The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave | Book Review

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave
Published by Little, Brown and Company, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The divide of gender, the dark side of religion, and the resilience of the human spirit are placed beneath the microscope in this evocative historical novel, inspired by real life tragedy.

It’s 1617 and a violent storm has claimed the lives of 40 fishermen off the coast of Vardø, a remote Norwegian settlement. Aside from a handful of elders, this amounts to almost the entire male population, leaving behind a devastated community of women and children. These women spend the next three years establishing a newfound self-sufficiency while navigating their immense collective grief. This matriarchy is interrupted by the arrival of Absalom Cornet, a God-fearing Christian and renowned witch hunter from Scotland. He is summoned by the King of Norway to bring the women of Vardø to heel once more, and to stamp out any lingering trace of native Sámi culture—its spiritualism and strong ties to the land considered an obstacle to establishing absolute reverence for his own God.

With subtlety and tact, Kiran Millwood Hargrave explores the ingrained societal roles that define and separate us, with a particular focus on the trappings of gender and religion. Though distressed by their losses, the women of Vardø experience an unexpected liberty when forced to take over duties once reserved for men.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. You can also find a piece I wrote about the real-life victims of the Vardø Witch Trials.

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You can pick up a copy of The Mercies from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Dominicana by Angie Cruz | Book Review

Dominicana by Angie Cruz
Published by John Murray, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐

My biggest issue with Dominicana is its paint-by-numbers approach to reflecting the immigrant experience. We follow 15-year-old Ana, who moves to New York from the Dominican Republic in the 1960s following an arranged marriage, with the hope that her family will soon be able to follow. Instead, she finds herself trapped in a loveless relationship, largely confined to a cold apartment.

From there, we hit pretty much every narrative beat you’d expect, with the story adhering to a very predictable and uninspiring trajectory. Harmful stereotypes (like Ana’s abusive, immigrant husband) go frustratingly unexplored; historical details (like the assassination of Malcom X, which takes place right outside Ana’s door) are so plonked in and glossed over they feel like a lazy attempt to establish emotional resonance; and the supporting characters are entirely one dimensional, resulting in a lot of untapped potential.

This may have been easier to contend with if the prose had been outstanding, but sadly this wasn’t the case either. Though Cruz’s prose is certainly readable on a technical level, it’s also very clumsy at times, weighed down by overblown metaphors (“César [is] the color of the crunchy skin off of juicy roast chicken thigh, creamy hot chocolate, buttered toast, dark honey, the broth of slow-cooked sancocho.”).

The one thread that holds initial promise is Ana’s sense of isolation and cultural bewilderment when she first arrives in the US. But as with everything else, it feels underdeveloped – and it’s arguably undone when Ana falls for another man with whom she quickly finds the connection and company she lacked.

I’d like to give this the benefit of the doubt and say my mind wasn’t best equipped to engage with it given everything that’s going on right now, but I suspect even that is being generous. In truth, this just wasn’t for me, unfortunately. Perhaps those with experiences closer aligned with Ana’s will feel a connection to the story; for me, it felt familiar, flat, and underwhelming.

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If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or if you’re also making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist, you can pick up a copy of Dominicana from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line

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Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara | Book Review

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara
Published by Chatto & Windus, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

When fellow children from his community begin to disappear, 9-year-old Jai resolves to use the skills learned from his beloved detective shows – and the aid of his two best friends – to figure out what’s going on. Anappara uses the naïve yet charming perspective of a child to dive into the underbelly of India’s slums, interlacing a gripping narrative full of intrigue with deft social commentary on class, gender, corruption, and religious division.

Pulling off a convincing child narrator can be tricky, but I felt Anappara handled it very well on the whole. She did a great job of reflecting just how perceptive and intuitive children can be, without having her young protagonists feel like mere mouthpieces for adult ideologies. Choosing to frame everything through the eyes of a 9-year-old was a clever move, in fact. It allowed her to touch on big and potentially upsetting subject matter with suitable reverence and realism, while always maintaining a lightness of touch, and successfully avoiding any trace of gratuity.

As the number of disappearances begins to grow, so too does the tension between Hindus and Muslims living within Jai’s basti; the former singling out the latter as potential suspects. The book thus comments on the societal structures that incite fear of the other, and the violence and segregation born from religious intolerance. With Jai and one of his closest friends being Hindus, and their other friend being a Muslim, Anappara is able to show just how observant children are of the prejudices around them, and how much more tolerant of difference they tend to be than adults.

I thought the commentary on education throughout the novel was interesting without ever feeling heavy-handed. Anappara shows both how an unreliable school system puts children at risk, and how applying yourself to education can grant you a ticket to a better future. I also really appreciated the commentary on gender that was woven into the story. By simply showing the different expectations placed on Jai and his male friend, Faiz, compared to his sister and his female friend, Pari, she manages to say a lot about ingrained societal roles. It’s also very interesting to note how differently the community reacts to the disappearance of younger, ‘innocent’ children in comparison to a 16-year-old girl rumoured to be somewhat promiscuous, and who favours a Westernized style of dress.

In terms of class divides, Anappara reflects how literal a sense of disconnect has become, with the rise of gated communities separating the rich from the poor. The latter struggle to get by in destitute slums that wallow in the shadows of the luxurious tower blocks that house the wealthy. By exploring the money that is to be made from preserving the suffering of the poor, the reasons behind the seeming disinterest of the police concerning missing children become frustratingly clear. It’s also true that the actions of certain characters may prove infuriating given the seriousness of their situation (like adults continuing to leave their children unattended for large chunks of time), but Anappara justifies this by showing the impossible reality they face; if they don’t work, their families don’t eat.

I can’t say the prose itself particularly wowed me, but anything too ornate would have felt unrealistic given the age of the narrator. In that sense, it served its purpose well, driving the narrative forward and painting vivid, immersive pictures of India’s claustrophobic, heady slums.

Without dipping into spoiler territory, I will say I thought the ending was pitched pretty well. It offered a sense of conclusion without falling into the trap of tying up every loose end in a neat bow. Having drawn inspiration from the many unsolved (and often undocumented) cases of missing children who disappear in India every day, it would have felt unjust to imply that every family is granted the happy ending and concrete answers they desperately crave.

There’s a real subtlety to Anappara’s execution that I greatly admired. She has crafted a story so readable and driven by intrigue that you fly through the pages. It’s only upon reaching the end that you realise just how extensively she has dissected modern Indian society and the many struggles faced by its poorest residents.

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You can pick up a copy of Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships

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A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes | Book Review

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes
Published by Mantle, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A Thousand Ships is a paradoxically exciting and underwhelming read; a great example of how the timing of a book’s publication can make or break its impact. Attempting to retell the story of the Trojan War and its aftermath from an entirely female perspective, the novel’s aim is to give voice to those usually pushed to the periphery, and to reframe classic mythology from a more feminist angle. This is an ambitious concept, but its similarity to recent high-profile releases – notably Circe by Madeline Miller and The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker – leaves it open to inevitable comparison, and a frustrating, if unfair, feeling of familiarity.

First off, the book is incredibly readable, and I found myself flying through it. Haynes does a fantastic job of showing the myriad ways a war can be fought beyond physical combat; the upsetting lack of bodily autonomy experienced by most women in times of conflict; the heartbreaks both big and small that must be endured; the sense of sisterhood between friends and enemies alike; and the stoicism shown by those left to pick up the pieces once the dust begins to settle. Her handling of both goddesses and mortals within the same sphere is also effective; the former feeling suitably powerful and ethereal, yet engaging and approachable on an emotional level.

The book’s greatest ambition – to inhabit the voice of almost every major female figure touched by the war – was ironically one of its greatest missteps for me. With so many point-of-view characters, certain perspectives are inevitably more compelling than others. The anguish of Cassandra, doomed to foresee the future but never be believed, and the sorrow of Gaia, the Goddess of the Earth who must watch mankind destroy everything she loves, are particularly well portrayed, for example. I also liked that the initial ingrained misogyny shown towards Helen (by both men and women) was directly challenged by the character herself; Helen asking other women why they hold her solely responsible for the outbreak of the war, and not her abductor or her husband (though I do wish this thread had been pushed much further moving forward).

Other characters, like Calliope and Penelope, are much less convincingly drawn, sadly. The former often feels like a mouthpiece for the author, a character through whom Haynes clumsily declares her book’s themes. The latter’s chapters are presented in the form of letters to her absent husband, recounting in the second person his own adventures (à la, “You did this, then you said that.”). Not only does this make little narrative sense (why would he need a detailed description of his own recent actions?), it also does little to offer Penelope a sense of worth or independence beyond her link to her husband, which feels like the exact opposite of the book’s intention. On the contrary, her contribution comes off as a thinly veiled means of shoehorning the story of The Odyssey into the narrative without utilising a male perspective.

Moving between so many characters at such a fast pace can also lead to some confusion as to the many links between them all, and how everyone slots into the bigger picture. For people completely new to mythology or retellings, I can see it proving more than a little daunting trying to make sense of the intricate web entangling the many players. All that said, I feel the book would have been stronger had it had a greater sense of focus, with Haynes choosing a few key women and homing in on their viewpoints.

I enjoyed this, but never felt wowed or moved by it in the way I – or the book – hoped I would be. A few years ago, this book would arguably have broken ground by offering a very underexplored take on beloved myths. Though not the author’s fault (this will almost certainly have been written long before publication of books like Circe or The Silence of the Girls), it now feels like a solid enough if lukewarm entry in a genre that is at risk of becoming oversaturated.

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You can pick up a copy of A Thousand Ships from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl

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Girl by Edna O’Brien | Book Review

Girl by Edna O’Brien
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019
My rating: ⭐

This novel is inspired by the real-life kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls at the hands of the terrorist organization Boko Haram in Nigeria, 2014. Given the subject matter being explored, and the extremist views of the group responsible for the act, this is understandably an upsetting read, with major trigger warnings for everything from rape and mutilation, to emotional abuse and murder.

From the off, I want to make clear that I found it difficult to reconcile my feelings towards this book. Aside from the obvious fact that the content is horrifying, making this the kind of book you’re never going to ‘enjoy’ anyway, its very authorship is grounds for possible discomfort. On the one hand, I have considerable respect for what O’Brien has set out to do. A vast amount of research has clearly gone into the novel’s creation, and it’s fuelled by anger, empathy, and humanity. Stories like this one need to be told, and I admire her for using her platform to try and spark conversation, and amplify voices that have otherwise been silenced. On the other, part of me will always feel this simply wasn’t her story to tell. For as long as marginalised groups are pushed out of the mainstream, it’s important that allies with the comparative privilege of an audience pave the way for ‘own voice’ literature. But I can’t deny an undercurrent of unease reading a story about real-life, modern-day enslavement, human trafficking, terrorism, and abuse in Nigeria, as interpreted by the gaze of the white, Western world. To justify her decision to write this story, O’Brien’s perspective needed to add some kind of additional insight that amplified things in some way. As it is, I was simply left wondering why a white, Irish author would choose to tackle this subject at all. The right to freedom of expression through fiction is always going to be a complex issue with no easy answers, and I can respect arguments on both sides of the debate. In this particular instance, I felt the author’s intentions were absolutely in the right place, but that she fell short of inhabiting the culture, experiences, and voice of her heroine in an authentic and believable manner.

Even looking beyond these hesitations, I had several issues with the book’s execution, unfortunately. In the first half, the pace is relentless, walking us through a rapid succession of ghastly events at breakneck speed, with no time given over to reflection or analysis. With nothing being granted the necessary space to breathe within the narrative, I was left feeling strangely numb to everything that was happening; the lack of emotional resonance particularly notable given the distressing nature of the subject matter. I can understand that this may have been a deliberate attempt to avoid gratuity, and to reflect the relentless nature of the girls’ suffering, but a book as heavy as this is begging for greater nuance. Indeed, though the pace slows down substantially in the second half, the look at the lasting impact of our heroine’s experiences is still very base level. Any semblance of character development is reserved for her desire to be a mother to the child she conceived in captivity, with little exploration of her own psyche, despite the huge amount of potential that lay in the trauma, PTSD, and survivor’s guilt that were merely hinted at. Without wanting to spoil any plot specifics, I will say the author did at least attempt to explore the ideas of lost innocence, societal stigma, and the long journey to freedom that lies beyond escape. But again, these threads lacked any kind of satisfying emotional connection.

On another negative note, however, O’Brien’s matter-of-fact prose also did little for me. Again, in fairness, the simplistic nature of the language and the dot-to-dot narrative style arguably make sense given context. After all, the book is written in the first-person from the viewpoint of a young woman who was robbed of the chance to even finish her education; it’s unlikely she would be concerned with showcasing much in the way of literary merit. From a reader’s perspective, however, greater linguistic beauty may have helped to counter the narrative’s immense darkness, and to lift the book well above the realm of shock value; something I can see several accusing it of from time to time. It also would have made the book’s listing for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction considerably more understandable.

In short, as much as I sympathise with what O’Brien likely set out to achieve, this just didn’t work for me on any level. Whether stylistic choices in search or realism or not, the spare approach to character, plot, and emotion kept me held at too great a distance. For a story that should have kicked me in the gut, I was left feeling frustratingly apathetic.

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If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or you’re making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist like me, you can pick up a copy of Girl from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner | Book Review

Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner
Published by Random House, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Fleishman Is in Trouble follows a recently divorced, middle-aged man whose newfound sense of sexual freedom is brought to an abrupt halt when his ex-wife Rachel disappears and he must assume sole responsibility for their children. A social satire in many respects, Brodesser-Akner uses this setup to dissect the nature of marriage, gender roles, class disillusionment, and the pressure felt (particularly by women) to live the seemingly ‘perfect’ life.

The author is very successful in establishing complex and frustrating characters, with none of them being particularly easy to root for. Fleishman’s pompous and often selfish behaviour makes him instantly unlikable, but we soon see how much of this stems from a sense of insecurity and abandonment, as well as how eager he is to be a good father. Rachel too is painted as a cold, distant mother, but the book really hits its stride in the final quarter when we begin to unravel the true reasons behind her apparent disconnect, and eventual disappearance. This is where the strength of the novel really lies, with Brodesser-Akner exploring the idea that how we view a situation is entirely dependent on perspective; with society’s judgement almost always falling in favour of men.

What I found really interesting to consider are the gender stereotypes Brodesser-Akner employs; which ones she chooses to indulge, and which she chooses to subvert. Do we judge Rachel more harshly for being an absent parent because she is a woman? Do we feel more sympathetic towards Fleishman’s single parenthood, and more blasé towards his sexual promiscuities, simply because he is a man?

There’s also some interesting critique of the unique brand of delusional, self-inflicted struggles that can affect the middle and upper classes. Both Fleishman and Rachel have successful, high paying careers, affording them a comfortable existence and many luxuries they take for granted – like nannies and expensive summer camps for their children. As such, any financial stresses they experience are born purely out of their desire to relentlessly climb even higher on the social ladder, making them seem entirely unaware of their own privilege.

On the other hand, the novel’s weak point was its narrative framing, which I found needlessly convoluted. Though ostensibly focussing on Fleishman for much of the novel, in reality, this is Rachel’s story. While Brodesser-Akner could have said something interesting here about women having their voices silenced by the weight of patriarchy – how society reframes female suffering as male inconvenience – Fleishman himself is not our narrator either. Instead, every intimate detail of their lives is relayed to us via Fleishman’s female college friend, Libby. Her wholly unbelievable omniscience added nothing thematically that couldn’t have been explored as effectively from Fleishman’s and Rachel’s own perspectives. It’s arguable she was trying to represent the complete breakdown of communication between the couple by involving a third-party, or to comment on a lack of privacy when people are navigating difficult times, but it’s also possible that’s just me reaching to try and make sense of a stylistic choice that didn’t provide enough of a pay-off to justify how much it slowed down the narrative.

This was altogether surprisingly readable. I must confess to only picking it up because it was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and I fully expected to dislike it. I was pleasantly surprised therefore by the depth and nuance it had to offer within its social commentary. If only the narrative structure had been less contrived, allowing for fewer distractions and a more incisive look at the psychology of Fleishman and Rachel. The bones of a great novel are in here somewhere. As it is, I thought it was fine.

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You can pick up a copy of Fleishman Is in Trouble from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Women’s Prize for Fiction 2020 | Reaction and Reading Plans

The 16 books on this year’s longlist.

Last year was the first time I read the entire Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist before the shortlist was announced. Though I didn’t necessarily love all of the titles, I adored the experience of following the prize, and the friendships that were forged from discussing it with fellow bloggers. My initial reaction to seeing this year’s longlist was, “How can I possibly have read so many eligible titles, but only two of them made the list???” Once I calmed down and got over myself, however, I realised it was a pretty interesting selection, nonetheless. So, let’s chat about it!

Ironically, I think one of the most notable things about this year’s list is which books are absent. Whether it’s titles that have had huge media coverage (The Testaments by Margaret Atwood); titles from well-established authors (Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson); titles that have had previous award success (The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins, 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak); titles that have generated big buzz within the bookish world (Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann, Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid); or simply some personal favourites from this year’s eligible titles (The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, Long Bright River by Liz Moore), to name just a few; there are lots of big hitters that didn’t make the cut. In some ways, avoiding many of the ‘obvious’ picks is exciting, and once I started looking into the list properly, I started feeling more excited and optimistic about the prospect of committing to reading (almost) all of them once again.

The two I’ve read thus far are Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo and Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell (click on the titles if you’d like to check out my reviews). I enjoyed both, and am perfectly happy to see them make the list. Weather by Jenny Offill, and Girl by Edna O’Brien were both already on my TBR, so I’m happy for the excuse to try and pick them up sooner rather than later.

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams, A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes, The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, and Actress by Anne Enright were already firmly on my radar, and I’ve heard sufficiently good things about each of them to now officially add them to my TBR as well.

I knew next to nothing about Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie, Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson, or How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee before the list was announced. Having looked into them, I’m definitely intrigued enough to want to give them a shot, and I’m really pleased I discovered a few exciting new-to-me books through the prize!

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara, Dominicana by Angie Cruz, and The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo don’t immediately jump out at me. Depending on how well I get on with the ones I’m planning to prioritise, and the reviews I see coming in for them from fellow bloggers over the coming weeks, I may reach for them.

The only one I don’t want to read is Fleishman is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner. It doesn’t sound like my kind of thing at all, and I’ve seen a few ‘meh’ reviews from people I trust. We’ll see…

And last but not least, the only one I definitely won’t be reading is The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel. It’s the third in a trilogy of historical behemoths, none of which I’ve read yet, and none of which particularly appeal to me – despite Mantel’s immense success and reputation (I know, don’t come for me, okay?). With a longlist this extensive already, there’s no way I can commit to making my way through that whole series within the next month or two.

So, taking stock, there are 11 titles that I would ideally like to have read by the time the shortlist/winner is announced, 3 that are maybes, 1 that’s unlikely, and 1 that’s a definite no. Honestly? I’m pretty happy with that. In an ideal world, I’d be able to wholeheartedly commit to the entire list every year, but as it is, I’m looking forward to following this one as best I can, and seeing where it takes me.

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What about you? How many of the longlisted titles have you read? How many others do you plan to pick up? Which titles are you most surprised and/or sad didn’t make the cut? Let me know your thoughts!

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The Girls with No Names by Serena Burdick | Book Review

The Girls with No Names by Serena Burdick
Published by Park Row, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Against the backdrop of a patriarchal society under threat from the suffrage movement, Serena Burdick examines the enduring bond of sisterhood and those who were relegated to the fringes of society.

It’s the early 20th century and women are taking to the streets of New York to demand their rights. Teenage sisters Luella and Effie Tildon have enjoyed a comparatively privileged upbringing, but money has not afforded them health or happiness; Effie suffers the effects of a malformed heart, while Luella longs for freedom. The sisters rebel quietly at first, but when Luella’s defiance escalates, a dangerous rift tears the family apart. Waking one morning to find her sister gone, Effie fears her father has made good on his threat to send Luella to the House of Mercy. This infamous reform house promises to straighten the paths of troublesome girls through a strict regimen of manual labor and religious virtue, and Effie decides she must get inside in order to rescue her sister and repair her broken family.

The primary strength of the novel lies in the depth of its characters. None of the main players are presented as wholly good or bad, and in the nuance of these complexities, Burdick captures a society on the cusp of change.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about women’s suffrage in America which you can read here.

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Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell | Book Review

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell
Published by Knopf, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In a bold departure from her previous work, O’Farrell attempts to paint a portrait of the relationship between William Shakespeare and his wife, particularly concerning the death of their 11-year-old son.

It’s important to note that the names Hamnet and Hamlet were entirely interchangeable in Shakespeare’s day, and so the primary question O’Farrell concerns herself with is why The Bard chose to name that particular play/character after his deceased son. The second (and most interesting) thing to note is that Shakespeare is never actually named throughout the novel. By only ever referring to him based on his various roles in life and relationships to others (the son, the husband, the tutor, the father) O’Farrell cleverly accomplishes two things: Firstly, she humanises the myth, reminding us that Shakespeare was much more than just a writer; he was a man who endured the same hardships and cherished the same things as everyone else. Secondly, she vindicates his wife and children, allowing them to take the spotlight for once, subverting the norm of having them defined solely by their connection to him.

With little detail known about Shakespeare’s wife (now believed to have been named Agnes, rather than Anne) or the death of their son, O’Farrell does a great job of breathing life and emotion into their story. I have to say, however, that the narrative structure and pacing didn’t entirely work for me. The first two thirds of the novel are split into a dual timeline, jumping between the early courtship of Shakespeare and Agnes, and the events years later that lead up to Hamnet’s inevitable death. This nonlinearity added nothing for me, and there’s an oddly drawn out attempt at misdirection regarding the fate of Hamnet and his twin sister that felt redundant given both the book’s blurb, and the story’s real-life historical basis.

Initially, I also felt O’Farrell’s prose was somewhat laboured; the push for a rich, evocative feel coming off as overwritten. Whether she found her stride with the historical setting, or whether I simply got sufficiently drawn in for it to stop bothering me, this problem did lessen as the novel progressed. Where the book excelled unwaveringly, however, was its eventual portrayal of a family blindsided by grief. She captures their bewilderment as individuals and as a unit with real fervour.

It’s a daring move for any writer to tackle the intimate life of the writer, and whilst I certainly found it compelling, I do think it ultimately failed to stick a proper landing. O’Farrell clearly undertook this novel with the aim of answering key questions about Shakespeare and his family, but the attempt at a revelatory denouement felt both hurried and underwhelming, proving why those questions have remained unanswered for so long. Still, it’s a book I had high expectations for, and despite feeling it didn’t quite capitalise on its full potential, I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with it.

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Thank you to the publisher for an advanced copy via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.

You can pre-order a copy of Hamnet from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Long Bright River by Liz Moore | Book Review

Long Bright River by Liz Moore
Published by Hutchinson, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The initial setup for Liz Moore’s Long Bright River is almost classic crime/thriller territory, as we’re introduced to a police officer concerned that her missing sister (a drug addict and prostitute) will emerge as the next victim in a string of killings against similarly vulnerable women. Her personal investment in the case will push her prided professionalism to its limit, as she seeks to find her sister before the killer can. While the novel does have all the gripping intensity and intrigue of a good mystery romp, it opts (initially, at least) for a very different stylistic approach.

The first 300 or so pages are a real slow burn, with Moore taking the time to establish the community her characters inhabit; one that has been ravaged by the opioid crisis, corruption, and the dangerous feeling that everyone has become desensitised and complacent in the face of such injustice. Despite the somewhat restrained plot progression, the book always reads swiftly, largely because of how well Moore establishes her characters and the hardships they face. She captures with real grit and poignancy just how devastating the opioid crisis has been in the US, examining not only the myriad ways it impacts individuals, but the ripple effect it has throughout families and communities, from one generation to the next. But if Moore is unflinching in her portrayal of addiction, she is never judgemental of her characters – a balancing act that takes real writerly skill.

In her more nuanced approach, Moore is also able to tackle some other big themes, particularly the struggle of single, working mothers, and the many sacrifices they are forced to make. The more she is drawn into the case, and the seedy underbelly of the town, the more our heroine must wrestle with the guilt of seeing less of her young son. He, in turn, shows increasing signs of separation anxiety, which I thought was handled really well. Indeed, where many authors struggle to write believable, three-dimensional child characters, Moore excelled. My heart broke for young Thomas on several occasions.

If the book is slower and more contemplative at first, it hits breakneck speed and doesn’t relent for the last 100 pages or so (the novel clocking in at around 450 pages in all). The plot itself moves to the fore, in a rapid sequence of twists and revelations – some big, some small; some I predicted, some I didn’t. I can see this sudden and drastic tonal shift being a little jarring for some, but by then I was so invested that I just allowed the pace to carry me through to the end. It was here, however, that I hit the novel’s only other slight stumbling block. I felt Moore erred towards the kind of conclusion that wraps up every single plot thread a little too neatly, and in very quick succession, akin to ticking off a checklist to ensure there are no loose ends. In a book that’s all about how messy life can get, I wouldn’t have opposed a little more ambiguity where certain characters and events were concerned.

This is a hugely readable novel overall; one that thrills as a piece of entertainment as much as it shines a light on a very real problem within society. It shows the kind of thematic depth crime books are capable of, and why genre fiction should not be automatically dismissed when it comes to literary awards. With that in mind, this is one that has had a bit of buzz as a possible longlist entry for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction (within my bookish circles, anyway), and I’d be more than happy to see it make the cut.

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