Flannery O’Connor & Fiona Benson | Two Mini Reviews

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019 (first published in 1953)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This offering from the Faber Stories range follows a family as they set off on a road trip across the American South. When they run into trouble, the man they flag down for help just happens to be an escaped convict.

Once you get passed the few instances of uncomfortably outdated language in here, it’s a fantastic short story. The characters feel well established (especially the wonderfully haughty grandmother); the dynamic between them clear from the off despite the story’s brevity. O’Conner utilises striking imagery to employ a heavy dose of foreshadowing and dark humour. Added to the sweltering heat of the southern setting, this makes for a fantastic sense of mounting tension as we head towards an inevitably tragic and brutal conclusion.

Its narrative is impactful in and of itself, but there are interesting undercurrents of religion and morality that add depth well worth mulling over. A great introduction to O’Connor’s work!

You can pick up a copy of A Good Man is Hard to Find from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Vertigo & Ghost by Fiona Benson
Published by Jonathan Cape, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Benson’s impassioned collection of poetry draws on mythology to explore the perils of womanhood in a toxic masculine society. The first section places Zeus in the modern world, a serial abuser full of brazen self-importance. In these pieces, Benson fuses the personal with the historical to show how sex is weaponised, victims demonised, and oppressors excused. In the second section, the poet shifts her attention to motherhood, exploring the physical and mental strain of pregnancy, birth, and caring for a child. The themes of both sections coalesce in the closing pieces, in which Benson muses on the simmering panic of raising daughters in a world still unsafe for girls; the horror of modern warfare reflected in the war on women’s bodies and autonomy.

Benson’s use of imagery is bold and impactful. There is depth and nuance to explore in the language she employs, but the meaning behind her words always shines through with punch. As such, I think this is the kind of collection that has something to offer both relative newcomers and seasoned poetry readers alike. I, for one, will certainly be reading more of Benson’s work.

You can pick up a copy of Vertigo & Ghost from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Orkney by Amy Sackville | Book Review

Orkney by Amy Sackville
Published by Granta, 2013
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Orkney is a quiet, claustrophobic look at an unconventional relationship, fuelled by Scottish folklore. Richard is a 60-year-old literature professor. His 21-year-old wife is his former student. Pale, silver-haired, enigmatic, and beguiling, she requests they spend their honeymoon on one of the wild and remote Orkney Isles.

Each chapter follows a day spent on the island. It has to be said that this isn’t a hugely plot driven novel. Events, themes, and ideas are explored in an almost cyclical way. To some, this may prove frustrating. For me, it created a sense of ebbing and flowing, like the tide against the island’s shores; of being suspended in time and place, as the characters themselves feel once cut off from society. Sackville’s prose is so beautiful, her sense of setting and atmosphere so evocative, that I was more than happy to spend extra time in the book’s lilting grasp.

Richard is a storyteller, in several senses of the word. He is spending a sabbatical working on a book about female figures from myth and legend, and it becomes increasingly clear that the line between these fictional women and his real wife is very much blurred. Projecting his fantasies onto her, she remains nameless throughout his narration, presented instead as an impossibly idolised vision that she could never live up to; her version of events constantly contradicting that which he presents to us. Whilst it could be argued that the writing is overly flowery at times, it ties in perfectly with Richard’s desire to embellish and beautify the truth into something greater or more pleasing.

Ultimately, the book explores love, obsession, possession, and loss. There’s an air of mystery surrounding Richard’s wife. Who is she? What is her past? Why is she simultaneously drawn to and afraid of the sea? With Richard’s mindset ruled by his fascination with her, and her stifled sense of self reflected in her recurring nightmares of drowning, it becomes interesting to consider who holds the greatest power and influence over the other.

If you’re aware of the stories the novel draws from, there’s a sense of inevitability with regards to where the story is heading, and indeed, Sackville employs much unsettling foreshadowing throughout. But this adds a melancholic tone and a sense of mounting tension to the whole thing that really worked for me. With such a deft and subtle use of (possible) magical realism, and Richard established as a wildly unreliable narrator detached from reality, the end can be interpreted in several very different ways, at once tragic, chilling or hopeful, depending on your reading of the text. It’s one I would love to discuss with people!

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If you’d like to read Orkney, 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, particularly on the ending!

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The Last by Hanna Jameson | Book Review

The Last by Hanna Jameson
Published by Viking, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

On paper, an apocalyptic-nuclear-survival-story-meets-murder-mystery-meets-social-and-political-commentary shouldn’t work. Somehow, Hanna Jameson pulls it off, resulting in one of the most enjoyable reading experiences I’ve had for a long time.

The concept is sort of brilliantly bonkers. When international nuclear war is triggered without warning, major cities are simultaneously wiped out across the globe, killing millions, cutting off all means of travel and communication, and leaving countries without government. Aware that the devastation, fallout, and desperate fellow survivors will all pose a threat, a group of around twenty people decide to hunker down in the remote Swiss hotel they had been staying in at the time of the incident. Scavenging for food, rationing medical supplies, worrying about radiation poisoning, and avoiding conflict with other potentially dangerous groups all become part of their daily life. But when a body is found soon after, our protagonist becomes convinced that one of them may also be a murderer.

The reason this book can be so many things at once and still work as a cohesive whole is that Jameson gives equal attention to each aspect of the complex narrative. Though this is an utterly engrossing, page-turning read, there is so much depth to examine. The hotel setting not only harks back to the gothic undertones of the golden era of crime, but it allows for a believably international cast of characters. This, in turn, allows Jameson to explore the racial and political tensions that emerge in times of conflict, and the blame culture that can so often lead to division and mistrust.

Without ever having to name names, Jameson is unflinching in her critique of the current political climate, and the alarming future that could await should power remain in the wrong hands. Indeed, the plot is pitched in such a way as to be at once grippingly eccentric, and frighteningly plausible. Without getting spoilery, she also manages to seamlessly weave powerful commentary on several pertinent social issues into the narrative, such as women’s reproductive rights, and the attempt to silence victims who come forward in the wake of a crime.

The murder mystery element is as intriguing to read as the survival aspect is enthralling, but I have to admit I wasn’t completely satisfied by the way that particular plot point wrapped up. I remained hooked by it throughout, but the outcome felt a little far-fetched and over-constructed. This was the only factor holding me back from a five-star rating. However, I can ultimately forgive it, as the crime element was, in reality, a means through which Jameson could explore the book’s primary theme, which is how far we will go to preserve justice, even in the most desperate of times. With tensions rising, characters pitted against each other, and new dangers emerging every day, the author makes us consider what kind of person we would want to be in the face of such extremes. Which parts of society are a construct, and which are defining characteristics of humanity? Which laws, conventions and morals are worth holding onto until the bitter end? Does one life matter when the whole world is in peril?

The book is framed as a written documentation of the events from our protagonist’s point-of-view. As a historian (at the hotel for a conference), he wishes to preserve his and others’ stories for possible future generations. This not only brings in a thread about the importance of documenting experiences (particularly in tangible forms, should disaster ever befall the internet), but we increasingly realise how flawed he is. This leaves us to question just how reliable he is as a narrator, with Jameson even managing to incorporate a subtle metaphor about the toxicity of holding on to secrets. This cleverly reaches a head in the book’s climax, adding a whole other layer to our interpretation of key points throughout the story, and proving that none of us are wholly good or bad.

Honestly, I was floored that a book so gripping and fun to read could also have so much to say, by masking such complexity and nuance. Having powered through the entire Women’s Prize longlist recently, only to be disappointed by the short list, I had been feeling on the verge of a reading slump for a couple of weeks; burnt out and lacking motivation. This book was exactly what I needed to get my spark back. Though it’s just shy of 400 pages, I sped through the whole thing in a few sittings. I know I will look back on the reading experience with huge fondness and gratitude. There really is a lot to be said for finding the right book at just the right time.

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If you’d like to read The Last, you can pick up a copy 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.

***

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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Transformation by Mary Shelley | Book Review

Transformation by Mary Shelley
Published by Alma Classics, 2019 (first published in 1831)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This collection brings together three little-known short stories by Mary Shelley, the revered author of Frankenstein. Each is a fantastic example of her writing prowess, and the ways in which she pioneered the science-fiction and horror genres.

The title story, Transformation, draws on classic fables and the work of Shakespeare to create a brilliantly timeless and evocative moral tale. In it, we follow a man, spurned by his great love and exiled from his homeland, who makes a deal with a strange, demonic creature in his pursuit of vengeance. Thematically, it explores the idea that true ugliness comes from the inside, the danger of succumbing to our own greed and entitlement, and the notion that the best lessons in life are often hard won. It also has all the hallmarks of the best gothic fiction, including rich settings, thick atmosphere, and sumptuous prose. (‘Evening was at hand when, seaward, arose, as if on the waving of a wizard’s wand, a murky web of clouds, blotting the late azure sky and darkening and disturbing the till now placid deep […] The waves raised their white crests; the thunder first muttered, then roared from across the waste of waters, which took a deep purple dye, flecked with foam.’) – 5 stars.

The Mortal Immortal is a melancholic and fascinating story that draws on Shelley’s own real-life experience of outliving those she loved, exploring the dichotomy of simultaneously hating life and fearing death. Her protagonist, an alchemist’s assistant, consumes a potion he hopes will cure him of the pain of unrequited love. Instead, it grants him immortality, dooming him to a life of loneliness as he watches those dear to him fade away. As with Frankenstein, there’s a thread about the danger of pursuing science beyond our control (‘… the more I live, the more I dread death, even while I abhor life. Such an enigma is man – born to perish – when he wars, as I do, against the established laws of nature.’) It’s another gothic gem, made all the more poignant given the context of Shelley’s own tragic life. – 4.5 stars.

The final story, The Evil Eye, has a subtle supernatural edge, but it’s considerably less gothic. A tale of piracy, betrayal, revenge, and family, it has a grand, epic scope despite its modest length. The adventurous nature of the plot means there are some exciting moments, alongside some typically gorgeous prose, but my love for the dark, gothic, and thought-provoking nature of the previous stories left me feeling underwhelmed by this one. – 2.5 stars.

In an ideal world, the third story would have been omitted in favour of something more in keeping with the tone and quality of the others, but altogether, this still makes for a solid example of Shelley’s skill, and why her catalogue of work beyond Frankenstein is well worth exploring.

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If you fancy giving Transformation a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository with free shipping by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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April Wrap Up

The books I read in April

It’s time for another wrap up! Throughout April, my main aim was to finish making my way through the Women’s Prize longlist, which I did, so that was exciting (even if the announced shortlist was less so)! I read 10 books in all, bringing my total for the year so far up to 42. Here are some very brief thoughts on each, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli

[ ⭐ ⭐ ] This timely book critiques the US’s handling of migrants, by drawing parallels between past and present. I respect it for this, but thought the glut of literary references felt self-congratulatory, the characters inauthentic, and the brand of empathy somewhat clumsy.

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This chronicles the breakdown of a marriage, when the couple are separated by a miscarriage of justice. I wish its social and political themes had been driven home with more force, but I felt invested in the characters, and enjoyed its unbiased look at the idea of power and ownership within a relationship.

Swan Song by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

[ ⭐ ] Overly long, thematically vapid, and packed with problematic characterisation, this boring novelisation of Truman Capote’s later life was sadly not for me at all.

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] A rich, layered, and thought-provoking look at the complex relationship between mind and body. Beautifully written, Freshwater draws on Igbo folklore to explore the nature of identity, and the pain of feeling disjointed from your inner self.

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] A retelling of the Iliad from the perspective of Briseis that adds depth and nuance to the characters, whilst capturing the brutality of war, and the lack of agency granted to women.

Number One Chinese Restaurant by Lillian Li

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] I was pleasantly surprised by this look at a dysfunctional Chinese-American family’s various struggles with the issues of identity, lineage, and duty versus desire. It had its flaws, but there are the bare bones of a great book in here.

Remembered by Yvonne Battle-Felton

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This follows several generations of an African-American family through the period of slavery and Emancipation. It’s brutal at times, but its look at the finding of family fills it with much needed hope.

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] A short and brutal little tale that employs a wonderful sense of mounting dread, and very effective foreshadowing. The narrative packs a punch, but there are also interesting undercurrents of religion and morality to mull over.

The Sealwoman’s Gift by Sally Magnusson

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This look at a forgotten piece of Icelandic history explores the power of storytelling, female agency, and a clash of cultures. The settings are painted beautifully, but I felt the book suffered slightly from uneven pacing and my own admittedly high expectations.

I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya

[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This memoir/essay explores the pervasive harm of living under the fear of masculine energy. Written by a trans woman of colour, it offers an insightful, perceptive, nuanced, and intersectional viewpoint, by highlighting how ingrained misogyny is in all of us, and offering hope for a better future. I adored it!

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There we have it! If any of the books I mentioned caught your eye, you can find them with free shipping over on Book Depository. My favourite read in April was I’m Afraid of Men. What was yours?

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I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya | Book Review

I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya
Published by Penguin Canada, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Phenomenal. This book should be required reading. To say so much, so succinctly, about the pervasive harm of masculine energy, whilst offering hope for a better future, is frankly awe inspiring.

I am neither trans nor a person of colour, as Shraya is. For that reason, I would never deign to suggest I understand the extent of fear and suppression she has experienced. That said, as a gay man, I still felt so seen by this book. I don’t hate that I’m gay, but I hate that being gay makes me constantly police my own body language, appearance, and behaviour, through fear of ridicule, aggression and intimidation (all of which I have experienced as a queer person). I’ve never seen an author capture so eloquently and vividly how exhausting and frustrating it is to feel compelled to live your life this way, nor the kind of self-loathing it incites. This, in itself, helps to systematically uphold the patriarchy, the fear teaching us to publicly reject the parts of ourselves that ascribe to traditional feminine norms.

The use of direct address when relaying stories lends the book an intense immediacy. I also adored how nuanced and intersectional it is. No one is spared their rightful lampooning, with Shraya highlighting the kind of prejudices brought on by life under a misogynistic regime that plague us all: The gay men who are repulsed by the thought of vaginas; cis people who refuse to accept their trans counterparts; the ones who invalidate bisexual relationships; the straight women who have internalised misogyny to such an extent that they actively uphold heteronormative societal roles, and stand by in the face of injustice.

The book is also very self-aware, Shraya pointing out that queer and non-conforming people don’t want pity, and shouldn’t have to share experiences of trauma to earn respect or understanding. And yet, here we are, the shock of reality sometimes all we have to fall back on to be given a platform or taken seriously.

Shraya ultimately asks us to destroy the pedestal that upholds the concept of ‘The Good Man’. With the standard of ‘goodness’ in cis/straight men set so low, it excuses the failings of the typical man. We all have to strive for better. By dismissing gendered expectations, we will all be free to explore and express ourselves as individuals. After all, if there are no set roles to conform to, there can be no fear of non-conformity.

Frank, compact, perceptive, and eye-opening, I implore you all to read this absolute gem.

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If you’d like to pick up a copy of I’m Afraid of Men (and again, I can’t urge you strongly enough to do so), you can find a copy of it with free shipping by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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