When I was asked if I wanted to read a book about the house where the Sitwells live, I leapt at the chance. It took me a while to get around to it, but… well, now I have and it was fab, and I’m over at Vulpes Libris talking about it!
2010s
Gratitude by Oliver Sacks
The first of my reviews from Shiny New Books that I’ll be pointing you towards is… a little book called Gratitude by Oliver Sacks, and the final book that will ever be published under his name. Read the whole review here, or be enticed by the opening of it…
I’ve had the privilege of reviewing three different books by Oliver Sacks for Shiny New Books now, but this is the first since his sad death last year. By the time his autobiography On The Move was published, we already knew that Sacks had fatal cancer – though he didn’t know it when the manuscript was handed in. So the difference between his autobiography and three of the four essays here is precisely that: these are written with an awareness of mortality and this, indeed, is often their theme.
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
It’s the spinning blurry woman again! I’m over at Vulpes Libris talking about Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, which I wasn’t super stoked to read, but which I actually ended up loving (spoilers!)
I usually choose to review books there that don’t necessarily feel like perfect fits for StuckinaBook – i.e. you’ll never find me reviewing a witty novel about spinsters opening a cafe over there – but this is a novel that I think everyone will value. And, let’s face it, I’m probably last to the party on this one anyway.
The Immortals by S.E. Lister
What’s the opposite of a time-traveller? I suppose it’s somebody who is stuck in one time – and that’s precisely the predicament of the Hyde family at the beginning of S.E. Lister’s novel The Immortals (published a few months ago – and indeed read a few months ago; I’ve been intending to review it for so long, but… Christmas got in the way). They have been living and re-living 1945 for many years, moving at the end of every year, and judging passing time by location rather than world events. This has been the decision of Rosa Hyde’s father, who – for some reason she doesn’t really understand – can’t bare the idea of leaving the year, or the ‘main event’ of going up to London for the declaration of peace.
I say ‘at the beginning’ of the novel, but in fact the novel opens with Rosa’s return – from where (or, more importantly, when) is not immediately clear. (And what an opening line it is! I love its intrigue.)
Rosa came home after seven years, in the same year she had left. It was the beginning of the wet spring she knew so well. She found their cottage on the edge of a village, the latest Hyde home in a string of many, tucked out of the way behind a disused cattle barn. There were sandbags stacked against the steps, blackout curtains in every window. Bindweed framed the doorway. Beyond the fields a church spire rose into the dusky sky, lashed by rain, its chimes silenced.
Lister has a knack for portraying a time and place quickly and effectively. This is an example, but there are plenty in the novel – because we then see all the times and places that Rosa has travelled. Once away from the 1945-dwelling of her father, she is able to travel much more widely. We rush through a maelstrom of places and periods, with local colour thrown in at just the right amount – on one page, afraid in a busy Victorian street; shortly after, made a near-deity in a bygone era. That section was rather lovely – seeing Rosa elevated in that way, after her years of 1945 tedium – but things become more complex when she meets Tommy Rust. He is a fellow Immortal (and believes in this immortality with his whole heart), and something of a suave, risky gent of the sort that is rather dashing in literature and might not be so much outside of it.
And then there is the soldier Harding, who makes things even more complicated – though I thing I was more affected by the brothers who travelled together as much as possible, and were distraught at the possibility of being separated. But, y’know, brothers always get me.
I’m not much of a one for time-travel novels in general, but I certainly am for novels about family dynamics – so I liked The Immortals best when Rosa was dealing with abandoning her family, and coping with missing many years of her younger sister’s life, and that sort of thing – all of which was handled nicely. The climax of the day peace was declared in 1945 – a day on which Rosa’s father always goes to London to join in the celebrations, trying to avoid other iterations of himself in the crowd – was very moving, and an excellent peak. Indeed, it seems rather as though the non-sci-fi sections of The Immortals were my favourites… and perhaps that was inevitable. But more skill is required to make quotidian events and relationships captivating than is needed to pick a selection of intriguing years and write about them – so kudos for Lister there, and it will be intriguing to see what she could turn her hand to in a more earth-bound genre, if she ever chooses to give that a whirl.
Thanks, Sophie, for sending me a copy of this book.
Where I’m Reading From by Tim Parks
You may be getting tired of me reviewing books about books – well, there are more to come, and I can’t get enough of them! Recommendations always heartily welcomed. I can’t remember where I first heard of Where I’m Reading From (2014) by Tim Parks, but I have an inkling that it might have been in the ‘You May Also Be Interested In’ section on Amazon. I do know how I got it – it was a birthday present from my friends Sarah and Paul, along with Michael Dirda’s Browsings which I’ll also be writing about soon.
Tim Parks (a name I did not know before, once I realised that I’d been getting him mixed up with Tim Pears) is a British novelist, translator, and professor who lives in Milan. As such, he is well placed to write about all manner of literary topics, from the nuances of copyright to the different ways to translate isolated sentences from D.H. Lawrence. His pieces, which previously all appeared in the New York Review of Books, are certainly engaging and thought-provoking. They are also maddeningly repetitive.
The same points come up over and over and over again – that writers outside of English aim for an international style rather than one linked to their own particular contexts; that translators have to choose between content and tone; that academic criticism is too engaged with the text and not with the author’s life. This last suggests Park hasn’t read any English Literature academic writing for about forty years, but the other two would be extremely interesting points if they didn’t each come up a dozen times. And it did begin to feel, at one point, as though D.H. Lawrence were the only novelist Parks had ever read. True, these articles/essays came out at intervals over a four year period, but he could still have gone in for a bit more variety. Michael Dirda did; that’s all I’m sayin’.
BUT I should add that, those recurrences forgiven, Where I’m Reading From is fascinating and offers much food for thought. Even acknowledging how much repetition is in the book (and now, it seems, in my blog post about it), the topics covered are many and various, and often unusually interesting. To pick one, ‘Why Readers Disagree’:
Enthusiasm or disappointment may be confirmed or attenuated, but only exceptionally reversed [by criticism]. We say: James Wood/Colm Toibin/Michiko Kakutani admires the book and has given convincing reasons for doing so, but I still feel it is the worst kind of crowd-pleaser.
Let me offer a possible explanation that has been developing in my mind for a decade and more. It’s a central tenet of systemic psychology that each personality develops in the force field of a community of origin, usually a family, seeking his or her own position in a pre-existing group, or ‘system’, most likely made up of mother, father, brothers and sisters, then aunts, uncles, grandparents, and so on. The leading Italian psychologist, Valeria Ugazio further suggests that this family ‘system’ also has ‘semantic content’; that is, as conversations in the family establish criteria for praise and criticism of family members and non-members, one particular theme or issue will dominate.
These might be bravery vs cowardice, moral vs immoral, success vs failure etc. – and these are, he argues, reflected in the qualities we look for in novels or characters. I.e. we may judge books on entirely different scales from one another. At one point Parks makes what he considers an exhaustive list, which is bizarrely brief, but it’s a very intriguing notion nonetheless.
I could either write thousands of words about the different angles and authors considered or end here – and I think it will have to be the latter. Parks doesn’t write with the eager enthusiasm of the avid reader, but rather the mildly detached intellect of the professional man of books – yet those of us who are avid readers first and foremost will find much to interest. This he certainly did – most so in articles on translation, where he resisted quoting examples that only the polylingual would understand, for which I am grateful. Perhaps one does not warm to Parks as a friendly voice (and his treatment of his parents in these articles does little to enamour me, I will confess) but he is not setting out to be a chatty companion so much as a muser. As that, he is very admirable. But he is not Dirda. More on him anon…
My Katherine Mansfield Project by Kirsty Gunn
I love Katherine Mansfield, and I love Notting Hill Editions, so I ran towards the chance to read My Katherine Mansfield Project (2015) by Kirsty Gunn when it came up for grabs over at Shiny New Books. And it was very much a pleasure. You can read the full review over at SNB, and – as is becoming usual – below is the beginning of my review, to tempt you:
The premise for My Katherine Mansfield Project is admittedly rather niche. If one is not already a fan of Kirsty Gunn, then one had better be a fan of Katherine Mansfield (so one might think). This long essay is in essence an homage to Mansfield and her homeland and her legacy – yet, at the same time, it can be enjoyed simply as one author admiring and experiencing communion with another, while admiring and experiencing communion with a beautiful place.
Let Me Tell You by Shirley Jackson
I’ve been very remiss with pointing you in the direction of reviews I wrote for Shiny New Books Issue 7 – and there are some truly brilliant books there that I would very much encourage you to read. While you’re flicking through the issue, I hope you noticed Shirley Jackson’s exceptional Let Me Tell You – a sort of ‘B-sides’ collection of her stories, essays, and memoirs. It’s wonderful. Read the whole review over at SNB, but here’s the beginning to whet your appetite…
This is the third Shiny New Books issue in which I’ve had the privilege of writing about Shirley Jackson’s works – and, indeed, I’ve bolstered out those two previous reviews with five books. It’s fair to say that I’m a fan, and love her dark, surreal books and her cosy domestic memoirs more or less equally. Well, here is a massive treat for Jackson aficionados (and also those who have yet to make her acquaintance): a bumper book of stories, essays, and other writings, many of which have never been available in any format before. Cue balloons, streamers, and much celebration!
Latest Readings by Clive James
One thing and another means I haven’t highlighted my reviews in the latest issue of Shiny New Books, so I’ll kick off with one. I’m on a bit of a spate of hunting out books about reading, since that’s more or less my favourite genre. They are not all that plentiful, but Clive James’ Latest Readings adds to that number – and I reviewed it for Issue 7. You can read the whole review at Shiny New Books, but this intro might entice you further…
I have to confess that when I picked up Latest Readings, I knew very little about Clive James’ life and work. And, indeed, when I put it down I wasn’t much the wiser – but I knew a lot more about his reading tastes. That was why I bought the book: I will run towards books about reading, and was not disappointed in this thoughtful and engaging collection of musings.
Lila by Marilynne Robinson
The list of eponymous novels from the other day was going to include Lila by Marilynne Robinson – until I discovered that I never actually linked to my Shiny New Books review from StuckinaBook, apparently. And since it’s been so long, I’ll copy across the review here, rather than send you off to a set of SNB menus that aren’t the most recent. (But do check out the SNB update!)
It is difficult to write a review of a Marilynne Robinson novel that can even begin to do her writing justice. Reading one of her books makes me want to go and re-write all the other reviews I’ve written of other authors, toning them down, so that the words ‘excellent’ or ‘brilliant’ can be reserved for somebody of Robinson’s talent. Granted I’m not the best-read when it comes to 21st-century literature, but I would unhesitatingly call Robinson the greatest living writer – and in Lila, where she revisits the people and location of previous novels Gilead (2004) and Home (2008), she has continued this remarkable success.
Lila is present in the two previous novels – she is Mrs Ames, the wife of the aging minister whose first person narrative brings you so close to his thoughts and memories in Gilead. The couple are more incidental in Home, which focuses upon the neighbouring Boughton family, but in neither book is Lila anything comparable to an open book. This excerpt from Home is indicative:
Ames took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt a sort of wonder for this wife of his, in so many ways so unknown to him, and he could be suddenly moved by some glimpse he had never had before of the days of her youth or her loneliness, or of the thoughts of her soul.
If she is constant surprise to her husband, she is shadowy to the reader. We see her through the prism of Ames’ devotion, and his astonishment that he should (so late in life) find a wife and be given a son; Lila is a miracle he has been granted. His viewpoint is in no way possessive or selfish, but his grateful love means (naturally) we only see Lila as John sees her. We do not have access to her past or, really, her personality.
All that changes in Lila. Like Home, it is in the third person, but yet still offers an insight into the woman and her early life. We see her, ‘adopted’ (or rescued or kidnapped) by a woman called Doll; she lives in a world of poverty and uncertain loyalties. There is a group (a gang? a makeshift family?) that she is part of, but the boundaries of it are not secure. One day she and Doll may find themselves on the outside of it, and this daughter of man has nowhere to lay her head. We see recurring glimpses of this group – of the lynchpin, Doane, and of the event that separates Doll from Lila and sends her on her journey towards Gilead…
By showing us how different Lila’s early life is, it feels like coming home for the reader when we are eventually in Gilead. I spoke of the ‘people and location’ of Robinson’s earlier novels, but – more to the point – it is the community of those novels that Robinson has so brilliantly built up. A sense that they may judge or hurt each other as much as they love and protect, but that they are securely bound up with each other. This community requires a certain amount of trust – and it is trust that Lila finds so difficult to give. She is like a nervous animal, mistreated in the past and wary of sacrificing her independence for any sort of community.
The extraordinary triumph of Lila is seeing how the relationship develops between Ames and Lila, after she turns up in Ames’ church out of the blue. This is not a Cinderella story, or a heartwarming romance, or anything of the sort. The novel doesn’t fit into any sort of category. It seems too real to be fictional. We see the beautiful patience, honesty, faithfulness, and flaws of Ames that made him such a hero in Gilead – but heavily counterpointed by the impetuousness, wariness, and doubts of Lila. There is a poignant believability to the way she asks questions he cannot answer, then mistakes his silence for reproof; a painful beauty to his recognition that she may leave with his child, and that he can do little but make a home that he hopes will keep her peripatetic spirit. Their conversations are complex, mixing her doubts and his hopes; his long-earned wisdom and her vital awareness of the crueller side of human nature…
He said, “You know, there are things I believe, things I could never prove, and I believe them all day, everyday. It seems to me that my mind would stop dead without them. And here, where I have tangible proof” – he patted her hand – “when I’m walking along this road I’ve known all my life, every stone and stump where it has always been, I can’t quite believe it. That I’m here with you.”
She thought, Well that’s another way of saying it ain’t the sort of thing people expect. She had heard the word ‘unseemly’. Mrs. Graham talking to someone else about something else. No one said her belly was unseemly, no one said a word about how the old man kept on courting her, like a boy, when she was hard and wary and mainly just glad there was a time in her life when she could rest up for whatever was going to happen to her next. She felt like asking why he couldn’t see what everybody else had seen her whole life. But what if that made him begin to see it? First she had to get this baby born. And after that she might ask him some questions.
It is far too simplistic to say simply that these are two good people – both have deficiencies, and both are too well-drawn and complete to be tied down to any single adjective – but they are both deeply lovable people. Robinson writes with an intense subtlety about fairly ordinary characters – but, by examining them in such close detail, and showing so vividly what it is they want and what they fear, she has made the ordinary not only extraordinary but immortal. I don’t know if we will ever be given a return journey to the community of Gilead, but even if Robinson never writes another word, she is also (I believe) assured of a place among the immortals.
The Golden Age of Murder by Martin Edwards
I wrote about The Golden Age of Murder by Martin Edwards over at Vulpes Libris today. It was a tricky book to write about, but… it’s fantastic. There’s a very speedy review for you! For a longer one, head over to the foxes…