“Trust is not an endlessly renewable resource. Loyalty might be. For longer.”
With A Desolation Called Peace Arkady has achieved something quite rare in a sequel. In fact, I liked A Desolation Called Peace so much so that, when I looked back to my review for A Memory Called Empire, I found much of my criticism unfair. In my review, I describe AMCE as a case of ‘great concept, poor execution’ but now I wonder whether I just read it at the wrong time. All of this to say that for those worried that A Desolation Called Peace may suffer from ‘second book syndrome, I say, fear no more. A Desolation Called Peace was an exhilarating and wonderfully inventive read. Arkady’s world-building is phenomenal, the stakes are even higher than in AMCE, and we follow multiple characters, most of whom are plotting against one another. Political scheming abounds within these pages, each character has their agenda, no one is trustworthy or necessarily ‘likeable’. But I liked how bold Arkady is when it came to characterisation. She does not resort to easy ‘evil/good’ dichotomies and repeatedly challenges her characters’ ideas and views. While much of AMCE was dedicated to introducing us to this world and learning of the Teixcalaanli Empire through Mahit’s Stationer eyes, A Desolation Called Peace provides a ‘first contact’ scenario. Fleet Captain Nine Hibiscus is fighting against a terrifying and unknown enemy, and requests the assistance of someone from the Information Ministry and it is Three Seagrass who takes on the job. Before making her way to the fleet Three Seagrass is reunited with Mahit who is not only struggling to reconcile herself with her imagos (of a young and old Yskandr) and who has more than one enemy at Lsel Station. Mahit’s linguistic skills make her an asset in this ‘first-contact’ situation so she finds herself tagging along with Three Seagrass. The narrative follows Three Seagrass and Mahit, and their feelings for each other, which are complicated by the fact that Three Seagrass views Stationers as ‘barbarians’, Nine Hibiscus, who not only has is engaged in a war against an unknown enemy but is aware that someone is conspiring against her, and 11-year-old Eight Antidote, who is a clone of His Brilliance the Emperor Six Direction and heir-apparent to the Sun-Spear Throne of Teixcalaan. Eleven years old, and is being pulled in different directions at court. I found each storyline to be deeply engaging and, to my surprise, I probably found Twenty Cicadas to be the most in The tension between the characters, who always seem to be assessing each other’s words and actions in an attempt to gauge their motivations and intentions, gives the narrative a fantastic edge. Another central aspect of this novel is, of course, language. Arkady demonstrates incredible knowledge and originality when it comes to linguistics. The words her characters use have such nuance and meaning that it enhances any exchange they have (so we can just how much words matter in every discussion or conversation they have). Arkady incorporates many other interesting themes in her storylines: the fraught relationship between coloniser and colonised (which complicates any relationship Three Seagrass and Mahit may wish to have with one another), xenophobia (and, in some cases, its opposite), identity (especially with Mahit and Eight Antitode), memory, and ethics. This novel certainly made me think, and re-think. Arkady has created a stunning world and her prose is as sharp as a knife (or dare I say, even badass?). As I wrote above, I liked this novel so much that it made me re-value my less than warm feelings towards its predecessor (something that happens...very rarely indeed). Perhaps this is because I started learning more about languages or maybe this time around I was able to connect with her story and characters because I read it at the ‘right’ time, but, in any case, I would definitely recommend this to fans of AMCE. The only thing I had trouble with is Teixcalaanli names (part is due to the fact that numbers come to me in my mother tongue and not in English). I read an arc that sadly did not come with a glossary and I had a hard time keeping their names straight. Ideally, I would also have liked to have re-read AMCE before sinking my teeth in A Desolation Called Peace. But, overall, this novel elevated my feelings towards this series and I actually look forward to re-reading it (and I hope that Arkady will write more!).
ARC provided by NetGalley in exchange for an honest review....more
The Dragons, the Giant, the Women is a deeply heartfelt and lyrical memoir. Wayétu Moore's luminous prose conveys the horrors of the First Liberian CiThe Dragons, the Giant, the Women is a deeply heartfelt and lyrical memoir. Wayétu Moore's luminous prose conveys the horrors of the First Liberian Civil War through the uncomprehending eyes of a child. At the age five Moore 's existence is irrevocably altered. Her family is forced to flee their home in Monrovia. Her father tries to shield his daughters from the violence and death they encounter on the road to 'safety' (for example he tells them that the sound they keep hearing—gunfire—is made by drums, or that the dead people on the ground are 'sleeping'). While Moore doesn't shy away from the bloodshed caused by this civil war, she renders these events as she experienced them, when she was not fully aware of what was truly happening. She weaves a fairy-tale of sorts, with dragons (those who played a prominent role in the civil war), a giant (her father, her protector), and the women (her mother, a young rebel girl) whose acts of bravery ensured the safety of Moore and her sisters. I was moved by the way in which Moore's family stayed united as their world crumbled. After Moore’s mother (who had been studying in New York and therefore was cut off from her husband and children after the war broke out) finds a rebel soldier who could smuggle them across the border to Sierra Leone, the Moore family move to America. In recounting her childhood Moore details the way in which she was made fully aware of her status of 'outsider' in America. Racism, colourism, a sense of disconnect towards a culture that treats you as other, all of these things make Moore feel like she doesn't belong. What she witnessed as a child too, haunts her. In search for answers she flies back to Liberia. The narrative shifts then to her mother's perspective and Moore perfectly captures a mother's voice. The Dragons, the Giant, the Women details Moore's painful and unresolved past. Yet, however sobering her story is, readers are bound to be dazzled by the lore that shapes her tale. Moore navigates the aftermath of Liberia's civil war, her family's migration to the U.S., her own relationship towards Liberia and her sense of displacement. This is a beautifully written and powerful story, one that recounts a family's arduous journey to safety, the separation and losses they experience, and the love and courage that brings them back together. LitHub has recently published an interview with Wayétu Moore in which she discusses this memoir: Wayétu Moore on What It Means to Tell “Our Story”.
Ayoade on Top is a hilariously strange book. Richard Ayoade's critical analysis of 'View from | | blog | tumblr | ko-fi | |
3.75 stars (rounded up)
Ayoade on Top is a hilariously strange book. Richard Ayoade's critical analysis of 'View from the Top' (a 2003 romcom starring Gwyneth Paltrow) is a delight to read. Throughout the course of this short book Ayoade argues that this long-forgotten film is a modern masterpiece. I found Ayoade's dry wit and his clever observations regarding the film's many 'subtexts' and his asides on Paltrow's career to be 'on point'. Ayoade's humour may not be for everyone but I found Ayoade on Top to be a thoroughly diverting book. You can watch him talk of this book here. I would definitely recommend this to those who like in-depth takedowns of bad movies. Adroit, satirical, and whimsical, Ayoade on Top is a really entertaining read.
Remote Control is Africanfuturism at its best. Nnedi Okorafor seamlessly blends folklore elements and aesthetics with sci-fi ones, delivering a unique and intriguing piece of speculative fiction. Set in Ghana, Remote Control opens in medias res: the appearance of Sankofa, a fourteen-year girl, and her companion, a fox, sends the residents of a town into hiding. They shout her name and the following: “Beware of remote control, o! The most powerful of all witchcraft!”. Sankofa chooses a house in which she is treated like an honored, and feared, guests. The following chapters tell Sankofa's story and of her strange, and occasionally dangerous, powers. After a terrible tragedy forces her to leave her hometown Sankofa embarks on a journey in pursuit of the peculiar object responsible for her powers. As she is unable to use cars (since her 'change' she become a technology 'repellant') Sankofa walks, encountering both friendly and hostile people, seeking shelter in nature, finding comfort in the presence of her furry companion. Throughout the years she spends on the road we see the way people view her and her powers. Some see her as a 'witch' and seek to harm, while others seek her help. Time and again we see the damage caused by fear and hatred of the other or that which we do not understand. There were many harrowing scenes but thankfully there were also plenty of moments emphasizing empathy, connection, and love. As much as I appreciated the setting and the mélange of sci-fi and fable, what I loved the most about Remote Control was Sankofa herself. I don't think I have ever warmed up so quickly to a character. Perhaps it is because she is a child but to be honest, I tend not to like children (real and fictional alike) but Sankofa immediately won me over. There was something so endearing and wholesome about her that my heart ached for her. I found her level-headedness to be both sweet and amusing (“Being led out of town by an angry mob wasn't the worst thing that could happen, best to stay calm and let it be done”). My anxiety over her wellbeing did give the novella a suspenseful edge so that I finished it as quickly as possible. The only aspect that didn't quite 'work' for me was the ending (which could have been less ambiguous). Nevertheless, I would love to read more novellas set in this world! I would definitely Remote Control recommend to fans of speculative fiction: the writing is evocative and inventive, the main character is wonderful, and Okorafor raises interesting questions about power and fear....more
“When I closed my eyes, I could still hear her sharp, stubborn voice and surprisingly unbridled laugh.”
With grace and clarity Clarissa Goenawan's The Perfect World of Miwako Sumida tells a tragic yet tender tale, one that begins with an ending: Miwako Sumida, a university student, has committed suicide.
“I hadn't thought I would use my mourning suit again anytime soon. Apart from my sister, I had no living family or relatives. My friends were around my age, and we were all approaching the first peaks of our lives. Graduating, finding a job, getting married, having kids. But Miwako Sumida wouldn't be among us.”
The novel is divided in three sections, each one following a person who cared for Miwako: there is Ryusei Yanagi (the only first-person narrative) who was in love with her, Chie Ohno, her best friend since high school, and Fumi Yanagi, Ryusei's older sister. Miwako's death leaves them reeling, from shock, grief, and guilt, and forces them to question how well they knew her and whether they could have some intervened or prevented Miwako from committing suicide. Through their different perspectives readers will slowly come to know Miwako. While we may guess what she might have been 'hiding' from her loved ones, Miwako retains an air of unknowability. In each section the characters find themselves revisiting their memories of her, giving many scenes a bittersweet quality. Perhaps the setting too contributes to this sense of nostalgia (most of the story takes place in the mid-to-late 80s). Through her luminous prose Goenawan sheds light on a painful subject matter. Like her characters, she doesn't romanticise nor condemns Miwako's actions, rendering instead with empathy the pain that drove her to commit suicide. Goenawan demonstrates the same delicacy when touching upon subjects such as sexual abuse and bullying. I felt lulled by gentle pace of this novel, even as the story explored distressing realities. Friendships, family history, gender, and sexuality play an important role in each narrative, and I found Goenawan's portrayal of these to be extremely compelling.
“Her bold strokes gave off a sense of alienation and desperation, but her choice of muted colors conveyed a hidden loneliness. My sister had mastered the application of intricate details to her pieces. At the same time, she took extra care to make sure nothing was overwhelming. I recognized a delicate balance, a sense of equilibrium in all her pieces. What my sister couldn't tell anyone, she whispered into her work.”
As much as I loved Goenawan's evocative prose and her well-drawn characters, I was underwhelmed by the overarching storyline. The last section, which followed one of the characters I liked the most, seems far more meandering than the previous ones as it seems to move away from Miwako. And while I do count myself as a fan of magical realism, here it felt a bit sudden. The ending was rushed and left me wanting more. Still, I would definitely recommend this to those who enjoy literary fiction.
3 ½ stars (rounded up because Carey Mulligan was a brilliant narrator)
“You have as many lives as you have possibilities. There are lives where you make different choices. And those choices lead to different outcomes. If you had done just one thing differently, you would have a different life story. And they all exist in the Midnight Library. They are all as real as this life.”
Matt Haig presents his readers with a touching and ultimately life-affirming tale of second chances. The Midnight Library follows Nora, a lonely thirty-five-year-old woman from Bedford, who has just hit rock bottom. She's single, her only maybe-friend lives in Australia, her brother seems to hate her or at least he makes a point of avoiding her, and she has just been fired from String Theory, the music shop she worked for the past twelve years. Nora is tired of being sad and miserable, of being eaten up regrets. She's exhausted of living. What awaits Nora is the Midnight Library, a place that sits “between life and death” and where “the shelves go on for ever. Every book provides a chance to try another life you could have lived. To see how things would be if you had made other choices”. Each book presents Nora with another version of her life. What if she had kept training as a swimmer? What if she had married her ex? What if she'd stayed in her brother's band? What if she'd kept on studying? The possibilities are infinite and Nora finds herself wanting to experiences them all. As she jumps from book to book Nora soon realises that there isn't such a thing as the perfect life. Even in the life in which she has pursued swimming her relationship with her father isn't great. By living all these different lives, Nora's no longer feels guilty for not doing what others expected or pressured her to do. Happiness is a tricky thing, and it cannot be achieved by simply acquiescing to others desires. Haig's imbues Nora's story with plenty of humour. Although the story touches on mental health (depression, suicidal ideation, anxiety, panic attacks, addiction) the narrative maintains an underlining note of hope. Haig showcases great empathy, never condemning anyone as being responsible for another person's unhappiness. Although the novel isn't too sentimental it did feel a bit too uplifting (I know, I am a grinch). Perhaps I wanted to story to delve in darker territories but Nora's story is rather innocuous. Still, this was a heart-warming book, and the 'what if' scenarios could be very entertaining as I was never bored. Haig as a penchant for dialogues and discussing mental health related issues with both clarity and sensitivity. I listened to the audiobook which was narrated by Carey Mulligan, who does an exceptional job (I just really loved her narration).
“It's unbearable to have your identity summed up by one thing and one thing only and for other people to have control over what that is.”
Keiichirō Hirano has spun an intriguing psychological tale. A Man presents its readers with an in-depth and carefully paced mystery revolving around identity theft. Hirano novel's opening is rather old-fashioned (a work of fiction masquerading as a true story) as it is narrated by an unmanned novelist who after bumping into a man called Akira Kido becomes fascinated by Kido's own obsession with another man (the narrator goes on to compare the story he's about to tell to a painting by René Magritte entitled 'Not to Be Reproduced'):
“With all the unique characters that make an appearance, some of you might wonder why on earth I didn't pick one of the bit players to be the protagonist. While Kido-san will in fact obsessed with the life of a man, it is in Kido-san, viewed from behind as he chases this man, that I sensed something to be seen.”
Kido is a divorce attorney who has become detached from his wife. She, in turn, shows little interest in him or his job and is rather unsympathetic when it comes to his Zainichi background (that is ethnically Korean residents of Japan). Kido's practical and reserved nature frustrate his wife (who often mistakes impassiveness for callousness) While Kido disapproves of his wife's strict parenting style, she mistakes his reserved disposition as a sign of callousness. When a growingly disillusioned Kido is contacted by Rié Takemoto, a former client of his, he finds himself drawn into the life of another man. After Rié's second husband dies in a work-related accident, she discovers that his name and past are that of another man. Throughout the course of his investigation Kido questions X's motives. What could make someone want to conceal their true name or background? And what constitutes an identity? As Kido comes in contact with the various individuals and families connected to X, and as his relationship with his own wife becomes further strained, he grows fond of this unknown X and starts to see the appeal of 'starting' over. Although Kido's investigation is the running thread that connects together these seemingly disparate characters and events, it sometimes seems more of a background. The narrative provides a panoramic view of the characters Kido comes into contact during the course of his investigation. While many of Kido's thoughts are dedicated to X and issues of identity, he's an erudite and his mind will often wonder down philosophical paths. He makes many literary allusions (he compares his stance towards other Zainichi as being similar to the way in which Levin—from Anna Karenina—views 'peasants'). Kido's precarious relationship to his ethnicity is one of the novel's main motifs:
“Since he had grown up almost entirely as a "Japanese person" even before he naturalized, he was profoundly uneasy with the idea that he was either a direct victim or perpetuator of the troubles the best Korean enclaves.”
Kido passes most of his time in contemplation. He muses on the myth of Narcissus, the nature vs. nurture debate, questions his marriage, and those of other people, considers the notion of an identity and broods over his own loneliness:
“Yes, loneliness. He did not shy from this word to express the dark emotion that had been seething in his chest of late. It was a bottomless, middle-aged kind of loneliness that he never could have even conceived when he was younger, a loneliness that saturated him with bone-chilling sentimentality the moment he let down his guard.”
Hirano's Japan is vividly rendered. From its recent history to its social norms, Hirano's novel provides plenty of insights into contemporary Japan. There are extensive discussions on Japan's penal and legal system (given Kido's line of work there is a lot on divorce and custody laws). As much as I liked novel (identity concealment makes for a fascinating subject) I was deeply disappointed by the abrupt way it ended. After spending so much time with Kido, I felt cheated by those final chapters. Kido is seemingly discarded, and readers are left wondering what exactly he will do after he makes an important discovery. Still, I would probably recommend this one, especially to those who are interested in learning about contemporary Japan or for those who prefer more thought-provoking and philosophical mysteries.
“What we had that day was our story. We didn't have the other bit, the future, and we had no way of knowing what that would be like. Perhaps it would change our memory of al of this, or perhaps it would draw from it, nobody knew. But I'm sure I felt the story of that hall and how we reached it would never vanish.”
Mayflies is novel about the friendship between two Glaswegian men. The first half of the novel is set in the summer of 1986 when our narrator, James, alongside four of his friends go to Manchester to watch some of their favourite bands. Andrew O'Hagan really brings this era to life, through their slang and the references they use. During the course of this freewheeling weekend they have the time of their lives, going to pubs and clubs, getting up to shenanigans, hanging out withs strangers, all the while animatedly discussing music and politics (Thatcher, the miners' strike). James, who is the more bookish and reserved of the lot, is particularly close to Tully, who is the undeniable glue that binds their group together and a wonderful friend. While this first half of the novel is all about what if feels to be young, reckless, free, and full of life, O'Hagan's characters, regardless of their age, are capable serious reflections, such as wondering what sort future awaits them and their country. This section is so steeped in 1980s culture that I sometimes had a hard time keeping up with their banter (I am not from the UK and I'm a 90s child so I'm sure that readers who are more familiar with this era won't have such a hard time).
“The past was not only a foreign country, it was a whole other geology.”
The second half brings us forward to 2017 when both James and Tully are in their early 50s. Here the narrative feels far more restrained, reflecting James' age. He has different preoccupations now, a career, a partner. Yet, he is recognisably still James. Tully too is both changed and unchanged. In spite of the distance between them (James lives in London now) the two have remained close friends. This latter section moves at a far slower pace, which should have been jarring but it wasn't. If anything it felt very natural. Here we have more measured meditations about life and death, questions about what we owe to the ones we love, and reconciliations with the past. O'Hagan succeeds in uniting two very different moments/stages of a man's life. An exhilarating snapshot of being young in the 80s is followed by a slower-paced and more thoughtful narrative centred around people who haven't been young for quite some time. I have read very few—if any—novels that focus on male friendship. So often we see portrayals that show how intimate and deep female friendships are, which is wonderful but it's refreshing to read a novel that is very much an ode to the friendship between two men. O'Hagan's portrayal of the relationship between Tully and James was incredibly moving and nuanced.
“Loyalty came easily to Tully. Love was the politics that kept him going.”
Although I may have missed quite a few cultural references and I definitely didn't get a lot of the Glaswegian/80s, thanks to the musical education I received from my parents I mostly managed to keep up with this novel's music front. I really appreciated James' literary references, which later in life make their way into his conversations with Tully. I also liked the way James would observe the character traits of those around—both as a young man and later in life—as well as his pondering about childhood, adulthood, generational differences, life in general. His thoughtful narration was truly compelling. Mayflies is an affecting and realistic novel that presents its readers with a vibrant examination of friendship and identity, one that I would thoroughly recommend to others.
“Maybe things don’t need to be exactly as I’ve imagined them. Like maybe in this universe I’ve suddenly found myself in, things could be different. I could be different.”
You Should See Me in a Crown is an incredibly thoughtful and wholesome YA book. Liz's first person narration won my heart within the very first pages. Leah Johnson's simple yet engaging prose perfectly conveyed Liz's perspective. Liz is in many respects a regular 'awkward' teen who is a dedicate student and friend, a good older sister and a responsible niece. But Liz has to contend with a lot more challenges, from her mother's death to her family's financial troubles. She's Black, queer, and has anxiety, and is often made to feel like an outlier at her high school (which is mostly attended by wealthy white kids). Understandably, she's eager to leave her small-town to attend the exclusive Pennington College School of Music.
“Music is something I understand—the notes are a thing that I can always bend to my will.”
Readers quickly get how and why music is everything for Liz. To attend Pennington she has to win their music scholarship...but she doesn't. Not wanting her grandparents to sell their house, Liz's brother convinces her to compete for the title of prom queen as their high school endows the king&queen with large checks. Although there is nothing Liz hates more than being in the spotlight, she finds herself campaigning for prom queen.
“This whole race is set up to mimic some twisted fairy tale. The queen is supposed to be the best among us: the smartest, the most beautiful, the worthiest. But the people who win are rarely the people who deserve it. Like with any monarchy, they’re just the closest to the top. You don’t earn queen; you inherit it.”
Winning other students' votes isn't easy, especially when she's competing with the most popular girls in her school. In the stressful weeks to follow Liz reconnects with an old friend (some great male/female solidarity here) while her relationship to her controlling best friend becomes frayed. Also, she falls for the cute new girl in her school, Mack.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales and love at first sight and all that, but for just a second, I think this girl and those eyes and the way her freckles dot the entire expanse of her face are cute enough to make a believer out of me.”
While on paper the story might not scream originality, Johnson's novel is far from predictable or superficial. Girls that may initially strike us as little more than the queen bee's cronies, straight out of Mean Girls, may not be as passive or stupid as they might first appear. Liz herself finds herself gaining self-assurance. As much as I liked following Liz's campaign and witnessing her character growth, the thing I most loved about this book was its romance. Although the relationship between Liz and Mack doesn't take the centerstage, it does underline much of the narrative. Their cute and tentative flirting had me grinning like an idiot. Their romance was equal parts sweet and heart-rendering. As a non-American I was horribly fascinated by Liz's school's 'prom-culture'. It seems so bizarre to me...but thanks to Liz's narrative I could see why prom is regarded by many as 'the event' of their school years. The dialogues are heavy on cultural references, some of them niche, some of them downright funny, all spot-on. The only thing I could have done without is the 'food-fight'. I really don't get the 'appeal' of these scenes...(such a huge waste of food!). If you like YA fiction that combine romance with coming of age (set against a background of music a la Night Music), touch on contemporary social issues, and present a more realistic view of high school, you should definitely check this one out (not going to lie, Liz&Mach's scenes alone are worth the read).
“People like us. And that feels sort of good in a way that surprises me. She’s right. High school is complicated, and the lines of demarcation that The Breakfast Club said divided us aren’t quite so clean-cut. The athletes are also the smart kids; the theater kids are also the presidents of the student council. But there’s still those outliers. The people who are everywhere but fit nowhere. People who are involved but not envied—present but imperfect—so the scrutiny pushes them out of the race.”
“Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view surrou
“Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island.”
“I spend my days staring at the wall and fantasising about disembowelling my cat as an offering to whatever bitch goddess has been organising my life lately. I am so depressed that if I could motivate myself to it I'd commit suicide, but it's too proactive for me.”
The subtitle of this novel is quite apt: 'A Postmodern Mystery'. The Adventures of Isabel is to detective/mystery fiction what Picasso is to Turner. Candas Jane Dorsey has written an absorbing and extremely metafictional (the narrator frequently 'breaks' the fourth wall) mystery that feels very much of 'the now'. The novel's unmanned narrator, single, ambisexual, in her late thirties, a downsized social worker, is down on her luck. Her life takes an interesting turn when Maddy, the granddaughter of one her closest friends, is found murdered. Because of Maddy's line of work, Hep (aka her grandmother) believes that the police won't be solve her case.
“Hep then named an hourly rate which made even my overinflated self-indulgent subconscious blink, and between the emotional blackmail of being reminded how much I owed Denis, the memory of my empty cupboard, evocations of the pitiful dead kid, and greed, I was persuaded—provisionally, with confirmation to be given once I sobered up—to give up my career as a call girl and become a detective.”
Our protagonist begrudgingly takes on the role of 'detective', using her knowledge of the city's underbelly she uses a police connection and her extensive social network to solve Maddy's murderer. Her investigation is anything but straightforward, and often falls into the absurd a la Alice in Wonderland. The novel is less interested in the plot than it is with 'style'. The spotlight remains on the protagonist's meta narration. Dorsey's tongue-in-cheek portrayal of a 'contemporary' society is delightfully humorous. The cast of characters are as entertaining as our narrator, and often their conversations spiral into the nonsensical. I particularly liked the narrator's relationship with her religious cousin and Jian (who is beyond cool). There are some running gags (Bunnywit's 'original' name, the fish sticks) that make the narrator's reality feel familiar. As much as I loved the narrator's metafictional asides, or her ramblings on other characters' word-choices, it did seem that the 'murder story' was lost in all this postmodern cacophony. Amidst the characters' digressing discussions and our mc's various monologues, I often lost sight of the actual investigation. Still, I liked Dorsey's original approach to this genre, and I really 'clicked' with her protagonist. Without loosing the lighthearted tone of her narrative, Dorsey manages to directly address issues such as gender, sexuality, and race. The novel's strength is in its energetic narrative and in the protagonist's dark humour. I will quite happily read another novel about this main character as I would like to learn more of her backstory.
A few quotes to give an idea of the narration:
“These days, I was so deprived that I didn't trust my impulses. Anyone warmblooded, intelligent, and healthy, interested me. Even some people who weren't.”
“I didn't have much of a life. In a traditional narrative, the subplot would have intervened by now. Another friend with another problem. A kooky, loveable family. A liking for gourmet cooking. A workout at a gym with a cute hunk after my ass.”
“He was now too valuable to give away, kill in a fury, use as a plot device, or even call a rude name.”
“In a traditional narrative, or a movie, there'd be at least a montage of drag club scenes, if not an unbalanced amount of time devoted to a semi-prurient, semi-anthropological survey of the scene for the armchair voyeurs. I can't supply it.”
“I had to interpret their pronoun that way, because I couldn't believe the other option, that they were politically aware of the gender-critiquing diorama played out in the choice of of high-camp female tropes to create a topos of female construct confounding actual genetic sex and backgrounded against issues of orientation politics, and had chosen to use the semantic signifier to indicate recognition of the radical linguosocial statement inherent in the transvestism of queer/drag. No. They didn't seem that complex; they seemed like old-fashioned thugs, not at all post-modern.”
“Clearly clothes did not make the man. Or, in my case, the heterosexual.”
“He smiled. This guy didn't grin, he smiled. He was a cultured fellow.”
“I guess that qualifies as an excellent subplot. Come to think of it. Which I hated doing; it made my head hurt. Clichés abound, and I wanted to refuse the rags-to-riches one.”
“"Let me get this straight," I said "well, not straight, but let me be sure I understand this."”
“Leaving my living room full of detectives, not one of them with a fucking clue. Not that I was any better. My clues weren't fucking either.”
“"But now what?" she said. One of the existential questions. I certainly didn't know the answer.”
“"Zat is terrible" (You get the accent, right? So enough with the zeds already.)”
“Apparently fraud is like speeding only more so—lots of people do it, but very few actually get caught.”
“To sleep on? Or to wake? This was the question facing me. To sleep, or to wake and face the reckoning, to find out what had been lost.”
Although by no means an incompetent debut Before the Ruins does not offer a particularly innovative take on this subgenre (usually we have big houses, a group of friends, something bad happens, years later something happens that makes our protagonist look back to this period of their life). The blurb for Before the Ruins does no favors to the actual contents of the novel. The diamond necklace functions as a MacGuffin, the 'Game' happens largely off the page, Andy's "destructive behavior" does not seem all that destructive, and David is by no means 'magnetic'. Maybe if I had not read any novels by Barbara Vine I would have been able to enjoy this more but while I was reading it I found myself more than once wishing I was reading Vine instead.
Before the Ruins is narrated by Andy who is her late thirties and works/lives in London. When the mother of her childhood best friend Peter calls her asking about his whereabouts Andy finds herself thinking back to that 'fateful' time in her life, when she was eighteen or so and alongisde Peter, and Marcus, Andy's boyfriend, sneaked into 'the manor'. Here they play 'the game', looking for a diamond necklace reputed to have been lost decades before. The arrival of David changes their group dynamics as both Andy and Peter fall for him. I thought that this would be the focus of the novel but in reality it is not. There two or three scenes depicting this 'mythical summer' and soon the focus of the story switches to the present day. We still get a few chapters relating past events, but these are fairly summative in nature. Which brings me to my biggest criticism towards Before the Ruins : too much telling, not enough showing. Andy gives us recaps of these supposedly pivotal moments of her life. We do not see enough interactions between the members of the group, I wanted more of Peter and David, or at least more of Em and Andy. But what we get is a lot of pages emphasising that Andy was the 'wild one' from a difficult home, while everyone else seemed to have wonderful home environments. While Andy concedes that being gay in a small village in the 1990s was not easy for Peter the narrative will often stress Andy's struggles. Em was portrayed as almost opposite to Andy's tough-girl personality: she is 'elfin', an artist, more feminine, less in your face. Marcus was also painfully one-dimensional, as the not-so-nice-nice-guy. Peter...I really wanted to read more about it. But when Andy revisits the past she often skims over their time together, making their relationship seem not all that complex. He reminded me of other characters from this group of friends/something bad happens' genre so I found myself almost superimposing my memory of those characters over him. The setting of Marlborough was familiar to me, so I could easily envision the places that Andy was discussing but for readers who have never been to Marlborough or other villages in Wiltshire, well, they may find that the setting is at times a bit generic 'countryside'. There are too few descriptions of Andy and her surroundings, especially once we get to the present. And, I would have loved to have more detailed descriptions of the manor (we get some at the start but I would have liked some more...I don't expect Vine levels of architectural details but...). Still, I did eventually warm up to the characters and story in the latter half of the novel. There are some beautiful and insightful observations about accountability, trauma, love, and grief. While the revelations towards the end did not come as surprise that is largely due to the fact that I have come across a lot of books that tread similar grounds (most of Vine's novel, The Truants, The Secret History, The Lessons, If We Were Villains, The Likeness, The Sisters Mortland, Tell Me Everything....). It frustrated me that Gosling either kept the most interesting encounters or exchanges off-page or simply rushed them. Expanding that 'mythical summer' would have given the overall story more tension (we could have seen with more clarity how David's presence disrupted the group's established dynamics). The story about the missing diamonds is delivered in a somewhat clumsy way, and I wish that the whole 'game' had been depicted in a different way. The novel is still engaging and suspenseful but I was often aware of where the story would go next.
Nevertheless, for all my criticism, I recognize that Gosling can write well, and even if Andy was not my kind of protagonist, I appreciated her character arc. Gosling is talented, of this there is no doubt, but I do wish that she had written a more original story....more
...and I thought that vampires were passé. The Fell of Dark is a fun take that on vampires and 'the chosen o| | blog | tumblr | ko-fi | |
3 ¾ stars
...and I thought that vampires were passé. The Fell of Dark is a fun take that on vampires and 'the chosen one' trope. Usually, I'm a nitpicking reader but with The Fell of Dark I was happy to suspend my disbelief. Is this novel perfect? Definitely not. Is it entertaining? Hell yes! Our narrator and protagonist, sixteen-year-old August Pfeiffer, lives in Fulton Heights, Illinois. This small town happens to be a nexus for mystical and supernatural energies which is why it attracts so many vampires. August, the only 'out' gay boy in his school, isn't particularly fond of his hometown (mostly due to its vampire populace). In spite of the vampires prowling his town at night, his biggest concern is algebra...until he receives a cryptic and ominous message from a distractingly cute-looking vampire (who happens to have an English accent). Things became increasingly bizarre as August finds himself at the centre of a feud between different vampire sects, an order of mortal knights, and a coven. This is a very plot-driven book and August can't seem to catch a break. For 'reasons' however he's the chosen ones, and the whole world depends on him. August's narration is the strongest aspect of this book. He's a rather awkward and perpetually horny teen who also happens to be an incredibly funny narrator (laugh-out-loud kind of fun). This novel's plotline is kind of basic but Caleb Roehrig makes it work. There is a certain self-awareness that makes up for the derivativeness of some of the storyline's components (for example, the fact that no one seems to be telling August the truth because almost a running gag). Those expecting this to be a love story of sorts will probably be disappointed as this novel has more of a lust/attraction-subplot than a romantic one. With the exception of August, the characters are somewhat one-dimensional (also, it seemed that every single character was connected with one of these cult-ish groups). Still, the role they come to play in August's story did hold my attention. The world in this novel isn't all that detailed. A few characters occasionally give some exposition about vampires and their history, but that's about it. This is an absorbing book. It has a lot of silly moments but I never found these to be ridiculous or unfunny. If you are a fan of Buffy or Carry On you will probably enjoy it as much as I did.
ps: I spent my day off work listening to the audiobook edition (which lasted about 12 hours) which...yeah. That was a new record for me. But once I started listening to it I couldn't stop (Michael Crouch is an amazing narrator).
Having read a few works by Edith Wharton, I’ve become familiar with her beautifully articulated style. Still, I was no| | blog | tumblr | ko-fi | |
Having read a few works by Edith Wharton, I’ve become familiar with her beautifully articulated style. Still, I was nonetheless impressed by just how accomplished The Touchstone is considering that it is Wharton’s first published novella. The story revolves around Stephen Glennard, a New York lawyer, who doesn’t have enough money to marry his sweetheart, Alexa Trent. It just so happens that Glennard comes across an advertisement seeking information relating to a figure from his past, the famous and recently deceased novelist Margaret Aubyn. Because Margaret was once in love with Glennard, and the two kept a correspondence, he's accumulated hundreds of her letters. Although Glennard is fully aware that to sell these private letters would be to betrayal to Margaret, he worries that Alexa won’t wait for him much longer. After editing his name out of the letters and with the help of an acquaintance of his, who happens to be a rich collector, Glennard sells them. The money from the publisher, and from Glennard's own subsequent investments, enables him to marry Alexa. This being a work by Wharton however we know that marriage does not equal happiness. Guilt, shame, and endless waves of remorse mar Glennard's days. Unable to reconcile himself with his actions, knowing that his wife, and the rest of his social circle, would condemn him for the sale, Glennard finds uneasy solace in his memory of Margaret. Through her elegantly precise prose Wharton renders all the nuances of Glennard’s disillusionment—with himself, his wife, his marriage—as well as evincing his inner turmoil. Wharton complements this character study with a piercing social commentary (focusing on the customs and niceties of the so called 'polite' society'). I particularly appreciated the narrative’s engagement with notions of privacy. Why should an author’s private life be made ‘public’? Can one retain a degree of privacy or autonomy over one’s life if they are considered ‘public’ figures? Glennard’s story seems a cautionary tale. He infringes Margaret’s privacy, exposing her personal letters—which were written for the audience of one—to the world. When he comes across people, mostly women, discussing Margaret’s letters, he’s sickened, as much by them as by himself. Wharton is a master of the trade and The Touchstone is as sophisticated as her later and more celebrated works. In spite of its historical setting The Touchstone is also a strikingly relevant novella (a public figure’s right to privacy vs. the public's interest) one that explores the ethical and moral repercussions of Glennard’s violation of Margaret privacy and trust.
Never Let Me Go is a bleak novel, that is made ever bleaker by the way in which our narrator normalises her horrifying | | blog | tumblr | ko-fi | |
Never Let Me Go is a bleak novel, that is made ever bleaker by the way in which our narrator normalises her horrifying reality. Although this is a work of speculative fiction, Kathy's world does not seem all that different from our own one (there were many moments which struck me as quintessentially British). Although Kathy's recollection of her childhood is incredibly evocative, Kazuo Ishiguro keeps his cards close to his chest, so Hailsham School's true purpose remains out of our reach. Yet, the more we learn about the guardians and the various rules imposed on Hailsham students, the more we grow uneasy, and suspicious, of Hailsham. Kathy's rather remote narration deepens the novel's ambivalent atmosphere. We know that in the present, years after Hailsham, she works as a carer but we don't really know what that entails. Although Kathy doesn't mythologising Hailsham, or her time there, her narration possesses a nostalgic quality. Ishiguro captures the intense, and ever-shifting, friendships we form as children. Kathy feels a certain pull to the brazen Ruth. Their fraught relationship frequently takes the centre-stage in the novel. There are misunderstandings, petty behaviours, jealousies, and all sorts of little cruelties. Ruth's is an awful friend, yet I could see how important her presence was in Kathy's life. By comparison Tommy seems a far simpler person, and I could definitely sympathise with his various struggles at Hailsham. Ishiguro excels when he writes about 'memory'. At times Kathy questions the accuracy of her memories, wondering whether what she has just relayed actually happened or not. There is regret too over her past actions or words she'd left unspoken. She also tries to see a scene through someone else's eyes, hoping perhaps to gain some insight into others. The novel poses plenty of complex questions and challenges definitions of 'humanity' and 'freedom'. It definitely provided a lot food for thought. As provoking as Never Let Me Go was, I can't say that it moved it me as much as Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day.
“What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.”
Mockingjay is an unrelentingly depressing book. Collins once again thrusts her readers into the brutal Panem. Katniss has become the symbol of the rebellion...yet she quickly realises that being the 'mockingjay' is an act. As she struggles to accustom herself to this new role and to the militaristic District 13. Peeta and District 12's fate weigh on her mind, and it is apparent that the Hunger Games have left their marks. Whereas in the Arena she quickly became accustomed to the 'kill or be killed' mentality, she feels responsible for the her role in the war. Collins' doesn't shy away from portraying how destructive a war can be. The rebels are just as capable of destruction as the Capitol. There are no good guys here. Towards the final part of this novel the story become quite chaotic. There are so many deaths and horrors that it almost felt excruciating to read on. No one is left unscathed. Characters are made to suffer emotionally, physically, and psychologically. They make choices that irrevocable consequences, often believing that nothing, and no one, should stop them from finally overthrowing the Capitol. Gale in particular seconds, or comes up with, particularly merciless tactics. Peeta...I find it hard to think of him. He basically goes through hell and back in this book. Katniss' self-loathing, guilt, and desperation make for a painful reading experience. Through her unflinching prose Collins presents us with many ethical and moral dilemmas, forcing her characters into terrifying situations. While I knew there would be no rosy ending, part of me wishes that the epilogue and given us a more reassuring impression of Katniss' feelings towards a certain someone.
“After nearly a decade of delirious revenge, rations, war, and death, we saw the world in shades of blood.”
In Man of My Time Dalia Sofer makes a fascinating and unsettling inquiry into morality. The novel is centred on and narrated by Hamid Mozaffarian. When Hamid, a former interrogator for the Iranian regime, travels to New York he reconnects with his younger brother, Omid, who he hadn't seen or spoken to since the 1979 Iranian Revolution. As the day passes Hamid finds himself looking back into his past, tracing his history with his family and his country.
“The point is that in the autobiography there is a time-honored tradition of redemption and repentance, which is a concept dear to all: towbeh for Muslims, teshuvah for Jews, penance for Christians—who doesn’t appreciate a good metamorphosis story, a passage from wickedness to virtue? Even the contemporary secular tale, say, of the disillusioned drunk or the wayward hustler, hasn’t escaped this familiar trajectory, of darkness to light, anguish to liberation.”
From the very beginning readers will be aware of Hamid's dubious morals. To label him as antihero however seems inadequate as Sofer's protagonist challenges easy definition. He's capable of betraying and self-betraying, of committing reprehensible acts and of shirking accountability. As Hamid revisits his childhood we are shown contradictory episodes: at times Hamid seems like a sensitive child who is made to feel ashamed of his own fragility, and then we see the same child becoming obsessed with the “demise” of insects. Hamid's formative years are shaped by his difficult relationship with his father and by Iran's growing unrest. As a restless teenager Hamid's unease towards his father morphs into contempt, and he finds himself projecting his hatred towards his father's authority towards those who rule the country. He becomes entangled with rebels, agitators, and idealists, and seems eager to prove himself to them. When Hamid's family flee the country during the revolution, he refuses to go with them. From mutinous teenager (“there was something consoling about being maligned, having a grievance, and maybe even dying misjudged”) Hamid grows into a deeply alienated man who leads a solitary existence. His wife wants to divorce him, he has become estranged from his daughter, and he has parted ways from the man he considered to be one of his only allies. His cynic worldview and the rancour he feels towards everybody and everything (from every generation to Iranians who live abroad to Western ideologies) give his narrative an unsparing tone.
“We were, all of us, funambulists skywalking between the myth of our ancestral greatness and the reality of our compromised past, between our attempts to govern ourselves and our repeated failures. We were a generation doused in oil and oblivion, the city expanding in steel and glass around us, erasing at dizzying speed the alleys of our grandfathers, hemming us in along the way.”
As Hamid recounts his life-story, his growing disillusionment towards the revolution and his generation becomes apparent. His interrogation into his past doesn't provide easy answers. There are plenty of instance when Hamid seems to consciously choose to do something he himself considers to be wrong. But we are also shown the sway that one's family and one's country have on a man. Sofer's erudite writing was a pleasure to read. Hamid's adroit narration provides us with plenty of shrewd observations about his country and history in general. He analyses his past behaviour and that of others. Hamid offers plenty of interesting, if not downright disconcerting, speculations about a myriad of topics. Through Hamid's story Sofer navigates notions of right and wrong, good and evil, judgment and forgiveness. Troubling as it was, Hamid's narration also provides plenty of incisive observations about human nature. The way he describes the feelings he experiences (love was a sweet interruption in the lonely march toward nonbeing) could also be startlingly poetic. Yet, while Sofer succeeds in making giving Hamid nuance and authenticity, her secondary characters often verged on the unbelievable. We aren't given extensive time with any other character, which is expected given our protagonist (Hamid repeatedly pushes others away, from his family to his partners and his daughter: “I heard the sound of my tired breath inside absences I had spent decades collecting, with the same diligence and fervor with which my father once amassed his beloved encyclopedia”). However, the fact that they have few appearances made me all the more watchful of those scenes they do appear in...and I couldn't help but noticing that the way they spoke at times seemed more suited to a movie. What they said often didn't really fit in what kind of person they until then seemed to be or their age (Hamid's daughter speaks in a very contrived way). I also wish that the story had remained more focused on Hamid's childhood and that his relationship to his mother could have been explored some more. Still, this was a nevertheless interesting read. Sofer has created a complex main character and she vividly renders his 'time'.
“What was to be said? Absence was our country’s chief commodity, and we all had, at one time or another, traded in it.”
Moving through space (America, Lebanon, Syria) and time (from the 1960s to 2019) The Arsonists' City tells a sprawling yet engrossing tale about the Nasr, a Syrian-Lebanese-American family. Written with the same subtlety and beauty as her debut novel, The Arsonists' City presents readers with a cast of fully-fleshed out characters, however flawed or frustrating they may be, a rich exploration of the Nasrs' personal and cultural identities, and a glimpse into Lebanon and Syria's complex pasts and presents. The prologue opens up with the death of a young man. The narrative then introduces us to the Nasrs' 'children'. There is Ava, the eldest, the only one in the family who is not driven by ambition or particularly cares to be in the spotlight. Although she's quite content with her job as a microbiology teacher, her marriage is undergoing a rough patch. her relationship with Nate, her husband, is undergoing a rough patch. We then have Mimi, their mother's golden boy, whose musical career never truly kicked off. As Mimi's bandmates get younger and younger, and his peers are getting married and having children, he feels stuck. Naj, the youngest and the only one who lives outside America, is part of a successful musical duo. In Beirut, she feels free to do as she wishes. Her family don't know she's gay and Naj isn't keen on abandoning her party lifestyle. Over the years the siblings have drifted away from each other. Seemingly out of the blue their father, Iris, a heart surgeon, decides to sell his family home in Beirut. After this sudden decision, the Nasr are reunited in Beirut. Close proximity reignites deep-rooted jealousies and brings to the light old family secrets and betrayals. Their feelings towards each other, and themselves, are complicated, messy. They bicker a lot, snitch on each other (often to their mother), and, in general, don't have the easiest time together. However, as Alyan so brilliantly demonstrates, family bonds, however thorny or challenging, can be a true source of happiness or comfort.
Their reunion in Beirut happens quite later on in the narrative. Before that, we delve into Ava, Mimi, and Naj's everyday realities. From their romantic relationships to their sex lives and careers. Alyan also provides us with glimpses into the lives of the people around them—their partners, colleagues, friends, bandmates—so that we end up with a rich cast of characters. Each of the children reacts differently to their father's decision. Ava and Mimi are initially unwilling to go to Beirut but are ultimately worn down by their mother's unrelenting recriminations. Naj isn't particularly happy at the news either as she feels quite possessive of her life in Beirut. The narrative then transports us to Damascus, in the 1960s. Their mother, Mazna, falls in love with the theatre and begins to dream about a future as a renowned actor. The Lebanese Civil War is the background to Mazna's chapters which heavily focus on her acting experiences. She befriends Idris, aka her future husband, who is Syrian and his close friend Zakaria, who is Palestinian and lives in a refugee camp. The remainder of the novel moves between the present, with the family reunited in Beirut, and the past, where we read of Mazna and Idris' early days of marriage and of their eventual migration to California.
Most of the characters make bad choices, they hurt the ones they love, they are unsatisfied by the direction their lives are taking (both Mazna and Mimi's careers never truly resemble what they'd envisioned), and they either cheat or are cheated on. I appreciated how each character has to deal with failure or heartbreak, either as a direct consequence of their actions or due to circumstances out of their control. I also liked how realistic the children's relationship with one another was. Alyan gives her characters both individual and shared history, which makes them feel all the more authentic. Alyan also brings her settings to life, for better or worse. What felt a tad unnecessary was the extensive forays into Mazna's past. She wasn't a particularly likeable or sympathetic character (my favourite was probably Harper, Mimi's Texan girlfriend). For their flaws, I found myself much more interested in the lives of her children. The story at times felt a tad too melodramatic, especially in regards to certain 'revelations and all that cheating. I swear the Nasrs' are a family of cheaters. It got kind of repetitive (wow, quelle surprise, someone is cheating/being cheated on, yet again). There was an odd line sexualising a child which felt a bit...yuckish? And one that gave me incest-y vibes, which was also pretty unecessary. Despite all that, I remained enthralled by Alyan's storytelling and piercing observations. Her dialogues ring true to life and the character dynamics are very compelling. With the tone of Elif Shafak The Saint of Incipient Insanities and the scope of Roopa Farooki's The Good Children, The Arsonists' City offers its readers a captivating and intricate family saga populated by nuanced characters and deeply rooted in Lebanon and Syria's histories and cultures. In spite of its length (the audiobook is over 19 hours) The Arsonists' City proved to be a gripping read one that I might even re-read.
ARC provided by NetGalley in exchange for an honest review....more
“You have to wonder what goes through the mind of such a man. Such a narrow and limited man; so closed off.”
Redhead by the Side of the Road is a slender but tender novel. In her deceptively spare style Anne Tyler relates a quotidian tale about a rather 'finicky' man. Micah Mortimer, who is in early forties, lives a quiet life. His days are punctuated by his morning runs and his cleaning schedule. As the owner and sole-employee of TECH HERMIT Micah solves his customers' IT-related problems. Given his chaotic childhood, as an adult Micah finds comfort in his routine. As the novel progresses Micah finds himself in rather challenging situations: Cassia, his 'woman friend', is risking eviction, and the son of his first true love shows up at his doorstep. Redhead by the Side of the Road presents its readers with an ordinary story about an ordinary man. Tyler's characters are vividly rendered. Regardless of their role in the narrative they struck me as real. Tyler certainly has a knack for portraying different personalities. She manages to capture an individual's idiosyncrasies, the way they talk, their mannerisms and habits. Micah's interactions with his neighbours, his customers, his family, and Cassia are filled with an abundance of awkward yet genuine moments. Tyler is wonderfully empathetic towards her characters. She never criticises Micah for his reticence to connect to others or his many particularities, nor does he undergo a complete character change. Through her perceptive prose and quiet humour Tyler tells a heartwarming story. It follows ordinary people doing ordinary things, yet in many ways it's so much more.
Caroline O'Donoghue's foray into YA will definitely appeal to fans of the genre. Although I do have a few criticisms I | | blog | tumblr | ko-fi | |
Caroline O'Donoghue's foray into YA will definitely appeal to fans of the genre. Although I do have a few criticisms I can safely say that I found All Our Hidden Gifts to be an entertaining read.
Set in Ireland, our narrator and protagonist is sixteen-year old Maeve Chambers, the youngest in a big family. She has quite a chip on her shoulder when it comes to her 'brilliant' sisters and brothers. Unlike them she isn't academically gifted and for a period of time she was put in a slow-learning class. Maeve now attends an all-girls Catholic school and in trying to impress her peers lands herself in trouble. It just so happens that her detention includes cleaning out a cupboard know as the 'Chokey' where she finds a set of tarot cards...and it turns out that she has a skill when it comes to reading the cards.
The story takes a Labyrinth turn when Maeve's new talent results in the disappearance of her former best friend, Lily, who she'd ditched in order to climb the social ladder. Was I expecting the Goblin King to be responsible for Lily's disappearance? Maybe... Anyhow, when the police gets involved and things get serious Maeve's life becomes quite messy. Maeve believes that a mysterious card from her deck may have stolen Lily away so she decides to deepen her knowledge of magic. Along the way she becomes close with another girl from her school and with Lily's older brother, Roe. As the kids investigate Lily's disappearance they become increasingly suspicious of a cult-like Christian group that is very vocal in opposing LGBTQ+ rights. I appreciated the issues O'Donoghue incorporates throughout her narrative. We have characters who are discriminated against for not being white or for not conforming to one gender. Lily wears a hearing aid, which is probably another reason why her classmates bully or exclude her, Maeve's sister is gay, Roe is exploring his gender expression (and possibly his gender identity?). As inclusivity goes, this novel is beautifully inclusive. Maeve, who is white, cis, straight (?), and from a possibly middle-class family, is called out for being insensitive or naive when it comes to discrimination. She's also somewhat self-centred, in an angsty sort of way, and this too is pointed out by other characters. Fiona also makes a point of reminding Maeve not to make other people's oppression all about herself.
While I appreciated her growth, I still struggled to sympathise or like her. I found Roe and Fiona to be much more likeable and interesting characters. Maeve was the classic 'I'm not beautiful like x or intelligent like y' self-pitying kind of gall. She was boring and sounded much younger than her allegedly sixteen years of life. Which brings to my next 'criticism': there is a discrepancy between the tone and content of this novel. The tone, which is mainly created by Maeve's direct narration, would have been more suited to a middle-grade book while her narrative's content—the issues and discussions that came up in the story—are more tailored towards a YA audience. Both Maeve and the other sixteen-year olds sounded like they were twelve a lot of the time. Which made it weird when things like sex came up. The bad American dude was somewhat cartoonish, and that whole side-plot felt rather undeveloped. Lily was a promising character who might have been more fleshed out with some more flashbacks. And, to be honest, I would preferred this to be a friendship-focused kind of story. The romance between Maeve and Roe did not convince me, at all. She crushes on him from the get-go of the novel, but I could not for the life of me understand or see why he reciprocated her feelings. She says some pretty shitty things now and again to him and acts in a possessive way which irked me. I get she's insecure but still....she knows she may have been responsible for his sister's disappearance...and all she can think about are his lips?
Nevertheless, this was far from a bad or mediocre book. I like the way O'Donoghue writes and I appreciate her story's themes and imagery so I would probably still recommend this. I, however, might stick to her adult fiction from now on....more
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