certainly check out more of her work in the future.

You can pick up a copy of Dinosaurs on Other Planets by clicking here.

Circe by Madeline Miller | Book Review

Circe by Madeline Miller

Published by Bloomsbury, 2018

My rating:

[image error]With this novel, Madeline Miller set out to give Circe a voice; to add dimension and agency to a character normally relegated to the side lines of classic Greek mythology. On that front, she has certainly succeeded. Her version of the iconic witch is decidedly more complex, with a strong emotional drive that makes her all the more compelling. That, for me, was the greatest strength of the book.

I also enjoyed Miller’s prose. It’s incredibly readable, but is elevated by some beautiful flourishes. That’s not to say it’s perfect, however. A few particularly modern words and phrases stood out as odd choices, and these felt a little jarring stylistically. Still, it was always an easy book to get through; Miller’s passion and knowledge for mythology radiating from every page.

This enthusiasm, ironically, led to one of my gripes with the book, however. Namely, I thought Miller tried to incorporate a few too many myths and characters into the narrative. Circe’s story threw up enough potential for development as it was, meaning that some of the references to other myths felt like box ticking more than justifiable plot points.

I thought the structure of the plot itself was also somewhat flawed, though perhaps unavoidably so. The very nature of Circe’s life (she is exiled on a remote island) means that she is absent for much of the action, other characters simply relaying information to her after the fact. I can see this would have been tricky to get around without contradicting the existing canon of Circe, but I can’t pretend it served as the most riveting narrative device. On a similar vein, reading about a vastly powerful, immortal witch can take some of the jeopardy out of proceedings. I liked that there was a focus on the emotional and psychological tole of her hardships, but any physical threat from gods and monsters felt lacking, given Circe’s own godly status.

A bit of a mixed bag for me, all-in-all. But in fairness, I always suspected that would be the case, hence my hesitancy to pick this up prior to its longlisting for the Women’s Prize. Purely as a matter of personal preference, I like my mythological retellings on the radical side (i.e. authors taking themes, plot points, and character archetypes from myths, and rewriting them in a modern, real-life setting), as opposed to retellings that still indulge in the swords and sorcery of the original tales. That’s just me, however, and I can both see and respect why Miller is so popular. I could arguably have rated this more harshly, but my appreciation for her craft and how well she ultimately brought everything together convinced me to stick with a solid three stars.

***

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

The Pisces by Melissa Broder | Book Review

The Pisces by Melissa Broder

Published by Bloomsbury, 2018

My Rating:

[image error]No one is as shocked as I am about how much I enjoyed The Pisces. On paper, it’s pretty much the opposite of what I look for in fiction, with words like ‘romantic’, ‘sexy’, ‘hilarious’, and ‘magical realism’ normally major red flags for me. But a longlisting for the Women’s Prize, and some excellent reviews from my bookish friends persuaded me to make an exception. Boy, am I glad I did.

To say this book is about a woman having a lot of sex and falling in love with a merman isn’t exactly untrue, but it certainly doesn’t do it justice either. For all its erotic moments and sharply observational quips, there is in fact a lot going on beneath the surface – pun fully intended. Lucy, our narrator, is a fascinating character. Indeed, the narrative voice is bold, singular, and utterly compelling; Broder having crafted a heroine who is as frustrating as she is endearing. Yes, she can be selfish, shallow, and even cruel, but with much of that stemming from her own insecurities, and manifesting in the kind of black humour that many of us use to get through the day, it feels entirely justified and refreshingly human. As such, it is Lucy herself who keeps the narrative grounded, no matter how surreal it otherwise becomes. Her work on a PhD thesis on Sappho also allows for some wonderful references to Greek mythology, which merely heighten the novel’s fantastical air.

Through her depression, self-doubt, and obsession with finding love, Lucy becomes a conduit through which Broder examines loneliness in the modern era, and the pain of misplaced desire. As she stumbles from one bad decision and toxic relationship to another, we begin to question if love is truly what she craves, and if satisfaction can ever come when it’s the chase that imparts the greatest thrill.

The first half of the book was on track for a five star rating, and the only reason I’ve bumped it down to four is a slight over-indulgence in its sexual content in the latter half. I don’t say this from a prudish standpoint. Sexuality is of course key to the story and its themes, but there’s only so many times you can read the graphic, intimate details of someone’s sex life before you start to become desensitized; any attempt to shock, enthral, or demystify feeling slightly diluted by way of repetition.

Though I had been hesitant about the magical realism elements of the story (it’s a form I often struggle with in a full-length novel), I felt Broder pitched it just right. For me, the genre always works best when we can never be entirely certain how much is real, and how much exists within the psyche of a complex narrator, so I was pleased to see this dynamic play out during the book’s brilliant climax. There was a kind of self-awareness for her own metaphor in general that I found admirable. It made the book all the more fun and engaging to read.

Unapologetic, unsentimental, and wholly original, The Pisces swept me away, and I was left feeling both satisfied and delighted by what is sure to be a memorable reading experience.

***

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