Hex by Jenni Fagan | Book Review

Hex by Jenni Fagan
Published by Polygon, 2022
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set on the eve of a young woman’s execution in 16th century Scotland, this is a look at how fear and hearsay were used as tools of oppression.

The narrative primarily focusses on Geillis as she reflects on her short life, recounting how and why she came to be accused of witchcraft and sentenced to hang for it. There is, however, a thread of magical realism that runs throughout, which sees Iris, a woman from the present day, seemingly travelling through time and space to comfort Geillis in her prison cell on her final night, before transforming into a crow so she can watch over her.

Thematically, this connection between two women across the years is used to comment on the fact that, while witch trials are a thing of the past, misogyny and abuses of power are still very much alive. While this resonates, and I remained intrigued at the time, on reflection I find it a little counterproductive. While Geillis is poignantly stoic in her declaration of innocence, determined to denounce the men who have unjustly wronged her, Iris’s role within the story suggests that magic and witches are in fact real, somewhat undermining the book’s commentary on the harm of lies and corruption.

Aside from feeling a little too on-the-nose at times, the book is nonetheless well written, and it manages to get you invested in its characters and pack an emotional punch despite its relatively short length.

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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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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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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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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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A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers | Book Review

A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers
Published by Tor
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Becky Chambers is one of those authors whose books are so adored, I was convinced I’d love her work even before I had tried any of it for myself. Thankfully, reading this confirmed that belief was well founded

In A Psalm for the Wild-Built, we follow Dex, a tea monk whose vocation requires them to travel Panga (the moon they call home), providing those who need it with an impartial ear, words of comfort, and custom blends of tea. Despite being good at their job and relatively content with life, Dex comes to wonder if it’s enough. One day, craving solitude, adventure, and a break from routine, Dex heads into the untouched wilderness. Here, they become one of the first people for centuries to encounter one of the many robots who, upon gaining consciousness, chose to leave human civilisation and live free in the wild. Together, they wrestle with ideas of identity, purpose, and connection.

The role of a tea monk is such a lovely concept in and of itself; a charming play on the very real notion that a good cup of tea and a chance to offload can make everything seem better. This society having people whose very lives are dedicated to bringing such comfort to others is emblematic of the overall tone established by Chambers: one of warmth, kindness, and hope. On a grander scale, there is a clear sense of respect for the natural world, with “green” practices very much the norm. It is repeatedly implied that this harmonious, gentler way of life is a response to the impact of climate change, with humans having redressed the balance and reduced their impact on the environment before it was too late. This is something we could clearly learn from ourselves, but while most speculative sci-fi paints a dim view of our future relationship with nature, it was genuinely refreshing to read something optimistic.

I also loved the way gender identity and religion were handled, both having evolved to become far more fluid and inclusive in ways that felt natural and right. And yet, nothing was ever forced or preachy, with Chambers’ worldbuilding cleverly structured to show rather than tell. The prose itself is also gorgeous. Chambers paints her characters and their world so vividly, but she also has a knack for simple yet effective turns of phrase that feel perceptive and true: Birds aren’t singing, they have “melodic opinions”, while skyscrapers are “endless stacks of humanity”.

A poignant, necessary reminder that we’re all just doing our best to be happy, the book extends such a loving hand to anyone who may at times feel unmoored; questioning who they are or what they want from life. And yet, despite navigating big, philosophical ideas of place, purpose, and satisfaction, the story never feels dry. In fact, I can’t think of many books that have as much heart as this one. Without wanting to sound trite, it too functions like a comforting cup of tea and the reassurance of a friend, which is something most of us could benefit from now more than ever.

It’s rare I get invested in a series these days, but I fell instantly for Dex, Mosscap, and the reassuring way of life on Panga. I can’t wait to spend more time with them in future instalments.

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Kate Atkinson & Carol Ann Duffy | Mini Reviews

Festive Sprits by Kate Atkinson
Published by Doubleday, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A slim collection of three stories set during the festive period. In general, they explore the more melancholic side of the holidays, when feelings of loneliness and dissatisfaction are often heightened. That said, Atkinson weaves humour and warmth throughout; the strength of her characters’ voices giving us a sense of who they are incredibly quickly.

One of the stories ended on a bizarre, tonally jarring moment of magical realism that didn’t work for me, but the other two stories worked very well. Overall, they perfectly capture the bittersweet blend of nostalgia, sadness, and joy that so often go hand-in-hand at Christmastime. Lucy’s Day in particular is about finding small moments of genuine contentment in a life dictated by anxiety and burnout – something most of us can probably relate to at the moment.

This was such a great taster of what Atkinson can do, and I’m excited to explore more of her work.

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The Wren-Boys by Carol Ann Duffy
Published by Picador, 2015
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Narrative driven and simply told, yet bolstered by vivid imagery, this ranks among my favourite Christmas poems from Duffy so far.

Dermot Flynn’s illustrations are a beautiful, well-matched accompaniment, bringing to life the crisp, winter landscapes painted by Duffy’s words.

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The Fell by Sarah Moss | Book Review

The Fell by Sarah Moss
Published by Picador, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set during November 2020, at the height of the UK’s covid lockdown, the events of The Fell take place across a single day and night. We follow multiple perspectives: Kate, who, struggling to get through a 2-week quarantine period after testing positive for the virus, takes to the hills for a solitary walk despite this breaching government guidelines; Matt, her teenage son, also forced to isolate at home; Alice, their widowed next-door neighbour who is shielding due to ongoing cancer recovery; and Rob, a volunteer mountain rescuer, called in to search for Kate when she fails to return.

Thematically, it’s impossible for the book not to resonate to some extent, given how close to home it all is. It’s very much about the physical and mental ramifications of loneliness and isolation, and how compassion and community must ultimately triumph over fear if we’re to make it through. Though Kate is the narrative lynchpin, Alice is by far the most interesting character. Through her voice, Moss does a great job of reflecting the constant stream of contradictory thoughts that many of us will be able to relate to; simultaneously thankful for and angry about the limitations forced upon us by covid restrictions; feeling at once personally victimised by the pandemic, and grateful for the privileges we have compared to others. Moss also captures the strange reality of how boring, monotonous and domestic living through a real-life dystopian plague has proven to be, despite the situation sounding so alien and dramatic if it had been pitched to us some 2 years ago.

The trouble is, while I admire Moss’ efforts, by attempting to write a book so of-the-moment, its publication in 2021 feels at once outdated and too soon. Though covid anxiety is still very much a constant in most of our lives, most of us also have far greater freedoms than we did this time last year – not to mention the breakthrough of the ongoing vaccine rollout. Living in such bizarre and ever-changing times, as we are, the lockdown of winter 2020 somehow feels a world away already, and yet, having not emerged at the other side of the tunnel just yet, true reflection and hindsight on life-in-covid-times feels premature.

Plow wise, there’s not a huge amount to talk about, and what there is follows a predictable trajectory. As seems to be the case quite often in Moss’ novels, much is left unresolved; the plot more a vehicle to explore her characters and themes. While I can understand that decision from a creative standpoint – given that we are still now in the midst of the pandemic about which she is writing, hence we don’t have all the answers yet either – its open-endedness will likely frustrate some.

Where Moss really excels, as always, is her keen human observation, and her ability to write beautifully and evocatively about the landscape. This latter point is particularly relevant in this instance, given the importance of the hills to the action itself, and the almost mythical alure of open countryside that many felt throughout lockdown.

All-in-all, I found this an admirable if slightly clumsy attempt to give voice to our collective experience of living through a pandemic. It’s far from my favourite Moss novel so far, but it hasn’t dampened by desire to check out more.

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Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan | Book Review

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
Published by Faber & Faber, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set in the run up to Christmas in 1980s Ireland, this understated yet powerful little novel looks at the ideas of compassion and secrets; those we cannot see and those we choose not to.

We follow Bill Furlong, a coal merchant working hard to provide throughout the harsh winter for his wife and five daughters. After inadvertently uncovering a distressing truth about the goings on within the local Magdalene Laundry, he must wrestle with the reality of complacency and wilful ignorance within the Catholic Church. His discovery also prompts a re-evaluation of events from his own childhood, emphasising the idea of cycles repeating themselves throughout time, unless someone is brave enough to defy the status quo.

Keegan’s prose is deceptively simple. With few words, she paints vivid pictures of a very specific time and place within Irish history. The dialogue also feels authentic and considered, with just as much importance lying in what remains unsaid. Indeed, she chooses to forgo any hint of sensationalism, the true horrors inferred without the need for gratuity.

Sad yet full of hope, Small Things Like These perfectly captures the feelings of charm, nostalgia, melancholy, and longing that so often go hand-in-hand during the festive period. It’s a tender ode to the resilience of the working classes, and the quiet yet vital heroism of those who choose not to turn a blind eye.

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Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion | Book Review

Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion
Published by Simon & Schuster, 1970
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This relative fever dream of a novel opens with our protagonist, former actress and model Maria, institutionalised following a breakdown. We are then taken through a series of visceral snapshots from throughout her life, exploring the misogynistic and toxic nature of life in Hollywood, and the impact of her own self-destructive behaviour. Much of this is driven by mental illness, life’s many knocks, the betrayals of men, and the yearning she feels to be with her hospitalised daughter, who is suffering from an unspecified illness of the brain.

The book is kaleidoscopic and alienating, but in a way that serves its central themes and characterisation. Scant on plot in the traditional sense and jumping erratically back and forth through time, Maria’s story is presented in a way that feels suitably fragmented, chaotic, and lacking in direction. Many have also argued that her story is relentlessly bleak. While this is mostly true, I do think there’s a faint yet important glimmer of hope to be found in her eventual acceptance of help, rejection of old acquaintances, and determination to reunite with her daughter. Sometimes to simply carry on living in the face of misery is in itself a victory, and Didion explores this idea to poignant effect.

I also have huge admiration for how bold and unashamed the book is in its tackling of subjects which continue to be taboo now, let alone when Didion was writing about them.

The prose itself is sharp and deceptively powerful; Didion’s eye for human observation providing keen insight into her anti-heroine’s psyche. I do, however, think it’s worth flagging up the unchallenged use of some outdated terms that would now be considered slurs. A product of the book’s time, their use never feels malicious, but it’s inevitable that many modern readers will find them jarring. Still, this was never enough to detract from the impact of this perceptive, brutally honest portrayal of a woman in crisis. It’s an attack on the vapid systems that exist to build women up, only to tear them back down; a notion that sadly still resonates more than 50 years after the book’s initial release.

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