February and March 2022 Books

Okay, okay, this post has taken me an age to get out for so many reasons. But thankfully, my reading year has continued to be absolutely incredible. There are so, so many fantastic books on this list and I hope that you’ll be able to add at least a couple to your to-read. I have also started writing a quarterly round-up of speculative fiction books for The Sunday Times since we last spoke on here, but don’t worry if you aren’t subscribed as I’ll still be keeping you up to date with everything on here.

February

The Great

Moon Witch, Spider King by Marlon James

The second instalment in Marlon James' Dark Star Trilogy is narrated by Sogolon, otherwise known as the Moon Witch. We met her in Black Leopard, Red Wolf where she and protagonist Tracker were mostly at odds despite being hired to work together on the same job. This mysterious job: to find a missing boy who may or may not be a king continues to propel this novel, but most of it is dedicated to Sogolon’s background and life story. Instantly this novel feels like a smoother, tauter read than the first book, which is indisputably brilliant but whose sometimes baggy, hallucinatory prose challenged many a reader including myself, James devotee that I am. At times I asked myself if something of his linguistic power was lost in this move to a more straightforward style, but I ultimately concluded that this novel is fantastic in its own right, perhaps even better. It feels like this shift might have a little something to do with the criticism that was levelled at the first book (and the female perspective to contest accusations of misogyny which I think are sometimes overstated; James is brutal to everyone, not just women), but it also does much to differentiate and characterise Tracker and Sogolon. In conversation, the novels together seem to be asking questions of the narrative process; the first more concerned with the slippery role of truth, the second the relationship between memory, identity and storytelling – and of course how these two things interact.

The book’s linearity and cleaner style allow us to appreciate James’ world-building more, and it felt like he was leaning more productively into the fantasy genre because of it, conjuring up breath-taking landscapes and cities. As with its predecessor, this is a chunky book but the plot moves quickly making for compulsive reading. Be warned, there is still a lot of brutality; if you don’t like violent books James’ work is not for you. It is unrelenting and delivered without adornment. It works well here to shape Sogolon’s character and to show what it is like to be a woman in this world, whether we like it or not; the relationship between violence and power remains as important to this work as in the rest of James’ oeuvre. Overall, I think Moon Witch will appeal to most readers who liked Black Leopard, and possibly more. If you are new to the trilogy, James has said himself that you don’t have to read Black Leopard before Moon Witch and I do wonder what my reading experience might have been like if I’d read them in a different order. I think the latter would give you a better base understanding of the first, possibly cutting through some of its knottier moments.

Lambda by David Musgrave

This innovative and unusual debut novel immediately caught my attention; the striking cover, the intriguing blurb and the curious opening lines, “Hello. How are you?” And luckily, it didn’t disappoint. It’s set in an alternative Britain, where people live alongside ‘lambdas’, an aquatic people who migrate from the far north. They resemble newborns and are genetically closely related to humans, but of course their obvious difference is a source of contention in modern British society. When the bombing of a school is claimed by the ‘Army of Lambda Ascension’, tensions ramp up exponentially. This is the storyline the blurb describes - and it is the heart of this novel - but Musgrave roams far and wide in this book, exploring much more than just the xenophobia of British society. He is also interested in our relationship to technology and the ever-increasing integration of machines into our daily lives. For example, much of the novel is written as if it is an ‘AutoNarration’ describing the actions of our protagonist Cara, who is initially an antiterrorism officer and then a lambda liaison within the police. The style is therefore deliberately clunky, zooming in on those things a human narrator would probably not pay any attention to, and leaving out large chunks of other material. There is exploration of the idea of ‘sentient objects’, which feels like a concept we’re all too close to, but which also leads to some quite amusing interactions with a toothbrush. A major theme seemed to be our relationship to our origins with the human, lambda and machine all surveyed over the course of the novel; what does it mean to incorporate so much technology into our lives and how does it sever us from the people around us and our sense of ourselves as historical, biological beings? How does a machine figure its origins? Or a being that doesn’t know its origins like the lambda, who migrate from some unknown place that they can’t remember? How does this affect who they are and how they act?

This book won’t be for everyone. Sometimes I asked myself if it was a little gimmicky in its style and the near-future world it describes, but I think it saves itself from that on multiple counts. For one, it is detailed, layered and clever. There is so much science fiction out there these days which is very superficial and doesn’t really push past the initial premise to fully interrogate all the aspects of the world it describes. I can always tell a good book by how many notes I write, and I had pages on this book. Second, the inclusion of the lambdas. Musgrave’s treatment and description of them is interesting and unusual. I’ve read a lot of books with different ‘peoples’, but the way Musgrave uses the lambdas is particularly effective. For just one thing, they are deliberately named after an ‘anonymous function’ in computer programming, the ‘lambda function’. When you think about this in conversation with the text, it adds a whole new dimension to their role here; are they supposed to be full, rounded beings? What do they show us about ourselves? Are they important in and of themselves? So yes, it might not be for you if you prefer character-driven linear plots, but if you like books packed full of ideas and complexity and don’t mind a little alienation and stiffness in the prose, you’ll like this one. It’s a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster of a book, but I won’t forget it in a hurry.

I’d be very interested to see what Musgrave writes next if anything; is this shifting, tripping narrative style characteristic of him? Will the concerns of future writing be similar – our relationship to technology and our origins? Or will he be one of those authors where each book reads almost entirely different?

The Doloriad by Missouri Williams

Another debut novel, this one entirely different but also excellent. Though I imagine like Lambda, it will be quite polarising. It follows a family at the end of the world whose Matriarch wants to repopulate the earth in her image. Naturally being some of the last people on earth, this leads to a lot of incest (see what I mean about polarising?) We don’t find out what kind of apocalypse we’re dealing with, but it seems to have the effect (along with the incest) of transforming the younger members of the family into increasingly unrecognisable forms. The prose perfectly mirrors its world; it is sticky, dreamlike, absurd – thick with implication and literary prowess. Many will complain of its lack of plot. There is one here, but it’s lying beneath a lot of grotesquerie. This is most definitely literary fiction, and there is a lot happening at the sentence level to illustrate its themes, but that means this is not an easy or always enjoyable read. I did however think it was a little masterpiece; I loved how Williams (or her narrator) seems to be ambivalent about keeping to the old ways of the Matriarch in favour of new forms of being and/or being human. I loved the ending. This one is for those of you who like good prose and can handle a little (a lot of) vulgarity.

A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam

Look, I’ve got a couple of years reading Man Booker longlists under my belt, and I am sufficiently wary as a result. This book was shortlisted last year but due to me, you know, having a small baby, I didn’t pay it much attention at the time. And then I started The Promise and as you can see down below, I didn’t really like it at all. So although this was one of the shortlisted books that I had on my list based on some reviews I read, I didn’t have super high expectations. But oh, what a lovely surprise! This is a gorgeously written, thoughtful book that explores so much of what it means to be human; falling in love, aging, trauma, family life, moving from place to place. It is narrated by Krishan, a young man living in Colombo who finds that he must attend the funeral of his grandmother’s carer in northern Sri Lanka. It is one of those novels that is hyper-specific – Krishan talks extensively about the horrors of the Sri Lankan civil war and his experience as a relatively privileged citizen looking on – but is also so universal in its examination of the human heart.

Arudpragasam uses long sentences and paragraphs to narrate Krishan’s inner world as he moves from topic to topic. Of course, having just finished The Guermantes Way, I instantly felt it to be Proustian. Like Proust, there is not much propulsive plot here; the writing is reflective and the narrative often diverges into adjacent topics, reminiscences or even discussion of writings or documentaries that Krishan is interested in. However, though there is warmth in Proust occasionally, Arudpragasam’s writing is so warm, so generous to its characters and of course being a contemporary work, it is much more readable. It is so hard to get the ‘long sentences’ style right; too often they become convoluted and unreadable. But here they are perfectly pitched. It feels like they are used to mimic thought processes or how we really speak (after all, when we speak we don’t talk in complete perfect sentences but something freer and more flowing), so that we feel close to Krishan as a result, but without the gimmicky use of stream of consciousness (a style I think is very rarely used to good effect). And finally, it’s worth bearing in mind that I typically don’t love very reflective books without strong plot, or at least I find a lot of them to be superficial. But in this the prose is so lovely, the themes and thoughts so sensitively arranged and explored that I would recommend at least trying it even if you are a little unsure.

Woman, Eating: A Literary Vampire Novel by Claire Kohda

I’m typically a bit wary of the depressed millennial theme in literature. It just isn’t really my thing. But here, revamped (literally) as a ‘Literary Vampire Novel’, I found this debut (so many good debuts around here!) to be clever, engaging and enjoyable. Sometimes I thought it was a bit like Elif Batuman’s The Idiot but make it vampire. Lydia has just left her vampire mother in a home and is trying to make her way as an artist in London but finds herself coming up against all the typical twenty-something things – creepy boss, confusing feelings for a boy in her building (who happens to have a girlfriend), lack of direction or structure – along with not-so-typical vampire struggles, namely, being bloody hungry. There is not a lot of high drama here like you might expect of a vampire novel, but I found the vampire aspects to be well integrated into the story. I liked how Kohda explored how integral food is to our culture and connection with others, not to mention that Lydia is also of mixed human heritage, being part Malaysian and part Japanese (and born in Britain). Therefore, her inability to eat normal food also affects her relationship to her origins and her culture. There is lots of clever writing here and sensitive exploration of its themes, but one of the things I like best about this book is that it wears its literary-ness lightly and doesn’t take itself too seriously, whilst still having sufficient depth to make it interesting. Whilst a book like The Doloriad is fantastic, sometimes you want something lighter but still satisfying, and this was a lovely morsel of a book. I will definitely be reading whatever Kohda writes next.

The This by Adam Roberts

You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but we do and I did with The This by Adam Roberts. Somehow I’ve never come across Roberts’ writing before but he is a prolific writer of speculative fiction, with a grand total of twenty-two novels under his belt (amongst other writing). However, when I cracked it open I was sufficiently intrigued by the opening pages that I thought I’d give it a go, and I’m really glad I did. I was nervous, though, because this novel is based on Hegelian philosophy and let me tell you it’s been a long time since I last read any Hegel (cue some extensive googling). I was also nervous about the premise; essentially the main concept is sometime in the near future a company has developed ‘handsfree Twitter’ which sounds relatively innocuous (if you consider Twitter innocuous…) until you realise it’s sort of like a telepathic hivemind with some rather disturbing cultish tendencies. This is the type of premise that is too often done badly, with the author failing to think through all its implications. Or at the other end of the scale I thought it would be too pretentious. Luckily Roberts managed to dodge both of my concerns. This book is a thorough, inventive and clever look at its subject, and the use of Hegel is illuminating throughout (though perhaps not his greatest endorsement). But also – importantly – there is something very readable and compulsive about it. It’s not too heavy and though there are a number of different narratives going on, Roberts’ writing is smooth and immersive enough in each to remain interested. One of the major ones follows Rich, a writer in a world where writing is devalued (seems like something authors are obviously concerned about, if we think back to Lambda’s AutoNarration…). He’s a relatively normal bloke – albeit a bit lonely – but he suddenly becomes the target of an increasingly aggressive recruitment campaign by The This for seemingly no reason at all. Overall, I really liked this book and I would definitely recommend it if this intrigues you. It feels a little chaotic at times but it is packed with interesting material and builds to quite a lovely, moving ending.

Trust by Hernan Diaz (out 4th August)

I missed Diaz’ writing.

We all know I loved Diaz’ debut, In the Distance (which is definitely due a reread from me soon), and so I was inordinately excited to get myself an advance copy of Trust. It’s been described as a ‘literary puzzle’ and is made up of four books which slowly unfold the story of Andrew and Mildred Bevel. It is 1920s New York, and Andrew is one of the wealthiest men in the world having made his fortune on the stock market. Each of the four books gives us glimpses of this couple, and the reader must piece together what they can from the puzzle pieces. I loved the exploration of fiction here, with money of course being the ultimate fiction, but also how the four books communicate with one another to show something true about its characters that couldn’t be achieved with one narrative. What are the fictions we make up about ourselves, and why? How do we create a meaningful narrative out of our lives when we are so multifaceted? And as a reader, who can we trust?

Now this novel is excellent and clever and elegant and it deserves its place with the rest of these books, but because I had such high expectations due to my love of In the Distance, I do have some caveats. Mostly it did not have the heart that I so loved in Diaz’ first novel. Indeed, most of the novels I’ve put in this category this month don’t (with the exception of A Passage North). It is this heart that really elevates a novel for me from a great novel to a favourite of all time. There’s nothing literary about it, that’s just me as a reader. And to be honest, I’m not that interested in the financiers of 1920s New York, so it was going to be difficult to grab me to begin with. So I think because this is a bit of a puzzle, the heart of this novel – Mildred Bevel – comes too little too late, hidden from view for the majority of it. And on the subject of the puzzle, I actually thought there was some over-explanation throughout. I wish more had been left unsaid because that sort of mystery element is something that I really enjoy in a novel (see: Piranesi or The Doloriad, where you really have to piece it together yourself). Finally, Diaz is occupying different voices here, and very successfully too, but I missed his own narrative voice. I know that In the Distance was written in a specific style to suit its content, but not to the degree that it is here.

In conclusion I did enjoy this book for the most part and will continue to read whatever Diaz publishes, but In the Distance remains my firm favourite so far.

The Fine

Harlem Shuffle by Colson Whitehead

With some authors, I’ll read anything they write. With The Nickel Boys, Whitehead affirmed his place on this list. This means in the name of seeing their progression as a writer and being able to get a full picture of their work, I’ll read anything (and be more likely to push through anything) even if it’s not of huge interest to me. And that was very much the case with this book. This was a perfectly good novel, but I just don’t think it was for me. It follows Ray Carney, owner of a furniture store in 1960s Harlem. Only he doesn’t just own a furniture store, he is also a part-time crook. We follow Ray over three heist-style stories which could almost be read separately, and the prose is relatively light and pulpy to match. Be warned though, these are not intricately planned heists but are more amateurish in execution. There were some gorgeous, jewel-like sentences in true Whitehead style, but in general the criminal life narrative is just not for me. I couldn’t really connect with it. One of the best things about it was its depiction of Harlem at the time, but I wish the narrative had been more closely woven together and the plot perhaps more dramatic; if you’re going to go career criminal better to go big-time than small-time. With a book like this the plot is make or break, and sadly it fell down for me on that count.

Wivenhoe by Samuel Fisher

I think had this book been any longer I probably would have given up with it. Not because it isn’t a perfectly fine book, but sadly it paled in comparison to some of the heavy hitters above. It describes the Essex village of Wivenhoe which is permanently snowed under due to climate change. It starts dramatically, with a murder practically witnessed by the entire village. But the novel flounders after this. It lacks depth and real reflection on what it means to live in a world like this, as the murder recedes into the background. There were some nice moments between the characters and the writing about the landscape was also good but overall I was not bowled over by this one. It strikes me as a near-future book written by an author that doesn’t read a lot of good speculative fiction.

Mischief Acts by Zoe Gilbert

And so it continues, my problem with books about folklore or mythical figures. First it was Everything Under. Then it was Tyll. Now it’s Mischief Acts. I so wanted to love this book, and I started off thinking that it was going to be pretty good, but I ended up slogging through it when I really should have given up. However, there will be an audience for this book, it’s just not me.

Gilbert is writing about the figure of Herne the Hunter, who supposedly haunts the woods of the Great North Wood and has antlers growing out of his head. She uses a mixture of poetry and prose to provide a vast overview of this folkloric figure, picking (sometimes very random) parts of history to jump in and tell his story. After the first couple of sections it started to feel disjointed and each part too dreamlike to really get to grips with before you were careering ahead another few decades. Also if each part will read like a short story, then these stories have really got to be able to stand alone as great stories. There was a bit more continuity towards the end that I felt more connected to, but in general it was a nice concept that failed to grab me. I think my problem with folklore and fairytale is that there isn’t enough human emotion. Sure, it’s nice to have something symbolic and pretty, but you need something more than just shades of a myth to form the heart of the story. I don’t think this sort of thing translates well into lengthy novels without transforming these figures practically into humans disguised as whatever mythic figure they are supposed to be. And to cite them and their symbolism is not enough, you must ask why they are important. The novel touches on it in that Herne represents the woods and the woods disappear over time and that is bad, but it needs much more than this to sustain itself. I do have to say there is definitely ambition to this novel and it is clever in many ways, but I just could not get to grips with it. In general it felt a bit half-finished and like it needed more depth on multiple levels.

In Search of Lost Time: Sodom and Gomorrah by Marcel Proust

Ugh, what is it with me and Proust! With The Guermantes Way I thought I’d finally cracked it; I’d caught the Proust bug once and for all and the rest of In Search of Lost Time was going to be a breeze. Alas, that was not so. And to be honest I don’t really have a concrete idea why, though I have been wracking my brains.

As the introduction to my edition says, though Proust himself was gay, this novel is no celebration of homosexuality (unlike, the introduction points out, in the contemporaneous work of André Gide). The inclusion of a lot uncomfortable homophobia in this novel definitely contributed to my dislike of it. When you say a lot in Proust, you mean pages and pages of the stuff. And although I enjoyed the society elements of The Guermantes Way, I felt perhaps that he had lost some of the momentum and focus in the descriptions of it here, and that it was too much too soon since I’d last been reading it. As we know I’m not a massive fan of Proust’s narrator’s romantic exploits, either, and they were back with a vengeance after a nice respite in the previous book. But was it so different from The Guermantes Way? Not really. I think my final problem was I wasn’t really in the mood, and you’ve got to be in the mood for Proust. Alas, I want to finish In Search of Lost Time this year so will probably push through into the next instalment whether I’m ready or not come summer.

DNFs

(I start a lot of books these days, but if relevant I will include notable DNFs [did-not-finish books] and chat about why)

The Promise by Damon Galgut

I won’t lie, I’m kind of shocked this won the Booker. But then, I was kind of shocked that Shuggie Bain won it, too, though for very different reasons. With Shuggie I didn’t feel that the writing was particularly special. With The Promise I thought the writing was bordering on bad. The narration was untethered and felt random (for example, why is there a section talking about how many shits the family members do at someone’s funeral…?), and it gave me the impression of it wanting to feel poignant without actually being poignant. I can deal with characters of all types, but in a novel like this one which is all about its characters, they were far too two-dimensional. Its treatment of women was questionable; why are we still talking about women getting their bodies back after pregnancy and disparaging them just for living in larger bodies? If this is a narrator we’re supposed to judge for viewpoints like these – and I don’t think it is – then who is that narrator? And here’s an eye-roll moment – I think the character we are most supposed to sympathise with, Amor, gets her first period at her mum’s funeral – how symbolic. Let alone the fact that it is about race relations in South Africa and the one section from a black character’s point of view in the hundred pages I did read felt patronising and icky. It was Not the One for me and I felt great relief when I gave myself permission to give up with it!

The Love Songs of W. E. B. Du Bois by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

I so wanted to love this book! And indeed this is by no means a bad book, but it just wasn’t for me. I’m discovering I find it much easier to put down books I’m reading on my Kindle, of which this was a casualty, so I’ll work on that in the future (looking at you Wivenhoe and Mischief Acts, which I probably wouldn’t have kept on with had I not been reading physical copies). The opening of this book is absolutely stunning. Incredible prose. Unfortunately as we got into the main narrative of Ailey, a girl growing up in the late twentieth century, I found I couldn’t quite connect with it. I didn’t feel there was much to differentiate it from many books I’d read before. I know that many reviewers who felt more like I did also felt this huge shift in the quality of writing between some of the sections. And this is an 800-page tome, so I thought it best to leave this one for those who love it and move on.

Re-reads:

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

The Idiot by Elif Batuman