Genevieve Valentine & Robert Aickman | Mini Reviews

La beauté sans vertu by Genevieve Valentine
Published by Tor Books, 2016
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

One of the shorts made available for free through Tor.com, this offering from Genevieve Valentine is an unsettling, satirical swipe at beauty standards, and the hidden cruelties of the fashion world. Speculative sci-fi that flirts with body horror, the story explores a concept more than it tells a narrative, as we see the build-up to and aftermath of a catwalk show. With the pursuit of eternal youth having reached horrifying heights, it is now common practice for models to undergo disturbing surgeries, including full limb transplants courtesy of deceased, adolescent donors.

Though Valentine’s critique of the beauty world is clear from this setup, and there is indeed a feeling of unease of pathos throughout, I felt it could have ended with a little more punch. Visually striking and well written, however, I would certainly read more from this author.

If you’d like to give it a go, you can get La beauté sans vertu as an ebook from your usual retailer, or read it online for free by clicking here.

***

The Inner Room by Robert Aickman
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019 (first published in 1968)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

One of the Faber Stories range, this novelette sees a woman reflect on the strange, ornamental dollhouse that both fascinated and disturbed her as a child. Now, as an adult, she stumbles upon a secluded mansion that seems to be an exact replica.

This is another example of a fantastically well-realised concept, and a disturbing tableau that draws on horror conventions to great effect. The prose is solid and the atmosphere builds well towards the heroine’s final confrontation with her own nightmares. Again, I felt the ending could have had a little more impact, rather than the quiet fizzling out we were given, but as far as literary horror goes, and the creation of imagery that will linger in the mind, this is a great little contribution to the genre. Just be prepared for the kind of story that poses questions more than it offers answers.

If you’d like to give The Inner Room a go, you can find a copy here or here.

***

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The Only Girl in the World by Maude Julien | Book Review

The Only Girl in the World by Maude Julien | translated from the French by Adriana Hunter
Published by Oneworld Publications, 2017 (first published in 2014)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A classic example of a ‘stranger than fiction’ memoir, The Only Girl in the World recounts the horror of Maude Julien’s childhood, which was dominated by the strict rule of her tyrannical father. In his quest to create a new breed of ‘superhuman’, he forced his daughter to endure intense physical and emotional abuse, disguised as a series of bizarre trials, lessons, and training schemes. This book documents Maude’s efforts to endure, resist, and escape.

Harrowing and morbidly compelling to read, the book functions as an ode to the resilience of the human spirit, and the struggle to forge your own identity when so much of who and what you are is dictated by another.

I do think there are some flaws in the book’s construction, however. Written in first-person present tense, the author’s experiences are relayed to us as though from her younger self, but I found her sense of analysis and perception too vast to be believable as a child narrator speaking at a time of great trauma – not to mention that she was, at that point, almost entirely isolated from the outside world. In short, Julien’s adult retrospection clashes with her narrative approach. I also would have appreciated greater insight into Julien’s adulthood, post-escape, which is relegated to a brief epilogue. Exploring the lasting impact of her disturbing childhood could have been particularly fascinating and powerful. Instead, we got a lot of telling, rather than showing, as we moved through a succession of cruel tortures and betrayals inflicted upon a young girl.

All that said, the book ultimately aims to inspire, and for all its visceral upset, it manages to do so. I especially liked her insight into the wonder of literature, music, and animals when it comes to seeking comfort and solace. Far be it from me to judge which parts of her extraordinary life Julien chooses to share with us. Whilst from an impartial reader’s perspective, I felt the structure and narration could have served her story better, I applaud her for the openness and bravery that allowed her to defy the odds.

***

If you’d like to give The Only Girl in the World 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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Turbulence by David Szalay | Book Review

Turbulence by David Szalay
Published by Vintage, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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The Crucible | Theatre Review

Show: The Crucible
Venue: Pitlochry Festival Theatre
Date: 4th September 2019
Director: Elizabeth Newman
Writer: Arthur Miller
Principal cast: Harry Long (John Proctor), Barbara Hockaday (Mary Warren), Claire Dargo (Elizabeth Proctor), Fiona Wood (Abigail Williams), Ali Watt (Reverend Parris), Marc Small (Reverend Hale), & Deirdre Davis (Danforth)

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson | Book Review

Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson
Published by Jonathon Cape, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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August Wrap Up | Women in Translation Month

The books I read in August

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir | Book Review

Snare by Lilja Sigurðardóttir | translated from the Icelandic by Quentin Bates
Published by Orenda Books, 2018 (first published in 2015)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

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

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

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

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

***

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

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