Earthlings by Sayaka Murata | Book Review

Earthlings by Sayaka Murata, translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori
Published by Granta, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Though it is concerned with the same core concept of individuals who reject the roles set out for them by society, Earthlings is a far bolder and more twisted affair than the author’s previous hit, Convenience Store Woman. Frankly, I think it’s all the better for it. While the latter ultimately left me feeling underwhelmed, love it or loathe it, I can’t see how Earthlings could fail to elicit a strong response from any reader.

We follow Natsuki. She struggles to fit in as a child and believes she may be a witch, appearing to call upon her vivid imagination as a means of escape from trauma and abuse. She forms a powerful, intimate relationship with her cousin, Yuu, the two agreeing that perhaps they’re not originally from Earth at all. Shocking events tear the two apart for more than 20 years, by which time Natsuki has entered an asexual marriage of convenience to appease her family. But a reunion with Yuu reignites her desire to find a way of escaping the trappings of what she calls “The Factory”; the rigid, gendered roles set out for us all by society, with its particular emphasis on procreation – the idea of which repulses her. Natsuki, her husband, and Yuu will go to extreme lengths to make this happen.

I love the way the book toes the line when it comes to its flirtation with magical realism. It becomes a powerful way to explore the notion of storytelling as a method of self-protection; a theme which I adore. It also makes Natsuki a fascinatingly unreliable narrator.  Alongside this, the book is primarily concerned with the concept of freewill and whether it’s truly possible to live with no sense of community, and perhaps even without our own humanity.

The latter portion of the book descends into full-tilt madness. Rather than the characters gradually removing themselves from society and degrading slowly, the switch happens incredibly quickly, making it pretty hard to believe. The point the book is trying to make also becomes less clear as a result. Shocking and haunting though the final chapter is, the characters we had previously been rooting for to escape and achieve true autonomy over their lives become so irredeemable that life out with “The Factory” seems even less appealing than life inside it. Perhaps it was her intention to imply that outsiders are doomed regardless of whether they concede or resist, and this theme is certainly valid and worth exploring, but the execution and the stance she’s approaching it from feel uneven when the book is examined as a whole.

Still, this novel will certainly stay with me. Provocative and compelling in equal measure, I raced through it and found myself in something of a daze by the time I reached the end. If you’re drawn to the theme of society versus the individual and have a strong stomach, it’s certainly worth taking a chance on it.

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Surge by Jay Bernard | Book Review

Surge by Jay Bernard
Published by Chatto & Windus, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this collection of poems, Bernard explores two tragedies that took place within the UK’s recent history, both of which had a disproportionately devastating impact on the Black community. These are the New Cross Massacre, a fire that killed 13 young people in 1981 and which many believed to be a racist attack, and the Grenfell Tower disaster in 2017, when a block of flats was engulfed in flames, killing 72 people, many of whom were migrants and asylum seekers.

When researching both incidents, Bernard was struck by the similarities in the poor handling of the aftermath, exposing the persistence of systemic racism, economic inequality, and bias within the police and media. Written against the backdrop of the further Windrush scandal, this collection is undoubtedly at its strongest when it pulls back to comment on such issues more broadly. Some poems attempt to give a more intimate first-person voice to victims, and I appreciate the intent here. A couple of pieces towards the end are more personal, exploring the poet’s experiences regarding the intersection between Blackness and queerness. Though these are equally valid and important topics, the rest of the collection has such a tight thematic focus that they felt a little out of place.

Bernard has a beautiful turn of phrase, but the poems that hit me hardest were arguably the most simplistic, the vivid imagery and tangible pain of Arrival and Stone being real highlights.

remember we were brought here from the clear waters of our dreams
that we might be named, numbered and forgotten
that we were made visible that we might be looked on with contempt
that they gave us their first and last names that we might be called wogs
and to their minds made flesh that it might be stripped from our backs

– From Arrival

autumn
in all its orange dresses sipping rain in Fordham Park

a tyre swing eclipses the world within its hoop

I have found the stone with the names of all the dead

I sit
and meet the stone’s cold pink mirror
garbled sun

thirteen names

every year

I hear summer ask how autumn
can endure
winter’s undoing

– From Stone

On the whole, this is a powerful, well informed collection that bares many of the uncomfortable yet necessary truths kept silent for far too long.

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One Night Two Souls Went Walking by Ellen Cooney | Book Review

One Night Two Souls Went Walking by Ellen Cooney
Published by Coffee House Press, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Ruminative yet understated, this beguiling novel explores the fine line between life and death, and the elusive nature of the human soul.

In One Night Two Souls Went Walking, we follow a young interfaith chaplain as she carries out her nightly duties on a hospital ward, easing patients through their final moments and comforting loved ones in their newfound grief. She was drawn to the job through her fascination with the concept of souls – how they are formed, where they reside, and whether or not they ever truly leave. Though not hugely plot driven, we do see glimpses of the ways her unwavering dedication to this role has impacted her personal relationships, and through subtle hints of magical realism, the emotional toll it can take to so often be forced to say goodbye.

Despite the melancholy subject matter, the novel has a gentle quality that mirrors the narrator’s characterization. That said, Cooney hints at a complexity beyond simple kindness, showing us the white lies she is often compelled to tell in order to ease the woes of the dying so they may pass in peace.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about Animal Assisted Therapy to go alongside it, which you can read here.

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Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson & Emily Carroll | Book Review

Speak: The Graphic Novel by Laurie Halse Anderson, art by Emily Carroll
Published by Hodder, 2018
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Anderson’s novel, Speak, follows a teenage girl in the wake of sexual assault as she attempts to handle depression, navigate social isolation, and find the confidence to speak her truth. First published back in 1999, it is highly revered by many and had been on my radar for years. When I heard that Anderson was working with artist Emily Carroll (whose work I’m a big fan of) to adapt the story into a graphic novel, I knew it was the edition I wanted to get hold of.

Part of my love for Carroll’s art style lies in her vibrant use of colour, so the fact this is presented in greyscale initially worried me. It needn’t have; her characteristically playful use of imagery, form and layout means the artwork still has real impact. It serves as an excellent accompaniment to the story itself, which handles heavy subject matter in a way that feels truthful and heartfelt, without ever condescending the target YA audience.

Having not read the book in its original form, I can’t directly compare the two, but I feel confident in saying the graphic novel format works brilliantly to convey Melinda’s story. Art itself plays a key role throughout her arc, as she learns to process trauma and express herself. These moments can be woven into the narrative seamlessly and more boldly thanks to Carroll’s illustration.

The book is clear in its messages – that no means no, that the victim is never to blame, and that the mental scars of trauma are just as painful to deal with as the physical ones – and I admire that Anderson takes time to explore them with due sensitivity and realism; never rushing or understating her points. By contrast, I will say I found the denouement a little abrupt, but this didn’t diminish the story’s overall power. I also really appreciate that Anderson never presents Melinda as “perfect”; she can be moody, mean-spirited, and a little judgemental of others – but this works so well to make her feel like an authentic teenage protagonist and to press home the point that no one – however complex and flawed they may be – ever deserves to endure what Melinda goes through.

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Pew by Catherine Lacey | Book Review

Pew by Catherine Lacey
Published by Granta, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A person of indeterminate age, gender and race, with apparent amnesia and an unwillingness to speak, is found sleeping on a church pew in an unnamed American town. A local family offers to take them in, giving them the nickname Pew. Although claiming to be charitable, the town grows increasingly impatient with Pew the more they refuse to answer questions or conform to strict societal roles.

The book is largely a meditation on the idea of the body versus the person, and the individual versus the community. The townsfolk show little interest in getting to know Pew’s personality or desires, determined instead to categorize them based on physical characteristics and identifiable labels alone. They are at pains to imply they’re open minded regarding Pew’s ambiguous gender, sexuality, and origins, but there are clear implications that people’s charitable efforts may no longer be on offer should the answers to their questions not be what they want to hear; that this community remains more divided than they want others to believe. It is this hypocrisy that Lacey really wants to interrogate, and with Pew being both an outsider and – in many ways – a blank canvas, people repeatedly feel compelled to purge themselves of secrets in front of them, revealing the town’s dark heart. Though I could see what the author was going for thematically with these scenes, it has to be said they felt incredibly unbelievable from a dialogue and narrative perspective.

On the other hand, several scenes in which the group discuss what to do about Pew – as though they aren’t present – felt uncomfortably real. I thought Lacey did a great job here of reflecting the way society so often dehumanises those who – for whatever reason – don’t have a voice; forcing us to ask ourselves whether Pew is in fact a guest or a prisoner.

Set across a week leading up to the town’s mysterious ‘Forgiveness Festival’, the book does an excellent job of subtly building tension; the nature of this annual event seeming ever more sinister as it grows near. Sadly, I felt all of this foundational work was undone by a rushed, info-dump explanation as to the festival’s purpose, and a final few pages of pretentious, literary waffle – neither of which satisfied on a narrative or thematic level. The trouble is, the story hinted at in Pew’s final chapter is far more interesting than the one we actually got, and rather than leaving me wanting more in a good way, it left me questioning why we were given so little when Lacey clearly had more to bring to the table.

Despite ultimately feeling frustrated by the novel’s untapped potential, this was still a provocative and worthwhile read in its own way. It poses fascinating questions about identity, community, organised religion, the precarious line between tolerance and impatience, and what can happen when charity starts to feel like a burden.

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The Doll Factory by Elizabeth Macneal | Book Review

The Doll Factory by Elizabeth Macneal
Published by Picador, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set in 1850s London, this wonderfully evocative debut looks at art, autonomy, love, and obsession. Iris makes her living painting faces onto dolls alongside her twin sister, but she longs to be taken seriously as a true artist. When she is offered the chance to model for up-and-coming pre-Raphaelite artist Louis Frost, she agrees, on the condition that he will tutor her in return. But someone else is watching Iris’s every move. Silas is a lonely collector of curiosities with whom Iris shared a brief, (and for her) quickly forgotten encounter. Entranced by her unique beauty, however, Silas’s longings for friendship will soon develop into something decidedly more sinister.

This is such a brilliantly gothic read. Macneal’s writing is lush and intoxicating; the sights, scents and sounds of Victorian London practically leaping from the page. Much of the novel is technically a slow-build, and yet the pace never lags, the sense of mounting tension handled perfectly. And though the nature of the final act is arguably predictable (indeed, there is a lot of deliberate foreshadowing), it is no less chilling and gripping when it finally arrives.

Iris is an excellent heroine: talented, ambitious, headstrong, and determined to succeed in a man’s world. The book has really great things to say about the limitations placed on women at the time. With so much emphasis placed on physical beauty, Iris, who has a malformed collar bone and a slight hunch caused by complications during birth, and Rose, her twin sister who is heavily scarred from a near fatal case of smallpox, would both be considered “damaged goods”, unlikely to find a husband. The complex mix of fierce love and bitter resentment between the sisters adds a really interesting aspect to the narrative. That their only real prospect of bettering their station would be through marriage; that they would never earn enough as women to gain true independence; that Iris risks being disowned by her family and disgraced by society for agreeing to model (the act being seen as akin to prostitution at the time); and that despite her talent Iris must rely on the guidance and approval of men are all in for subtle though well-handled critique.

These latter points are explored particularly well. Macneal highlights the fact that using her body, either through prostitution or modelling, was one of few ways for a woman to earn decent money, and yet she would face social ruin as a result. The hypocrisy that men believed they should be able to admire and use women’s bodies while simultaneously vilifying them for it as a means of belittling their worth is both accurately handled from a historical fiction perspective and frustratingly resonant within the current patriarchal society in which we live. Its look at the art world also chimes true with the fact that to this day, far more paintings of women hang in galleries than paintings by women. I love that Iris wanted to prove she had every right to do both; that she was both beautiful enough to model for Louis and talented enough to one day get a piece of her own into the Great Exhibition.

As is usually the case within the gothic tradition, there is a romantic subplot throughout, as Iris and Louis grow increasingly close to one another. While not often a fan of such subplots, the chemistry between the two was so well realised, and permitted to develop organically over time, that I was completely won round. There are several great supporting characters too. I particularly adored Albie, a young orphaned lad who lives in a brothel with his sister, gathering dead animals to sell to Silas to try and raise enough funds to better their lives. When he begins to suspect that Silas may pose a threat to Iris, he determines to help her. His point-of-view chapters also do an excellent job of further exploring the stark contrast between the lives of the rich and poor.

I just loved every moment I spent with this book. It completely absorbed me as both a richly layered piece of literary fiction and as a compelling story. It’s true I felt the denouement was a little abrupt, but with prose, atmosphere, themes, characters, and a setting that were all so vividly drawn, this was just the gothic romp I needed; a fantastic look at womanhood, freedom, and resilience in the face of madness.

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Grimoire by Robin Robertson | Book Review

Grimoire by Robin Robertson
Published by Pan Macmillan, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I love all things inspired by the dark side of folk and fairy tales, so when I caught sight of this collection of narrative poems from Robin Robertson, I was instantly intrigued. From stories of ghosts, witches and doppelgängers, to tales of selkies and changelings, the poems draw on Scotland’s rich tradition of mythology and storytelling to explore themes of heartache, revenge, and transformation. Often focussing on those who are vilified for their differences, thematically the pieces pay homage to the classics as much as they resonate within today’s society.

The absolute standout piece for me was a gender-swapped piece about a woman who attempts to keep her half-selkie children safe from the prying eyes of their neighbours – and the wrath of her jealous husband. “For years she tended each difficult flame: / their tight, flickering bodies. / Each night she closed / the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.” It’s a tragic and beautiful poem with an absolute knock-out ending that is all the more powerful for how subtly it is delivered.

Other favourites include the stories of a town cursed to suffer a brutal winter by a scorned woman; a boy attempting to outsmart a witch; and a couple whose son is snatched by faeries and replaced by a changeling despite their exhaustive efforts to keep him safe.

I love Robertson’s use of language. It’s lyrical yet always so readable, and I adore the way he weaves in Scots words throughout (there’s a glossary of these terms at the back for those unfamiliar with them, but the meaning of most can be gleaned contextually). He has a knack for creating stark, hauntingly macabre images perfectly suited to the subject matter. Take for example a decaying corpse, its ribcage “a rack of bones like a sprung trap”. Or this description of a girl obsessed with exploring the bodies of dead animals:

“[…] cutting up fish
to see how they worked;
by morning’s end her nails
were black red, her hands
all sequined silver.
She unpuzzled rabbits
to a rickle of bones;
dipped into a dormouse
for the pip of its heart.”

Simple yet haunting illustrations – provided by Robertson’s brother, Tim – are peppered throughout the collection as well. Compared in the blurb to cave paintings, these striking images do indeed possess an eerie timelessness that enhances the impact of the book as a whole.

A few examples of the illustrations

As is to be expected with any collection, a few poems failed initially to land with quite the same impact as the strongest offerings, but the quality of the language and narrative drive is consistently high throughout. Plus, I’ve already been dipping in and out of this again and picking up on new details; my appreciation growing each time I do. A few individual poems are undoubtedly among my favourites from any poet, and it seems the more time I take to mull this one over, the more the collection as a whole is also cementing its place among my favourites.

I’ll leave you with another excerpt, as I think the best way to know if a poet’s style will work for you is simply to give it a try. So here is one of my favourite passages from one of the aforementioned poems, in which a mother accepts the painful truth that the baby she has been raising as her son is in fact a changeling; that he will never belong in their world, and her true son is gone. (Note: ‘north-dancers’ is a term for the aurora borealis.)

“Mother always said that we wear our dreams – all living things:
the goshawk shows on his breast a flock of geese,
the mountain hare becomes snow in winter; the mackerel
carries the streamoury of the north-dancers on its back,
the silver-green and barred black
that ebbs to grey when it’s taken from the sea.
So our son had eyes the blue of far off places,
and he wore his skin like water.

For some it’s not long, the waiting, for that
decay of light – when all is flown, all faded, washed away.

When I reached the cottage, the crib was still empty.
The crib lies empty still.”

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Pet by Akwaeke Emezi | Book Review

Pet by Akwaeke Emezi
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

In this singular new offering from Emezi, we follow Jam, a teenage girl who lives in a world that has supposedly rid itself of “monsters”. She soon finds herself confronted, however, with a strange creature that has emerged from one of her mother’s paintings. Calling itself Pet, it tells Jam that a monster lives among them once again and that they must hunt it down together. Worse still, it tells her that the monster lurks within the home of Jam’s best friend, Redemption.

It’s frustrating when you have such mixed feelings towards a book that is so widely revered – especially when you hoped to love it too. With that in mind, I’ll start by talking about Pet’s merits, because I do think it has a lot to admire. It becomes clear to the reader very quickly precisely what kind of “monster” we’re dealing with, and Emezi strikes an excellent balance between due reverence for the big themes being tackled and an avoidance of gratuity – especially considering the book’s relatively young target audience.

With Pet being a literal manifestation of art as a means of confronting life’s difficulties, and our heroine quickly heading to the library to read up on monsters to equip her with the knowledge she’ll need to face one, there’s a subtle though excellent thread throughout about the value of the arts; its ability to document, educate, and empower.

The cast of characters is wonderfully diverse. Jam herself is trans and selectively mute due to anxiety, and though both of these facts are referenced several times, they are incidental to her role within the narrative. This kind of casual, normalised representation is just as important as stories that place trans and neurodiverse/mental health issues front and centre. I thought both aspects were handled beautifully.

If the book has a presiding theme, it’s the notion that true monsters hide within plain sight; that it’s crucial we remain vigilant to the kind of warning signs we may not want to accept, and that we step in to help those who need it. I love and wholly agree with this, but here is where the book’s execution began to fall apart for me, sadly.

In short, it all feels too rushed. The novel is simply too brief to allow sufficient breathing space for the many characters and the enormity of the situation they find themselves facing. As such, most of the side characters fade into obscurity. And fundamentally, though I warmed to Jam hugely, I could never shake the feeling that she was the wrong choice of narrator, as this simply isn’t her story to tell. In a similar vein, it felt like a real missed opportunity to me that the monster’s actual victim is never given a voice. Afforded a mere couple of passing references, they feel like little more than a plot device used to facilitate Jam and Redemption’s confrontation with the monster, lacking any depth, agency, or closure of their own. The book may be about stepping in to help others, but it still felt like an odd choice to sideline a crucial character in what is essentially their own story.

The book’s climax also sat very uncomfortably with me. There is initially some well-handled commentary on the futility of “killing monsters” (what I read as critique of the death penalty); arguing against its barbarity, suggesting that to live with your mistakes is a greater punishment, and explaining the value of having living examples of where society can go wrong, so we can better address the underlying issues that turn people into “monsters” in the first place and remain vigilant to their presence. This was all great, but then, (and consider the rest of this paragraph something of a spoiler warning) … Pet melts the eyes of the “monster” out of his head, torturing him physically and breaking him mentally, in order to force a full confession. Not only is this arguably a dubious moral message to be sending to young readers in and of itself, but it completely contradicts the book’s previous efforts to suggest that real monsters look like “normal” people – for want of a better phrase. By choosing to punish the villain by mutilating him, thus marking his body out as noticeably Other, Emezi unwittingly reinforces the harmful trope that physical flaws denote a corrupt interior.

As you can probably tell by my review, this is a deceptively complex novel and my feelings towards it are suitably conflicting. There’s no denying that Emezi is an interesting author tackling important themes through a bold lens. The many glowing reviews pouring in for Pet suggest I’m in the minority, but certain creative choices and (what was to me) a problematic outcome stopped it from winning my heart. I’ve found myself thinking about it a lot though. It will be interesting to see how it stands the test of time; whether its strengths outlast my initial frustrations, or whether the latter prove too great.

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His Only Wife by Peace Adzo Medie | Book Review

His Only Wife by Peace Adzo Medie
Published by Algonquin Books, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Addictive melodrama reminiscent of a soap opera masks incisive commentary on finding independence, the pitfalls of polygamy and the reality of Ghanaian class divides in this hugely readable debut novel.

21-year-old Afi is a talented Ghanaian seamstress eager to study fashion design, but her life is upturned when her mother agrees to an arranged marriage with a virtual stranger, the son of a wealthy local businesswoman, on her behalf. Afi is whisked from her small town and placed in a luxury apartment in the capital of Accra. It soon becomes clear that Afi’s husband Eli is already in love with someone else, a woman his family disapproves of, and that his family has set up his marriage to Afi to lure him away from her.

This “other woman” lingers on the periphery for almost the entire novel, and I thought this was a very clever narrative decision. It allows her, the rival who is never seen but whose presence is always felt, to remain as elusive to the reader as she is to Afi. It also emphasizes that the contention between her and Afi is born wholly from the influence of others, and not through any fault of their own.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece highlighting contemporary Ghanaian women writers, which you can read here.

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Malorie by Josh Malerman | Book Review

Malorie by Josh Malerman
Published by Orion, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

One of your favourite books getting a previously unplanned sequel is always going to be met with a strange mix of excitement and nerves. Though this never reaches the same level of dread as the original Bird Box, and requires more than a little suspension of disbelief, it is still a fun, thrilling read that successfully builds on the first book’s strongest themes and ideas, thus making it feel like a worthwhile, if flawed, follow up.

The time jump of ten years between the end of Bird Box and the beginning of Malorie works well in several ways. Chiefly, it allows Malerman to explore the same key question established in book one from a newer, more nuanced perspective: Is it enough to merely survive if you cannot truly live? One of my favourite aspects of the original book was the complex moral dilemmas its heroine was forced to navigate in order to keep her children alive. Did her extreme measures make her cruel or simply a good mother in the new, dangerous world? Now teenagers, her children are well equipped to survive in their post-apocalyptic setting, but they are also resentful and less willing to follow Malorie’s rule unquestioningly. Pushing back against their mother’s strict regime, and captivated by rumours of a different, freer way of living, tensions rise between the trio when they are once again forced to traverse the barren landscape, populated by mysterious creatures, the mere sight of which drives the viewer to instant, murderous insanity.

There’s also a great sense of continuity in Malorie’s character development, facilitated in part by the passage of time between books. By now, she is clearly a hardened survivor, but so too is she haunted by the very specific horrors she endured throughout the first book. Trust issues and extreme paranoia add yet more complexity to her situation, and I think Malerman wove in this look at PTSD and living with trauma well.

Malorie has fewer standout set pieces than Bird Box, and so never quite managed to get beneath my skin in the same way. But it does still use sensory deprivation and our fear of the unknown very well to create a feeling of vulnerability and threat. It’s utterly compelling, and I flew through it, but this paciness does mean there are several instances of conveniently dramatic timing. Essentially, if something can go wrong for the characters, it will, and it’s best to just submit yourself to the wild ride that is their story if you can. That said, I do think the climax could have been a lot stronger overall; one major thread in particular feeling disappointingly rushed at the end.

Considering how worried I was that this would feel more like a cash-grab-sequel to the (meh) movie adaptation of Bird Box than it would a genuine sequel to the book, I was very pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed my time with this. Gripping, creepy, fascinating conceptually, and with interesting things to say about family and hope, it really does have a lot going for it. I’m still not wholly convinced it’s a sequel we necessarily needed, but it’s one that in no way damages the impact of its predecessor either.

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