The Atlas of Reds and Blues by Devi S. Laskar

The Atlas of Reds and Blues by Devi S. Laskar
Published by Counterpoint, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Laskar’s debut opens boldly, as her narrator, an American born Bengali woman, lies bleeding on her own driveway, having been shot by police during a raid. In a series of non-linear vignettes, her mind then wanders through the memories of her life, which has been shaped from the off by systemic racism.

The novel could potentially be criticised for falling into the “once you’ve read the blurb, you’ve read the book” category. By this, I mean that beyond the bold concept, there’s little in the way of overarching plot progression or deeper theme exploration. Instead, the series of snapshots paints a picture of an entirely normal domestic life in all its simple joys and quiet heartbreaks. This is also the book’s strength, however. There is nothing special or extraordinary about our protagonist; her story is not unique and her perspective reveals nothing that most of us aren’t already well aware of. As such, it’s no coincidence that she and her family remain nameless; their lack of identity emblematic of how easily their experiences of prejudice can be applied to virtually all people of colour living in modern America, and the way white society tends to see skin tone over and above anything else.

In many ways, the book is simple yet powerful, elevated by Laskar’s gorgeous prose, which often takes on a suitably ethereal quality as her narrator’s mind glides through space and time, ebbing and flowing towards her inevitably tragic end. Much remains unanswered, and while it will frustrate some, this too feels deliberate. What, after all, could possibly justify such baseless persecution?

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Benjamin Lacombe & Kirsty Logan | Mini Reviews

Frida by Sébastien Pérez & Benjamin Lacombe, tr. from the French by Alison Anderson
Published by Ginko Press, 2017
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Short, poetic musings weave together with actual extracts from Frida Kahlo’s diaries to explore some of the most prominent aspects of her life and work. The text is suitably ornate and poignant, but scant enough that neither newcomers nor longstanding fans of Kahlo will glean much of any substance.

The real highlight, however, is Lacombe’s stunning art. He draws heavily on the iconography and style of Kahlo’s own pieces to pay tribute to her genius, exploring the legacy of the trail she blazed.

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The House of Former Lovers by Kirsty Logan
Published independently, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A short selection of unnerving flash fiction, focussed on the themes of transformation, sexuality, consumption, and the animal within. It is unashamedly strange, but I tend to find that magical realism works best in short, sharp bursts like this, presenting us with a series of striking images and ideas without requiring a prolonged suspension of disbelief.

Each story is accompanied by a two-page illustration by Maria Stoian. These are suitably sumptuous and otherworldly in style and colour palette. A beautiful little chapbook.

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Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa | Book Review

Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa
Translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder
Published by Vintage, 2011
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This fascinating little novel is not always easy to stomach, but Ogawa is incredibly skilled at crafting the kind of hypnotic atmosphere that makes it impossible to look away, no matter how uncomfortable you are. We follow Mari, a 17-year-old who helps her mother run a hotel in a quiet Japanese seaside town. She meets a much older man who lives on a tiny island off the coast, and the two soon strike up a bizarre relationship. Mari’s unnamed suitor is charming and affectionate when they venture out together, but he subjects her to a series of physical, emotional, and sexual humiliations whenever the two are alone at his home.

Due to the nature of the subject matter, there’s no denying this won’t be for everyone, with some truly graphic scenes of what many would categorise as out-right abuse. But here, Ogawa presents us with the novel’s core themes, many of which are concerned with the dichotomies of our lives: the often fine lines between pleasure and pain, passion and torture, excitement and fear. There’s no denying that what Mari is subjected to is morally repugnant, but she is both consenting and welcoming of much of his actions; her sense of worth so low she seems to revel in being demeaned. Indeed, to me the book is primarily a look at loneliness, with both characters using their toxic relationship dynamic to process misplaced guilt and grief from their pasts – but while Mari punishes herself, her suitor punishes others.

Something about Ogawa’s pin-sharp prose just totally draws me in. The characters and setting feel so clear, but not a word goes to waste, and the author’s trademark sinister undertones bubble throughout.

At once an unnerving, thought provoking, shocking, tender, and sad read; love it or hate it, you won’t forget Hotel Iris in a hurry.

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The Secret Talker by Geling Yan | Book Review

The Secret Talker by Geling Yan
Translated from the Chinese by Jeremy Tiang
Published by HarperVia, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A good literary novel tends to wow with its linguistic prowess and the depth of its social commentary. A good thriller serves as a captivating page-turner that draws you in. When the two are brought together in perfect harmony, the effect can be fantastic. In many cases, however, aiming for a literary thriller dooms the book to underwhelm somewhat on both fronts; being neither thematically rich nor quite captivating enough to please lovers of either genre. Sadly, The Secret Talker feels like a prime example of this for me.

The concept is great. We follow Hongmei, a Chinese woman living in America, who finds herself drawn into an increasingly intimate and all-consuming correspondence with an anonymous stalker who seems to know her every move. Though undeniably creepy, their conversation brings to the fore how much her relationship with her husband is failing. As their conversation deepens, both Hongmei and her stalker feel increasingly drawn to each other; compelled to unpack long-held secrets on both sides.

While the stalker set-up will undoubtedly appeal to fans of a good thriller, the novel is in fact a largely character focussed look at relationships, communication, identity, and the need to feel seen and heard. There are a few twists peppered throughout (the most important of which I saw coming a mile off), and I was certainly intrigued throughout, but I did feel we were moving in circles at times.

Despite being hampered by this uneven tone and an occasionally confusing timeline, the book did keep me engaged. Its look at the anonymity of the internet and the thrill of the unknown worked well, and I’d be happy to see the author tackle similar themes within a framework that allowed for greater depth. Given the rise of technology and social media since the book’s original Chinese publication back in 2004, I think there’s lots she could draw on.

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

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Dolores Reyes & Dunya Mikhail | Mini Reviews

Eartheater by Dolores Reyes
Translated from the Spanish by Julia Sanches
Published by HarperVia, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Eartheater is a strange and hypnotic look at violence and poverty in modern-day Argentina. Following the death of her mother, our narrator feels compelled to eat a fistful of freshly turned earth from atop her grave. This act grants her an exact vision of how her mother died. Word of her ability spreads through the community as she grows, with more and more people seeking her out with bottles full of earth, hoping she can give them answers about their missing and deceased loved ones.

Given the bold concept, it is perhaps unsurprising that there is a somewhat ethereal edge to the book’s atmosphere, but Reyes cleverly balances the stranger elements of the story with stark reminders of its present-day setting. This allows its social commentary to still resonate despite an air of whimsy.

I liked what the book seemed to be saying about our connection to the earth, and the marks we leave behind. Our narrator’s power also throws up some interesting moral questions: Should she accept money in exchange for her services, knowing how much her “clients” are suffering? Is it fair for others to expect her help when the process causes her considerable distress and discomfort?

In all, I thought this was a book of great ideas, carried by solid prose, but it never quite landed the sucker punch I was hoping for.

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The War Works Hard by Dunya Mikhail
Translated from the Arabic by Elizabeth Winslow
Published by Carcanet Press, 2006
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this collection, exiled Iraqi poet Dunya Mikhail writes predominantly about the myriad ways her homeland and its people (particularly women and children) have been devastated by war. Though she uses some nice imagery, there’s a directness to many of the pieces that allows the sobering power of the subject matter to shine through. Experimentation is employed sparingly, and is all the more successful for it. And despite never shying away from reality, I appreciated the thread of hope that runs throughout.

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Everywhere Antennas by Julie Delporte | Book Review

Everywhere Antennas by Julie Delporte
Translated from the French by Helge Dascher
Published by Drawn & Quarterly, 2014
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This unique graphic novel follows a young woman suffering from a rare hypersensitivity to electromagnetic radiation – generated by power lines, phones, the internet, and suchlike. Plagued by illness and frustrated by a lack of understanding and belief in her condition, she feels increasingly compelled to seek out ever-rarer “white zones” (remote areas undisturbed by radio waves). But in a society typified by a need for constant connectivity, this isolation will inevitably impact her relationships and career.

In terms of the prose and visuals, the book reads very much like a diary. The loose, fragmented style is sparse on detail and structure, with large jumps of time between certain entries, but it feels raw and unguarded in its expression. This informal, choppy, yet vibrant approach says a lot about our narrator’s mindset despite the book’s brevity.

Offering insight into a rare condition and an excellent depiction of the anxiety and fatigue that can come with modern life, this is at once a window into a specific viewpoint and a sweeping look at the consequences of irreversible urbanisation. It asks us to consider those who, for whatever reason, may be pushed aside in our quest for unchecked technological advancement, and at what cost we should prioritise our own health.

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The Yogini by Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay | Book Review

The Yogini by Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay
Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha
Published by Tilted Axis Press, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

The more time I take to mull this one over, the more I come to realise it’s a novel I wanted to like more than I actually did. There are lots of great ingredients in the mix: a strong opening scene; a great initial concept; a flawed, interesting heroine; a focus on the idea of fate versus freewill; critique of the roles women are expected to fulfil; and solid prose. The trouble for me was the execution, which felt too contrived for me to ever feel drawn in.

In terms of plot, we follow Homi, whose seemingly stable life begins to fall apart when she becomes aware of a yogi; the figure of a man, visible only to her, who stalks her every move and claims to be a physical manifestation of her fate. This is a striking concept, and I was certainly intrigued enough to want to know how her story would culminate. Sadly, too many scenarios and exchanges of dialogue felt manufactured to conveniently steer the book forward. It was neither believable enough to feel real, nor strange enough to stand as outright magical realism or fantasy; landing instead in an odd sort of limbo that ultimately left me feeling underwhelmed.

I enjoyed enough of the elements at play to keep an eye out for more of the author’s work, and requiring just two sittings to get through, it was certainly a pacy read. That said, after such a strong setup, I can’t help but wonder how much more haunting the book could have been had I clicked with it stylistically.

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Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir | Book Review

Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir
Translated from the Icelandic by Meg Matich
Published by Grove Atlantic, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This strangely enthralling read documents one young woman’s experiences within a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. The stripped back style creates a sense of constant momentum, which in turn establishes a stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere that saw me immediately drawn in. In fact, I felt so invested in our heroine’s fate that I found myself racing through the book in a single sitting.

For a relatively slight novel, the author does a fantastic job of showcasing the realities of isolation and depression. With a deft hand, she shows the devastating impact of abuse, and just how easy it can be for perpetrators to coerce and manipulate those around them; forcing them into modifying their own behaviour and gaslighting them into self-blame.

My only gripe with the book comes with the ending, which is inherently tricky to discuss without resorting to spoilers. Suffice to say that, while I appreciated the outcome from a narrative perspective, the potentially clumsy message it conveyed worked less well for me.

Still, this slight blip didn’t detract from the overall success of the sucker punch that is this little novel. It’s brutally honest in its portrayal of a woman in decline, without ever feeling gratuitous, and it serves as a poignant reminder that even the most outwardly strong and carefree among us can be broken.

I sincerely hope more of Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir’s work is translated into English in the future!

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

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Heaven by Mieko Kawakami | Book Review

Heaven by Mieko Kawakami
Translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett & David Boyd
Published by Picador, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In her latest novel to be translated into English, Kawakami looks at the impact of flippant cruelty, and the cost of a connection forged in the shadow of violence. We follow a 14-year-old boy, ostracised from his class and the subject of constant bullying because of his lazy eye. As the level of torment escalates, he strikes up an unconventional though deeply meaningful friendship with Kojima, a girl from his class who suffers similar ridicule for being “dirty” and poor.

The prose itself is largely economical, but this works to reflect both the youth and the suppressed emotion of our protagonists. Despite some truly harrowing scenes, Kawakami skilfully maintains an air of gentle melancholy, as though the characters themselves are in a daze, resigned to their fate. This chimes nicely with the book’s discussion of the extent to which we are in control of our own lives, and the extent to which we are mere passengers.

On that front, the book’s core message seems to be one of resilience and autonomy; the idea that we should only ever seek to change on our own terms, and never to conform or appease others. Without dipping into spoilers, I would say this thread becomes a little muddied towards the end, and some additional closure for a particular character would have helped hit home Kawakami’s point with greater assurance.

The novel was first published in its original Japanese form back in 2009, and with regard to some clumsy presentation of gender and bodily difference, I would argue it shows its age. The dialogue, too, becomes convoluted at times, the reach for philosophical musings jarring with the otherwise sensitive portrayal of the book’s teen characters.

Still, I found this a very worthwhile look at loneliness and othering that confirms Kawakami is an author I’m intrigued to keep following. I don’t doubt several of its most quietly haunting moments will stick me.

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Palimpsest by Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom | Book Review

Palimpsest by Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom
Translated from the Swedish by Hanna Strömberg & Richey Wyver
Published by Drawn and Quarterly, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This graphic memoir follows the author’s journey to try and uncover her roots. Born in South Korea, she spent the first two years of her life in an orphanage before being flown to Sweden, where she was adopted and raised. Her attempts to explore her heritage as a teenager quickly met a brick wall, but upon the birth of her own children several years later, she feels compelled to reopen the search for her biological family.

Sjöblom does a fantastic job of reflecting the identity crisis that befalls many adoptees as they grow up, particularly people of colour who are adopted into white families. As a child, she is proud of her Korean ancestry and eager to explore the culture of her “first country”, but the reality of looking different from everyone else around her – including her own family – and the fierce racism this inspires soon take their toll. It’s heartbreaking to see the pride literally beaten out of her, and Sjöblom doesn’t shy away from the realities of rock bottom, with discussion of attempted suicide and hospitalisation.

She goes on to explain the power that lies in connecting to a people and their culture, and that the need to uncover the past is not necessarily about being unhappy within your adopted family, but about establishing roots that tether you to the world and make you feel seen. As she explains: “In Sweden I’m at home, but I feel like a stranger. In Korea, I’m a stranger, but I feel at home.” Her search is as much about finding closure for herself as it is sparing her children a similar longing for answers in the future.

As for the format, it makes a lot of sense given Sjöblom’s background as an illustrator and graphic designer. While I like the muted colour palette, the visuals themselves are quite simplistic in style and don’t do much to advance the narrative. Indeed, the book is very text heavy for a typical graphic novel or memoir, with several full-page transcripts of emails and letters that were exchanged during the author’s enquiries. On occasion, this can make it feel a little like reading a case file, with some of Sjöblom’s personal flair lost.

That said, I greatly admire her determination to speak frankly about the corruption her investigation unearths. Falsified information, withheld details, illegal practices, and outright lies hinder her personal search, but they also speak of the wider issues faced by many Koreans who were (often wrongfully) sent overseas for adoption. I also appreciate that Sjöblom makes clear not every search culminates in a neat and much longed for happily ever after: Not knowing is painful, but sometimes the truth is too.

In all, this is an excellent memoir that opened my eyes to an issue many of us should be more aware of. The author explains that most “adoption stories” are framed in a positive light, told from the perspective of a loving adoptive parent, and rarely from an actual adoptee who has experienced the process’ highs and lows in equal measure. It is her hope that this book may be a voice for a generation of Korean adoptees who have been silenced; I urge everyone to listen.

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