Gratitude by Delphine de Vigan, translated from the French by George Miller
Published by Bloomsbury, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Though it’s often said actions speak louder than words, in Gratitude, de Vigan argues the importance of language and communication; to express our emotions, to expunge ourselves of guilt, and to tether us to the world.
The story centres around elderly Michka. Growing increasingly frail, and suffering from aphasia (a condition that hinders your ability to communicate, causing you to repeatedly forget and misuse words), she moves into a care home. Marie, a young woman indebted to Michka, and Jérôme, Michka’s speech therapist, both determine to help her recover enough words so she can open up about her past, and gain the closure she needs.
Understated yet incredibly poignant, de Vigan does a fantastic job of crafting a convincing voice for her elderly protagonist, reflecting the pathos, frustration, and unexpected humour that come with her condition. Though never preachy, the novel pushes us to reach out to people while we can, and to never undervalue the weight of a sincerely spoken, “thank you”.
Acrobat by Nabaneeta Dev Sen, translated from the Bengali by Nandana Sen
Published by Archipelago, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐
This posthumous collection, sensitively translated by the poet’s own daughter, was the last project Dev Sen completed before her death in 2019. The pieces are wide-reaching in theme, with some particularly evocative lines throughout that reflect the landscape of India, and the differing worldview of men and women due to cultural roles. Beyond this, there’s a strong focus on womanhood in general, and Dev Sen’s experiences as a mother, as well as pieces on love, loss, language, memory, and so on.
With that said, I felt the collection would have benefitted from a more coherent thematic focus. There are several very short poems peppered throughout that felt stylistically jarring when held up against the flair of the other pieces. Take for example this lovely line from one of my favourites in the collection, which talks about the elusive nature of language, and the contrasting beauty and frustration felt throughout the writing process: “Words stand aloof / like the false modesty, many hued, of a setting sun that leans against the sky – / unattached, unreachable, alone / yet gently touching the earth’s tamed mane with caressing fingers.” Compare that to the piece entitled, “Unspoken”, which in its entirety simply reads: “Each time you say, ‘Forever, forever,’ / I only hear, / ‘Today, today!’” These strangely youthful sounding, angsty pieces read more like Instagram captions, and without wishing to sound flippant, the cutting of these “filler” pieces would have allowed the strongest poems the breathing space they needed to shine.
All-in-all, I admired this collection for its intent, but ultimately found the poetic voice too inconsistent, and thus failed to connect emotionally.
Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.
An air of foreboding hangs over this almost fable-like tale, which looks at the community response to the sudden appearance of 32 seemingly feral children in the subtropical town of San Cristobal. Seeming to speak their own language, and growing increasingly hostile towards the locals, tensions rise as the divide between “us” and “them” grows ever wider.
Though it is concerned with the same core concept of individuals who reject the roles set out for them by society, Earthlings is a far bolder and more twisted affair than the author’s previous hit, Convenience Store Woman. Frankly, I think it’s all the better for it. While the latter ultimately left me feeling underwhelmed, love it or loathe it, I can’t see how Earthlings could fail to elicit a strong response from any reader.
I’m a big fan of Ingpen as an artist and particularly like to collect his illustrated editions of children’s classics. This brief original tale started life as a project to entertain his granddaughter.
I knew heading into this one that it would be a gamble, since magical realism doesn’t often work for me. But, when it does it tends to be when it’s in short story format, and having heard such good things about Kawakami’s other work, I decided to give this collection of micro fiction a shot.
As the title suggests, this is primarily a look at the concept of loyalty in its various forms. With each of the 4 main characters keeping a secret on behalf of someone else, de Vigan explores the moral complexities inherent to balancing trust with honesty. The undercurrent of tension and claustrophobia that builds throughout had me enthralled, and I loved its subtle commentary on sexism and the nuance of what constitutes abuse.
Deliberately repellent and utterly compelling in equal measure, this all-too-plausible dystopian looks at what might happen if animal meat was toxic to humans, and cannibalism became the norm. Bazterrica is unflinching in her portrayal of society’s degradation, but there’s so much depth to revel in, with commentary on the role of language, genetic modification, hunting for sport, human trafficking, and class disparity all woven in seamlessly.
At once a searing social commentary and a gripping page-turner, Liar looks at the ease with which our words can take on a life of their own, when a 17-year-old girl falsely accuses a minor celebrity of assault. The novel’s real strengths are its fantastically well-realised characters, who are painfully flawed, complex and believable, and Gundar-Goshen’s stunning prose, which can make even the smallest moments shine.
Loosely tied around our narrator’s struggle to come to terms with the death of her baby sister, this experimental little gem is part novel, part memoir, part prose poetry collection. Beautifully written, I found it as linguistically stimulating as I did emotionally impactful, and loved witnessing its constant push and pull between fact and fiction.
Inspired by the author’s real life, this graphic novel explores the difficulty of navigating grief, and the importance of finding hope, when two women’s journey to have a child culminates in tragedy. Accompanied by Maurel’s dreamlike artwork, it’s a moving story handled with due sensitivity, and the normalised queer representation was a very welcome touch.
The concept and prose may seem straightforward in this exploration of society versus the individual, but it’s shrewdly observant and quietly impactful. Ultimately, Murata asks us to consider the extent to which we should sacrifice the things that make us happy, if simply for the sake of fitting in and avoiding scrutiny. With moments of poignancy and understated humour, she also touches on ingrained misogyny and class divides, all carried by her heroine’s charmingly unique world view.
The gripping pace of a thriller can often come at the expense of character depth. Not so in Snare. This excellent example of noir fiction takes us into Iceland’s underbelly, as a woman turns to drug smuggling to fund a custody battle over her young son. Page-turning tension, a tangled web of morally ambiguous characters, engaging subplots, and emotional complexity elevated what could have been a nondescript crime flick into something decidedly more memorable.
There’s an unexpected tenderness to this speculative dystopian tale, in which those who remain unmarried and childless over the age of 50 must enter a Unit. Here, they live a life of luxury but must participate in clinical trials and forced organ donation. Though easy to fly through, the book has interesting things to say about how society defines value in life, as well as class snobbery and the role of women. Chiefly, it ruminates on why certain types of love are given credence over others.
An elderly grandmother finally divulges the details of a tragic love affair that played out during Occupation in this heartbreaking yet hopeful graphic novel. Set largely in one apartment block in 1942, we glimpse a microcosm of society at the time, with the author brilliantly capturing the moral dilemmas people were forced to navigate day-to-day under Nazi rule; the divide between those who acted in aid of the greater good and those who served only themselves.
Employing a touch of the supernatural, Tokyo Ueno Station explores the very real problem of poverty, highlighting wilful ignorance towards widespread homelessness in modern-day Japan. The tone throughout is one of nostalgia and melancholy, as our deceased narrator looks back on a life of crippling poverty, missed opportunities, and lost love. The book offers heartfelt insight into the cost endured by those pushed to the fringes of society as a direct result of their socioeconomic standing.
Employing a touch of the supernatural, Tokyo Ueno Station explores the very real problem of poverty, highlighting willful ignorance towards widespread homelessness in modern-day Japan.
In this horrifying gem from Argentina, a virus has made all animal meat toxic to humans. In a frighteningly short span of time, the consumption of human flesh has been legalised, with breeding centres now commonplace and the public largely desensitized to what’s going on. Marcos works in one such slaughterhouse, and the novel opens with him attempting to balance increasing frustration towards his job with the heartbreak of bereavement in his personal life. When he is gifted a ‘domestic’ human to keep and later eat himself, this inner conflict will increasingly rise to the fore.
This is one of those books that has been on my radar for a while, despite not hearing many people talk about it. Having finally picked it up, I’m delighted to say it exceeded my every expectation. We follow four perspectives: Théo, an adolescent boy from a broken family who finds himself increasingly reliant on the escapism offered by alcohol; Mathis, his friend, who is growing ever more concerned about Théo’s behaviour; Hélène, their teacher, who is convinced Théo is being abused at home; and Cécile, Mathis’s mother, who has recently discovered a distressing secret about her husband.
In this very readable little novel, Cho Nam-Joo lays bare the systematic misogyny levied at Korean women throughout each stage of their lives. Our titular protagonist is presented very much as an everywoman. She has the most common name for girls in Korea; her parents are referred to throughout as ‘the mother’ and ‘the father’; any sense of individuality or autonomy are stripped away from her; and, in the excellent cover design, her face has even been obscured. All of this combines to insinuate that Jiyoung and her experiences are not unique. On the contrary, the prejudice she faces at every turn, and the cumulative ripple effect it has on her mental wellbeing, are applicable to all women of her generation.
