Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton | Book Review

Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton
Published by Dialogue Books, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I’m glad to say I rounded off my reading of the Women’s Prize longlist with a strong contender. Remembered opens in 1910, as a mother rushes to her son’s hospital bed. Charged with committing a serious crime, and on the brink of death, she vows to tell him the truth of his origins, so that he may ‘find his way home’ in peace. We then travel back to the 1840s, and ultimately follow three generations of this family, showing us how we ended up at this tragic tableau, and highlighting repetitions throughout the timeline of the African-American experience.

The novel is a lot more brutal than I expected, this being a story of slavery, and the struggle that many black people faced to rebuild and find acceptance in the wake of Emancipation. Violence, deprivation, and cruelty are a near constant presence, but that’s not to say the book lacks hope or beauty. On the contrary, the finding of family, and the preservation of joy in the darkest of times are both major threads that run throughout.

The narrative voice feels very authentic. Though the informal approach to grammar takes a little getting used to for those unaccustomed, once you find the rhythm of the prose, it flows beautifully, helping to set the book in its rightful time and place. The characters themselves are richly drawn, and I found myself caring deeply about their fate.

There is an element of magical realism; our heroine able to see and communicate with the ghost of her sister. I sometimes struggle with this kind of thing in an otherwise raw and realistic story, but in this instance, I thought it was handled wonderfully. Not only do the sisters’ scenes together deliver equal parts pathos and snark, but the ghost’s presence serves as a clever symbol of the book’s main theme: the importance of facing up to the past, lest it continue to haunt us. Indeed, there are undeniable parallels between the historical events described, and every generation leading up to the world we live in now. Battle-Felton has written a powerful yet sensitive rallying call, telling the real story between the headlines that so often went untold. In it, she urges us to remember those who have suffered. Together, we can make sure no one need suffer as they did again.

***

If you’d like to read Remembered, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li | Book Review

Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li
Published by Pushkin Press, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This is where I confess that I was dreading picking up this book. The blurb did little for me, and the lukewarm average rating on Goodreads didn’t exactly fill me with confidence either. With my aim of reading the entire Women’s Prize longlist, however, I was determined to push on regardless. Now, how much my enjoyment was down to it being a genuinely good read, and how much was down to my very low expectations being easily surpassed, I’ll never be sure. But I am both pleased and relieved to say I ended up really liking this book.

The plot centres around several generations of a Chinese immigrant family who run a restaurant together in the US. With one brother having ambitions beyond the family name, and the others each harbouring secrets or desires of their own, conflict and drama begin to unfold. And though I won’t go into specifics, I was surprised by the amount of stuff that actually happens in this book; from organised crime and underhand deals, to love affairs and unlikely friendships.

Li doesn’t strive to make her characters particularly likable, but for that they feel all the more believable. Perhaps not on this scale, admittedly, but what family doesn’t have its own share of secrets, betrayals, rivalries, and resentment to contend with when pressure mounts and the cracks begin to show? I love the way she explores the theme of duty versus desire, with each of the characters wrestling in their own way with honouring the commitments they feel they should uphold, and chasing after what they really want from life. The inescapable ties of familial loyalty, particularly in a culture that puts so much emphasis on lineage, is captured very effectively. So too is the struggle to find your own sense of individuality within the hierarchy of a family or business (or both, as the case may be). Notions of grief and guilt are also touched upon, as is the complexity of language, communication, and cultural identity within an Asian-American family.

The restaurant itself serves as the nucleus of the family, repeatedly drawing them all back together no matter their attempts to leave; like a physical representation of their bond. A sense of longing and quiet loneliness permeates the book, and I found this effective, too. It allows for moments of both black humour and melancholy to help balance out the melodrama that unfolds.

All that said, the novel is far from perfect. The prose, whilst fine at propelling the story forward, neither grabbed nor moved me at any time. There are some sections that feel bloated, and I think the book would have been stronger had it been streamlined in some way; allowing for a more incisive examination of each character’s emotional turmoil.

There is also a fleeting inclusion of the tired disfigurement-as-a-sign-of-evil trope that just doesn’t belong in contemporary fiction. Physical difference (in this instance, a missing finger) is an outdated and lazy way to indicate to the reader that a character is in some way bad, but writers should know by now to show us this through the character’s actions and words, and not to tell us by falling back on harmful stereotypes. In fairness, it’s mentioned only twice (I think), and both times very briefly, so at least it isn’t hammed up. It’s so inconsequential to the plot or the development of the character, however, that it’s clearly only there as an indicator of the man’s ugly personality. Frankly, an editor should have been on it like a hawk.

This, for me, was a good book. But with so much potential thrown up by the various plot points, characters, and themes that were at play, it could have been a great one. It simply needed to be brought together with a little more finesse. Still, given how much I expected to dislike it, I’m counting this one as a resounding success!

***

If you’d like to give Number One Chinese Restaurant a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker | Book Review

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker
Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Put simply, The Silence of the Girls is the story of the Iliad, retold from the perspective of Briseis. Myth retellings are notoriously tricky. You’ve got to honour the timeless nature of much beloved characters and stories, and yet offer a fresh perspective that makes the effort feel worthwhile, enhancing the impact or themes of the original in some way. It must please those who are passionate about the core myths, and yet be accessible for those who are entirely new to them. On all fronts, I thought Barker was very successful.

The handling of the characters was excellent, as she managed to add depth and nuance without contradicting the existing canon. They are each fleshed out in a suitably complex way, Barker showing us that times of conflict can bring out both the best and worst in a person. The brutality of war, the horror of enslavement, and the lack of agency granted to women are all captured with raw vigour.

Briseis herself was a fantastic heroine, and I felt instantly drawn to her narrative voice. The fact that she narrates almost the entire story to us in first person, and yet speaks outwardly only a handful of times throughout the novel, is a stroke of genius, tying in beautifully with the title. Women like Briseis may well have been silenced, but they were still living, breathing, thinking, and feeling; far more perceptive than most of the men around them realised. Barker captures this idea with real flair.

That brings me to my only real critique of the book, which is the third person chapters from Achilles’ point of view. I understand that the context gleaned from these sections was important, but the shift to third person felt jarring, and my investment in Briseis was so great by the first time it happened that I resented any interruption to her telling of this story. As with Circe (another myth retelling with a feminist edge that is on the Women’s Prize longlist), there are also a few particularly modern, colloquial phrases that felt clumsy given the setting and tone – though this is obviously a stylistic choice.

The prose in general is wonderful, however. It’s so readable, and yet is packed with beauty; a balance that must have been especially hard to achieve given both the scale and harshness of the world she was writing about. Indeed, Barker manages to capture the grand, epic moments we expect, and the quiet, introspective character moments we don’t with equal aplomb. The way she brought everything together was so skilful, in fact, the final scenes almost made me emotional.

***

You can pick up a copy of The Silence of the Girls from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi | Book Review

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi
Published by Faber & Faber, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Having deliberately gone into this with little idea of what to expect, I was both impressed and delighted by how rich and complex it proved to be. Beautifully written, and highly thought-provoking, it is far more spiritual than I had anticipated, but ultimately explores identity at the murky intersection of culture, history, psychology, gender, sexuality, religion, mental health, and circumstance.

The plot follows Ada, a young Nigerian woman who must attempt to understand and make peace with the various parts of her fragmented psyche. Presented as ogbanje, spirits from Igbo folklore thought to plague someone with misfortune, these disparate voices take turns to narrate Ada’s story as they compete for control of their host, and look for a way to break free.

There are so many layers at play here. When taken literally, the folkloric nature of the story is darkly fascinating and fantastical, but there are undoubtedly thematic parallels with the trans/non-binary experience, and multiple personality disorder. The book examines how physically and mentally destructive it can be to live inside a body that feels in some way disjointed from your inner self (or indeed, selves). The ties to psychology and medicine become particularly prevalent here. With characters eager to label or diagnose Ada, we see both the stigma of mental health, and the arrogance of the Western world, which is quick to dismiss ideas from cultures it knows little about; even when it comes to something as diverse and unknowable as the human mind.

On that note, the book can also be interpreted as a look at the mind’s ability to fragment and compartmentalise to protect us from trauma; different ogbanje rising to the fore to shield or guide Ada when necessary. It also ruminates on the complexity of religion; how it can both offer salvation and encourage self-loathing.

The prose itself is excellent. There’s a sensual, flowing quality to the whole thing that lends it an almost ethereal edge. This works well given how much the narrative is informed by folklore, which is itself steeped in the art of storytelling.

This is the kind of novel that is driven more by its introspective ideas and stimulating themes than it is by plot, and as such, it’s one that offers more questions than it does answers. But the utterly unique narration and the incisive look at the relationship between mind and body make for a truly memorable reading experience.

***

If you’d like to read Freshwater, you can find a copy by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott | Book Review

Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott
Published by Hutchinson, 2018
My rating: ⭐

I should preface this review by making one thing clear: I always knew this book wasn’t going to be my cup of tea. Reading the blurb, and various reviews, it didn’t appeal to my bookish tastes at all. Normally, I would have steered clear. Alas, as part of my efforts to read the entire Women’s Prize longlist, it was a box that needed to be ticked. In that sense, I don’t doubt it will work considerably better in the hands of other readers.

The story is a fictionalised account of the life of Truman Capote and his circle of close friends; socialites collectively known as his ‘swans’. When he writes a thinly veiled exposé, revealing their trusted secrets, scandal and backlash ensue.

I’ll start with what I did like. The book paints a portrait of a man from lonely beginnings, who seeks validation through his work, and his association with the rich and famous. There is tragic irony in the fact that his own thirst for attention causes him to betray the very people who give him companionship, threatening to leave him more alone than ever as he slips into a fugue of addiction and lies. The use of narrative voice is also interesting, the ‘swans’ narrating the story as a collective ‘we’.

However, this doesn’t feel like an examination of a complex man, nor a fleshing out of his enigmatic ‘swans’. Rather, it resembles a painfully drawn out gossip column. Honestly, my predominant thought throughout was thus: If the Mail Online’s sidebar of shame had existed in the 70s, it would have read like this book. I hoped it might offer a feminist, insightful view of these people; one that defied expectations and gave the women agency. Instead, it all felt incredibly vapid, reinforcing every socialite trope there is.

There’s also just no need for it to be so long. The book is stuffed with tangents that offer no depth or development, other than to repeatedly show us how vain, shallow, cruel, and catty most of these people are. Yes, the women’s obsession with image and reputation is almost certainly down to harsh societal pressures, but I didn’t find any of them sympathetic or compelling enough to care. And whilst the shared narrative voice did indeed throw up lots of potential, it ultimately resulted in a blending together of the women. They all descended into an exhausting mass of white privilege, from which individuals were hard to discern.

The prose in general feels convoluted and overdone. It’s as though the author is trying hard to elevate the impact and merit of the content beyond its worth; unnecessary and melodramatic metaphors abound.

The lack of a satisfying plot would have been easier to contend with had the characters been presented well, but I thought the handling of Capote was verging on offensive. Poorly drawn characters is one thing, but when you’re dealing with real people, it’s even more problematic. Yes, Capote was openly gay, petite in stature, and known to be quite eccentric, but my god does Greenberg-Jephcott revel is reminding us. Over. And. Over. Again. He is consistently infantilised, invariably referred to as ‘the boy’; not to mention the frequent, unchallenged use of terms like ‘elfin’, ‘midget’, ‘effeminate’, ‘girly’, ‘fag’, and even ‘twisted dwarf’ throughout the narration. Granted, this kind of language was somewhat commonplace back in the 70s, but there are more nuanced, intelligent ways to authentically capture an era than to constantly beat readers over the head with slurs. It’s such a wasted opportunity to write a book centred around a fascinating, iconic figure, if you’re simply going to reduce him to a caricature of gay stereotypes. (And the man was 5’3”, for crying out loud – hardly short enough to warrant a reminder every single time he is mentioned.)

I cited a couple of positive points, and will admit that the final quarter included a few considerably more interesting scenes. That said, I just couldn’t justify a higher rating. The moments of interest were too few and far between to make up for how much the rest of the book felt like hard work, or how troublesome I found the characterisation. Also, this was my 12^th pick from the Women’s Prize longlist, and whilst there have been a few that weren’t to my personal taste, I always understood and respected their inclusion in the mix. This is the first one that has genuinely puzzled me. The whole thing felt mean spirited, boring, and clumsy, and offered no obvious thematic value. There’s also the unavoidable irony that this book is criticising Capote for writing about the sordid lives of a group of unpleasant people without their consent, under the guise of ‘fiction’, when this is doing exactly the same thing.

We can’t like them all. I just hope others have enjoyed this more than I did.

***

If you think you’ll have better luck than I did with Swan Song, and fancy trying it for yourself, you can pick up a copy by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts.

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An American Marriage by Tayari Jones | Book Review

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones
Published by Oneworld, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This is the story of Celestial and Roy, a passionate and promising young couple torn apart by a miscarriage of justice. Though both know him to be innocent, Roy is imprisoned on an accusation of rape, the novel following their doomed attempts to stay together whilst circumstances tear them apart. Matters become even more complicated when Roy’s conviction is overturned, five years into his twelve-year sentence; just as Celestial begins to move on with another man.

I admired the way Jones manages to present her characters without judgement, despite the increasingly melodramatic events, and the often toxic dynamic. There’s no Team Celestial or Team Roy approach here. Both are flawed, complex human beings, and the author avoids pushing us into siding with one over the other. The perspective moves between the two (and Andre, Celestial’s childhood-friend-turned-lover), and each narrative voice feels distinct and consistent. The prose in general was very readable, in fact, but it’s punctuated by some lovely imagery that made it easy and enjoyable to fly through.

I will say, the pacing and structure felt a little off balance at times. The epistolary style in the book’s first section worked really well to show the tragic disintegration of Celestial and Roy’s relationship, and to reflect the frustration of being kept apart by forces beyond their control. In the latter portion, however, things slowed down, and the focus seemed to shift. Whilst the American justice system and the prejudice faced by black people are undoubtedly important factors throughout the novel, they take something of a backseat as the narrative progresses, moving ever more towards a conventional love triangle. I felt invested in the characters’ emotional struggles by then, absolutely, but I would have liked the political and socioeconomic themes to have been driven home with more punch. This is a good book, but if it had followed through on the potential presented by its context, it could have been a fantastic one.

That said, my attention was held invariably. I enjoyed Jones’s look at the idea of power and ownership within a marriage, and the messy intersection between love and hate in the search for happiness.

***

You can pick up a copy of An American Marriage from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli | Book Review

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli
Published by 4^th Estate, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐

This is one of those instances in which I could see and respect a lot of what the author was trying to do, but stylistically, I just couldn’t connect with it.

The story follows a blended family as they drive across America. The parents are documentary makers, specialising in capturing sound. As they educate their kids about the Apache people (the subject of the father’s latest project), we see parallels with the present-day news stories playing out on the radio; migrant children being detained, pushed out, imprisoned, and displaced as they attempt to cross the US/Mexico border.

This is undoubtedly a timely novel, and yet it ruminates on the timelessness of humanity. I enjoyed its efforts to reflect the idea that events of the past echo throughout time (mirrored in the parents’ work with sound), and its look at the importance of documenting lives and experiences, so that we, and future generations, may learn from them. Luiselli’s prose is great at times, and she implements some fantastic imagery.

I did have a lot of issues with the execution, however. I love literature, and adore when an author can weave meaningful references to other works into their own. In this case, Luiselli shoehorns in so many references that it becomes farcical. Aside from lengthy passages of dialogue discussing books, every chapter opens with an epigraph, and some chapters literally just list book titles. It stops feeling like Luiselli is trying to draw thematic or narrative parallels, and starts to feel pretentious and self-congratulatory; a cringy effort to show-off how cultured and well-read she is. I doubt this was her intention, but it’s how it read to me.

The character development also felt off. There’s a lot of telling, rather than showing, particularly with the supposed tensions between the parents. We’re often told that they’re fighting and on the brink of a breakup, but the context of this felt lacking. The children fear that a separation would result in them being split up, thus ‘lost’ to each other. It becomes clear that this is supposed to be a thematic mirroring of the migrant children lost in the desert, but these are hardly problems of the same calibre. It all starts to feel like a terribly middle-class, privileged, and clumsy brand of empathy.

When the POV switches to that of the ten-year-old son half-way through, I found him very inauthentic as a narrator; the adult writer always visible through his words. By the time I reached the now infamous 30-page-long sentence (not a chapter, not a paragraph; a sentence), I just felt weary and emotionally disconnected.

There was also an element of expectation versus reality, which I concede is not strictly the book’s fault. I had been under the impression that the narrative would switch back and forth between the family and a group of migrant children. It doesn’t. The children, around whom the book is supposed to focus, are defined by their absence. Deliberate, yes, but a wasted opportunity, I felt. The book could have been a platform for migrant voices to shine. Arguably it is, but not at all in the way I hoped.

The aim of the book is one that I (and anyone with a shred of moral decency) can support 100%. It’s to deride the indignity of the way the current US administration treats migrants, and to highlight the country’s repeated mistreatment of those it deems ‘other’ or ‘undesirable’, by comparing what’s happening now to the experiences of Native Americans. Good intentions don’t equal a good book, however. The almost mythic quality given to the migrants doesn’t exactly help to humanise them. Nor does the rhetoric surrounding Native Americans, which seems to imply that they are resigned wholly to history books, sit very comfortably.

The number of glowing reviews for this prove that it can work in the hands of the right reader; the ability to gel with Luiselli’s singular style evidently key in connecting to the narrative. Sadly, I couldn’t.

***

You can pick up a copy of Lost Children Archive from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!