Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa | Book Review

Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa
Translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder
Published by Vintage, 2011
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This fascinating little novel is not always easy to stomach, but Ogawa is incredibly skilled at crafting the kind of hypnotic atmosphere that makes it impossible to look away, no matter how uncomfortable you are. We follow Mari, a 17-year-old who helps her mother run a hotel in a quiet Japanese seaside town. She meets a much older man who lives on a tiny island off the coast, and the two soon strike up a bizarre relationship. Mari’s unnamed suitor is charming and affectionate when they venture out together, but he subjects her to a series of physical, emotional, and sexual humiliations whenever the two are alone at his home.

Due to the nature of the subject matter, there’s no denying this won’t be for everyone, with some truly graphic scenes of what many would categorise as out-right abuse. But here, Ogawa presents us with the novel’s core themes, many of which are concerned with the dichotomies of our lives: the often fine lines between pleasure and pain, passion and torture, excitement and fear. There’s no denying that what Mari is subjected to is morally repugnant, but she is both consenting and welcoming of much of his actions; her sense of worth so low she seems to revel in being demeaned. Indeed, to me the book is primarily a look at loneliness, with both characters using their toxic relationship dynamic to process misplaced guilt and grief from their pasts – but while Mari punishes herself, her suitor punishes others.

Something about Ogawa’s pin-sharp prose just totally draws me in. The characters and setting feel so clear, but not a word goes to waste, and the author’s trademark sinister undertones bubble throughout.

At once an unnerving, thought provoking, shocking, tender, and sad read; love it or hate it, you won’t forget Hotel Iris in a hurry.

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The Secret Talker by Geling Yan | Book Review

The Secret Talker by Geling Yan
Translated from the Chinese by Jeremy Tiang
Published by HarperVia, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A good literary novel tends to wow with its linguistic prowess and the depth of its social commentary. A good thriller serves as a captivating page-turner that draws you in. When the two are brought together in perfect harmony, the effect can be fantastic. In many cases, however, aiming for a literary thriller dooms the book to underwhelm somewhat on both fronts; being neither thematically rich nor quite captivating enough to please lovers of either genre. Sadly, The Secret Talker feels like a prime example of this for me.

The concept is great. We follow Hongmei, a Chinese woman living in America, who finds herself drawn into an increasingly intimate and all-consuming correspondence with an anonymous stalker who seems to know her every move. Though undeniably creepy, their conversation brings to the fore how much her relationship with her husband is failing. As their conversation deepens, both Hongmei and her stalker feel increasingly drawn to each other; compelled to unpack long-held secrets on both sides.

While the stalker set-up will undoubtedly appeal to fans of a good thriller, the novel is in fact a largely character focussed look at relationships, communication, identity, and the need to feel seen and heard. There are a few twists peppered throughout (the most important of which I saw coming a mile off), and I was certainly intrigued throughout, but I did feel we were moving in circles at times.

Despite being hampered by this uneven tone and an occasionally confusing timeline, the book did keep me engaged. Its look at the anonymity of the internet and the thrill of the unknown worked well, and I’d be happy to see the author tackle similar themes within a framework that allowed for greater depth. Given the rise of technology and social media since the book’s original Chinese publication back in 2004, I think there’s lots she could draw on.

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

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The Yogini by Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay | Book Review

The Yogini by Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay
Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha
Published by Tilted Axis Press, 2019
Rating: ⭐ ⭐

The more time I take to mull this one over, the more I come to realise it’s a novel I wanted to like more than I actually did. There are lots of great ingredients in the mix: a strong opening scene; a great initial concept; a flawed, interesting heroine; a focus on the idea of fate versus freewill; critique of the roles women are expected to fulfil; and solid prose. The trouble for me was the execution, which felt too contrived for me to ever feel drawn in.

In terms of plot, we follow Homi, whose seemingly stable life begins to fall apart when she becomes aware of a yogi; the figure of a man, visible only to her, who stalks her every move and claims to be a physical manifestation of her fate. This is a striking concept, and I was certainly intrigued enough to want to know how her story would culminate. Sadly, too many scenarios and exchanges of dialogue felt manufactured to conveniently steer the book forward. It was neither believable enough to feel real, nor strange enough to stand as outright magical realism or fantasy; landing instead in an odd sort of limbo that ultimately left me feeling underwhelmed.

I enjoyed enough of the elements at play to keep an eye out for more of the author’s work, and requiring just two sittings to get through, it was certainly a pacy read. That said, after such a strong setup, I can’t help but wonder how much more haunting the book could have been had I clicked with it stylistically.

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Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir | Book Review

Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir
Translated from the Icelandic by Meg Matich
Published by Grove Atlantic, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This strangely enthralling read documents one young woman’s experiences within a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. The stripped back style creates a sense of constant momentum, which in turn establishes a stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere that saw me immediately drawn in. In fact, I felt so invested in our heroine’s fate that I found myself racing through the book in a single sitting.

For a relatively slight novel, the author does a fantastic job of showcasing the realities of isolation and depression. With a deft hand, she shows the devastating impact of abuse, and just how easy it can be for perpetrators to coerce and manipulate those around them; forcing them into modifying their own behaviour and gaslighting them into self-blame.

My only gripe with the book comes with the ending, which is inherently tricky to discuss without resorting to spoilers. Suffice to say that, while I appreciated the outcome from a narrative perspective, the potentially clumsy message it conveyed worked less well for me.

Still, this slight blip didn’t detract from the overall success of the sucker punch that is this little novel. It’s brutally honest in its portrayal of a woman in decline, without ever feeling gratuitous, and it serves as a poignant reminder that even the most outwardly strong and carefree among us can be broken.

I sincerely hope more of Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir’s work is translated into English in the future!

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

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Heaven by Mieko Kawakami | Book Review

Heaven by Mieko Kawakami
Translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett & David Boyd
Published by Picador, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In her latest novel to be translated into English, Kawakami looks at the impact of flippant cruelty, and the cost of a connection forged in the shadow of violence. We follow a 14-year-old boy, ostracised from his class and the subject of constant bullying because of his lazy eye. As the level of torment escalates, he strikes up an unconventional though deeply meaningful friendship with Kojima, a girl from his class who suffers similar ridicule for being “dirty” and poor.

The prose itself is largely economical, but this works to reflect both the youth and the suppressed emotion of our protagonists. Despite some truly harrowing scenes, Kawakami skilfully maintains an air of gentle melancholy, as though the characters themselves are in a daze, resigned to their fate. This chimes nicely with the book’s discussion of the extent to which we are in control of our own lives, and the extent to which we are mere passengers.

On that front, the book’s core message seems to be one of resilience and autonomy; the idea that we should only ever seek to change on our own terms, and never to conform or appease others. Without dipping into spoilers, I would say this thread becomes a little muddied towards the end, and some additional closure for a particular character would have helped hit home Kawakami’s point with greater assurance.

The novel was first published in its original Japanese form back in 2009, and with regard to some clumsy presentation of gender and bodily difference, I would argue it shows its age. The dialogue, too, becomes convoluted at times, the reach for philosophical musings jarring with the otherwise sensitive portrayal of the book’s teen characters.

Still, I found this a very worthwhile look at loneliness and othering that confirms Kawakami is an author I’m intrigued to keep following. I don’t doubt several of its most quietly haunting moments will stick me.

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The Butterfly Lampshade by Aimee Bender | Book Review

The Butterfly Lampshade by Aimee Bender
Published by Hutchinson, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A quiet exploration of family, trauma, and mental health, The Butterfly Lampshade follows Francie as she reflects on a particularly upsetting and unusual string of events that took place some 20 years prior. Then aged just 8, Francie was sent to live with her aunt and uncle following her mother’s latest and most severe psychotic break, which resulted in her hospitalisation. In the days immediately following this incident, Francie became convinced that a real butterfly emerged from the design on her babysitter’s lampshade, and a beetle crawled from an image on a piece of paper. Years later, she experienced something similar, with a rose appearing to fall from the fabric of a pair of curtains.

As an adult, Francie seeks to understand what these incidences mean about her own mental state and place within the world. Bender ensures they remain suitably mysterious, allowing us to question and interpret the possible answers for ourselves. I’m aware this all makes the novel sound rather odd and otherworldly, but the majority of its pages are in fact dedicated to very real and poignant reflections on Francie’s complex relationship with her mother. There is subtle but wonderful commentary on the stigma of mental health, the lingering influence of childhood trauma, and how closely fear, guilt, and love can intertwine when it comes to family.

Events play out in a fragmented, non-linear fashion. This cleverly reflects the nature of memory – which is itself a major theme within the novel – as Francie dips in and out of the past to piece together what happened all those years ago. Though much more character focussed than it is plot driven, a couple of scenes in particular really hit me in the gut, as underplayed revelations hint at just how much Francie continues to be influenced by her childhood.

Although the book is usually described as magical realism, I’m not sure that’s quite the right name for it. Francie is very much aware that the strange events mentioned are, indeed, strange. Not only does she discuss them with others, she actively seeks to understand what they may mean. As per the rest of the novel, the outcome of this search is deliberately understated, with the nature of the butterfly etc. left largely to the reader’s interpretation. To me, the butterfly, beetle, and rose were symbols of Francie’s disjointed sense of self; physical manifestations that essentially served as placeholders for her unaddressed trauma, as she was jolted from one life to another. It is only by interrogating the memories attached to them that she will learn to make peace and move on.

This was my first foray into Bender’s work, and I get the impression it’s less overtly strange than some of her other releases (despite what my review may imply). That said, I found it magnetic and affecting, and I would certainly consider diving into her back catalogue.

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Brood by Jackie Polzin | Book Review

Brood by Jackie Polzin
Published by Picador, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Ostensibly about a woman’s attempts to look after a small brood of chickens, Jackie Polzin’s novel is an understated look at grief and motherhood.

It becomes clear early on that our narrator has suffered great tragedy in her attempts to have a child, but very little of the book’s word count is dedicated directly to this fact. Instead, her borderline obsessive quest to keep her four beloved chickens alive – which makes for oddly compelling reading in and of itself – transcends into a clever look at trauma. By channelling all of her focus and anxieties into the care of her feathered friends, we see how throwing yourself into a project can offer much needed distraction, structure, and purpose when you may otherwise feel unmoored.

Having internalised guilt, it is also apparent that our narrator is setting herself a challenge: Does she have what it takes to be a mother? Can she safeguard and nurture life? I don’t want to spoil specifics, but suffice to say Polzin shrewdly explores the idea that we must absolve ourselves of misplaced blame. Sometimes, we can have all the best intentions and do all the right things, but it simply isn’t meant to be; the universe having its own plans. While sad, this conclusion is far more realistic than a happily ever after, providing a glimmer of hope that, while never easy, moving on from loss is indeed possible.

Though there’s an air of pathos that hangs over the narrative, it is also unexpectedly funny at times. This works on a number of fronts; offering much needed relief, adding depth to our protagonist, and exploring the close connection between grief and humour – the latter often essential in coping with the former. By keeping our narrator nameless, it is perhaps easier for the reader to project their own empathy and experience onto her, but it also speaks to the notion of identity: who is this woman if she cannot fulfil her desire to become a mother? I liked this creative choice, but more could have been done to comment on what it says about society that many women feel incomplete without having borne a child.

On that front, I do think the novel would have benefitted from a more direct tackling of its central themes in its final pages, rather than continuing to (deliberately) skirt around the issue. This alone would have greatly enhanced the established idea that we must all confront our pain in time. And while it does chime with the concept of fate within the realms of life and death, I would argue the book’s outcome becomes obvious long before we reach it.

Addressing well-worn themes from a unique perspective, the strength of Polzin’s prose, coupled with the subtlety of her craft, elevates Brood considerably. The result is a story that is smart yet hugely readable, and which improves the more time I take to mull it over.

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Indelicacy by Amina Cain | Book Review

Indelicacy by Amina Cain
Published by Daunt Books, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This is one of those reads that’s tricky to quantify my feelings for. In a nutshell: I liked it, but I wanted to love it; and I think it’s a good book, but it had all the component parts of a great one.

Set in an undisclosed time and place – though reading predominantly like Victorian Britain – we follow the first-person narration of Vitória, a young woman who works as a cleaner in a museum. Captivated by the art it houses, she longs to be a writer, discussing and critiquing the works rather than tidying up around them. To achieve this, she resolves to marry a wealthy man so she can afford to leave her job and pursue her dream. But it soon becomes clear that climbing the social ladder will not be enough to grant her true freedom.

There’s so much to love here: Simple yet brilliant prose; a snarky, headstrong protagonist; an immersive atmosphere; well navigated themes of class, gender roles, desire, and loneliness. The trouble is it never reaches a crescendo. The book is described as “a ghost story without a ghost”, and while this is reflective of the cloying tone and the constant feeling that we’re building towards some kind of breaking point, it suggests a sinister turn that simply never comes. This, coupled with some very well established, though frustratingly unexplored queer undertones, left me feeling as though the book could have hit home its points about suppression and longing with much greater power. Instead, it sets up all the right ingredients and then fizzles out somewhat.

Still, I can say I genuinely enjoyed the time I spent with this novel, and I would certainly check out more from Amina Cain. I think it’s also worth pointing out that, though I said the book predominantly reads like it’s set in Victorian Britain, occasional fleeting references hint at a more modern timeframe. This subtle yet clever device leaves you to consider how much things have really changed for women over the years, and the cyclical nature of patriarchal oppression – within the arts and more widely.

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No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood | Book Review

No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood
Published by Bloomsbury, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Seeing this repeatedly described as “experimental” and “a book of two halves” had me intrigued but a little apprehensive heading in, as such novels can often be difficult to connect with emotionally. I’m pleased to say I ended up liking it a lot more than I initially anticipated, and on the contrary, I found it surprisingly moving.

Being more ruminative and thematically driven, there’s not much plot to speak of, per se. The first section is told in a series of largely unrelated vignettes. These consist of random thoughts and moments as experienced by our narrator, a young woman who found unexpected internet fame after an inane tweet (the social media site in question isn’t named, but it’s very obviously twitter) goes viral. The second section is still told in vignettes, but a much more tangible sense of narrative and continuity come into play, when complications in her sister’s pregnancy lead to heartache.

Structurally and visually, the book’s choppy, fragmented nature cleverly reflects the feeling of scrolling through a newsfeed on social media, as you jump from one post to another. It also creates a sense that our narrator lacks focus in life, which changes immediately when tragedy strikes the family. This dramatic shift – from curating a somewhat vapid online persona, to the overwhelming love and pain she must navigate in relation to her baby niece – suggests a critique of the frivolity inherent to much of internet life, and how quickly its seeming importance fades when “real life” hits us with a curveball. That said, we still only see the family’s grief in fleeting moments, mirroring the previously established idea of what we show versus what goes on in private; that we’re only ever piecing together an impression of someone’s life based on the tiny snippets we get to see.

To me, the book ultimately felt like a commentary on the idea that life is indeed a jigsaw puzzle of individual moments, thoughts, feelings, and ideas – from the redundant to the earth shattering and everything in between. However, on a narrative and thematic level, I do think the two threads of the novel could have been tied together in a more cohesive and satisfying way. The merits of the internet, especially in times of hardship, are only every marginally hinted at, but the access to information, community and support it can offer could have been invaluable to someone in the narrator’s situation. In that respect, it felt like there was some untapped potential; the amount of time given over to random tweet-esque musings not wholly justified.

Despite feeling it could have been tied together more convincingly, I devoured the book in just two sittings, and this was largely thanks to Lockwood’s gorgeous prose. I’m not at all surprised to see she has previously published poetry, as the book is peppered with beautiful imagery and lovely turns of phrase. For its originality, timeliness, craft, and emotional impact, I’m glad I gave this a chance.

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Speak No Evil by Uzodinma Iweala | Book Review

Speak No Evil by Uzodinma Iweala
Published by John Murray, 2018
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Speak No Evil is a book of contrasts, being at once subtle yet affecting, tender yet devastating, and tragic yet hopeful. It is testament to Iweala’s control that he can pull off this intricate balancing act, without ever losing focus on his plot or characters.

The book opens with Black 18-year-old Niru coming out to his white best friend, Meredith. Though she is supportive, his devout Nigerian parents are considerably less so. Defying their forced attempts to “cure” him of his so-called affliction, Niru continues to explore his true feelings and desires in secret. But the revelation also drives an unexpected wedge between the friends; as their lives start moving in different directions, resentment simmers, culminating in a violent incident that will have a profound impact on them and all those around them.

It’s difficult to talk about the full extent of the novel’s power without spoilers. Suffice to say, the climax comes about three quarters into the story, and it hits like a sledgehammer. From there, everything shifts – tone, perspective, themes, etc. – in a way that can feel somewhat jarring, but deliberately so. In various nuanced ways, Iweala explores identity, shame, the cost of silence, and the devastation that can come from suppressing our true selves.

Though I felt a couple of important side characters were oddly absent in the final chapters, resulting in some untapped emotional depth, I loved the time I spent with this book, and hugely admired what it had to say about friendship, love, and the difficulties of being queer and Black in modern America. Iweala writes with such grace, and in Niru, he has created a character I know will stay with me for quite some time.

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