Summerwater is a short novel exploring the people at a Scottish cabin park on a single day, with simmering tensions amidst the wet weather. There’s various families and children, cooped up indoors; an old couple thinking about the past; a young couple unaware of how each other are feeling; and, as noticed by everyone else, a woman and her daughter who some of the others don’t think fits in. As the narrative moves between the perspective of different people and the day goes on, the question is, what will happen by nighttime?
This is an easily immersive novel, that moves quickly between each character, only giving you each person’s perspective once. It paints a picture of the similarities and differences between people’s mindsets and the way that they all watch each other out of their patio doors, like nosy neighbours but temporary. There’s sharp moments of exposure about modern Britain, from xenophobia to environmental concerns, and a sense of privilege amongst the less-than-ideal holidays the characters are having.
Summerwater is a kind of study of the contemporary moment from within a Scottish holiday park, showing lingering judgement and prejudice under the surface. Similarly to Moss’ previous novel Ghost Wall, it takes a group of people outside of their usual setting, with a distinct nature backdrop, and observes what happens when they come together.
The Death of Vivek Oji is a powerful novel about how the child parents think they know might not be the child they really have, focusing on the childhood, adolescence, and death of Vivek Oji. In Nigeria, a mother finds her only child dead on her doorstep, wrapped in material, and desperately wants to know what happened to them. Mixed in with this story of that of Vivek’s upbringing, showing how finding who you truly are may mean keeping secrets from your family, and that love, gender, and sexuality aren’t always simple.
Having read and enjoyed both of their previous novels, Freshwater and Pet, I knew I needed to read Emezi’s new book, and it didn’t disappoint, being a story of identity, personal relationships, and how people’s lives were affected by one person. The exploration of identity and secrets is combined with elements of social commentary, around what is spoken and unspoken and how people find community, but the main focus is on Vivek, and on the impact that someone’s life and death can have. This is important, as despite the title the book doesn’t have a huge amount of Vivek’s point of view, but instead uses others’ perspectives to get across the different ways of seeing people and the complexity of self in relation to other people.
This is a gripping novel that told an entrancing story, and though the title is about death, the book is also about life, about living as yourself, finding people to be around, and the complexity of emotion.
Underground, Monroe, & The Mamalogues is a collection of three plays by playwright and scholar Lisa B. Thompson that cover a range of topics and themes, including protest, motherhood, migration, trauma, and the black middle class. Underground features two old friends discussing politics and protest in the post-Obama era, with a tension lying underneath. Monroe is a 20th century period play that looks at the impact of a lynching on a family and dreams of leaving 1940s Louisiana. And The Mamalogues features three black middle class single mothers sharing stories at a support group, thinking about their children’s lives from birth to leaving home.
This is an engrossing selection of plays that are quite different, but all look at the black middle class (which is what Thompson works on) and different elements of race, gender, and respectability. Underground is the most gripping, a play that draws you into one evening when two old friends find themselves back together in a snowstorm discussing the best methods for bringing about change and their thoughts on radical politics. Kyle and Mason are complex characters and their viewpoints become particularly charged and important given current Black Lives Matter protests and action. The Mamalogues also focuses on a single discussion in a single point in time, and really considers the intersection of race and class, but is also funny and frank. Even reading both of these plays gives a real sense of the dialogues happening, but it would be great to see them performed.
Monroe is different again, a play that spans a period of time just after the lynching of Cherry’s brother, and looks at the dream of migrating away from Louisiana to somewhere that might be better. The historical setting and greater number of characters onstage makes it feel more traditional, but it also has a lot of ambiguity. All three plays have detailed notes on performance, including suggested playlists, so this copy would be useful for those studying theatre, but the plays are accessible and enjoyable so this text shouldn’t be confined only to academic reading. All three plays are relevant to current discussions, but in particular Underground is vital reading for thinking about radical politics and race, as well as being a great, tense play.
True Story is a surprising and inventive novel that blends genres and conventions to look at how we tell stories and what the truth is. One night during high school, Alice was driven home from a party by two boys. She was drunk and passed out, and doesn’t remember what happened, but the rumours say a lot, despite what the boys tell the police. One of their friends, Nick, hears a different version of the story. And as both Alice and Nick get older, and deal with abusive relationships, addition, and other challenges, the truth of that night stays hidden, until it finally seems like it is going to come out.
The structure and narrative of True Story are impressive: it blends a novel, thriller and horror and drama, with screenplay and college essay, as different chunks of time are told from Alice and Nick’s points of view. At first, this seems like it could be a bit of a gimmick, but it is only later that it starts to make sense why the novel is written like this. The book is visceral—particularly around abusive relationships and addition—and tense, playing around with the heart-racing genres of horror and thriller whilst ultimately telling a story of how to tell a story. The different elements are weaved together well and the ending was unexpected.
This is a dark novel that touches on some intense subjects and looks at contemporary questions of how women and men are treated, but also has a playful edge that messes around with genre and possibly has an underlying message about not underestimating genre fiction.
Frying Plantain is a book of twelve interconnected stories about a girl growing up in Toronto, balancing her Canadian nationality and her Jamaican heritage and dealing with the expectations of her mother and grandmother. The stories, told both as present narrative and flashback, follow Kara, the protagonist, from childhood to graduating and starting university, as she navigates identity, family, friendships, and dealing with different worlds and rules.
Though the book is a series of interconnected stories, it felt almost like an episodic novel, as you delved deep into Kara’s life and saw her relationships develop and change over time. The book looks particularly in the tensions in Kara’s life between different elements of her self, not Jamaican enough but also not like the white Canadians her mother warns her she can’t act the same as. There’s also a lot of focus on familial expectations, and how Kara seems at times to fight a losing battle to be what her family wants her to be. Overall, the depiction is sharp and memorable, with a lot of detail that draws you in to Kara’s world, and the book is a gripping look at growing up caught between expectations, rules, and identities.
Homes and Experiences is a bittersweet comic novel about travel, experiences, and what really matters. Mark works for Urb, a travel start up for booking stays in people’s homes and travel experiences (guess which company it is satirising), where he writes copy and lives a mundane London life. When he’s offered to spend the summer travelling across Europe visiting some of Urb’s offerings to write non-travel-expert copy, he sees it as a chance to finally do the travelling he never has, and invites his posher, more worldly cousin Paris to come along with him. A big argument puts a stopper in this plan, but as Mark travels, he emails Paris with the details of his trip: the highs and lows in his quest to balance Urb’s need for catchy copy with his desire to try and actually see something authentic.
Williams has created an email epistolary novel that uses the format to cleverly expose Mark’s feelings about his trip and incorporate a twist to change the perspective on what Mark does during his travels. The tone is charming, exposing Mark’s naive outlook on travel on one hand and his conflict around gentrification and the impact of Urb/Airbnb on local cities and communities. The novel does well to satirise millennial culture and guilt whilst also showing actual difficulties and emotion that go along with these (the travel issues that come along with not flying are a key example, though they are also reminiscent of the BBC travel show Race Across The World, in which the participants can’t fly either). Alongside the satire and humour is a real emotional side coming from the interpersonal relationships in the book, and particularly friendships: from Mark’s idolising friendship with his cousin Paris to others that develop throughout the book, there’s a real focus on the importance of these relationships not just romantic ones.
On the one hand, the novel appeals to me as a millennial who does like travelling to European cities (though, admittedly, I’ve never stayed in an Airbnb), and on the other hand, it’s a clever way of presenting some of the issues with this kind of start up tourism and gentrification, but through the lens of someone at a loss with what they’re doing with their life and trying to make the most of an unusual opportunity. It can be funny and relatable, but also bittersweet, and the format has a good payoff.
Boy Parts is a darkly comic novel about a photographer on a downward spiral, a woman in her late twenties who takes explicit photos of random men she finds in Newcastle. Irina developed her photographic niche at art school in London, but now she’s back in her hometown, handing out her business card to random men who she’d like to take photos of. With a sabbatical from her bar job and the promise of a show at a London gallery, she throws herself headlong into photography, but also the drugs, alcohol, and self destruction which fuel it. But there’s also the new guy in the Tesco near her, and her obsessive best friend with a terrible boyfriend, to deal with, and a lot of broken glass.
The hype around Boy Parts made me want to read it, and it was definitely worth it: a book that pushes at the question of why the aesthetic creeps of literature often are men, and specifically men going after women. Irina is a gripping protagonist you’d never want to be friends with (especially not when you see how she treats the people she hangs around with), messed up and not always sure of reality, but doing it all with a care for how it looks, and what photos she could take of people. The way in which she gives her card out to random men to suggest she photographs them is such a great reversal of what is expected, with her barely remembering who these men are when they follow up, and with them often unsure why they said yes.
The book can be shocking and graphic, but mostly focuses on Irina’s relationships with other people and her constant spirals and blackouts, integrating in texts and emails and the secret blog of Irina’s best friend (who hasn’t wanted to read about what someone is really thinking about them?) to great effect in showing how people react to her, and how she reads what they say. A lot of the tone and plot can be seen as darkly ridiculous, but there’s a lot of serious stuff lurking underneath (as you’d expect), including a lot about consent and the truth. At the same time, the whole edgy art school vibe (which is foregrounded and mocked and critiqued by Irina even as she falls into its traps) is wonderful, giving the book a real distinctiveness that makes it stand out from a lot of the books it could be compared to.
With a horrifically aesthetic antihero in Irina and a gratifyingly Northern setting, Boy Parts is the book for anyone who has ever liked trying to read the edgiest, most shocking books (e.g. my teenage reading obsession with reading things like American Psycho) and now wants that vibe combined with something that pokes fun at modern taboos and issues around gender, consent, sexuality, and control.
Belladonna is a story of obsession, friendship, and desire set at an Academy that is connected to a convent in Northern Italy. In Connecticut in 1956, Bridget desperately wants to be Isabella’s friend, and to study at the Academy together. The Academy is where a small group of American girls learn Italian and art history, lodging in a convent with nuns who’ve taken a vow of silence, and Bridget sees this as her chance to be close to Isabella. The following year, they both start there, and they do grow close, but Bridget stays desperate for Isabella’s affection, as well as keeping up lies about her own family, and she’ll resort to anything to keep Isabella close.
This is a very vividly imagined novel, bringing to life the closed off world of the Academy, its petty dramas, and Bridget’s love for Isabella. It looks at the inability to see the wider picture, or to realise that you cannot only plan for the immediate moments, which works well with a group of fairly self obsessed teenagers. The retro setting is important for the general aesthetic and for the narrative (considering half of the girls are engaged), but it also has a sense of being outside of time because of them being in the Academy amongst the nuns. The vibe and setting (and the obsession theme) make it easy to compare to The Talented Mr Ripley, but this is more of a coming of age novel, as Bridget learns that just being obsessed with and manipulating circumstances to be with Isabella doesn’t convert into being able to be Isabella’s sole focus.
Some people will love the aesthetic and lingering feel of the novel, whilst others will perhaps find the characters too unlikeable or immature, but this is a look at female friendships and desire, and what it takes to be a particular person, that makes a good immersive read.
The Pull of the Stars is a novel set over three days during 1918 in an Irish maternity ward for flu patients, following the nurse there and the struggle with life and death. Nurse Julia Power finds herself leading the tiny three-bed ward for maternity patients with the flu, with only a new volunteer Bridie Sweeney for help, and a new doctor, Kathleen Lynn, who is on the run from the police. With Ireland under pressure from war and disease as well as divisions and inequality, the small ward sees a microcosm of the situation as birth and death go on, and Julia finds new connections with the newcomers.
It is impossible to read this book right now without thinking of the current situation, especially with all of the government warnings Julia sees and questions of who is wearing face masks and who is still going out to the cinema occurring in the background. What is impressive, however, is that it draws you into the world of the tiny ward and away from these comparisons, bringing the focus that Julia must have to care for these patients without thinking about the wider situation. There are a lot of issues raised in the novel, from the mental trauma of war to the treatment of unmarried mothers and unwanted children in Ireland, but the focus on a few characters, mostly female, gives it a human centre. The relationship between Julia and Bridie, developed over only a few days, is a highlight of the novel, showing that sparks of light can come out of dark situations, albeit briefly.
Due to the subject matter and detailed medical descriptions, some people will find this novel very difficult or not feel able to read it, but it is a gripping and touching look at a tiny example of fighting in a pandemic (and a war) from a single ward, and a wider look at Ireland in 1918. It isn’t a happy novel really, but it shows the hope and strength people have to find and use during difficult times, and also women proving their skills and expertise in these circumstances. It’s not the kind of novel I would’ve picked up if it wasn’t by Emma Donoghue, but it was definitely worth reading.
The Beauty of Your Face is a novel about a Palestinian American woman’s struggles with her family and living in America, told simultaneously in the present day of a school shooting and through her memories of her life up until that point. Afaf is the principal of Nurrideen School for Girls, a Muslim school in Chicago that one morning is attacked by a white male shooter. She was praying in the old confessional at the time, and as she listens to what is happening outside her hiding place, the novel tells her life story, from her parents’ troubled lives as Palestinian immigrants to the community she finds in Islam.
Most of the narrative is taken up with Afaf’s earlier life, with the shooter situation bookending sections as time jumps forward. This works well as a dual narrative, though much of the present narrative in these middle parts was unexpectedly focused on the shooter rather than Afaf’s perspective. Doing this shows how the online alt-right influenced him, but is perhaps a surprise jump when the narrative was just looking at Afaf’s memories and emotions. The story of Afaf’s family is told well, as complex characters look to survival and forgiveness, and displays how family doesn’t mean you necessarily see eye to eye, especially around religion and what brings solace. The novel looks deeply at America and how communities need to be forged and connected to allow for understanding, both within and across groups and divides.
A powerful novel that draws you into the lives of its characters, The Beauty of Your Face is about a school shooter, but also and perhaps more notably, it is about looking for belonging and understanding, within your own family and beyond. The exploration of Islamophobia in America is incisive and shows how it has changed over time, but always affects people’s lives in deep and terrible ways.