Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield

Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield
Published by Picador, 2022
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Part love story, part sci-fi chiller, this follows Miri, whose wife Leah has just returned from a botched deep-sea mission that left her stranded in a claustrophobic underwater vessel for months. Though initially relieved to have her back, it soon becomes clear that something about Leah has been changed by her experiences, her behaviour and appearance becoming increasingly strange.

I love the setup for this novel, which has all the ingredients to be my ideal read: queer, speculative, and creepy. It’s worth noting, therefore, that I had very high expectations heading in. For me, the book is definitely at its strongest when it flirts with the realms of body horror, but there was always a sense that the author was holding back in this respect, and I found myself waiting for a descent into full-blown horror that sadly never came.

For the most part, the book reads as an allegory for loving someone who has been changed due to illness – with obvious parallels being drawn with Miri’s mother, who died from an unspecified illness that seems to be dementia, leaving Miri with a lot of internalised health anxiety. Armfield asks poignant questions about what it means to love someone who is ill: the pain of watching them gradually slip away; the denial and frustration that can lead you to decline help and isolate yourself from others; the bittersweet power of past memories; and the pain of letting go.

I appreciate the way the narrative mirrors the protagonists’ experiences of feeling trapped, and being confronted by the unknown: Leah, quite literally trapped at the bottom of the ocean, and Miri, weighed down by the emotional strain of her wife’s eventual return. There are definitely times when the story lags somewhat, trudging slowly around the same ideas multiple times, but this soon feels deliberate, emphasizing the monotony felt by many of those living with – or caring for someone with – a chronic, degenerative illness.

Not quite the knockout favourite I hoped it would be, this was still a compelling read that explores the unique and shattering pain of grieving for someone who is technically not quite gone, as Miri learns to accept her grief, and push beyond her own fears to do right by those she loves.

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T.C. Eglington & Claire Keegan | Mini Reviews

Thistlebone Book One by T.C. Eglington & Simon Davis
Published by 2000 AD, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Sumptuously rich and detailed artwork really sells the unnerving imagery and threatening atmosphere in this tale of ritualistic folk horror. Our heroine is the survivor of a now defunct cult, returning to the scene of her torment 20 years later, after ominous messages suggest the group has been revived.

Madness, folklore, mass hysteria, and PTSD all play a part in the narrative, which builds in tension throughout. Reaching boiling point in the closing pages, we’re left horrified and wanting more in equal measure, perfectly setting up the promise of Book 2. While it doesn’t offer anything hugely new to the genre, it’s perfectly solid and satisfying.

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Foster by Claire Keegan
Published by Faber & Faber, 2010
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Claire Keegan has a brilliant knack for exploring the power of what remains unsaid. Though it comes in just shy of 100 pages, this novella has such emotional depth and beautifully drawn characters who feel almost painfully real.

Our narrator is a young girl who, in the opening pages, is taken by her father and left with a couple who live on a farm in rural Ireland. As she comes to know true affection for the first time, and uncovers a terrible secret, what follows is an understated yet deeply moving exploration of family, loneliness, class, grief, and love. Keegan writes sparingly and does an excellent job of capturing a child’s naïve worldview, and yet there’s a lyrical quality to her prose that paints the scene and elevates the reading experience significantly.

While the climax delivers a well-earned gut punch, and I so admire Keegan’s ability to tell such a rounded and affecting story with so few words, I do wish we could have stayed with these characters just a little longer, to further explore the implications of the final moments. Still, it says something in and of itself if my only complaint is that I wanted more.

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The Antarctica of Love by Sara Stridsberg | Book Review

The Antarctica of Love by Sara Stridsberg
Translated from the Swedish by Deborah Bragan-Turner
Published by Quercus Books, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Though this is in many ways a quiet, ruminative character study, it kept me utterly enthralled. It opens, as so many books do, with the violent murder of a young woman, but it immediately subverts every trope associated with the dead-girl-as-mere-plot-device.

Inni is exactly the kind of person who falls through the cracks of society, and whose death is flippantly portrayed in media time and time again: a drug addict living on the street who has turned to prostitution to scrape by. Taking on an omniscience, she narrates the novel herself, reclaiming her story in a way she never could while alive. Weaving back and forth through time, she reflects on every decision and heartache that led her to the point of her death, and watches over those she has left behind as they carry on without her – namely: her parents, her former lover, and her two children, both of whom were taken into care before she died. The story always returns to the scene of her death, however, which throughout the novel is explored in excruciating, harrowing detail. Despite the complexity of her character, and a life of love, loss, trials, and tribulations, it is this single moment out with her control that is unfairly destined to be her legacy.

The prose is stunning, with the translation having been handled seamlessly. In some instances, it may have seemed too dense or flowery, but the almost dreamlike quality is perfectly suited to the novel’s tone of melancholy and contemplation.

A shattering portrait of addiction, grief, the impact of trauma, and the idea of familial inheritance, this heartfelt novel and its painfully well-realised protagonist will stick with me for quite some time.

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February Wrap Up

In terms of both reading and embroidery, it’s safe to say February wasn’t my most productive month, but thankfully there’s a nice reason as to why this time: There’s a new four legged friend in my life! I adopted 10 week old pup Ted earlier this month and I am more than a little bit smitten.

He’s a cavapoo (Cavalier King Charles Spaniel x Miniature Poodle), and he’s settled in so well – even the cats are tentatively warming to him, lol. I could gush all day about how cute, friendly, affectionate, fluffy, playful, and delightful he is, but I suppose I’d better mention some books!

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Books read: 6

Yearly total: 13

The books I read in February

1. Chouette by Claire Oshetsky 

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

2. Under Her Skin, edited by Lindy Ryan & Toni Miller

⭐ ⭐ | Review

3. Chasm by Dorothea Tanning

⭐ ⭐ | Review

4. The Madwomen’s Ball by Victoria Mas, tr. by Frank Wynn

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

5. I Will Die in a Foreign Land by Kalani Pickhart

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review to come

6. Big Panda and Tiny Dragon by James Norbury

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

Favourite of the month: Chouette

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As for embroidery, I’m just finishing up a matching pair of tree designs which were requested by my cousins, but the following pieces are all up for sale over on my etsy shop: a large whale hoop, a contemporary rainbow piece, and a squirrel cross stitch magnet.

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How was your February? What was your favourite read?

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The Madwomen’s Ball by Victoria Mas | Book Review

The Madwomen’s Ball by Victoria Mas
Translated from the French by Frank Wynn
Published by Doubleday, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Though the narrative arc follows a fairly familiar and predictable trajectory, this historical novel is an absorbing look at the treatment of women, particularly with regards to their mental health. Set in 19^th century Paris, we follow the perspectives of two women: Genevieve, a senior nurse working in an asylum for troubled women, and Eugenie, a 19-year-old entrusted to the asylum for claiming to communicate with the dead. Initially at loggerheads, Eugenie gives Genevieve reason to believe her claims are perfectly sane, and the two form an unlikely alliance.

Chiefly, the novel is concerned with power, particularly in the context of gender and class. It comments on the ways in which society was structured to keep women “in their place”. This includes how asylums were often a front for removing anyone bold enough to defy the role ascribed to them, but also the ways men in healthcare exploited the women around them – both nurses and patients alike.

The prose is nice without feeling overwrought, and this helps to evoke the era while remaining highly readable. Still, certain threads felt underdeveloped, resulting in some untapped potential in both the plot and its themes. Though it may seem strange to say so, given it is in many ways the driving force of the novel, the supernatural element felt largely extraneous. The same, very real historical context could have been explored without it, and the notion of women being unfairly ignored, silenced, and incarcerated could arguably have been driven home with greater power had Mas chosen to go down a more accurate, believable route.

All that said, this was an enjoyable read with hints of the gothic that certainly appealed. While it could have delved deeper, it left me eager to see where Mas takes her writing next.

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Under Her Skin & Chasm | Mini Reviews

Under Her Skin, edited by Lindy Ryan & Toni Miller
Published by Black Spot Books, 2022
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

In principle, this sounds like a perfect read for me: an anthology of poetry by women in horror, exploring their experiences of gender and identity. It’s possible my own high expectations contributed to my ultimate lukewarm response, but sadly I felt there was little here to push the boundaries of either horror or feminist writing.

I definitely appreciate how inclusive the project is, with cis, trans, and non-binary femmes representing various facets of womanhood. While there are some definite gems peppered throughout (I particularly admire pieces that focus on the horror women often inflict upon their own bodies as a result of societal pressures), I never felt particularly inspired to seek out more work from any of the featured writers. Beyond that, most of the pieces blur together somewhat due to repetition in tone and imagery. It feels cohesive as a collection of works in that respect, but lacking in dynamism.

I love what the book wants to achieve, and there are certainly glimmers of success on that front, but sadly the selection feels too bloated and one-note in its perspective and approach.

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

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Chasm by Dorothea Tanning
Published by Virago, 2019 (first published 2001)
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

Following a group of relative strangers assembled at a mansion built in the desert, Tanning does a great job of creating a cloying atmosphere and a sense of inevitable tragedy. It certainly kept me intrigued, and I found a few scenes strangely compelling, but it was all just a little too thematically vague and lacking cohesion for me. Narrative tangents and moments of flowery language bogged it down, and sadly I was left underwhelmed.

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Chouette by Claire Oshetsky | Book Review

Chouette by Claire Oshetsky
Published by Virago, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This strange and hypnotic novel functions simultaneously as the fable-esque story of a woman convinced she has given birth to an owl-human hybrid, and a powerful allegory about difference, disability, mental health, and motherhood.

Oshetsky does an excellent job of showing how all-consuming parenthood can be, particularly if your child has severe disabilities and/or disfigurements that mark them out as “other”. Fiercely protective of her daughter, our protagonist must continually fight to allow her the chance to embrace her true nature, rebelling against constant pressure to seek out treatments and therapies to help her better integrate. Where she sees wonder and a unique beauty to be celebrated, society sees a problem; something to be feared, fixed, or at best, ignored.

Thanks to the tone established by Oshetsky’s prose and the story’s fantastical elements, the majority of the book takes on the quality of a dark, modern fairy tale. Later in the narrative, however, threads on “help” offered as a means of self-gratification, and the dangers of science overruling our own humanity, add further depth and real-world emotional resonance that ensure it stays grounded.

The skill of the novel’s construction, and the well-implemented use of an unreliable narrator, allow readers the freedom to treat the magical realism elements as literally or as figuratively as they wish. There is equal narrative and thematic interest to hold your attention either way.

While I felt the ending itself was pitched a little too ambiguously in terms of what the author wanted to say, the reading experience as a whole was gripping – all the more so for how unashamedly odd it is. I’m sure this singular read will stick with me for quite some time, and I’m excited to see what Oshetsky writes next.

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January Wrap Up

My reading year is off to a somewhat tentative start, as I found myself reaching mainly for short reads as and when a burst of motivation hit. Given my desire to ease the pressure on myself if/when a slump is lingering, I’m okay with that! Besides, there were a couple of gems in the mix.

Here’s a quick summary of the books I read, with links to reviews if you’d like to know more.

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Books read: 7

Yearly total: 7

The books I read in January

1. A Lick and a Promise by Imelda May

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review 

2. A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

3. Love by Hanne Ørstavik, tr. by Martin Aitken

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

4. The Wild Swans by Jackie Morris

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

5. Coma by Zara Slattery 

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

6. The New Queer Conscience by Adam Eli

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ | Review

7. The Wild Life of the Fox by John Lewis-Stempel

⭐ ⭐ | Review 

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Favourite of the month: A Psalm for the Wild-Built

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Meanwhile, I had a pretty productive month craft-wise. As well as a couple of classic floral pieces, I loved working on a slightly larger embroidery of woodland animals, and I tried out an aerial landscape for the first time.

I’ve also been continuing to delve into hand weaving a little more, which resulted in the mini wall hangings and decorations shown below.

(Some of these pieces are still available over on my Etsy shop.)

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Jackie Morris & Zara Slattery | Mini Reviews

The Wild Swans by Jackie Morris
Published by Unbound, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Rather than reimagining the story, as most modern takes on fairy tales do, this is very much the classic Hans Christian Andersen story, retold in Morris’ own words, accompanied by her stunning watercolour illustrations. Sticking faithfully to the original text, any small changes and additions feel well placed, fleshing out the characters and adding greater emotional depth by exploring their motivations, especially where the “wicked stepmother” trope is concerned.

It stands fairly unique among the fairy tale canon; our princess very much the heroine of the piece as opposed to a damsel, and the primary focus on familial love over romance, as Eliza strives to outsmart a vengeful queen and save her brothers. It’s not easy to maintain the inherent air of whimsy and magic that comes with a fairy tale throughout a full-length text without it feeling overly twee, but Morris pulls it off. Her prose is simple yet lyrical, the perfect accompaniment to her artwork, which is as ethereal and enchanting as ever.

Some examples of the book’s artwork

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Coma by Zara Slattery
Published by Myriad Editions, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This graphic memoir recounts a period of 15 days in 2013 when Slattery was placed in a drug-induced coma, after contracting a life-threatening bacterial infection that aggressively attacks the skin and muscle. The account flits back and forth between events in the “real world”, where her husband’s diary entries explain the efforts being made my medical staff to save Slattery’s life, while he looks after their children, and the hallucinogenic nightmares experienced by Slattery throughout her coma as she fights to regain consciousness.

The contrast between monochrome (real world events) and kaleidoscopic colour (Slattery’s nightmares) works really well to emphasize both the bewilderment the author experienced, and the necessary persistence of mundane, domestic life for her loved ones, despite them living through a time of such heightened anxiety and emotion.

Slattery’s story is a great example of how people can rally together during a crisis, and how illness is so often a shared experience. Being written and published some years on from the incident, however, I felt it would have benefitted from a little more reflection on her subsequent recovery, both physical and mental.

Still, this is a striking read that highlights a little-known medical condition, while showcasing the unique strengths of the graphic novel form.

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Imelda May & Hanne Ørstavik | Mini Reviews

A Lick and a Promise by Imelda May
Published by Faber & Faber, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I really enjoyed my time with this. May’s background as a musician & songwriter shows in the emphasis on storytelling, rhythm, and flow throughout her poetry. The pieces she wrote about her parents were the most resonant, and while there are undeniably some gems, there’s also a fair bit of filler – small scraps of poems that reiterate ideas already explored in other pieces. The strength of May’s voice – which is passionate yet approachable – could have shone more had the collection been stripped back a little.

The illustrations are a nice touch, emphasizing May’s all-round artistic talent.

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Love by Hanne Ørstavik
Translated from the Norwegian by Martin Aitken
Published by And Other Stories, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This poignant, understated little novel reads in some ways like a cautionary tale about getting so wrapped up in our own lives that we fail to see what’s really going on around us. We follow the dual perspectives of Vibeke and her son, Jon, shortly after moving to a remote village in the northern reaches of Norway. On the eve of Jon’s 9^th birthday, both venture out of the house alone on separate errands, coming into contact with strangers and potentially putting themselves at risk.

Ørstavik has a real knack for building tension. Even the most domestic situations quickly take on an air of threat as we seem to be building towards some kind of inevitable disaster. Though subtly delivered, it becomes clear that both narrators are lonely, desperately seeking affection and companionship. But while Jon craves it from his mother, Vibeke’s gaze falls elsewhere. The contrast between the two interspersed narratives emphasises this sad reality: While Jon’s entire night is framed around his consideration of where Vibeke will be and what she’ll be doing, Jon doesn’t once factor into Vibeke’s thoughts or actions.

Though a relatively new translation, the story was published in its original Norwegian back in the 90s. It’s interesting to read it now, and consider how prescient the author’s message about getting wrapped up in our own world was. Though it never quite delivers the sucker punch it could have, it’s a deceptively impactful novel that I found totally engrossing. I read it in a single sitting, but I think it will linger in my thoughts for a while.

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