Books On The Go

I loved MIDDLEMARCH by George Eliot and became so immersed in the provincial life of its sub-title that I was compelled to do a full review.

The Vintage Classics cover. I can’t remember any dragonflies being in the book.

It’s not news that Middlemarch is a great book and doesn’t need a critique from me. I’m 152 years late to this party; the starry reviewers have been and gone. Virginia Woolf called it “one of the few English novels written for grown-up people” and my edition has an introduction by Zadie Smith, dissing Henry James’ review and calling Eliot “the greatest of Victorian novelists.” (Note the use of the word Victorian, though. Smith would like to see more contemporary writers breaking the mould as Eliot did in her day).

But in this age of short attention spans, it’s worth pondering how a book that weighs in at 880 pages kept my attention and transported me to a small English town. How does George Eliot do it? Below are my ad hoc thoughts.

Eliot gives a sense of the place and characters from the first page: “Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” We know immediately that Dorothea is a striking young woman, religious and principled, in contrast with the more “common sense” Celia.

We have a sense that Dorothea will confront her challenges and dilemmas and we’re curious to know what they will be. We’re on her side.

The first dilemma soon arises with the courtship of Sir James Chettam and will be familiar to anyone who has ever been set up with a ‘suitable’ but boring partner.

I was drawn in by the sense of meeting the characters and the crisp prose but also by the tone. There’s a sense of humour underlying the story that gives the writing life, warmth and humanity. Eliot gently pokes fun at her characters while seeing them in a compassionate light. This gives the book a welcoming feel: the reader is in on the secret.

The sly humour and Eliot’s refusal to conform to stereotypes also makes Middlemarch feel fresh. Here she gives society’s view of a woman’s role (but the reader may infer an opposing view):

“Women were expected to have weak opinions; but the great safeguard of society and of domestic life was, that opinions were not acted on.”

The mix of domestic and political events feel real and give texture to the story.

It’s an easy read. Despite the long sentences typical of the day, there is nothing laboured or overwrought in Eliot’s succinct prose. Mr Brooke is described as:

“their uncle, a man nearly sixty, of acquiescent temper, miscellaneous opinions, and uncertain vote.”

She can briefly evoke a mood but also, as in an early scene where Mr Casaubon is showing Dorothea their house, an ominous sense of what is to come:

“What was fresh to her mind was worn out to his; and such capacity of thought and feeling as ever been stimulated in him … had long shrunk to a sort of dried preparation, a lifeless embalmment of knowledge.”

Later, as Dorothea begins to realise that Mr Casaubon’s life work is pedantic and futile, Eliot speaks of her “tottering faith”.

And later still, “it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are for ever wasted.”

Needless to say, by this time I was invested in Dorothea, angry on her behalf and glued to the page.

Will is a wonderful foil to Mr Casaubon. He challenges Dorothea’s seriousness, urging upon her that “The best piety is to enjoy – when you can.”

I love the precision of Eliot’s language. A sentence can hint at a whole character. Rosamund, for example:

“Anyone who imagines ten days too short a time … is ignorant of what can go on in the elegant leisure of a young lady’s mind.”

The auctioneer: “in an auctioneering way, he was an honourable man.”

There is also wisdom aplenty in Middlemarch. It comes from unlikely quarters and casual conversations.

Will speaks about poets having

“a soul in which knowledge passes instantly into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that condition by fits only.”

And Mr Farebrother on character:

“Character is not cut in marble – it is not something solid and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become diseased as our bodies do.”

It has been said that Middlemarch has a queer sensibility (and it was adapted into a queer YouTube series). Whether intended to be queer or not, it feels modern and inclusive. Eliot gives all of her characters humanity and avoids conservative ‘happily ever after’ endings. The friendships between Dorothea and Will and Mary and Fred don’t conform to the usual stereotypes. This may be partly explained by Eliot herself having an unconventional relationship with a married man. And Lydgate prioritising science over religion was modern for its day.

She writes beautifully about marriage and the subtle mood shifts and how a loving relationship can end in disillusionment. On the other hand, she also explores the loyalty of a wife when disaster strikes her husband.

And notes that “husbands are an inferior class of men.”

This and other themes in the novel still apply today: the politics and social hierarchies of a small town and how people respond to change. The characters in MIDDLEMARCH are responding to the Reform Bill – it could equally be climate change issues today (or the referendum in Australia about giving Indigenous Australians a voice to parliament).

I loved the sense of immersion. By the end we feel we have been part of the town and have come to know the characters. If you haven’t read it yet, I can highly recommend.

I’m late to Orlando, reading it for Pride Month this June almost one hundred years after it was published.  But the book feels timeless.  I cannot do justice to it in a review, so below are my random thoughts.  I was lucky enough to be given the Folio Society edition, with an introduction by Jeanette Winterson.  I recommend it. 

It’s a long time since I made so many notes while reading a novel (Infinite Jest, Ducks, Newburyport).  This book is an adventure that you can plunge into and be swept along, but also a social commentary that stops you on almost every page with the beauty of a sentence or a fresh idea.

Orlando is a young man and aspiring poet in 16th century England.  He falls in love, becomes ambassador to Constantinople and changes into a woman.  The story is written as a biography and moves through time seamlessly to cover four hundred years.

Woolf refers to London landmarks and drops historical figures into the story.  This gives it a fly-one-the-wall aspect as we see London unfold over time, and grounds the story in reality.

Orlando is fun and modern.  This should not come as a surprise, but I always think of Woolf as a daunting author, so it’s a delight to read her work and feel as though a (highly intelligent) friend is telling you a story.  It’s lively, euphoric and poignant, and transcends gender stereotypes.  It is rich with characters and history, but light and playful.

Great writing need not be heavy or difficult.  It gets to the heart of the matter, without the need for long words or big themes.  Woolf’s prose is so lucid and supple, it’s a joy to read.  She opens the story with:

“He – for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it – was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.”

Woolf surprises with words that are unexpected but on point. Orlando sits under the oak tree “to feel the earth’s spine beneath him.” 

And, trying to woo Sasha:

“She was like a fox, or an olive tree; like the waves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like an emerald.”

The book is filled with humour, skewering poets, critics and the patriarchy in turn.  Woolf weaves in sly asides:

“He was describing, as all young poets are forever describing, nature, and in order to match the shade of green precisely he looked (and here he showed more audacity than most) at the thing itself…”

It contains one of the best descriptions I have read about the struggle to make art. Too often, authors write about this in a way that is obviously autobiographical and feels self-conscious or affected.  Woolf writes with wit and sympathy, using the confidential tone of the biographer.  It feels like a knowing wink from Woolf as she shares a joke with the reader at her own expense. That is, it feels true.

Here is an excerpt (but every page is quotable):

“Anyone moderately familiar with the rigours of composition will not need to be told the story in detail: how he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair … and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.” 

Likewise, Woolf’s observations of critics are apt today.  Greene the book critic rails against the state of modern literature:

“Now all young writers were in the pay of booksellers and poured out any trash that would sell.”

The structure is masterful as Woolf weaves the story from one time period to the next.  She writes beautifully about the seasons unfolding, in a long sentence with a rhythm that matches the rhythm of the days, all of it undercut with humour: “a conclusion which, one cannot help feeling, might have been reached more quickly by the simple statement that ‘Time passed.'”

It’s refreshing to find prose so virtuosic that does not take itself too seriously.  The biographer speaks to the reader about the lack of action in Orlando’s life at one stage, and the challenges this presents.

“Orlando sat so still that you could have heard a pin drop.  Would, indeed, that a pin had dropped.” 

She handles the theme of gender transformation and cross-dressing with honesty and a light touch.  Inspired by Vita Sackville-West, who dressed often as a man, Woolf captures the freedom of men in that age and the constraints facing women.

Woolf deals with the sex change matter-of-factly.  The biographer tells us: “Orlando became a woman – there is no denying it.”

This grounds the reader and we follow Orlando’s dilemma as she considers her wardrobe and leaves Constantinople.

Woolf’s commentary on sexism and men who “go about as if you are the Lords of creation” still holds today.  She writes pointedly about the conventions of society and the role of women.

There is a line about a woman thinking of a gamekeeper “(and as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking)” which is incisive and could refer to Lady Chatterley’s Lover (it was published privately in 1928, around the same time as Orlando was published).

Her satire on London society is timeless: it is all about the mix of people adding up to something exciting, but nothing happens. “The whole thing is a miasma, a mirage.”  She observes the ephemeral nature of parties.  Witticisms are not recorded, so are the happiness and profound thoughts real?  Today we might ask, if it is not captured for social media, did it really happen?

And there are some moving passages towards the end of the book about art and poetry.  In the end, “was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?”

What a privilege to read Woolf’s ‘secret transactions’.  Highly recommended.

 

 

 

I’ve been inspired by the lists of books to read in self-isolation (or shelf-isolation) – some great suggestions in the Financial Times, the Guardian has a list of stylish reads to keep your spirits up and bookstores are selling more ‘bucket-list novels’ . Here are my top 10.

1. The Glass Hotel by Emily St John Mandel : Station 11 is on point – a wonderful novel set in the aftermath of a pandemic.  But this is Emily St John Mandel’s new release about a woman disappearing from a container ship and a Madoff-esque Ponzi scheme and is up next in my reading pile – I can’t wait. Her writing is warm and she creates characters you care about.  It’s the sort of page-turning read we need now.
2. Baba Dunja’s Last Love by Alina Bronsky translated by Tim Mohr – a small gem about a town in quarantine, told with dark humour. The characters sparkle – especially Baba Dunja, an old woman who has moved back to her home town (Chernobyl).  Themes of ageing and isolation – also the importance of community and one’s sense of home. Small books are perfect if you’re struggling to concentrate.
3.  The Summer Book by Tove Jansson translated by Thomas Teal – A Scandinavian modern classic, this is a meditative novel set on an island in Finland.  Jansson evokes the natural world with imagination and wit, and covers ageing, nature and philosophy with a light touch. The relationship between Sophia and her grandmother is charming.  I recommend anything by this author – a favourite. 
4. Tyll by Daniel Kehlmann translated by Ross Benjamin – A rich, imaginative novel set in the 30 Years’ War with Tyll, a prankster from German folklore, and figures from history. Tyll is a survivor whose tricks undercut the hypocrisy of the other characters.  I love the humour, sense of place and originality.  Masterful writing, this is a great escape from reality.
5. There Was Still Love by Favel Parrett – I adored this beautiful story of two children and their grandparents, set in Prague and Melbourne. The prose is clear and simple but conveys much about exile, family and the impact of the iron curtain.  Wonderful characters and a pleasure to read.  This warm, humane book is perfect for these times.
6. A Month in Siena by Hisham Matar – this is an exquisite small book, perfect isolation reading. I loved being in Siena with Hisham Matar.  Every page has a beautiful thought to reflect on but it’s also easy company with great art and new friends. He’s such a lucid writer.  I enjoyed The Return but found this even more moving.  Highly recommended.
7. Shooting Stars by Stefan Zweig translated by Anthea Bell – superb. Zweig’s writing is so comforting. Travel through time with these ten moments in history. I recommend anything by Zweig.
8. The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin – suggested by Amanda Hayes and I loved this too! As Amanda says, ‘this is a good time for us to work on our interior landscape and spend time focussing on what personal happiness means. Practical, well-researched and meaningful’. 
9. The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone by Olivia Laing – suggested by Annie Waters and on my TBR, after I read and loved Crudo and A Trip to Echo Spring. Annie says: ‘a beautiful blend of memoir, art history and cultural commentary on our age of loneliness’. I can’t wait to read this.
10. The Andy Warhol Diaries edited by Pat Hackett – magnificent.  Join Andy Warhol in 1070s and 80s New York. Dip in and out or read it like a novel. It’s inspiring and fun to go behind the scenes with his famous friends, but also moving as we get to know Andy Warhol – a fascinating character. I can’t describe how good this is.

Also a great go-to for comfort and escape reading: crime.  I couldn’t narrow this down to one or two so I’ll do a separate list of my favourite crime novels.

What are you reading, watching or listening to during the lockdown?

Wow.  A joy of a book.  It’s hard to know where to start when reviewing a book that the New Yorker describes as ‘encyclopedic’ .  Ducks, Newburyport is a 1,020 page novel told (mostly) in a single sentence.   The narrator, an Ohio housewife-turned-baking entrepreneur, muses on everything from stepping on her toddler’s yellow truck to  climate change.

Ellmann uses the refrain ‘the fact that’ as a break, to signal the way our minds jump between thoughts.  The structure of breaking without a full stop resembles the way we are constantly thinking while moving and doing other things.  From time to time the narrator is rolling dough, collecting eggs or delivering pies – without stalling to tell the reader she has moved from A to B.  Without ‘the fact that’ it would read as a single thought process and feel like the narrator was standing still.  And of course it’s a way of establishing her truth or ‘facts’ in an age where facts are questioned.

Running alongside this narrative is the story of a lioness and her cubs living free in Ohio.  We sense that this will connect with the narrator’s story but there is a broader purpose – it reminds us to see the world from a different point of view, including animals (something Robbie Arnott did in Flames) – to give a 360 degree view.  It also ties in with the narrator worrying about animals and threats of extinction – we empathise with the lioness and see the plight of animals more vividly.

Why did I love it?  First, the voice: I enjoyed being in the narrator’s company.  She is shy and anxious – struggling with a teen daughter, Stacy, who seems to hate her and three younger children demanding her attention – but very funny.  And I like that Ellmann is recording the thoughts of a woman who does not think they’re worth telling to anybody (compare with Stacy – a more narcissistic generation).

It is like visiting a friend and sitting in their kitchen while she bakes cinnamon rolls and chats to you.  The conversation runs from everyday concerns to raising teens (Stacy puts a ‘DNR’ sign on her bedroom door) to the pollution of the Ohio River.  The narrator watches old movies and her wry commentary on them is a highlight of the book.

We can relate to the narrator’s worries and insecurities.  She is down on herself (for example, speaking of French philosophy, “What do I know?”).  We want her to gain strength and reach a point of peace or contentment, but in the meantime it’s wonderful to follow her struggles: “with four kids there are only so many poignant moments a mom can keep track of”.  Ellmann captures beautifully the way we talk to ourselves and our fleeting thoughts: “now I’ve forgotten what I came to the pantry for, the fact that I should finish filling the dishwasher first …”.

The writing propels you along.  There is a sense of constant movement and she keeps you guessing, as you have to infer from snippets of her thoughts what the narrator is doing.

It is a great balance of (seemingly) random thoughts, observations and worries, and action – it spans a couple of months, so we move through the day, but also from winter to spring. Ellmann also shows how distracted we are and the absudity of life – the narrator  can be reading a school curriculum one minute and the next minute “Alligator Found in Living Room” flashes up on her screen.

So, on one level it’s a cosy, laugh-out-loud read and nuanced portrait of a mother  working from home in today’s America.  The Virginia Woolf comparisons – as in this Financial Times review – are apt: it’s a brilliant study of an interior life.  She is an ordinary American in sweat pants (“there’s no point in dressing up just to caramelize apples”) and Ellmann shows how a so-called domestic life can be endlessly interesting.  It gives a sense that there are people doing menial jobs all over the world who have rich inner lives.  She is describing something that is often invisible.

But it does more than that.  The narrator worries about the state of America: healthcare, cancer, hurricanes, climate change, gun control, domestic violence, pollution, the extinction of species, the treatment of Native Americans, and teenagers watching beauty videos.  There are a multitude of references to American food, culture and wildlife.  So it becomes a novel about the state of America today and a re-telling of its history (this feels organic, as the narrator used to be a history teacher).

It’s an extraordinary achievement.  Once I realised that this was what Ellmann was doing, I was even more captivated.  It’s so engaging and cleverly done – whirling from one topic to another, but with logical connections.  She uses movies as another way of understanding love, relationships and America.

It is a long book but Ellmann does many things to keep it coherent: the lioness story to indicate the passing of time; the lively writing; and motifs that recur throughout the text (the Ohio River, Little House on the Prairie, her mother, baking, guns, old movies and burial mounds).

I’ve tagged many pages – it’s endlessly quotable.  This one captures some of her thinking on history and her son’s preoccupation with space:

“if you’re lucky you might live long enough to see close-ups of Pluto, and dust devils on Mars, and maybe even some exciting aurora borealises, as well as watching a few crackpot presidents come and go …”

This might be my favourite book of the year so far – highly recommended.  Who is your tip to win the Booker?

 

The Testaments by Margaret Atwood is the sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale, a modern classic published in 1985 and recently, a hit television series and cultural reference point.  The release of The Testaments on 10 September was hugely anticipated, with a midnight launch and cinema event with Atwood.

Given the significance of The Handmaid’s Tale in a #metoo world, the 34 year wait and Atwood’s status as a bit of an icon, it was a thrill to buy The Testaments on the morning of its release.  I admired The Handmaid’s Tale when I read it some years ago but have not watched the television series – apparently it helps if you have (and The Testaments will be made into its own series).

Like The Handmaid’s Tale, The Testaments is dystopian fiction set in Gilead, a future version of (part of) America.  Many readers asked Atwood over the years what happened to Offred – The Testaments gives a possible answer, but is told not from her point of view but by three other characters: Aunt Lydia (a senior figure at Ardua Hall), Agnes (facing an arranged marriage) and Daisy (living in Canada).

Agnes and Daisy are both teenaged girls, so their sections read like a Young Adult novel.

The plot centres around what happens to Gilead.  Atwood is interested in how totalitarian regimes persist and how they can be dismantled.  As in The Handmaid’s Tale, everything in The Testaments is drawn from real-life events, despite the futuristic tone.

I did not love this book.  I liked it and think it’s a worthy companion to The Handmaid’s Tale: it achieves closure and allows readers a sense of hope (or fantasy) about how Gilead could be brought down, but it did not move me.

It has been short-listed for the Booker Prize but the writing, whilst accomplished, did not bring me joy or feel original in the way that I expect a Booker winner to (compare with Lincoln in the Bardo and Milkman, for example).  On the other hand, I cannot say Margaret Atwood is unoriginal – she is the victim of her own success, since The Handmaid’s Tale spawned many dystopian novels, so that she would have needed to reinvent the genre if she were to stay ahead.

Another reason it feels unoriginal – again no fault of Atwood’s – is that in the Trump era, and with heightened awareness of misogynistic regimes and the plight of refugees across the globe, the things described in The Testaments are already familiar to us (compare with Frankissstein or Our Life in the Forest, where the ideas were new but plausible).

It feels coy in this day and age to hint at totalitarian regimes akin to Yemen, Turkey or Saudi Arabia, and attitudes that Trump has espoused, without naming them.  I had a feeling that it had been stylised (ready for a glossy television adaptation).  That is one issue I have with dystopian fiction – the world-building means that you are at a remove from the real issue.  It can work well, but in The Testaments the world, the colour-coded outfits and the names (such as The Underground Femaleroad) did not bring the issues alive to me in a fresh way.

Also – and this is my preference and no fault of the book – I like reading about these issues through own voices fiction and non-fiction. I’ve read some great books this year: How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee about sex slavery; No Friend But The Mountains by Behrouz Boochani translated by Omid Tofighian (the imprisonment of refugees) and The Buried by Peter Hessler (life in Egypt, including the treatment of women) among others.

There were aspects of The Testaments that I liked: it’s an easy read and does have a sense of hope, or as Annie put it when we discussed it on the podcast, ‘triumph’. I liked Aunt Lydia.  Her section could compare with modern politics – the machinations behind the scenes and political ‘fixers’.  Atwood has spoken of Thomas Cromwell (Henry VIII’s fixer) as an influence for Lydia’s character.  I enjoyed her scenes with Commander Judd – two equals in a battle of wits.

The other characters were not complex or fleshed out, but they are set up nicely to be brought to screen.  I was not invested in them – Agnes seemed bland and Daisy bratty.  The other characters – such as Neil, Melanie, Ada and Garth – seemed like vehicles to tell the story.

I found the plot contrived: it seemed unrealistic that women would hold power (in the way Aunt Lydia does) in a totalitarian regime that resembles Saudi Arabia, Yemen, even the USA under Trump.  The handmaids escaping via the ‘Underground Femaleroad’ was plausible – it made me think of people fleeing persecution in countries like Iran and Iraq, and of Nadia Murad’s perilous journey in The Last Girl – but felt clunky and awkward. 

It lacked dramatic tension.  The characters plan to do things (such as move, or escape) and then carry out their plans.  Agnes’s escape from her situation felt unlikely and repetitive (as another character has done the same).  The plan to bring down Gilead seemed far-fetched.  Even in the later scenes, I never felt the characters were in peril (perhaps the YA tone contributed to this).

I also had an uncomfortable feeling that it was a book about white people’s problems.  In one scene Aunt Lydia has some ‘Forbidden World Literature’ which comprises a range of white authors.  Banning books and censorship are worrying, but when you consider the number of girls in developing countries who cannot even attend school, Jane Eyre feels less urgent.

Overall, a good read and a gesture of hope and solidarity especially for (white American) women.

 

It’s exciting to see Galley Beggar Press doing well with Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann shortlisted for the Booker Prize (it’s released here today – I can’t wait to read it!).

This is a belated review of another Galley Beggar title and one of my favourite books of the year so far: We That Are Young.  We met Preti Taneja at Adelaide Writers’ Week in March and interviewed her for the podcast – she was a delight.

We That Are Young is is a modern-day King Lear set in India.  It’s an epic tale – a short review and hyperbole will not do it justice.

I confess I have not read King Lear, nor been to India (although I feel like I’ve spent a week there, so vivid and evocative is the book). It did not matter at all, but Taneja has been faithful to the structure and themes of the play, so if you’re familiar with King Lear you will find even more joy in We That Are Young.

The story follows Devraj, the founder of the Company, who resigns and divides it between his three daughters: Gargi, Radha and Sita – the main sections are told from their point of view.  The story begins with their childhood friend Jivan Singh returning from the US to India, reading an article about the company in the in-flight magazine.  This is an engaging opening, told with a satirical eye, and at the same time cleverly gives us a snapshot of the family.

The characters are strong and memorable.  The sisters are very different – Taneja has spoken of women in epics being cast as ‘crone, whore or saint’ – but we empathise with each in turn.  She shows the experience of women in India and the problems they face, even if wealthy.

Gargi shows the difficulties facing career women, and we see behind her ordered, cool façade.  She deals with sexism from the men in the company: when decisions are to be made, they tell her to ask her husband.  Her story is told through an interview with a magazine.  Taneja juxtaposes the interview with Gargi’s backstory: her answers don’t match the truth.  At the same time, she is poking fun at the superficial questions asked of businesswomen.  When Gargi tells Nina, the journalist, that the company is starting a water salvation program. Nina says: ‘Right.  What is your one secret for absolute wellbeing?’

There are poignant scenes with her father, who critcises Gargi for not having children (“You will never know how much you’ve hurt me tonight.  No barren woman can know how ungrateful children can wound”), reminding me of the attacks on former prime minister Julia Gillard.

Radha devotes her time to her clothes, food, pleasing her husband and social media – she is savvy at knowing what people want.  We find through her past the reason she’s adept at this, but she also reminded me of modern-day influencers and You-Tubers, socially conditioned but clever at exploiting the market too.  Radha is good at hiding from the past.  “If she said such things, she would risk becoming Sita: she would find herself.  Nothing but herself.”  It’s a nuanced portrait.

Sita is kept from her sisters in a safe house.  Her sections take on a nightmareish quality (“The young man nods.  What big ears he has.”).   She is strong but in peril.

“Inhale.  Exhale.  For the eco-warrior-Indian-daughter, there is no such thing as a Duty Free smoke.”

Taneja depicts beautifully the high life of the elites and the desperate poverty of many – it’s so vivid, you can feel the plush hotel rooms, soft fabrics of the pashminas and the champagne bubbles; then we are with Jeet in the dump (basti) trying not to step on sewage. There is a great line when Radha goes outside the hotel: “Radha has not been outside at ground level since they arrived here one whole week ago.”

It’s a novel of contrasts: youth and age, wealth and poverty, India and the West, love and betrayal.  The mix of high and low makes it so engaging.  The scenes are colourful and elevated – the events and characters seem hyper-real.  But it’s also a family story about three sisters and the relationships each has with her father, with sibling rivalries, complicated affections and dark secrets.

The genius of the novel is that we see the family drama play out at the same time as we see, through the eyes of three modern women, the story of India unfold.  The stage is set: kinships, tradition, entrenched hierarchies and sexism, conflict and violence writ large.

I love the humour and ease with which Taneja shifts register – from lyrical prose layered with references to Dante, Shakespeare and Bret Eaton Ellis to deadpan wit.  For example, when Devraj is speaking:

“The crowd clap – none of them seem surprised at this rambling speech.

The writer should be fired – it makes no sense.  The great Devraj has lost it.”

The dialogue is poetic and true to life.  Devraj:

“Look at you, Gargi, a fountain run dry.  You cannot serve a man’s needs.  Radha, as for you?  So fine, so fine.  My God, as if  fine cloth can cover your true nature.  You girls are like two diseased owls … These things you think so beautiful do not cover your stink.”

And Jeet, in a passage that pays homage to Shakespeare but is wonderfully fresh:

“We that believe in India shining … We that are the youngest, the fastest, the democracy, the economy, the future technology of the world, the global superpower coming soon to a cinema near you .  … we that are young.  We that are jigging on the brink of ruin; we that are washed in the filth of corruption, chal, so what? …”

This speech is incredible: elevated language, English and local dialects – it’s poetry spoken in a storm in a basti.

I highly recommend this novel – one of my best reads of 2019.

What are your best books so far this year?

 

 

 

The wonderful Meytal Radzinski (@biblio and @read_WIT ) started Women in Translation Month – a great prompt  to read more books by women in translation in August each year.  She is compiling a list of the 100 best books by women writers in translation: #100BestWIT.  Here are my top ten.

Our Life in the Forest by Marie Darrieussecq, translated by Penny Hueston

A dystopian tale set in the near-future. The narrator has a clone, or ‘half’ who has lived in a coma and supplied spare body parts when needed – a group and their ‘halves’ are in the forest. Eery, with aspects of The Handmaid’s Tale and Animal Farm, and the mystery of why they’re there and the sinister society they’ve escaped.  Darrieussecq writes with a great sense of humour and a disarming, frank tone which I really enjoyed. Beautifully paced, with a twist near the end.

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, translated by Ann Goldstein

A lyrical story of two girls’ friendship in a poor area of 1950s Naples. I loved the strong, flawed characters, sense of place and immersive style.  It’s beautifully translated, especially the dialogue: even reading it in English, I felt like I was in Italy.

Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky, translated by Sandra Smith

This begins with the 1940 exodus from Paris – we see families go from lives of privilege to losing everything under German occupation.  The story moves to a rural village where Lucille and Madeleine are forced to share a house with a German soldier.  I love the elegance of Némirovsky’s writing.  The characters feel real and she conveys the drama and peril with a light touch.  It’s an extraordinary work, all the more poignant when you know the circumstances in which Némirovsky wrote it.

Sulphuric Acid by Amelie Nothomb, translated by Shaun Whiteside

A disturbing story of citizens forced into a concentration camp for reality TV. Both the camp and the public seeing it as entertainment are horrifying. But Nothomb has a wonderful dry wit and draws strong, memorable characters. Moving tension between guard Zdena and Pannonique, the viewers’ favourite prisoner. Explores loss of identity, how low we will go for ‘entertainment’, apathy and the mob mentality. A great novella.

The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa, translated by Stephen Snyder

A housekeeper goes to work for a maths professor whose memory, damaged by an accident, lasts only for 80 minutes. He communicates in maths terms: she is less educated but sensitive and non-judgmental, so learns to appreciate his love of numbers. The professor is kind to her son and they share a passion for baseball. Much is unspoken (what was his life like before the accident?) but there is a gentle message to treat people with respect, not condescension.

In Diamond Square by Mercé Rodoreda, translated by Peter Bush

A beautiful book. Set in Barcelona, this is the story of Pidgey, her marriage to Joe and her daily struggles to survive in the civil war. Told in a dreamlike prose, which is not normally my style, but its raw beauty, the urgency of the story and the characters won me over. A wonderful evocation of 1930s Barcelona but Pidgey’s quiet strength and the trauma of war have a timeless quality. Very moving.

Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin, translated by Chi-Young Kim

An exquisite novel set in Seoul. A family searches for their mother, who has gone missing.  Crystal-clear writing – thoughtful but fluid. She gives her characters space to reflect, but on each page there’s a tension or event to propel the reader forward. It’s infused with South Korean culture yet there’s so much we can all relate to (especially regarding motherhood). The final scene is stunning, heart-breaking and redemptive. Highly recommended.

Subtly Worded by Teffi, translated by Anne Marie Jackson and Robert Chandler

Short stories by Teffi, a literary star of pre-revolutionary Russia.  I enjoyed these – deftly written, with more than meets the eye, and a sense of humour.  A window into St Petersburg and Paris literary circles of the time, which is fascinating in itself – not to mention Teffi’s (true) stories of meeting Tolstoy and Rasputin.

The End by Fernanda Torres, translated by Alison Entrekin

I thoroughly enjoyed this story of old men in Rio reflecting on their friendships and approaching deaths. It’s narrated by each in turn (with some events repeated). Alvaro is a misanthrope who hates women (but says he hates men too) – this put me off at first but then I just enjoyed her style and humour.  The men feel real, if larger than life, and it’s thought-provoking about age and mortality.

Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto, translated by Megan Backus

I loved this novella. The tone is warm, inviting and quirky with an easy writing style. The characters are innocent and non judgmental, with simple, matter-of-fact observations that reminded me of Murakami, but with a female sensibility. Depth and intelligence behind the simple style. Loved the clean, economical writing and interesting characters.

Kendra and Matthew are also hosting a Women in Translation Readathon this week on Booktube.

What are your favourite books by women in translation?

 

 

 

 

 

The Bookseller recently surveyed people in the UK book trade about how class is a barrier to entry into writing and publishing.

80% of people who see themselves as working class felt that their background has adversely affected their career.

(Incidentally, I’m not comfortable talking about people as ‘working class’ and wonder if that comes from living in Australia, where we tend to think of ourselves as an egalitarian society – but I think the only way to address these issues is to acknowledge that different socio-economic ‘classes’ for want of a better term, exist).

Barriers include: low paid internships, nepotism, the cost of travel for events or courses, lack of confidence and time to network. And even earlier, perhaps less chance of growing up with the habit of reading. As Noel Murphy has pointed out:

“Reading is not a given for all.  It is a tenuous product of years of nurturing that the more working class you are, the less likely you are to receive … If we want more working class stories, authors and editors then we have to look at how first we might encourage and develop working class readers.”

I’m interested in this as a reader because I want the widest possible range of books.  I read diversely and increasingly am seeking out books in translation, books by own voices authors, Aboriginal Australian stories, queer stories and a mix of fiction and non-fiction.  So far, so good (or so latte liberal?  I’m not sure I can even talk about working class issues – but what is the alternative?  I suppose the difference is in being genuinely open to a wide range of books, not just ticking a box).

But until recently it hadn’t occurred to me that few of the books on my shelves are by working class authors (aka ‘unconscious bias’).

I think the unconscious bias which leads us to read more books by white, middle-class men has a trickle-down effect, starting with publishers and reviewers.  It’s harder for working class people to get a job in publishing or to have their stories published, so there are fewer such books for us to read.  UK publishers are beginning to address this, with things like blind recruitment, paid internships and workshops outside London.

What can we do as readers?  Reading and championing more working class books is a good start.  Here is a list:

One Hundred Years of Dirt by Rick Morton.

This is a terrific read, with all the things I love in non-fiction: beautiful clean writing; interesting narrative with colourful stories of growing up in Australia’s remote outback, his brother’s ice addiction, coming out, and forging a career despite the barriers of poverty.  But Morton also goes beyond the anecdotes to give us a big picture view.  It opened my eyes to how tough it is to be poor and try to build a career in journalism.

His writing is crisp, matter-of-fact, and honest, but with a sense of humour too. I enjoyed his company as a narrator and (despite the confronting topics) kept wanting to pick it up again when I wasn’t reading it.

Books like Educated by Tara Westover and Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance also show how hard it is to overcome poverty and obtain a university education and a career. I preferred One Hundred Years of Dirt. Morton’s forthright, unvarnished style (but still inventive writing) coupled with the research, appealed to me.  I highly recommend it!

Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton.

A wonderful debut novel about growing up in the working class suburbs of Brisbane.  It’s a generous, touching and at times funny book, with so much heart.  I loved Eli, the lively and engaging narrator.  The characters are larger than life but realistic and vividly bring to life that era.  It gives a sense of the culture and people doing it tough in the outer suburbs.   It became a word-of-mouth sensation in 2018, deservedly so, and has just been shortlisted for two New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards.  Highly recommended.

Lowborn by Kerry Hudson

Kerry Hudson has been outspoken about the issue of class in publishing.  I’m keen to read this.  She did a video with Simon Savidge which was delightful and made me want to rush out and buy the book!  Alas, it is not out in Australia until May.

The Trick to Time by Kit de Waal

Kit de Waal is another author who has spoken out about the lack of working class representation in publishing.  I thoroughly enjoyed this and read it pretty much in one sitting.   An engaging read and great story with original characters who surprise you – I loved that it wasn’t predictable.  The dialogue and setting felt real.  De Waal has an easy writing style and handles serious matters with warmth.  Beautifully moving.

An Elegant Young Man by Luke Carman

This is also on my ‘to read’ list, after Geordie Williamson’s recommendation.  A semi-autobiographical account of growing up in the Western suburbs of Sydney.  Williamson says it is “the smartest, funniest, most eloquent and intellectually urgent account of what it is to be a working class Australian that I have encountered.”  I’m sold. 😉

What books would you add to this list?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you read two books at random and discover a theme.  And so it was with these two books – time for a double review!

Travelling in A Strange Land by David Park and Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin, translated by Chi-Young Kim, are moving stories about parenthood but told from different points of view.

Please Look After Mother is an exquisite novel set in Seoul. A family searches for their mother, who has gone missing.  We hear from each of her (now adult) children, who realise the sacrifices their mother made and piece together her life.

The writing is crystal-clear – thoughtful but fluid. Shin gives her characters space to reflect, but on each page there’s a tension or event to propel the reader forward. It’s infused with South Korean culture yet there’s so much we can all relate to (especially regarding family dynamics and obligations).

In Travelling in a Strange Land a man called Tom drives through snowy roads, thinking about his son and wondering whether he has been a good father.

Park’s strong, assured writing propels us firmly onwards even in slower parts.  At first the endless snow, with Tom circling around the issue but not coming to the point, frustrated me, but it mimics his state of mind, which is frozen; he looks at the snow rather than confront his memories.

It picks up and becomes a very moving, honest portrayal of parents at a loss over their son. Towards the end, the poetic writing soars and the emotions of the father feel so real it’s heart-breaking.

As to parenthood, in both cases they have been good parents: the irony, or perhaps the evidence, of this is that their children have taken them for granted.

Both books have beautiful, heart-breaking, redemptive endings.  Their major achievement is that the final scenes are sublime and dramatic, but it’s earned – it feels true to the characters.

I won’t give away the stories, but in both, the characters reach a point between sacrificing everything for others and being selfish, and land on compassion.  It feels hopeful, I think because it taps into something human in all of us: we’re not perfect when it comes to caring for our families and others, but our sense of compassion will prevail.

It’s rare to find two books with such memorable endings – I recommend both.

Have you read either of these (or other books with inadvertant themes)? Let me know what you think!