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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Olga Ravn & Kiran Millwood Hargrave | Mini Reviews

The Employees by Olga Ravn
Translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken
Published by Lolli Editions, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This is presented as a series of mission logs from the vast crew aboard a ship millions of kilometres from Earth. A blend of humans and humanoid beings, this ruminative little novel is a series of semi-abstract vignettes concerned with classic sci-fi questions: What does it mean to be human? Where is the line between living and merely being alive? Is there a danger of pushing science and technology too far?

As alluring as these themes continue to be – hence why so many authors continue to visit them – I don’t feel like this presents us with anything particularly new or impactful. If a book is – albeit deliberately – void of traditional plot and character development, I would hope for stunning prose and insightful social commentary. While Ravn’s offering is solid enough on these fronts to be worth checking out, again it doesn’t feel like she’s breaking any new ground.

In all, I appreciate the unique structure, strong translation, and ever-appealing themes, but was ultimately left feeling cold.

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Julia and the Shark by Kiran Millwood Hargrave
Published by Orion, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

With her father hired to work on digitising a lighthouse, and her marine biologist mother seeing this as the perfect opportunity to continue her research into the rare Greenland shark, Julia moves to a remote island for the summer. Across the months that follow, she will encounter friendship, othering, and the reality of her mother’s deteriorating mental state.

By focussing much more closely on its characters, and placing an important emphasis on big themes such as mental health and conservation, this is the kind of middle grade release that really transcends any potential limitations of its target age range. As such, I can see it speaking to adult readers just as much as their younger counterparts. The prose is engrossing without feeling overwrought, reaffirming that Kiran Millwood Hargrave is as an author I’m excited to follow.

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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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The Easy Part of Impossible by Sarah Tomp | Book Review

The Easy Part of Impossible by Sarah Tomp
Published by HarperTeen, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this meaningful YA novel, Sarah Tomp juxtaposes the thrill of young love with the pain of facing abuse, shining a spotlight on the sporting world’s greatest taboo.

Teenager Ria Williams is a skilled diver. She is on track to compete at the Olympic level, but injury forces her to abandon this dream and walk away from all she’s known. With time on her hands to reevaluate what she wants, she finds herself increasingly drawn to Cotton, an old friend with autism who has a passion for cartography and cave exploration. As their friendship blossoms into something more, Ria is pushed to reflect on the dynamic she shared with her former diving coach, Benny — to finally see him for the abuser he was. When an offer comes along that could reignite her diving career — at the cost of having Benny back in her life — she struggles to separate the thing she loves most from the trauma she has endured.

Rather than exposing the reader to repeated examples of Ria’s physical and mental suffering, the abuse looms on the periphery of the narrative for much of the novel, and this is effective on a number of levels.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about the benefits of sport for people living with ADHD to go alongside it, which you can read here.

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What Red Was by Rosie Price | Book Review

What Red Was by Rosie Price
Published by Harvill Secker, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This nuanced exploration of sexual assault and the resulting trauma manages to completely avoid the trap of salaciousness. It is in this understated and honest approach that the book’s true power lies. The story begins by showing the wonderful friendship that blossoms between Kate and Max throughout their years at university and beyond. The two are inseparable and unwaveringly honest with each other. When Kate is raped at a party by someone in Max’s inner circle, however, she must face not only the physical and mental implications of her attack, but a near impossible question: Should she tell Max the truth, and risk losing their friendship?

The friendship between Kate and Max is one of the most convincing and endearing that I’ve come across in fiction. The dynamic and chemistry between them is fantastic, and not once does Price cheapen its validity by questioning the entirely platonic nature of their relationship. It makes Kate’s dilemma following the assault all the more painful to watch unfold. It’s incredibly poignant to see Kate selflessly carry the burden of her secret alone, seeing it as an attempt to protect Max from a truth she knows will hurt him, potentially derailing their friendship.

The supporting characters are well developed and interesting in their own right. Through them, Price explores the notion that we are all dealing with our own private traumas, and the toxicity that can arise when we internalise that pain or turn to unhealthy vices for escape. She also touches on class divides. With Max’s mother, Zara, being a respected film director, he comes from a considerably wealthier background than Kate, and we soon see the privileges this has afforded his family – even if it hasn’t necessarily brought them happiness.

Throughout Kate’s attempts to understand and open up about what has happened to her, Price offers unflinching insight into the ramifications of rape, with major trigger warnings here for the likes of PTSD and self-harm. She shows us that rapists can come in many forms; that language and perspective can be used to try and warp the truth; and the frustration that can arise when the scars left by an assault are not outwardly discernible. Through Kate and Zara, however, she also explores the role that art can play in facing up to and processing trauma.

As much as I love a lot of what this book has to say, and how intelligently it says it, there were a couple of stumbling blocks right at the end that stopped me from giving it the full five stars. Being wary of spoilers, Kate presents a viewpoint in the final chapter, the wording of which I found very problematic. It was understandable given everything she’d been through, but for it to be presented as though the conclusion of her journey, rather than a mindset that could be challenged and overcome, left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I also felt that a few too many questions were left unanswered. Whilst deliberate to some extent, reflecting the idea that real stories don’t wrap up neatly, the lack of closure on certain key points was still frustrating from a narrative standpoint.

It’s a shame the book ended on a slightly negative note for me. I don’t want that to detract from the fantastic achievement this book is overall. It offers one of the most developed, thoughtful, frank, and important commentaries on sexual violence and coping with trauma that I’ve ever read.

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If you’d like to read What Red Was, 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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Where Reasons End by Yiyun Li | Book Review

Where Reasons End by Yiyun Li
Published by Hamish Hamilton, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

First and foremost, let me make clear that my somewhat middling rating does not reflect my opinion on this book’s literary worth. It is a wonderfully crafted, original, and stimulating read. Li is a phenomenally talented writer, and I would certainly explore more of her work.

Where this book fell short for me was its actual narrative, and a lack of emotional connection, which I found particularly surprising given the subject matter it explores. The novel is a series of imagined conversations between a mother and her 16-year-old son, who has just committed suicide. As a writer, the protagonist uses her proclivity for language to explore her situation, and the contrasting wonder and limitation of words in capturing emotion.

The whole thing is incredibly meta. Li herself is, of course, a writer, and this book was written in the wake of her own teenage son’s suicide. Whilst this adds some undeniable fascination and depth, it also caused me to constantly analyse and contextualise the story with respect to its origins; the line between fact and fiction very much blurred. This meant I could always see the author through the work, and remained unable to fully submit myself to it from a narrative standpoint. This isn’t necessarily a flaw in the book’s construction, merely something I was unprepared for going in. I was expecting something raw, harrowing and introspective, rather than something so conceptual and outwardly ruminative with regards to its wider themes.

On that note, it’s worth pointing out that the suicide and resulting grief are important background presences that loom over the book’s content, but they are never really the focus. Instead, Li uses the somewhat abstract conversations to play with words, exploring their multiple meanings and the dichotomy between the complexity of our language and its evident failure to fully reflect the reality of our feelings. She also muses on the nature of time, psychology, identity, and memory, with some passages being both highly astute and beautifully constructed.

If you’re looking for something that delves deep into the emotion and trauma of grief itself, driven by a conventional approach to character and plot development, this isn’t it. If, however, you’re looking for something decidedly more literary that intelligently dissects the language we use to navigate that grief, this is well worth picking up. Had I been clearer on what to expect going in, and therefore in the right frame of mind to absorb it all, I suspect I would have been rating this more favourably. That said, I still greatly admire what Li managed to create.

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If you’d like to give Where Reasons End 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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Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson | Book Review

Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson
Published by Flatiron Books, 2015
My rating: ⭐ ⭐

Jenny Lawson writes about mental health in a candid, warm, and conversational way. This works wonders to draw readers in, helping to spark dialogue, and chip away at lingering stigma. The way she normalises the validity of medication and therapy as treatment is particularly praiseworthy. As such, I’m not at all surprised or disappointed to see how popular her work has become. To help people feel seen, and to encourage others to laugh at the absurdities of life, and find joy throughout their struggles is a wonderful thing.

However, the book sets out to be funny first and foremost, and for me, it fell largely flat on that front. The humour (the recounting of dialogue, in particular) was so obviously exaggerated that I found it all a bit forced and cringey. There were certainly some mildly amusing moments, but whilst my sense of humour favours a faster pace (think cutting sarcasm, zingy word play, and punchy one-liners), Lawson’s favours bizarre analogies and nonsensical tangents that are latched onto and stretched beyond their limits. In short, I like humour that feels effortless, but I could always see how hard Lawson was working to prove her quirkiness. This is obviously personal preference and entirely subjective, but if you have to tell us when you’ve made a joke (which Lawson does a lot), repeat the same joke (which she does a lot), or admit that a joke you’ve made isn’t even funny (which she also does a lot), I would suggest that said jokes aren’t really working.

I feel icky about this next part, but it would be remiss of me not to flag it up given how much it bothered me. I wholeheartedly acknowledge that someone’s personal relationship is no one else’s business. Also, let’s keep in mind that we’re only hearing one side of things, and that certain anecdotes have clearly been exaggerated for comedic effect. That said, the way Lawson’s partner treated her often made me uncomfortable. Though her behaviour is intentionally juvenile and undoubtedly infuriating at times, even when she’s in the grips of a genuine, full-blown anxiety attack, he’s either dismissive and embarrassed of her, or else he shouts at her in a blunt and condescending manner; repeatedly calling her ‘crazy’ and telling her to shut up. Obviously, her life is hers to do with what she wants, and if a ‘tough love’ dynamic works for them, that’s totally fine. I just don’t want people with mental health problems to read this book and think that’s how they should always expect to be treated; as though it’s what they deserve. Just know that what works for everyone is different, and if what you need is a gentler approach of patience, understanding, and compassion, you are more than entitled to precisely that.

There’s also a chapter which sees Lawson visit Australia, in which she comes across as culturally ignorant and insensitive (confusing the country with New Zealand; asking if there were rhinos near the place they were staying; comparing koalas to people with dwarfism; and referring to Uluru as ‘a big rock’). We all live and learn, but… really?

I found the structure somewhat erratic, too. It’s not linear or comprehensive enough to be a memoir, nor is it thematically focussed enough to be an effective essay collection on mental health. There are many, many chapters about entirely extraneous things (like how she finds people in airports annoying; draft tweets she jotted down late at night; foods she doesn’t like; weird taxidermy; or the time she had her gallbladder removed; to name just a few). These add nothing to the mental health discussion, nor are they insightful or funny enough for their place to really feel justified. Granted, this informality may have been deliberate, to emphasise the conversational tone, and if you enjoy Lawson’s voice, you’ll likely get along fine with these sections. But, for me, the book would have been stronger had it been constructed with a clearer sense of direction.

I’m aware that, the more I got into this review, the more negative it became. So, let me finish by making it clear that I still think this book is worthwhile. When Lawson ditches the meandering tangents in favour of an incisive look at the realities of life with anxiety, depression, and sleep disorders, it’s honest, relatable, and valuable. Indeed, the book has a lot of heart, and is incredibly well intentioned. That Lawson’s style doesn’t gel with me is a shame, but it’s no reflection of the book’s overall impact. Clearly it has provided comfort and relief to many, and for that I’m glad.

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If you fancy giving Furiously Happy a go, you can find a copy by clicking here.

Sylvia Plath and Alice Thompson | Two Mini Reviews

Here are some thoughts on a couple of recent reads. Coincidentally, though very different, both are mysterious, fascinating looks at facets of the human psyche.

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Mary Ventura and the Ninth Kingdom by Sylvia Plath
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I tried some of Plath’s poetry years back and failed to properly connect with it, but if I’ve taken anything from this slim story, it’s that I must give her work another shot.

One of the recently released Faber Stories, Mary Ventura and the Ninth Kingdom is a previously unpublished short story that follows a young woman, forced to board a mysterious train, destination unknown. There’s barely a superfluous word, with Plath creating a number of beautiful images, and a tone of quiet menace that lurks in the background.

Though intentionally vague to a degree, and thus able to be interpreted in a couple of different ways, the allegory at work becomes increasingly clear as the tension builds. The theme of finding the will to live, and the strength to defy a seemingly unavoidable fate shines through; a meaning that takes on an added layer of poignancy when considered within the wider context of Plath’s life.

You can pick up a copy of Mary Ventura and the Ninth Kingdom by clicking here.

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Justine by Alice Thompson
Published by Salt, 2015 (first published by Canongate Books, 1996)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Sometimes, when you love a book, you want to push it into the hands of as many people as possible. Other times, you are well aware that it won’t work for a lot of people. Justine is very much an example of the latter for me. This strange and allegorical novel is a hypnotic look at the destructive power of obsession; the pursuit of physical beauty; and women as dehumanised objects of desire.

The plot follows an unnamed male narrator. He is a collector of art, and a beauty obsessive who becomes enthralled by Justine, a figure within a painting whom he believes he has met in real life. As he pursues Justine, and her twin sister Juliette, things become increasingly dark and disorientating. This creates a haze in which Thompson explores the blurred line between art and artist, whilst casting a quasi-feminist eye on the struggle for control between the sexes.

The evocative, exaggerated imagery of the novel reflects the importance of art and beauty to the narrative, whilst the hallucinogenic tone reflects the opium-fuelled daze and all-consuming obsession of the narrator’s existence. There are also many literary references throughout, notably those that draw parallels with Marquis de Sade’s Justine, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper, and Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. These various layers enrich the book’s thematic depth, creating the kind of story that is sure to invite deeper thought, and divide readers. I, for one, was enraptured by its singular surrealism.

You can pick up a copy of Justine by clicking here.

The Best Awful by Carrie Fisher | Book Review

The Best Awful by Carrie Fisher
Published by Simon & Schuster, 2004
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Though it can be read as a standalone, The Best Awful is a semi-sequel to Fisher’s debut novel, Postcards from the Edge, continuing to explore the trials and tribulations of Suzanne Vale, washed up actress and recovering addict. This time around, we find Suzanne heartbroken and humiliated, the father of her young daughter having left her for a man. Paranoid that she’s the ‘lesser’ parent, numbed by her bipolar medication, daunted by the prospect of modern dating, and horrified that her friends are starting to think her boring, Suzanne heads down a slippery slope that threatens to jolt her off the wagon, and land her in ‘the bin’.

This is possibly the most convincingly raw account of a mental breakdown I’ve ever read. It simmers with the kind of urgency and honesty that only someone with first-hand experience could have penned. The dizzying highs and the desolate lows of Suzanne’s bipolar ‘mood weather’ are captured with equal fervour; the disorientating claustrophobia of being inside her head as she loses her grip on reality like a drawn-out car crash – one you can’t tear your eyes from, no matter how brutal it gets. Indeed, the almost erratic feel of the narrative voice at times may alienate some, but it serves as a painfully realistic reflection of the heroine’s scattered perspective; her million-miles-an-hour mindset that offers no respite.

When Fisher really delves into the mental health struggles of her characters, there’s an added level of poignancy, with most readers aware of how autobiographical many of the events explored are. But she never loses her ability to infuse the darkness with some much-needed light. Zingy one-liners and clever word play bring a darkly comic edge of self-deprecation to the story that makes Suzanne very endearing, no matter how flawed she is. For she is, indeed, a very complex character. For all the terrible decisions she makes, the cutting sarcasm, and the dips into vanity, it becomes clear that much of this is the product of a woman full of guilt and self-loathing; the victim of a vapid culture that has left her unsure how to properly function in or out of the spotlight.

It’s a story of rock-bottom and recovery; the pitfalls of a life lived under the pressure of Hollywood; unconventional family; and one woman’s quest to make peace with herself – a backwards coming of age story delayed by a few decades.

The end in particular becomes playfully meta, when a character writes the following to Suzanne:

‘When we have experience and strength to share with someone who’s gone through a similar difficulty, then the right thing to do is share that experience, and give comfort and hope when we can. I know you’ll do the right thing.’

The obvious implication is that these are the very words Fisher herself tried to live her latter years by. Suffice to say, she did the right thing.

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

Let’s Recommend | Mental Health

Let’s recommend books that explore mental health.

Another recommendation post is long overdue, and this time I’ve decided to recommend books that explore mental health issues. I tried to include a decent mix, both in terms of content and form, with fiction and non-fiction offerings to choose from. As always, I would love to hear your own recommendations for books within this important and yet often overlooked area.

The Man Who Couldn’t Stop by David Adam

This is Adam’s account of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), which comprises his personal experiences, case files, scientific facts and research from throughout the years, making it a very thorough examination of what it means to live with the condition. As someone with OCD myself, it was certainly an interesting read and one I highly recommend if you want to dispel the myths and understand why people aren’t really ‘a little bit OCD’.

Alice and the Fly by James Rice

Chronic phobias, schizophrenia and obsession are the issues explored here, in a story that is dark yet poignant. Most interesting of all for me was the look at class divides within society and the importance of realising that mental health troubles can affect us all.

Stammered Songbook by Erwin Mortier

The short passages in this book read like prose poetry or contemplative diary entries, detailing the author’s frustration at mourning for a mother who is present in body but not in mind, having succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease. This was another one that hit home on a personal level for me, as my own grandmother is currently suffering from increasingly debilitating dementia, with Mortier’s poignant words capturing the feelings of helplessness very effectively.

The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer

The Shock of the Fall is a vivid and captivating story about a young man’s descent into grief and mental illness following the death of his brother, his eventual breakdown, and his journey to recovery. This is another offering where the darkness and poignancy strike an ideal balance.

Iris Grace by Arabella Carter-Johnson

Written by Iris’ mother, this is the real life story of a little girl with severe autism. It’s worth pointing out that autism itself is often not officially considered a mental illness, but many of its symptoms – such as a lack of communication skills and social anxiety – manifest themselves in similar ways to mental health conditions. It is an honestly written, beautiful glimpse into the power of art and the unbreakable bond between man and nature, as Iris unlocks her world through painting and a magical friendship with Thula the cat.

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What are some of your favourite books that explore mental health issues? Let’s chat about them.