Callum McLaughlin

If I'm not reading books, I'm probably talking about them on the internet

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Piranesi by Susanna Clarke | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on April 12, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, fantasy, literature, Reading, womens prize, writer. 13 Comments

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke
Published by Bloomsbury, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

50202953._SY475_I’m having a hard time organising my thoughts for this strange little novel. I found it utterly compelling to read, the setting that Clarke has created both rich and absorbing, but I didn’t find it as surprising or revelatory on a thematic level as most other readers seem to have done.

As many have opined, it’s probably best to head in knowing little about the plot (though, it’s also possible that being geared up for an inevitable twist set my hopes too high, and I would say the major details aren’t all too hard to determine). Suffice to say we follow Piranesi, who lives a near solitary existence in a mysterious flooded house, characterised by its endless labyrinthine halls, towering statues, and changing tides. He believes himself and one other with whom he has sporadic interactions to be the only living people to inhabit the world, but predictably, everything is not quite as it seems.

The book is written in the form of diary entries that detail Piranesi’s various endeavours to explore and understand this world. Fortunately, he is both interesting and likable as a protagonist, and Clarke’s prose makes it a pleasure to spend time inside Piranesi’s head as we piece together the narrative’s puzzle pieces alongside him.

Though never landing any kind of emotional punch for me, the book does ruminate on the likes of loneliness, trauma response, memory, and the nature of identity. I took it primarily as an exploration of the idea that we can make peace with our place in the world, and whether or not it is possible to find contentment in ignorance.

That said, the book isn’t as impenetrably cerebral as I feared it would be based on people’s deliberately ambiguous reviews (it is tough to discuss without spoilers). Yes, there are depths to be mined and many literary references to be picked apart if you so wish, but on a sentence-by-sentence level, Piranesi is also simply an enjoyable read. Carried by a singular setting that is brought to life vividly on the page, and a protagonist who is easy to root for, I’m glad I picked this up, even if just for the truly unique reading experience it presents.


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Hannah Lowe & Ollie Schminkey | Mini Reviews

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on April 10, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, lgbt, literature, poetry, Reading, writer. 4 Comments

The Kids by Hannah Lowe
Published by Bloodaxe Books, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

9781780375793_973b3With her strikingly contemporary voice, Lowe breathes new life into the sonnet, an otherwise archaic form of poetry. Switching seamlessly between poignancy and humour, the collection is primarily concerned with youth; exploring experiences from Lowe’s own childhood, that of her son, and of the students she mentored throughout her decade long teaching career. She dives into the intersection of class, race, and gender that exemplifies inner-city London; her identity as a white passing half English, half Chinese/Jamaican woman offering a unique perspective.

The style, though punchy and accessible, is very on-the-nose, leaving little room for complex wordplay or striking imagery. The majority of the pieces won’t stay with me, but a few gems made it a worthwhile read.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.


Dead Dad Jokes by Ollie Schminkey
Published by Button Poetry, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

57558705._SY475_This collection focusses almost entirely on the tragic loss of the poet’s father. Schminkey lays bare the visceral indignity of a slow, painful death. Having always had a complicated relationship with their father (an alcoholic with a violent streak), the poems do an excellent job of exploring the fraught middle-ground between grief and resentment, posing interestingly nuanced questions: Are sympathy and care familial rights, or should they have to be earned? Does death absolve someone of their mistakes? Is it wrong to feel relieved when someone finally lets go?

As a performance poet, Schminkey’s style has a strong sense of narrative and momentum, making their work very approachable. Though the razor-sharp focus on a single theme makes the collection feel cohesive, it also makes it harder for individual pieces to stand out, the relentlessly heavy subject matter a possible deterrent for some. A few pieces briefly touched on their experience with gender and identity as a trans, non-binary person, and the joy that came with acceptance of their queerness. A greater focus on this angle would have allowed for some tonal light and shade. In all, Shminkey is a poet I’m glad to have discovered.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.


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The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on April 3, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, literary fiction, literature, Reading, womens prize, writer. 10 Comments

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett
Published by Dialogue Books, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

51467369._SY475_When a book has been hugely hyped, venturing into it always comes with the fear it will disappoint, but The Vanishing Half more than exceeded my high expectations.

We follow three generations of women from the same family, and the disparate ways they choose to live their lives. At the book’s heart are Desiree and Stella, identical twins raised in Mallard, a rural community of Black folk, who aim to achieve lighter skin with each generation by shunning those with dark skin. The sisters flee to the city together at sixteen, but eventually drift apart; Desiree choosing to embrace her heritage as a Black woman, and Stella choosing to “pass” and live her life as white. With the timeline stretching from the 60s to the 90s, we also follow the sisters’ mother, Adele, and their respective daughters; Jude, who inherits her Black father’s dark skin, and Kennedy, who is raised to believe she is 100% white. Inevitably, the scattered family’s paths will eventually converge, and each of them will be forced to face up to the reality of who they are, and who they want to be.

The book is so well written, compelling in plot but rich in character development. With four main characters – and several major supporting characters in each of their narrative threads – it would have been easy for things to feel convoluted, or for certain POVs to fade in significance when compared to the others. Instead, Bennett makes each of her characters feel like a flawed, fleshed out, and believable human being. I hugely admired the way Bennett was able to explore the reasons behind each of the women’s life choices, showing the complexity of the socioeconomic factors at play, and without ever sitting in judgement.

The way she plays with parallels is also so clever, driving home the novel’s themes to great effect. Most obviously, we have the differences between cousins, Jude and Kennedy. They are part of the same generation of the same family, but their appearances mean they are perceived in entirely different ways by those around them. As a Black woman, Jude has to work hard with limited opportunities, and is still seen as lesser. As a white woman, Kennedy has been raised with a sense of entitlement, and is able to chase her dreams and find success despite flunking school.

In one of the best-handled threads, Jude falls for Reese, a trans man. Jude is the only one who knows his secret, everyone else believing him to be cis. His decision to literally transition from the life that was assigned to him to live the one he desires, and his right to protect that life by guarding his secret, lest he face rejection, is a perfect mirroring of Stella’s decision to keep her own past a secret. Just as we want Reese to find a way to be happy within his own skin, we sympathise with Stella’s desire to live a life free of segregation, restriction, and derision, simply because of the body she was born into. But while Reese is choosing to actively pursue his true identity, Stella is choosing to hide hers, and it’s here we begin to understand why – despite seeming to have it all – Stella is still chasing a sense of belonging.

Speaking of Reese, I thought his arc was handled beautifully. Bennett avoids all the anticipated tropes of queer misery, and I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to read about a likable, three-dimensional queer character who was also allowed to be happy. Though I enjoyed every character’s story, the sections that followed Jude’s move to Los Angeles – where she falls for Reese and befriends a group of drag queens – was such a joy to read; an ode to the kinship felt by those pushed to the fringes of society; the importance of found family; and the resilience of those bold enough to challenge expectations and forge their own identities.

Objectively, I can see that the narrative relied on a few convenient coincidences, but given context, these felt earned. Not only is the story set across a long period of time, if feels reflective of the idea that you can’t escape your past; that no matter how hard you try to deny it, you will have to confront it eventually.

There would have been a very obvious way for this to wrap up, and while she does offer a sense of closure, I admired Bennett for once again having the conviction to refuse the tried and tested route. Instead, she opts for something far more bittersweet; for something far more real.

Nuanced, poignant, and utterly captivating, I loved every moment I spent with this book and its complicated characters; each of them navigating questions of race, family, identity, happiness, and agency. I’m so glad I finally picked this up.


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March Wrap Up

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on April 1, 2021
Posted in: Monthly Wrap Ups. Tagged: book reviews, books, embroidery, literature, monthly wrap up, Reading, wrap up, writer. 14 Comments

Having been in the lingering grip of a reading slump for a while, March was one of the most successful months I’ve had for a while, in terms of both quantity and overall quality. With that said, here are links to the books I read & reviewed, followed by a quick look at the embroidery projects I completed.

Books read: 10

Yearly total: 26

3. mar

The books I read in March

1. Summerwater by Sarah Moss

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

2. Calling in Black by Nicholle Ramsey

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

3. Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

4. Gratitude by Delphine de Vigan, tr. by George Miller

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

5. Acrobat by Nabaneeta Dev Sen, tr. by Nandana Sen

⭐ ⭐ | Review

6. Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

7. Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

8. The Night Always Comes by Willy Vlautin

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review to come for BookBrowse

9. The Natural Mother of the Child by Krys Malcolm Belc

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

10. Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

Favourite of the month: Klara and the Sun


In terms of embroidery projects, I had a lot of fun throughout March working on some more original designs.

5. MarEmbroidery1

I wanted to start a little ongoing series of woodland creatures, which led to these hedgehog, fox, and rabbit designs.

6. MarEmbroidery2

The seascape came about when I decided to try and make something with a chunky, textural look; the autumnal tree was a gift for Mother’s Day; and frankly, it was only a matter of time before I made some kind of tribute to Carrie Fisher!


What was your favourite read in March?

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Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 31, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, lgbt, literature, queer, Reading, womens prize, writer. 5 Comments

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters
Published by Serpent’s Tail, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

55119258._SY475_Summing up the very complex character dynamic in this novel in a succinct way is tricky, so I’ll simply borrow the opening lines of the blurb: A whipsmart debut about three women—transgender and cisgender—whose lives collide after an unexpected pregnancy forces them to confront their deepest desires around gender, motherhood, and sex.

Frank and unashamedly queer, the novel strikes a great balance between readability and insightful social commentary. Peters, as a trans woman herself, has fascinating things to say about the physical, mental, social, and financial pressures of transitioning; giving equal attention and sensitivity to the highly controversial, misunderstood (and often weaponized) process of de-transitioning.

I liked that Peters wasn’t afraid to present her characters as being just as messy as they are sympathetic; their flaws making them all the more believable. There is excellent commentary on the various manifestations of dysphoria, as well as the unique brand of jealousy and internalised transphobia that trans people themselves can feel towards those at different stages of the process. The narrative also touches on how deep-rooted misogyny is within society by showing the often toxic ways some trans women feel compelled to seek validation of their identity; the need to be degraded or belittled to “feel like a woman”.

The writing style is conversational and thus very readable. I also appreciated the use of pronouns, which shift back-and-forth for certain characters along with the timeline, demonstrating the malleable nature of gender identity in a simple but effective way. However, the prose can feel somewhat self-indulgent at times; Peters clumsily drawing out metaphors longer than necessary. Particularly in the mid-section, the tone (and one-particular plot development) tip the book towards soap opera-esque territory. There’s nothing wrong with this, per se, but it’s not generally my cup of tea.

Still, this is a refreshingly honest read that highlights the important distinction between “being trans” and “performing trans”, and why a person may (or may not) choose to publicly pursue transition. Above all, it felt to me like a worthwhile look at the spectrum of queerness, and the specific importance of found family within the LGBT+ community.


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The Natural Mother of the Child by Krys Malcolm Belc | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 28, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, lgbt, nonfiction, queer, Reading, writer. 5 Comments

The Natural Mother of the Child by Krys Malcolm Belc
Published by Counterpoint Press, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

55000747This memoir explores Belc’s experiences as a transmasculine nonbinary parent, with a particular focus on the shifting nature of identity, and the language we use to define ourselves.

Born biologically female, Belc was yet to undergo surgery or hormone replacement, but was living and presenting publicly as a man, when he decided to have a child via a sperm donor. There is such fascinating insight into the complexities of queer parenthood, with Belc both amazed and horrified by the changes he goes through. It was the disconnect between the wonderful bond he felt with his child and his discomfort with the bodily processes of carrying, birthing, and nursing a child that confirmed in Belc’s mind that he was indeed not a woman in any of the societally accepted ways. As soon as he finished breastfeeding (having had to reluctantly stop binding his chest), he began the formal process of taking testosterone.

Belc is also a parent to two other children, carried by his cis-female partner, Anna. He very much feels like the children’s dad – and is deeply uncomfortable with being called a mother, even to the child he birthed – and yet, heteronormativity is so widely accepted, that to tell people he is his son’s father feels like a denial of their physical bond. He is proud to have carried him, and doesn’t want to erase that history. It is here we see the importance of the words we use to label ourselves and each other – and how frustrating it can be when those labels don’t easily apply to our own lived realities.

This leads on nicely into some great commentary on the general difficulty that queer people face in being recognised as a parent to the children they don’t have a direct biological link to (having been carried by their partner instead). Despite using sperm donations and raising their children together, Belc and his partner are not listed on the birth certificates, or recognised legally as a parent to the children they didn’t carry themselves. This means they have to adopt each other’s offspring to have any recognised rights over them (they worry that if one of them were to die, the other would have no legal right to custody, despite having raised all of their children together from birth, for example). However, this process also means the children’s biological father – a family friend – must relinquish all rights to the children, something that Belc feels great remorse over.

Another interesting area explored is that of male rage. Once he has transitioned, Belc notes a marked difference in the way people – including his own partner and children – respond to him, especially when he is angry. Simply changing his outward appearance to present as a man is enough to make society instantly more fearful of him, which says a lot about how deep-rooted toxic masculinity has become.

As you can tell, there is a lot of depth and nuance to Belc’s situation, but it is presented in such an accessible way. What’s more, this complexity is beautifully counterbalanced by the simple act of loving his children, providing them with a happy home – as any parent aspires to – and an upbringing that encourages acceptance of difference.

A natural storyteller, Belc’s writing style is approachable, honest, and warm, often feeling like a heartfelt discussion with a friend. The essay-like structure, non-linear timeline, and shits between a first and second-person perspective can be a little jarring, however. Nonetheless, this fascinating read manages to capture so many of the struggles inherent to the trans/nonbinary experience, and the complicated ways in which they intersect with the joys of parenthood.


Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.


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Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 23, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, literary fiction, literature, Reading, writer. 18 Comments

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro
Published by Faber & Faber, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

54112560._SY475_Being Ishiguro’s first release since he won the Nobel Prize for Literature, this was always going to generate a lot of buzz, drawing in casual readers and hardened critics alike. Thankfully, Klara and the Sun is more than capable of pleasing this broad readership spectrum: It has great commercial appeal thanks to its pertinent themes and readability, while Ishiguro’s signature insight into the human condition and subtle emotional delivery heighten the experience.

The blurb actually gives very little away in terms of plot and theme, covering only the book’s opening pages. This was clearly deliberate, and so I too will avoid detail beyond the fact that the story opens with the eponymous Klara, an Artificial Friend (a highly sophisticated humanoid machine designed to serve as a companion to a child), as she observes people from the store, waiting to be purchased.

The capabilities of Artificial Friends are never up for debate; society has clearly reached the point at which AI has gained full sentience, meaning these machines now exhibit independent thought, emotion, and learning. This makes Klara a fascinating POV character, as she possesses the kind of wide-eyed innocence and desire to please you’d expect from a child, with the intelligence and eloquence of an adult, and all without the level of cold detachment you’d normally expect from a “robot” narrator.

Presenting us with the story through Klara’s eyes was very clever on Ishiguro’s part, for a number of reasons. The world-building is eked out slowly throughout the novel, the characters often skirting around contextual details that would reveal more about how their society operates, and the true depth of what is going on narratively. This kind of understated yet drawn-out mystery would have felt forced and frustrating if told in third person, or from a human character’s perspective, but Klara’s unique position means Ishiguro can get away with it. After all, why would humans feel the need to contextualise their lives for the benefit of a machine? Why would Klara prioritise the same information as us when her entire worldview is different from ours? By having us learn about this world at the same pace as Klara, Ishiguro is able to maintain an undercurrent of intrigue, delivering quietly devastating revelations along the way, as more and more pieces fall into place.

This leads nicely onto the prose itself, which is simple yet effective. There’s a charm and a formality to the tone, but a complete avoidance of flowery language, all of which are befitting of Klara’s characterisation. In that respect, it’s not a “beautifully” written book, but there is undeniable skill in the control Ishiguro has over his plotting, characters, and pacing.

It’s hard to talk about further specifics without dipping into spoiler territory, and the book’s marketing was clearly designed so that readers can go in knowing as little as possible (not unlike Ishiguro’s hit, Never Let Me Go). Suffice to say, this is a nuanced exploration of science-fiction’s greatest questions: What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to love? Where should we draw the moral and ethical lines when it comes to scientific progress? In a capitalist society, will advancements in technology improve equality or simply fuel further class division due to discrepancies in access and social standing?

My only real reservation was the handling of the denouement, which I found a little too brief. While I admire Ishiguro’s commitment to subtlety, the full implications of the book’s final turns felt somewhat untapped. Having laid the groundwork so cleverly, I think he’d more than earned the kind of emotional sucker punch he ultimately shied away from.

That said, Ishiguro gets to the very heart of humanity with a deft hand; exposing our best and worst traits, while paying tribute to the persistence of hope, and faith in the wonder of the natural world. I was compelled throughout, only realising the true extent of the book’s power upon reaching its final pages. I’m intrigued to see how this one stays with me over time.


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Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi | Book Review

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 18, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, literature, Reading, womens prize, writer. 9 Comments

Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi
Published by Viking, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

50628439._SY475_Despite the largely rave reviews that have been pouring in, and how much I admired it myself, I can see why this novel might not work for everyone. It’s slow and ruminative with next to no plot beyond what we’re told in the synopsis, and it deliberately denies readers answers to the big questions it poses. Because of these qualities, I must confess it took me some time to get drawn in, worrying initially that the narrative would remain too emotionally distant and lacking a sense of drive. But around the half-way point, once the focus shifted firmly onto the book’s primary thematic concerns, it completely won me round.

We follow Gifty, a 28-year-old scientist living in America, daughter to Ghanaian immigrant parents. Despite her very Christian upbringing, Gifty has largely turned her back on the church, her faith having been pushed too far by her father’s abandonment, her brother’s drug related death, and her mother’s resulting depression. With religion having failed to provide her with answers to the how and why of her family’s suffering, Gifty now devotes herself to her scientific research. As she seeks to understand the nature of freewill in the face of addiction, she hopes to better understand how her brother could have pushed himself to the fate he endured.

With this setup, Gyasi is able to explore a myriad of fascinating themes. Chiefly, whether belief in science and religion can coexist, and if either can ever offer true closure for distinctly human problems. I was hugely impressed by the author’s ability to show keen insight into the comfort and failings inherent to both, without sitting in judgement of those who turn to either.

The prose itself is very strong, beautiful without feeling overwrought. Take for example the author’s knack for well-placed imagery:

“If I’ve thought of my mother as callous, and many times I have, then it is important to remember what a callus is: the hardened tissue that forms over a wound.”

“I, too, have spent years creating my little moat of good deeds in an attempt to protect the castle of myself.”

Or take her ability to hit you in the gut with the poignancy of raw, emotional insight:

“Forget for a moment what he looked like on paper, and instead see him as he was in all of his glory, in all of his beauty. It’s true that for years before he died, I would look at his face and think, What a pity, what a waste. But the waste was my own, the waste was what I missed whenever I looked at him and saw just his addiction.”

Once we get beyond a slow start that seems to dance around the provision of any real detail, Gyasi delves fully into the exact nature of Nana’s addiction and the devastating impact it has on the mental health of Gifty and her mother. In Nana’s story, there is obvious critique of the handling of the US opioid crisis. Knowing his eventual fate makes the journey no less tragic, however, and I thought the tangential weaving in and out of the past suited the first-person narration perfectly, being very true to the nature of memory and self-reflection.

The book is also pleasingly nuanced, with Gyasi showing how interlinked various social issues are. It’s impossible for Gifty to consider the heartache she felt over her brother’s death without also considering the shame and resentment she felt towards him for perpetuating racial stereotypes about young, Black men and substance abuse – strengthening her own internalised racism, and further ostracising her from her predominantly white community. It’s equally impossible for her to consider the hard-won success of her academic career in science without considering the reality that her identity as a Black woman from a poor, religious background makes her very much a minority in her field.

It was here, however, that I felt the book failed to dive as deep as it could have with one key thread present in the narrative. Namely, Gifty’s sexuality. Through her contemplation of the past, we know Gifty has had romantic/sexual relationships with at least one man and one woman. The normalised, casual way she refers to this apparent queerness would normally be very welcome, but given the way this particular character (understandably) views every other aspect of her life through the lens of her strictly Christian upbringing, it feels like a missed opportunity to not explore the inevitably complex attitude she would have towards her sexuality.

All that said, Transcendent Kingdom is tender and intelligently understated. Reading it was a rich and rewarding experience, and though its somewhat circulatory, ambiguous conclusion may frustrate some, it is befitting of the novel’s look at the need to find inner peace, even if it means forgoing the answers we so desperately crave.


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Delphine de Vigan & Nabaneeta Dev Sen | Mini Reviews

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 15, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book review, books, literature, poetry, Reading, translated lit, writer. 6 Comments

Gratitude by Delphine de Vigan, translated from the French by George Miller
Published by Bloomsbury, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

55029686._SY475_Though it’s often said actions speak louder than words, in Gratitude, de Vigan argues the importance of language and communication; to express our emotions, to expunge ourselves of guilt, and to tether us to the world.

The story centres around elderly Michka. Growing increasingly frail, and suffering from aphasia (a condition that hinders your ability to communicate, causing you to repeatedly forget and misuse words), she moves into a care home. Marie, a young woman indebted to Michka, and Jérôme, Michka’s speech therapist, both determine to help her recover enough words so she can open up about her past, and gain the closure she needs.

Understated yet incredibly poignant, de Vigan does a fantastic job of crafting a convincing voice for her elderly protagonist, reflecting the pathos, frustration, and unexpected humour that come with her condition. Though never preachy, the novel pushes us to reach out to people while we can, and to never undervalue the weight of a sincerely spoken, “thank you”.


Acrobat by Nabaneeta Dev Sen, translated from the Bengali by Nandana Sen
Published by Archipelago, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

56990901This posthumous collection, sensitively translated by the poet’s own daughter, was the last project Dev Sen completed before her death in 2019. The pieces are wide-reaching in theme, with some particularly evocative lines throughout that reflect the landscape of India, and the differing worldview of men and women due to cultural roles. Beyond this, there’s a strong focus on womanhood in general, and Dev Sen’s experiences as a mother, as well as pieces on love, loss, language, memory, and so on.

With that said, I felt the collection would have benefitted from a more coherent thematic focus. There are several very short poems peppered throughout that felt stylistically jarring when held up against the flair of the other pieces. Take for example this lovely line from one of my favourites in the collection, which talks about the elusive nature of language, and the contrasting beauty and frustration felt throughout the writing process: “Words stand aloof / like the false modesty, many hued, of a setting sun that leans against the sky – / unattached, unreachable, alone / yet gently touching the earth’s tamed mane with caressing fingers.” Compare that to the piece entitled, “Unspoken”, which in its entirety simply reads: “Each time you say, ‘Forever, forever,’ / I only hear, / ‘Today, today!’” These strangely youthful sounding, angsty pieces read more like Instagram captions, and without wishing to sound flippant, the cutting of these “filler” pieces would have allowed the strongest poems the breathing space they needed to shine.

All-in-all, I admired this collection for its intent, but ultimately found the poetic voice too inconsistent, and thus failed to connect emotionally.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.


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Nicholle Ramsey & Alok Vaid-Menon | Mini Reviews

Posted by Callum McLaughlin on March 11, 2021
Posted in: book reviews. Tagged: book reviews, books, lgbt, literature, poetry, queer, Reading, writer. 5 Comments

Calling in Black by Nicholle Ramsey
Published by Talking Drum, LLC
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

71p2mhy-GxLIn her debut collection of poetry, Ramsey blends personal reflection with incisive social commentary. There is a pleasant rhythm and flow to her style, reflective of her experience as a spoken word performer, and though the language and imagery are largely straight-forward, her unique poetic voice still shines through.

Thematically the collection is certainly at its strongest when Ramsey lays bare the realities of life as a Black woman in a landscape that is inherently racist, capturing the dual persistence of oppression and resistance: “… the phoenix gains strength from / ashes / and we have been burned / for generations”. With that said, I love the way she contrasts the disdain society shows for Black bodies with the love she has come to cherish for her own Black body, some of the pieces as hopeful and celebratory as others are angry and weary.

And while she calls on history, making direct references to powerful names from the Civil Rights movement, she is also not afraid to place her work firmly in the here and now, with namechecks for the likes of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd hitting like a punch to the gut:

“history repeating, strange fruit / skipping on the record player / sandra bland knew the melody / but breonna taylor was caught off guard by the beat / we may pull up the statues, / but miss the roots / it grows, / grows like roses that bloom / in chests of young black boys / and thorns that choked george floyd / as he cried for his mother”

Rousing and impassioned, Ramsey is a poet whose future work I’m excited to follow.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.


Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon
Published by Penguin, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

51794301._SX318_SY475_Non-binary writer and artist Alok Vaid-Menon presents readers with an eloquent, intersectional, warm, and honest rumination on their experience with gender identity.

There’s a particular focus on the role that language plays in shaping opinion, perpetuating bias, and driving division, as the author discusses why a strict binary system of categorization limits everyone, not just those who opt not to live by it. They also go out of their way to debunk common misconceptions about belief in a gender spectrum, explaining that the recognition of identities beyond the “norm” isn’t an attempt to erase the concept of men and women; simply to allow everyone and anyone to feel at home in their own skin, and comfortable with the language they use to describe themselves.

Being so brief, and offering just one person’s perspective on such a complex, nuanced topic, this was never going to be an entirely comprehensive exploration of gender identity, but it serves as a fantastic and highly accessible entry point.


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