Sometimes a novel grasps you, right from the start. Could it be the first sentence that sets a dreamy almost fairy tale context: “Once upon a time, before the boys were killed and when there were more horses than cars …”? Followed by a discussion on the ownership of the fourth leg of a racehorse which subtly ends with “He had a hand on her leg”. Thereby effortlessly creating the required tone of intimacy. This intimacy continues throughout the novel. Swift takes us along in what turns out to be the last moment two lovers spend together. He, well-born, about to marry into money, she the maid working for the neighbours. Though born in different classes their relationship, which lasts for seven years, bears in it an element of equality. It might be the independence she shows in not caring about the consequences, it might be the way he grants her his house on this sunday just before he gets married. Or it might be that they were just made for each other in bed.
Swift describes how he gets dressed, than has her move about the house naked and without any sense of shame or urgency. By varying in the length of sentences and by subtly moving between past and present, Swift creates a contemplative almost poetic sphere that fits the moment of saying goodbye. And the knowledge that she, Jane, will go on to work in a bookshop and start writing novels herself, successfully. Jane being the one who looks back Swift can make her look at the people she encounters daily as potential characters in a novel, which they eventually become in one of her novels. Reality and fiction start to intermingle.
As the novel continues Swift changes focus from the lover’s bed to the succesful career Jane has. He has her ponder on novels that influence her, the meaning and role of words, her love of certain words. Mothering Sunday changes from a mere tale about two lovers into a coming of age novel. It evolves into a novel about finding one’s place in society, about making choices, for language and literature in this case. Swift being a talented writer who expertly chooses words, structure and topics makes for a beautiful novel. I loved Mothering Sunday, I can imagine people finding it too dreary, too contemplative though. I enjoyed it immensely. I loved reading about Jane on this one particular Sunday.
ManBooker Longlist 2016
Frankly I do not get why this novel made it to the ManBooker 2016 longlist. It’s structure is hardly original: let’s pretend I’ve found an authentic manuscript belonging to a 17th century murderer and add some reports from doctors and his trial. The murderer reporting quite factually about the events leading up to the murders he commits, makes for historical non-fiction. And yes, MacRae Burnet makes it clear that tenants at large estates had it hard in the 18th century, especially if power-craving factitioners abuse their position. Unfortunately that fact does not really come as a surprise, does it now? The reports MacRae Burnet adds, complement the murderer’s tale with facts he choses not to share. They stress the fact that our young murderer is quite the psychopath. He does not show any remorse for killing three people, does not wonder whether he could have solved his problem without butchering his victims and appears incapabel of using his intellect in order to better his life. On the contrary, he accepts his position in society all too easily, he is submissive. The only thing in his advantage is his love for his mother and sister. And the fact that he prevents a peer from killing a beautiful deer during a hunting party. It’ll not come as a surprise that the ghilly was not amused by this act. I can imagine people who like historical novels to be taken by this novel, I, unfortunately, found it increasingly boring.
ManBooker Longlist 2016
Eileen is a rather detached novel about the cruel youth of an elderly woman. As a woman in her sixties she has come to terms with who she is; she has an astute sense of her minor points and does not try to hide or apologize for them. Her flaws have made her who she is, she is fairly satisfied with how life has eventually turned out. She realizes she has always been something of an outsider, a result of upbringing and character. Her parents would never have won a parenting prize. They are proud of their pretty, cheerful oldest daughter, they have no clue what to do with their younger more introvert child. Their response: ridicule and punish her. Eileen returning home to take care of her father after her mother’s death is considered her duty. Lack of appreciation from her father and a tendency to self-destroy in Eileen make for a disastrous combination. She lives entirely in her own world, at home and at work, not taking care of herself in whatever way. Neither does she have any compassion for the boys being re-educated in the prison Eileen works in: she is too preoccupied with her own troubles.
The arrival of a new colleague changes things. This woman, Rebecca, does not agree with the way the boys are being treated. She blows Eileen away by just paying attention to her and being friendly. One wonders whether she realizes in what way she affects Eileen. Eileen looks upon Rebecca as her saviour, the one who will take her away from her father, her work and her hometown. It takes a disastrous event to make her regard Rebecca as a plain person. The event however does have its effect: Eileen leaves and never returns.
Eileen is a retrospect, coloured by its narrator, a narrator sufficiently honest to admit to her flaws. Eileen furthermore paints a nasty picture of the re-educational institutes in which troublesome boys were put away, closely resembling grown-up prisons. Moshfegh writes beautifully, her imagery is poetic and strong. I enjoyed reading her sentences. At the end the novel as the main character remains slightly too much at a distance.
ManBooker 2016 Longlist
In eight stories David Szalay paints a rather sobering picture of ‘man’. He takes us along in the lives of eight men, each at a different age. They range from adolescent to senior, the latter turning out to be the grandfather of the first. We meet them at moments that are definitely not the highlights in their lives. Admittedly, the editor of the newspaper who has an important scope involving a politician might find that an exhilarating moment, he does abuse his friendship with said politician. With one exception Szalay gives us men as we might encounter them. They are not special, not remarkable, they are just normal. The one exception, a succesful entrepreneur, is about to take his life because he has been humiliated and has ended up broke. All the others just potter on. Recognizable and as such confronting, they are just like us. Szalay does not improve on the world, he gives us what he sees. He does chose however not to select moments of happiness or bliss in those eight lives, which he could have easily done. It is a conscious choice to go for the all too ordinary and describe the sobering moments. The eight stories as a result make for a beautiful slightly depressive read.
Man Booker Prize 2016 longlist
Serious Spoiler Alert!
The Many is about a dead adolescent: Perran. It is not quite clear whether he died from drowning of from swallowing polluted water. The fishing village in which he grew up has been banned from entering the water, the fisherman are no longer allowed to fish beyond a barrier created by a series of old cargo vessels. The fish that are caught are deformed and far too thin. Some 10 years after Perran’s death Timothy moves into his house. At first he hardly talks to the villagers, after a while he kind of befriends one fisher, Ethan, a close friend of Perran’s. Ethan brings Timothy along on his boat, together they pass the barrier and for the first time in ten years bring home a decent – though weird looking – catch. By then Timothy has become obsessed with Perran. He wants to know more about him and does not accept that the village is not willing to talk about Perran. When he persists, they demolish the interior of the house. Next the village is hit by a mysterious flood wave, cracks start to appear in the beach, the street, the houses and the people. This is the moment Menmuir chooses to reveal that Timothy is morning his still-born son. The village appears to be part of a dream Timothy is having in which he is dealing with his son’s death. In this dream he has returned to a village he and his wife once stayed in, when they were still happy. It explains why Timothy has chosen this rather unfriendly place as his escape to the country. The apathy of everybody in the village, the way Ethan starts to fight circumstance, they appear to be an allegory for Timothy’s mourning. At the end Ethan frees himself by diving into the sea, Timothy can finally acknowledge his son’s death. I cannot as yet explain the role of the pollution and the way the village is being controlled by outsiders. Might it be symbolical for the loss of control over body and destiny when a child is still-born? Or for the fact that the save womb turned out to be not save at all? I know for certain that by adding the pollution Menmuir led me astray. He did not write a brutally realistic novel about a fishing community destined to go down, he created an allegorical dream. That he described the grim community perfectly is an added bonus. I doubt whether this novel will be a hit amongst a large audience. It’s magic-realism will not be appreciated by everyone. I needed some time to grasp that the novel is about the death of a still-born child and the ensuing mourning. The dream world becomes superfluous with acceptance of the facts. I have not got a clue by the way what the title means, it might come to me later.
Food Whore proves that a decent blog will not automatically translate into a decent novel. Jessica Tom blogged about food and restaurants for years, I can understand her wanting to take the next step and move on to novels. It has resulted however in rather bland chicklit. Tom follows its rules and uses all its ingredients not adding those spices however that would have elevated the novel to a special level. I summarize: nice girl moves to big city, she is accepted into a prestigious food school. Nice girl does not land the internship she has hoped for but one she did not even enlist for, in one of the cities best restaurants. The New York Times Food critic has secretly arranged this. He has lost his taste and can no longer do his job. He wants nice girl to come along, eat his food and write about it (which she does exceedingly well naturally). Girl is seduced by the power of four star food, designer clothes and the word. After the obligatory catharsis she realizes that there are more important things in life: a New job in an ‘ honest’ restaurant and real friends. At the end she does land the craved for internship, the perfect boyfriend is already lined up. This could have been quit the decent amusing novel if only Tom had known how to write. She has limited sense of words, follows the rules too strictly and her main character is downright annoying not showing any of the qualities that should make her the perfect chicklit heroine. I suspect Food Whore has become a hit in New York because restaurants and chefs might bear a resemblance to real life ones. It cannot have anything to do with the quality of this mediocre novel. The recipes Tom uses in Food Whore are condemned by the New York Times critic: no half-decent self-respecting chef would ever think them up let alone prepare them.
Anne Tyler || Vinegar Girl
Anne Tyler is the author who almost clinically writes about family matters showing her edgy side whenever necessary. Since I like her style of writing I was looking forward to her retelling of The Taming of the Shrew, Shakespeare’s slightly outdated comedy about a shrew who has to find a husband. More than enough family matter to dig into one might say. I fear Anne Tyler was slightly in awe however of the task she was given: retell this exceedingly thin story in a modern way and try to honour world’s greatest playwright in doing so. The task might have been made even more awesome by the fact that others have done just so: think Kiss Me Kate but also the brilliant 2005 BBC-version. In that retelling the scenario writers showed that a thin story can turn out brilliantly if you dare let go. Viewers could enjoy ambitious and acrimonious Katherine on her way to become the second female prime minister, in want of the essential husband who entered in the shape of an impoverished failed lord. The chemistry between actors Shirley Henderson and Rufus Sewell took care of the rest. And there’s my problem. I also had to let go. Not from the Shakespeare original (I think I saw that once on German television featuring Klaus Maria Brandauer oozing charm), I had to let go of the BBC-version. The first part of Vinegar Girl had me wondering why Tyler had chosen to exaggerate her characters: father and Pjotr/Petruccio are caricatures, scientists with no sense of normal life, sister Bunny is the quintessential American adolescent, Kate is an unworldly almost autistic young woman who has dedicated herself to her family and who has strayed from her own path in doing so. Halfway through the novel Kate’s path becomes more important, at that point Tyler has got me. Kate is no longer Pjotr’s way to obtain a green card, Pjotr turns into her way of distancing herself from her family. I do not know whether there’s a format restricting Tyler and the other retelling authors to a mere 150 pages, I do know that I would have loved to have read more about Kate discovering herself. That discovery is interesting and exciting and writing about it makes Tyler shine. That Tyler can be a comedian by the way is shown in the marriage scene which might have been written with the chemistry between Sewell and Henderson in mind.
BBC 2015: Katherine and Petruccio meet
Some 15 years ago the bodies of four young girls were found in a field, covered in Black-Eyed Susans. One of them, Tessa, turns out to be still alive, The murderer has been found and convicted, he will be sentenced to death in a few months. A small group of people is trying to prove that he is innocent and to prevent him from being executed. Tessa is one of them. She is convinced he is not the man who abducted her and failed to kill her: somebody plants Susans underneath her bedroom window, it must be the killer, mustn’t it? This could have been an episode of Midsummer Murders (which I love by the way) if it were not for the fact that Heaberlin has constructed her novel and its characters too cleverly for it to be a mere Midsummer episode. We jump in time from adult Tessa doubting what she has always believed and known, young Tessa recovering from her severe trauma, there is a nice twist at 2/3rd of the novel and Tessa’s personality proves to be to be more complicated than one would have expected at first. Black-Eyed Susans is one of those novels that can be rightly called ‘ literary thriller’. Is is clever, well-constructed and its main character could just as easily have been part of a psychological novel. Definitely one to read if you’re into thrillers that force you to stay focussed.
Sometimes you’re reading and you’re thinking ‘been there done that’. The Past is one of those novels. In it four siblings spend a last summer in their grandparents’ house in the archetypical British countryside. Their personalities and their mutual relationships are almost predictable. Even the fact that the Argentinian spouse turns out to be in some way involved in the Junta does not come as a surprise. It is as if Hadley, an American, has read too many British novels and watched too many British series. To be unkind: her main characters could turn up just like that in any British detective. There is no denying that Hadley writes well and that she depicts the main characters and their surroundings expertly. Towards the final pages the whole situation explodes as could be expected: one of the siblings makes an unwanted pass and the holiday comes to an abrupt end. That Hadley at the end almost casually refers to a lump found in a breast to make this sister appear less shallow I find extremely annoying. Or might it be that she is already planning The Past Part 2? Nice enough this novel but nowhere near making a lasting impression. Maybe Hadley should stick to her side of the ocean for her next novel and write about the people she knows best. Maybe she can depict them without resorting to clichés.
Channels like Discovery make out the inhabitants of Alaska to be real pioneers: people who leave the crowded civilized world and build a new life in the wilderness with their own bare hands, being attacked by bears and enduring hardships willingly. That image is tackled efficiently by David Vann. Married couple Gary and Irene live a life that is as suburban as that of the average inhabitant of suburbia. It becomes quite clear that Gary would have preferred the more romantic pioneer image. He is determined to build his own cabin on an uninhabited island and live there. No amenities, just him and nature and oh, let’s not forget, Irene. It’ll surprise no-one that building the cabin is the beginning of the end. Gary turns out to be a person who cannot make up his mind, always on the lookout for a better life somewhere in his romanticized image of the wilderness and true pioneers; he has only a vague notion of what his cabin should look like, no clue of how to build it and even less notion of planning things. As a result he and Irene build their cabin towards the start of autumn whilst rain and snow make their work almost impossible. Not having thought about the construction beforehand Gary only realizes that he misses quite the number of components whilst building, nowhere near handy shops. The couple struggles with the rickety cabin and with each other. Irene ends up with a severe sinus infection and a headache that refuses to go away. There is no doubt that the headache is psychological, physical reasons having been deduced by the doctors. It is fear that causes her headache: fear of living on an island in a one-room cabin without electricity, water, a decent bathroom or a toilet. Fear also of Gary wanting to leave her and of her starting to resemble her mother who committed suicide. Irene is having a major breakdown and only one person suspects, her daughter Rhoda. She has her own problems dealing with her fiancée, an opportunistic dentist showing the first signs of mid-life crisis. Brother Mark turns out to be the more life-like inhabitant of Alaska: work, earn money, have some fun, drink, blow and do not think ahead. When Rhoda finally convinces him that something is wrong with their mother, she is too late. Irene has shot Gary with her bow and arrow and has hung herself.
Caribou Island is not a cheerful novel. Life in Alaska is not a romanticized picnic. David Vann depicts just plain regular lives and regular relationships, not necessarily happy ones. Vann depicts the countryside and the emotional turmoil of Gary, Irene and Rhoda beautifully though in a slightly too detached way. The novel never really got to me, which in a way is cleverly done. My incapacity to become involved corresponds nicely with the incapacity of Gary, Irene, Rhoda and Mark to get along, with each other, with life and with Alaska.