The Seep by Chana Porter | Book Review

The Seep by Chana Porter
Published by Soho Press, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The Seep has a striking concept and plays with lots of interesting ideas. Set in the future, Earth has been ‘gently’ invaded by a strange alien presence known as The Seep. Under The Seep’s intoxicating power, all humans have become connected, hierarchy has fallen, and existence has become fluid, allowing people to change their bodies at will. Trina, a 50-year-old trans woman, tries largely to reject The Seep’s influence, embittered by her wife’s decision to be reborn as an infant so she can live her life again, thus ending their relationship.

I won’t say much else about the plot, because it’s fair to say there isn’t a lot of it. Indeed, what little plot there is always feels secondary, serving as a loose framework around which the author can explore the book’s themes.

As a trans woman, Trina has had to fight to create the body she desires, and so it seems entirely understandable that she would resent the flippancy with which people can now morph into anyone or anything they want without question or resistance. And though The Seep would be capable of erasing all memory of her wife to spare her the pain of having lost her, Trina refuses, choosing instead to weather her grief as proof of what they once had. As such, The Seep is fundamentally concerned with asking us to consider what makes us human; if we are not comprised of our past and our memories, then what are we? Do we not need to suffer pain in order to know the joy of love and happiness? Is a future without death truly a utopia?

These are all big questions, but Porter explores them from a unique perspective, and though the world building is kept somewhat scant, what we are given is fascinating. That said, there are several instances in which things feel quite heavy-handed; the characters becoming mouthpieces that spell out the author’s every intention a tad too clearly. In a novel that already prioritises theme over plot and character, this clumsiness stands out all the more.

Though it didn’t engage me on an emotional level, I found it intellectually stimulating nonetheless. If you’re drawn to books that explore the psychology of the human experience, and our relationship with our bodies, then The Seep is certainly worth checking out.

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Alan Bennett & S. Qiouyi Lu | Mini Reviews

The Shielding of Mrs Forbes by Alan Bennett
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I really like the central idea being explored in this short from the Faber Stories range. Wishing to protect his seemingly naïve and prim mother from scandal, Graham marries a woman to keep his sexuality a secret. But when his lover starts blackmailing him, it becomes clear that no one is quite as oblivious – or as innocent – as they’re leading others to believe.

The tone is largely humorous and cutting, with none of the characters being particularly likeable. With everyone tangled up in different aspects of the same lie, it’s clear that Bennett is commenting on the folly of trying to keep up appearances. Still, a few too many twists towards the end tipped things into the realms of farce for me, making the narrative itself feel too contrived to be believable.

In the age-old debate of concept versus execution, I definitely preferred the former here.

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Anything Resembling Love by S. Qiouyi Lu
Published by Tor Books, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The concept of this short is so striking; its magical realism elements serving as powerful allegory concerning body autonomy, sexuality, and trauma. In this world, any kind of physical contact that incites pain, stress or discomfort can cause insects to erupt from beneath your skin. Despite it being a completely normal occurrence, it often triggers shame and revulsion, with Lu commenting on the way society conditions people (particularly girls) to fear and detest their own bodies’ natural functions, and to force themselves to placate the desires of men.

I won’t say anything about the plot itself, since it’s so short, but I thought the body horror was used to explore the story’s themes with due sensitivity, being suitably distressing without tipping into gratuity.

In addition to an Asian-American protagonist, there’s also some great, normalised representation of a non-binary, ace character which I thought was handled really well, with Lu using our heroine’s relationship with her roommate to look at the importance of friendship and solidarity. Yet more reasons to check this one out!

You can read Anything Resembling Love online for free by clicking here.

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Here Is the Beehive by Sarah Crossan | Book Review

Here Is the Beehive by Sarah Crossan
Published by Bloomsbury, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Ana and Connor have been having an affair for three years when the latter dies abruptly in a traffic accident. Having always conducted their relationship in secret, Ana feels completely unable to grieve publicly. Making matters even more complicated, as Connor’s lawyer, Ana has been designated the executor of his Will, meaning she must finally confront Rebecca, the wife whose presence always loomed between them.

Crossan does an excellent job of fleshing out a complex narrator who is deeply flawed yet sympathetic, neither glorifying nor sitting in judgement of the poor moral choices Ana has made. Shifting back and forth through time to explore Ana and Connor’s relationships – with each other and with their respective partners – Crossan explores the importance of honest communication, the pain of keeping secrets, the need for closure, and the struggle to find love when fundamentally, you don’t believe you deserve it.

The novel is written in verse, but that’s not to say it opts for poeticism over narrative or character depth. Linguistically, it very much reads like standard prose – though Crosson does have a lovely turn of phrase. Instead, the verse structure is used to give the novel a sense of brevity and flow; with Ana’s thoughts continuously jumping between past and present in a fleeting and fragmented way, reflective of her struggle to navigate her grief and confusion. It also lends the whole thing the feeling of a diary, helping us get inside Ana’s head as she wrestles with her grief, guilt, anger, and burgeoning obsession with Rebecca, the “other woman” who seems to defy her every expectation.

Opting for an approach that feels surprisingly understated given the potential melodrama inherent to its setup, the novel attempts to see a horrible situation from a perspective that is typically overlooked; reminding us to choose happiness when we can, for others’ sake as much as for our own.

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You can pick up a copy of Here Is the Beehive by clicking here.

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Peach by Emma Glass | Book Review

Peach by Emma Glass
Published by Bloomsbury, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

With its truly singular approach, this intense, captivating novella explores the physical and psychological fallout of sexual assault like no other fiction I’ve encountered. For those worried about trigger warnings, this is undoubtedly a graphic and upsetting read, but it’s also worth noting that the assault itself takes place off-the-page; the narrative opening with our protagonist stumbling home in the moments afterwards.

Written in short, staccato sentences and regularly employing surreal imagery, the book’s unorthodox, bewildering style seems guaranteed to alienate readers who generally struggle with experimental prose (as I myself often do). The short length helps to counteract this, however; allowing the book to hit home like a swift punch to the gut while also sparing us the strain of suspending our disbelief for too long.

Not only does the writing style encapsulate our narrator’s fragmented, shellshocked mindset – her sheer inability to face the real world in its overwhelming entirety – it also allows the author to play with language and rhythm in a lively, engaging way. In fact, the book often feels like an extended prose poem that would benefit from being read aloud.

Beyond this, the surreal elements serve to make our narrator, in some ways, unreliable. The truth of her attack is never in doubt, but how much of the fever dream that follows is real, and how much is a trauma response reflective of her damaged psyche becomes unclear. As the line between the two becomes increasingly blurred, the feeling of tension and claustrophobia builds, with Glass commenting on the nature of obsession, the price of revenge, and the horror of being consumed in mind and body.

While it’s true of every book that it won’t be for everyone, the sentiment feels particularly true here. But for those able to submit themselves to its wholly original style, Peach is a powerful, visceral experience that simmers with equal parts rage and compassion.

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

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The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue | Book Review

The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue
Published by Little, Brown and Company
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set during the final months of World War I just as the so-called Spanish Flu was hitting its peak, The Pull of the Stars chronicles three harrowing days in a makeshift maternity ward in Dublin.

Julia Power is a skilled nurse working in a dangerously understaffed hospital in Ireland’s capital. With the population already decimated by war, the arrival of a deadly flu pandemic is the last thing the hospital is equipped to deal with, but on a tiny improvised ward for heavily pregnant women who have contracted the virus, Julia continues to serve with compassion. Throughout the three intense days depicted in the novel, she is aided by Kathleen Lynn, a political radical and pioneering female doctor, and Bridie Sweeney, a novice volunteer with a tragic past and a big heart. The contrasting trauma and beauty of what they experience together will teach them as much about themselves as each other; their unwavering dedication a testament to the endurance of hope even in the darkest of times.

Donoghue succeeds in capturing the abject horror of a city blighted by the cumulative effects of war and disease. Though she never shies away from detailing the utter devastation racking people’s bodies (indeed, there are several deeply upsetting and visceral sequences), there’s a tenderness to Julia’s perspective that grounds the narrative and stops it from tipping into gratuitous suffering.

You can read my full review over at BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the 1918 flu pandemic to go alongside it, which you can read by clicking here.

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You can pick up a copy of The Pull of the Stars by clicking here.

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I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman | Book Review

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman, tr. from the French by Ros Schwartz
Published by Vintage, 2019 (First published in 1995)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

From the quality of the prose, to the big, philosophical questions it poses, this understated dystopian novel from Belgian author Jacqueline Harpman feels destined to become a modern classic. Its concept is instantly enthralling: a group of 40 women who have spent years being held prisoner in an underground bunker with no knowledge as to why finally escape on a stroke of luck, and must attempt to survive in the sparse, deserted world they find above.

Harpman confronts the reader with some fascinating ideas, from the value of knowledge in a world that no longer requires it, to the qualities of humanity that should endure in the absence of society. Wandering a largely barren landscape, the few tableaus her characters do encounter are made all the more vivid and haunting.

The constant search for answers (who are these women? Why were they kept prisoner? Who were their captors? What happened to the rest of humanity?) are so compelling that I found myself powering through the book. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say we never gain any of this context, however. It certainly ties into the theme of how much importance and meaning we place on having knowledge and understanding of the world around us, but it also results in a lack of closure that is sure to alienate some readers.

The biggest stumbling block in submitting myself to the book’s singular world for me was not a lack of answers, however, but a number of holes in both plot and logic. The women (particularly our narrator, who was so young when she was taken prisoner that she has no recollection of the outside world) adapt far too quickly to their newfound freedom. There’s no sense of them being blinded by the sunlight or daunted by the vast, open plains that await them above ground when they’ve only known a single, windowless room for more than a decade. I’ll leave out specifics to avoid spoiling what little plot there is, but suffice to say they also seem to be equipped with a range of skills that is frankly baffling given their background.

And whilst it’s interesting to read from the perspective of a heroine who is intelligent, eloquent, resourceful, rebellious, and snarky, none of these qualities feel believable in a teenage girl who has never known affection or education; whose physical and cognitive development would have been severely impeded by her captive upbringing. Her ability to be writing the account of her life at all (which is how the novel is presented) feels like a huge stretch, especially given how good Harpman’s prose is.

A big pet peeve of mine is when smaller plot holes – like how buildings continue to be powered by electricity for decades despite no sign of any power source – are acknowledged briefly by the characters but never actually addressed. It feels like a lazy way of avoiding a problem the author simply doesn’t want to deal with. While I have no issue whatsoever with a writer holding back information to enhance a book’s narrative or themes in some way, I don’t like when it comes across as though they themselves simply didn’t have the answers.

Despite having several complaints, and this review likely coming across negatively as a result, this was still a very worthwhile and stimulating read; my frustrations stemming from how much I wanted to adore it based on its enormous potential. For those who are better able to suspend their disbelief, or who don’t mind plot and character being used as thin veils for an author to ruminate on interesting themes, this is well worth checking out. Taking a much quieter, more contemplative approach to dystopian fiction, it stands unique amidst a crowded genre, and I’m certain it’s one that will keep me thinking for a while.

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You can pick up a copy of I Who Have Never Known Men by clicking here.

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Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami | Book Review

Ms Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami, translated from the Japanese by Louise Heal Kawai
Published by Pushkin Press, 2017
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The charm and immense readability of this slim novella hide a deceptive amount of emotional maturity. We follow a young boy who becomes infatuated with the enigmatic woman who works behind a supermarket sandwich counter, returning to study her nearly every day. That is, until more pressing issues start getting in the way, like his beloved grandmother’s advancing illness and his tentative new friendship with a girl at school.

I really liked the way Kawakami played with expectations regarding the ‘manic pixie dream girl’ trope that is so prevalent when presenting Japanese women in fiction. Our narrator’s fixation with so-called Ms Ice Sandwich’s huge eyes, electric blue eyeshadow, and mysterious nature all play up to this stereotype initially, but her independent spirit and pointed refusal to appease those around her grant her a dynamism and autonomy rarely afforded to characters like her. She may hover on the periphery for the majority of the book, but her influence and subtly handled arc manage to satisfy, nonetheless.

It’s also incredibly interesting to watch the way our narrator’s attitude towards Ms Ice Sandwich changes the moment he hears other people speaking ill of her. On this front, Kawakami does a fantastic job of capturing the precarious point of adolescence when life forces us to grow up and find our own voice, however reluctantly. Indeed, there’s a youthful naivety to the narration that makes our hero very believable, and which adds real pathos to a couple of the story’s more poignant moments.

It’s a quick read, so I don’t want to go into any more detail regarding the plot, but with touching, clever commentary in here on being true to yourself, finding your people, overcoming peer pressure, and learning to say goodbye, it’s safe to say I was heartily impressed by the sheer depth Kawakami managed to pack into so few words.

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A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir | Book Review

A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir, translated from the Icelandic by Larissa Kyzer
Published by Amazon Crossing, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Elín Jónsdóttir has spent decades making props and prosthetics for the stage and screen. Now in her 70s, she is hired to work on the debut play of Ellen Álfsdóttir, a 19-year-old playwright tipped to be Iceland’s next literary sensation. But something about the eccentric young woman awakens feelings and memories in Elín that she had long since buried. The more her obsessive interactions with Ellen prompt journeys into the past, the more her grip on reality begins to slip.

This is predominantly a character study of two enigmatic women who mirror and contrast each other in fascinating ways (the similarity in their names and experiences can be no coincidence). There is certainly a plot to anchor the novel (as we delve into both women’s pasts and move towards the play’s opening in the present), but the narrative always feels like it’s playing second fiddle to the book’s thematic intent. This is not strictly a criticism, but it’s a stylistic decision that seems destined to divide readers. As Elín’s narration becomes more and more unreliable, and the book moves in an increasingly non-linear fashion, the plot seems to slip ever more out of focus. This does, however, allow the author to explore the fragmented nature of memory and self, particularly where facing up to historic trauma is concerned.

I thought the author had some really interesting things to say, albeit subtly, about the healing power of creative expression. Both women channel their personal pain into their job, with beautiful passages detailing the painstaking yet tender work that Elín puts into crafting her prosthetics, and the escapism this affords her. Having suffered bodily trauma in the past, it also seems deliberate that more often than not, she is hired to work on Nordic Noirs; tasked with creating photo-realistic body parts and defiled corpses of women.

The author also raises questions about the search for autonomy, and role reversals between parents and children. Ellen is the daughter of a much-celebrated writer, and she comes to wonder if her work stands on its own merits, or if it is merely tipped for success because of its association with her father. She also feels morally obligated to look after her mother, who is suffering from poor mental health, despite the obvious emotional toll this is taking on her.

The prose is very nice and the translation into English has been handled beautifully. Despite flirting with excellence on many occasions, and having so many wonderful ingredients to work with, however, I was held at too great a distance to ever fully engage with its vast potential. Kaleidoscopic yet heartfelt, I’m intrigued to see what else Kristín Eiríksdóttir will write, and hope more of her work is translated into English.

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You can pick up a copy of A Fist or a Heart by clicking here.

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Island by Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen | Book Review

Island by Siri Ranva Hjelm Jacobsen, translated from the Danish by Caroline Waight
Published by Pushkin Press, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

When her immigrant grandmother dies, a young Danish woman travels to the Faroe Islands to trace her family heritage, and to explore the land she has always considered home, despite never having lived there.

Thematically, this is such an interesting and ruminative little novel, exploring the concepts of place and home by asking us to consider what constitutes the latter; why some may choose to leave, and why others may choose to return. The prose is peppered with evocative imagery, particularly when describing the landscape. I thought this worked especially well considering the importance of the book’s setting in relation to its themes.

Less successful for me was the book’s handling of perspective and overall structure. The narrative weaves between multiple characters and timelines in a way that feels disorientating. It’s possible that this was deliberate, but I found it somewhat jarring nonetheless. Covering three generations of a family in two separate countries, the non-linear approach and abrupt shifts in focus made it difficult to keep track of how everyone fit into the bigger picture at times.

Semi-autobiographical and fairly light in plot, it’s a novel that won’t work for some readers, but for those interested in musings on the intersection of home, culture, heritage, and family, this is a sensitive and thoughtful offering worth having on your radar.

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

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Happening by Annie Ernaux | Book Review

Happening by Annie Ernaux, translated from the French by Tanya Leslie
Published by Seven Stories Press, 2001
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this highly focussed memoir, Ernaux looks back on the trauma of seeking out an abortion in 1963, when the practice was still illegal in her homeland of France.

Her writing is straightforward yet impactful, and she certainly doesn’t shy away from depicting the physical and emotional toll of what she went through – a botched attempt to self-administer the treatment, a visit to an abortionist, the resulting miscarriage, and hospitalisation following complications. It’s upsetting and visceral to read at times, but so too was the experience itself.

Though relatively brief, the account also reflects on the kind of social and religious stigma that surrounded the issue – and which continues to cause divides to this day. With this, she raises the killer question: is something illegal because it’s wrong, or is something wrong because it’s illegal?

It was Ernaux’s reasons for documenting the experience that really struck me. Her story highlights how far we’ve come medically and socially, but also the very real issue of many people still not having access to safe abortions. She explains the lasting impact the event had throughout the rest of her life, and sees putting it on the page as a way of processing it on a personal level, but she also recognises the importance of people sharing experiences publicly to acknowledge the suffering that can result from patriarchal systems and a lack of access to proper healthcare. After all, progress does not erase history; it is built on it.

There are no big moments of revelation here, and no grand conclusions to be drawn; this is simply a woman determined to reclaim her truth decades on. By chronicling the traumatic ordeal she was forced to endure by a system that failed her, she and fellow victims may at last feel vindicated rather than vilified.

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

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