The books I read in March
March has been a very weird month for reasons I don’t need to explain, but I did still manage to get quite a bit of reading done, which is nice. I read 9 books in all, with the majority of them being titles from the Women’s Prize longlist, bringing my total for the year so far up to 29. Here are some thoughts on each of them, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.
The Rib Joint by Julia Koets
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] These personal essays explore Koets’ experiences growing up as a closeted queer woman in a conservative, religious community in the American South. She explores the murky intersection between friendship and love, desire and self-loathing, and freedom and suppression with clarity and self-reflection.
Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Brodesser-Akner’s flawed, frustrating characters are used to examine gender stereotypes, and the unique brand of delusional, self-inflicted struggles that can affect the middle and upper classes. I found it surprisingly nuanced and readable, but felt it suffered from needlessly convoluted narrative framing.
Girl by Edna O’Brien
[ ⭐ ⭐ ] This is inspired by the real-life kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls at the hands of the terrorist organization Boko Haram in Nigeria, 2014. Despite the succession of brutal, harrowing details, there’s a bizarre sense of emotional disconnect that left the whole thing feeling flat. Pacing issues, untapped thematic potential, matter-of-fact prose, and potentially problematic authorship did little to elevate things.
A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This retells the story of the Trojan War from an entirely female perspective, attempting to reframe beloved mythology from a more feminist angle, and to show the myriad ways to fight a war. It’s very readable and I admire its intention, but it offers little that we haven’t seen from prior retellings, with some of its many perspectives feeling shoehorned in.
Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This follows three young friends in an Indian slum naively attempting to solve the mystery behind a string of disappearances. Anappara pulls off a convincing child narrator, and weaves in lots of clever social commentary on everything from gender roles, poverty, and education, to religious tension and fear of the unknown. It’s a very readable yet intelligently subtle dissection of modern Indian society.
Marguerite by Marina Kemp
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse.
Dominicana by Angie Cruz
[ ⭐ ⭐ ] Sadly, I found this look at the immigrant experience derivative and lacking in nuance, with several stereotypes going unchallenged. The prose itself is very approachable on a technical level, but on the whole, I found it clumsy and overblown.
The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This family saga is at its best when it examines the unique hybrid of love and rivalry that can exist between siblings, and the established idea that money cannot buy happiness. There’s some interesting (if not fully capitalised on) commentary on the disconnectedness of the upper classes, but at more than 500 pages, it does feel needlessly bloated at times; some of its potential impact hindered by a meandering pace and extraneous detail.
Weather by Jenny Offill
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] I found this look at the experience of trying to balance the mundanities of modern life with the knowledge that mankind is slowly killing the planet – and the constant, low-level anxiety this brings – more compelling in concept than execution. A lack of drive in plot or character progression left me feeling largely lukewarm, but it does capture the atmosphere of contemporary society with some flair.
There we have it! My favourite reads of the month were Marguerite and Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line. What was your favourite read in March?
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I’m kicking the list off with a fairly unexpected pick. The White Book is a little more experimental than my usual favourites, but something about its singular pathos and stunning prose has really stayed with me. Masterfully translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith, the book is part novel, part memoir, part prose poetry collection; presented as a series of vignettes that ruminate on the role language plays in navigating grief and pain. I was moved and compelled as I read it, and it has continued to haunt my thoughts ever since, more than earning a place within my top 10.
At once a searing social commentary and a gripping page-turner, Liar explores the ease with which our words can take on a life of their own, and our moral responsibility to honour the truth, when a 17-year-old girl falsely accuses a celebrity of sexual assault. The strength of the book is in its characters, all of which are complex, flawed, and believable. The heady atmosphere and genuine stress-inducing tension are palpable, with Gundar-Goshen able to explore a hugely controversial topic without ever undermining the validity of genuine assault accusations. It’s as intelligent as it is readable, and it made me incredibly excited to explore more of the author’s work.
Anything with intelligent thematic and narrative parallels with one of my favourite novels is always going to get me excited, and I’m so pleased that this riff on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein did not disappoint. The book follows the real-life creation of Shelley’s masterpiece in 1818, and a group of fictional characters in modern-day Brexit Britain; the contrast between past and present allowing Winterson to comment on our timeless obsession with the nature of life and death, as well as changing attitudes towards gender roles, sexuality, identity, and the relationship between AI and human beings. At once a biting political satire and a love letter to a creative genius, this offers a truly singular reading experience.
Congratulations to John Wyndham for bring the only man you will find on this list. That wasn’t deliberate, but I’m not mad about it either. The Chrysalids is at once a gripping post-apocalyptic tale about society’s struggle to deal with the genetic fallout of a nuclear disaster, and a skilfully crafted allegory about the hypocrisy of intolerance and othering. Written well over 60 years ago, it’s remarkable how strongly its themes still resonate; nor has the narrative lost its ability to thrill and captivate.
This is a quiet powerhouse of a novel. Shrewdly observant to the point of feeling almost voyeuristic, we follow Connell and Marianne as they attempt to navigate the complexities of life, and to make sense of their feelings for one another. The anxiety of young love, the reality of modern-day class divides, the bewilderment of trying to move between social circles, and the pain of miscommunication are all skilfully explored in understated prose that belies Rooney’s keen perception of human nature.
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 had in 2019. 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. I was floored that a book this gripping and fun to read could also have so much to say, with Jameson commenting on everything from women’s reproductive rights to racial tensions, and from victim blaming to political unrest, all within the framing of a thrilling survival story that against all the odds, also manages to pay homage to the golden era of crime.
For the second year running, Geni takes a spot in my top 5. In The Wildlands, we follow four orphaned siblings torn apart by the only brother’s involvement in an extreme act of eco-terrorism. The characters are all distinct and richly drawn; complex, flawed, and utterly believable. There is brilliantly nuanced commentary throughout on the pervasive quality of toxic masculinity, the dichotomy between action and intention, and the way we use storytelling to protect ourselves from the truth. The prose is lovely without ever feeling overdone, and I was consistently enthralled. It’s a powerful look at the bond of siblings; a searing critique of man’s false sense of power over nature; and an exploration of the animal instincts in all of us which can push us to lash out when we no longer understand our place in the world, but also to protect the ones we love.
My experience with Power’s feminist, sci-fi, horror debut was another prime example of picking up the right book at precisely the right time. Wilder Girls is set within an all-girls school on an isolated island which has been put under strict quarantine following the outbreak of a strange new disease that causes mutations within the resident flora and fauna – including the girls themselves. The imagery throughout is haunting, the girls’ fear about what’s happening to them mirrored in their struggles to survive day-to-day. Beyond its exhilarating narrative, the book is elevated by its look at sisterhood, its excellent implementation of normalised queer representation, and its references to society’s weaponization of girls’ bodies, and our assault on the planet. The critic in me can recognise that this book isn’t perfect, but I loved every second I spent with it, and in a reading year that felt largely mediocre, there’s a lot to be said for surrendering yourself to a damn good read.
Katie Hale’s debut is a thematically complex take on post-apocalyptic fiction that explores the notions of survival, belonging, the enduring influence of societal roles, and the complexities of motherhood. Our heroine is a former research scientist who emerges from an arctic vault, believing herself to be the last human on Earth. Having reverted to animalistic instincts in order to get by, she is forced to redress the balance between surviving and truly living when she finds and takes in a feral young girl. As with another book on this list, My Name is Monster draws on themes and ideas established in Frankenstein. Chiefly, the dynamic between creator and creation, and the wonder of language. A more radical narrative departure than Winterson’s Frankissstein, however, the futuristic setting allows Hale to incorporate some fantastic worldbuilding, while the gender reversal leads to some fascinating commentary on the threat that motherhood poses to a woman’s individual identity, as well as the danger of trying to forge offspring in your own image.
House of Glass is at once a beguiling gothic mystery, and a poignant piece of historical fiction that examines the devastating ways in which women’s lives were ruled by scandal, rumour, and reputation. In many ways, it’s a book about opposites; of truth versus lies, logic versus faith, and reality versus the supernatural, when a young woman is summoned to establish a glasshouse in the grounds of a manor gripped by whispers of a haunting. House of Glass takes my top spot as it easily embodies almost all of the qualities I look for in my perfect read: An immersive setting, a compelling heroine, brooding intrigue, well established supporting characters, a page-turning plot, nuanced themes, and rich, evocative prose. It was exactly what I needed when I picked it up, and I continue to look back on it with nothing but fondness.
