Loved this – the best book from Wild Hunt Books’ Northern Weird Project so far. As in her excellent debut Bear Season, Gemma Fairclough uses differentLoved this – the best book from Wild Hunt Books’ Northern Weird Project so far. As in her excellent debut Bear Season, Gemma Fairclough uses different formats (letters, blog posts, an interview transcript and the framing device of a non-fiction narrative) to fabulous effect. Main narrator Richard is trying to find out what really happened to his sister, Julie, who took her own life shortly after spending time at a mysterious ‘wellness retreat’ in the Lake District. It’s unputdownable, thoughtful on themes of chronic illness and wellness culture, and also incorporates the Northern theme seamlessly. Reminded me of Plunge Hill: A Case Study and Come Join Our Disease. Fairclough is the real deal, a proper talent, can’t wait to read more from her.
I received an advance review copy of The Retreat from the publisher, Wild Hunt Books....more
The cover signals a spooky thriller, but One Came Back is an altogether quieter and subtler book. It’s partly a slice-of-life story about the narratorThe cover signals a spooky thriller, but One Came Back is an altogether quieter and subtler book. It’s partly a slice-of-life story about the narrator’s job (helping vulnerable people find places to live independently). The rest is a psychological mystery. Emily meets a man who looks just like someone she grew up with, a boy who died when they were teenagers. She isn’t the only one who notices the resemblance: not only do her friends agree, they’re all united by the feeling that the man really is Nicky in some impossible, ineffable way. And it gets stranger when he claims to remember their schooldays and makes veiled references to coming back from the dead...
I loved the considered style of the prose and really warmed to the protagonist. One of the things I liked most was reading about the day-to-day of Emily’s work, which is detailed and sensitively rendered. It’s become common, even clichéd, for horror to be ‘about grief’ or ‘about trauma’, and while One Came Back is, I suppose, an example of that, I thought it captured a particular experience so well: how memories of particularly fraught or heady times can stay vivid and immediate while others quickly fade into nothing. While Nicky’s tragedy does not belong to Emily, she nevertheless feels a strong connection to it, a feeling that (in the eyes of most) has no legitimate outlet. Complicating the picture is the grief she doesn’t feel over her late sister, who died as a baby and who Emily doesn’t remember – in stark contrast to her intense memories of Nicky.
The narrative is so strong on obsession, the stickiness of certain memories, the blurred line between past and present. McDonagh nails the eerie, futile intimacy of feeling a bond to someone who is, for whatever reason, unreachable. Now the bad news: the book has the kind of ending that makes me wish I hadn’t read the last three pages. I felt completely jolted out of the story by it. It just doesn’t work, and what’s especially annoying is it could (and should) easily have been revised.
Yet even with that stumble at the finish line, I think One Came Back is well worth reading. It’s so much more delicate and resonant than I’d anticipated, and what will stick with me is how emotionally astute it is. As much as I love horror, I’m glad McDonagh didn’t dial up the creepiness here. Not a ghost story, really – but you might still feel haunted....more
This is a funny, sad and smart, but also hopeful, satire of American culture, a sprawling, spanning-decades novel in the Jonathan Franzen mould. StartThis is a funny, sad and smart, but also hopeful, satire of American culture, a sprawling, spanning-decades novel in the Jonathan Franzen mould. Starting (misleadingly?) with the suicide of a student on campus, it rewinds through the backstories of several generations of characters, adding a splash of magical realism. Many of said characters seem cliched at first glance – the sad-sack middle-aged lecturer, the wayward single mother, the rebellious student – but Pistelli does entirely non-cliched things with them, letting them deepen and twist and contradict themselves. It’s slow going at times, it’s ambitious, it’s genuinely interested in thinking big.
I don’t agree with all the book's conclusions and/or implications (but do I need to?); and I wouldn’t have got the context of the story’s real-life comic-book writer inspirations without reading some other reviews (but do I need to?); and I felt the motivations of the female characters, in particular, got a bit jumbled near the end. But I really liked this. I believe that Pistelli writes with compassion and curiosity towards his characters throughout. As with Let Me Try Again, its surface cynicism masks a soft heart. And thank god for a book with ideas in it that doesn’t just spoonfeed the reader’s presumed opinions back to them....more
I had no plans to read this; I’ve previously tried a book by the same author (The Lighthouse Witches) and thought it was dreadful. But then I spotted I had no plans to read this; I’ve previously tried a book by the same author (The Lighthouse Witches) and thought it was dreadful. But then I spotted a hardback copy of A Haunting in the Arctic in a £1 box outside a charity shop and couldn’t resist. The cover is lovely; the title and premise call to mind some of my favourite horror novels, combining an icebound setting (Dark Matter, Where the Dead Wait) and a haunted boat (literally my favourite ghost story of all time). Also, all the books I’d planned to read over Christmas turned out to be flops, so I was in need of something new...
And: it starts very well. There are two major parallel plotlines. At the beginning of the twentieth century, a young woman named Nicky is bundled aboard the whaling vessel Ormen, her father’s ship, against her will. In 2024, urban explorer Dominique plans to document the last days of the Ormen – now stranded off the coast of Iceland – before the ship is broken up. I found both strands instantly absorbing. At the beginning, Nicky’s character is developed effectively, while the wreck of the Ormen is vividly drawn and definitely creepy.
Unfortunately, two of the problems I had with The Lighthouse Witches are repeated here: the writing, at a line level, never really rises above ‘fine’; and there are plot holes – in some cases the narrative contradicts itself from one sentence to the next. (I know I’m always going on about subpar proofreading and editing, but really, this was put out by a major publisher. Where’s the quality control?) The need to slot the writing into a conventional spooky-thriller style means nothing is just allowed to be inexplicable. The story has no freedom to be weird. Characters are always having to think inane things like ‘how could any of this be real?’
Some more specific thoughts with spoilers: (view spoiler)[A ghost from 1901 opening a TikTok account is, on the face of it, funny. It’s difficult to take that seriously. In theory, I quite like the idea of a ghost repeatedly manifesting through the ages and learning more about the wider world while remaining ignorant of the fact that they’re physically trapped. It could work. But I don’t think it does here, especially if we’re going to be shown things like the others being excited about Dominique recognising the term ‘Lovecraftian’; I mean, isn’t the fact that she’s fully au fait with modern technology a bit more significant?! Also, I didn’t believe that a newspaper in the early 1900s would report on Nicky’s disappearance while giving her name as ‘Nicky’, which rather gives the game away! And on a more serious note, I agree with other negative reviews that the rape aspect of Nicky’s storyline is badly handled and at times difficult to read and the portrayal of Inuit girls is... well... (hide spoiler)]
In a nutshell: while this book has some solid concepts and a great setting, it’s also pretty ham-fisted, and that drags it down into banality. ...more
(3.5) I became interested in this book because I happened to read the blurb for the US edition, which includes a lot of detail its UK equivalent leave(3.5) I became interested in this book because I happened to read the blurb for the US edition, which includes a lot of detail its UK equivalent leaves out. In particular the fact that parts of the story revolve around a mysterious semi-lost videogame called Scream School. This, for better or worse, is the sort of thing that immediately makes a small and very irrational part of my brain go into MUST READ THIS BOOK overdrive.
Scream School is an interesting detail, and one of the most memorable things about this book, but the UK publishers were probably right to leave it out of their synopsis: this is the type of story in which such a detail is incidental embellishment, not an engine for narrative developments. Confessions is a multi-generational tale of women in New York and rural Ireland, flipping back and forth between the 20th and 21st centuries as it follows the connected fates of Cora, Róisín, Máire and Lyca.
I have few real complaints about Confessions, which is well-written and skilfully structured to show us the ways in which these characters’ lives intersect and mirror one another. (Although, on that note: there is one recurring plot point which feels unlikely in how many times it happens to different people.) It’s an impressive debut. However, I never really found anything in here that resonated with me, and I’m already starting to forget the characters and plot. This will likely appeal more to those who enjoy quietly insightful family sagas. I think I just need a bit more intrigue and strangeness in a story.
I received an advance review copy of Confessions from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I learned of the existence of this book by chance a couple of days before its publication, and had to buy it because a) I am a fan of Simon Avery’s wrI learned of the existence of this book by chance a couple of days before its publication, and had to buy it because a) I am a fan of Simon Avery’s writing (I loved The Teardrop Method in particular) and b) it’s a creepy novel about imaginary friends and a forgotten kids’ TV show from the 70s. With themes like that, my worst enemy could have written this and I’d probably still buy it. PoppyHarp, though, has much more going for it than just its premise.
At a book signing, middle-aged writer Noah is reunited with his former girlfriend Imogen, also the erstwhile star of a children’s TV series created by her father, Oliver. In a parallel storyline, flashbacks follow Oliver as he develops The Adventures of Imogen and Florian, has a fleeting moment of fame and is drawn into a new, intoxicating way of life in London. As each strand progresses, we get to know these characters intimately, particularly in the case of Oliver. And we become aware that Oliver’s creations – the animal companions who starred alongside Imogen in his show – may be more than just puppets. On top of that is the mystery of the book’s title. What (or who) might ‘PoppyHarp’ be?
When I reviewed Avery’s collection A Box Full of Darkness, I described it as ‘filled with both deep strangeness and profound humanity’. I could say the same of PoppyHarp. This is a book that packs in a huge amount – including fascinating context about British media, art and celebrity in the 1970s and 80s – but its connecting thread is an unwavering sense of hope. Then there’s the strangeness: this is a deliciously eerie story, and its climactic sequence, a surreal excursion into ‘Elsewhere’, is unforgettable.
Much like the characters, I was led down some surprising rabbit holes (put it this way: I did not expect one of my big takeaways from this book to be that I now really want to read Kenneth Williams’ diaries.) PoppyHarp reminded me of Nina Allan’s The Dollmaker in its wonderfully digressive narration, its stories within stories, and its warmth. Avery is an excellent storyteller, and this is an unexpected and very welcome late addition to my ‘best books of the year’ list. ...more
The day I started reading We Pretty Pieces of Flesh, I ended up staying up all night to read it, hugely energised by the book, these girls already reaThe day I started reading We Pretty Pieces of Flesh, I ended up staying up all night to read it, hugely energised by the book, these girls already real to me. I knew straight away this was something very special. Since then, every time I’ve sat down to write about it I’ve baulked at doing so, unsure I would be able to capture what makes it so good. But here goes.
This is a novel about three girls from Doncaster, related, in its entirety, in its characters’ South Yorks dialect. In the first couple of chapters we’re introduced to the friendship between Rach, Kel and Shaz and the things that ripple out from it: love, envy, lust, resentment. The book follows them from childhood (in the late 90s) to their reunion in a future that looks nothing like any of them imagined (circa late 2010s). We meet them at various ages; still, it’s their teen years, their coming of age, that is the main focus.
We Pretty Pieces of Flesh is told as a series of stories, jumping time periods, jumping perspectives. Because of this, the characters become whole while in some senses remaining unknowable. We learn more about what makes Kel tick as an adult, whereas most of what we know of Rach is about her teen self. Meanwhile, Shaz – who, in another’s hands, might seem the least likeable, or the most enigmatic, due to her defensiveness and her social status – becomes the beating heart of the story. Some threads drawn through the book, like a crucial secret Shaz keeps from the others, don’t come to fruition until the very end. Others never do. This is a story about people, about lives that feel true, so there’s no neat plotting.
I’m going to talk about the use of dialect a bit more, because I really loved the accuracy of Brown’s writing here. Her characters correctly use wa – was without the s – rather than were (which is common in less careful renderings of Yorkshire accents). She writes intut and ont rather than into t’, on t’; the latter examples ring false because in speech, the last t is attached to the end of the preceding word and doesn’t stand alone as a harsh sound; it retains some of the shape of the. Indeed, sometimes it’s so soft it’s barely there; here Brown omits it, as in a phrase like down front path. Niche analysis aside (and I could keep going!), the dialect is important. It’s a bold move by Brown – potentially divisive – but it is essential to these characters’ story. The power of their narratives cannot be separated from the fact that it’s related in their own voices. If you think this story could be told without it, you’ve misunderstood what this book is.
These girls’ lives were not quite mine (my friends and I were older than these characters before sex, drugs and nightclubs entered the picture) but, you know, it’s still a story about working-class northern girls in the late 90s/early 00s. How could it not feel close to my heart? The details are specific enough to spark some long-dormant memories: prank calling the operator, ‘chuddy’ and ‘IDST’, a boyfriend referring to you as our lass. (And making ‘top ten’ lists of boys you fancied was something I’d long thought was unique to me and my friends. How did these things spread before the internet?)
I was so in love with the details and the voice(s) that it took until I was two-thirds of the way through to pick up on something else I loved about it: I never knew where any of these stories were going. When I broke off in the middle of a chapter, I didn’t know what I would find when I returned to the book. Apart from anything else, it’s exciting. Brilliant storytelling. If I have one small criticism it would actually be that I’m not keen on the title, which reads as whimsical and twee next to the blunt poetry of the narration.
Coming-of-age stories about working-class people from nowhere towns are so often about getting out, but what happens when you don’t? Or when you have to come back? I loved that Brown envisions lives for these women that bring them home; their horizons may not expand in the way they’d hoped, but they’re not small, never that. The narrative is really good at being both compassionate and down to earth (for example, it’s sensitive to topics like chronic illness without making characters think or speak in ways unrealistic for them). I think there is also something here about how a working-class upbringing shapes you forever no matter how your life pans out later – again underlining why we keep coming back to the characters as teens. I haven’t read anything else like this book, so the best I can do for a comparison is: take the raucous energy of a ‘girls fucking up’ story, say Animals, and give it the fierceness, authenticity and political slant of an Ironopolis. Shaz, Rach and Kel are so vivid and alive in my heart that I can’t quite believe they aren’t real people. Glorious. Devastating.
I received an advance review copy of We Pretty Pieces of Flesh from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I was instantly mesmerised by the opening chapter of Old Soul, in which a teacher finds he has something very unusual in common with a woman he meets I was instantly mesmerised by the opening chapter of Old Soul, in which a teacher finds he has something very unusual in common with a woman he meets on a trip to Osaka. From this first scene onwards, this book is utterly compelling. It switches between a continuing narrative – titled ‘Badlands’ – and a series of testimonies that almost act as self-contained short stories. The latter are connected by the presence of Jake, the teacher from the first chapter, who goes all over the world in search of them. Together, these entwined narratives slowly paint a picture of the character at the book’s heart: a woman who takes on many guises, an immortal, the ‘old soul’ of the title, a dangerous and unknowable creature. In spite of all that, this isn’t a story with a clear-cut villain. As I read, I frequently found my sympathies shifting.
There are definite similarities to Barker’s earlier novel The Incarnations, which also follows a centuries-old character with many different faces, but this is clearly the superior product – slicker and impeccably paced, so unbearably tense I was constantly tempted to skip ahead because I just needed to find out where it was going next. (I tended to enjoy the testimonies most, but ‘Badlands’ is electric with suspense, like a taut wire pulled through the middle of the book.) It reminded me of The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez, The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, or even a supernatural version of Liz Nugent’s Skin Deep. I already want to read it again.
I received an advance review copy of Old Soul from the publisher through NetGalley....more
Read that Rob Savage is directing an adaptation of this, then discovered the ebook was free to read on Kindle. It’s a solid graphic novel about a lostRead that Rob Savage is directing an adaptation of this, then discovered the ebook was free to read on Kindle. It’s a solid graphic novel about a lost film. Didn’t really do what I want a lost film narrative to do – it’s too fixed to a single location, the film itself doesn’t seem interesting enough to warrant the reputation it has in-story – but a decent way to pass half an hour. ...more
(Review written July 2020.) An oral history of a fictional musician – so addictive I read it in a single night. It's something like Daisy Jones & T(Review written July 2020.) An oral history of a fictional musician – so addictive I read it in a single night. It's something like Daisy Jones & The Six meets The Life and Death of Sophie Stark, but smarter and wittier than either. Also has a villain so palpably punchable, it's a miracle my Kindle is still intact.
In the world of the book, Geffel was a hugely influential experimental pianist who rose to prominence in the late 1970s. Her impact was such that 'geffel' has become a verb (meaning 'to release pure emotion in a work of creative expression'). Now, however, she is absent, having been missing for decades, and we hear her story via family, friends, lovers, teachers, management and doctors. Adrianne's unique talent, we learn, is attributable to a form of synesthesia: she hears constant music in her mind, and it changes according to her mood. She's also the subject of hideous exploitation by those who see her gift as a way to make money.
The author's background as a music critic undoubtedly contributes to the effectiveness of Adrianne Geffel as a satire. There are some very entertaining asides and cameos (like when Adrianne and Barb inadvertently invent the Walkman, or when Philip Glass comes to fix their toilet). It's equally satisfying as good old enjoyable fiction. I don't know what it is about stories told this way that's so engrossing, but I just couldn't put it down.
I received an advance review copy of Adrianne Geffel: A Fiction from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I loved Newman’s Municipal Gothic so much that I bought and started reading this new collection immediately after finishing it. There’s definitelyI loved Newman’s Municipal Gothic so much that I bought and started reading this new collection immediately after finishing it. There’s definitely more of a folk horror flavour to Intervals of Darkness. Things rise up from the earth, or the sea: an ancient skull in ‘Poor Ned’s Head’, a pair of antlers in ‘The Horns in the Earth’. Echoes of history reverberate through ‘Second Homes’ and ‘Tales from the Levels: ‘Remembrance’’; rural communities reject and/or terrorise outsiders in ‘Night of the Fox’ and ‘Winter Wonderland’.
At the same time, the book continues and reinforces the political slant evident in Newman’s first collection. This is most apparent in two stories I can’t help but think of as a pair, ‘British Chemicals’ and ‘Industrial Byproducts’. In ‘Chemicals’, company directors discuss a factory worker’s mysterious death; though they acknowledge a strange presence on the factory floor, they ultimately decline to award his family compensation, adding a final indignity to a lifetime of exploitation. Strange elements notwithstanding, ‘Byproducts’ really feels like more of a realist, miserabilist story, in which a working-class couple struggle to maintain optimism in the face of the daily grind. The effects of decades of work manifest in unusual physical ways, but really the point is that these shining, beautiful people are ground down to nothing by the simple act of trying to survive.
I loved ‘The Horns in the Earth’, in which a cynical writer visits a series of council estates, hoping to find a topic for a book. He ends up being haunted (and somewhat oblivious about it) after digging a pair of antlers out of an old rubbish heap. ‘Winter Wonderland’, charting a doomed family outing to a Christmas theme park, is excellent, and so cinematic it feels like a ready-made basis for a film. I also enjoyed the Aickmanesque ‘Night of the Fox’, and ‘Competing Theories with Regards to the Origins of the Ghost of Totterdown Lock’ with its multitude of voices.
Overall, I didn’t fall as hard for this book as I did for Municipal Gothic – maybe it wasn’t the best idea to read the books back-to-back, but I was just so excited to discover a new writer to add to my collection of favourites. Although I’d recommend Municipal Gothic first, Intervals of Darkness is well worth a look if you’re interested in modern British horror....more
First things first: I had no idea that Elizabeth Hand’s ‘Near Zennor’ – literally my favourite short story of all time – would appear in this anthologFirst things first: I had no idea that Elizabeth Hand’s ‘Near Zennor’ – literally my favourite short story of all time – would appear in this anthology. For anyone thinking of buying Bound in Blood, Hand’s story is an absolute masterpiece that is worth the price of the book on its own. I wrote about it in my review of her collection Errantry, and there’s not much I can add to that, but again: it’s a masterpiece.
Yet its inclusion means I find Bound in Blood more difficult to review, overall, than I might otherwise. For me, ‘Near Zennor’ is such a standout it makes even the good stories here look mediocre by comparison. That’s not to say that it’s a bad collection, just your typical mixed bag. As with something like Darkness Beckons, I found this to be such a mixture of styles and subgenres of horror that I inevitably found myself skipping over some of the stories. As a result, I’m not sure I can assign a single rating to it.
With that said, Lucie McKnight Hardy’s ‘Broken Back Man’ is excellent: a barman is spooked when a customer reminds him of childhood night terrors; it’s truly atmospheric and creepy. As a non-enjoyer of cosmic horror, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Charlie Higson’s ‘From the Sea’, an ingenious and funny reinvention of Lovecraft that reminded me of Lynne Truss’s Cat Out of Hell. Other highlights were A.G. Slatter’s enjoyably gothic ‘Bell, Book and Lamp’; Robert Shearman’s odd, original ‘Beneath the Diaphragm, the Gut Itself’; and Alison Moore’s ‘The House Witch’, a typical Moore combination of mundanity and the weird....more
Excellent at a technical/craft level... This immediately struck me as a book you could easily teach: almost every line of every story is carefully calExcellent at a technical/craft level... This immediately struck me as a book you could easily teach: almost every line of every story is carefully calibrated to tell us something about its characters; McFarlane writes around the serial killer theme cleverly, deftly. But I was frequently just bored! It’s almost too perfect to be enjoyable. ‘Hostess’ was the only story that stood out as having anything raw and human and fun at its core. Also there’s a cloying edge to the way McFarlane depicts relationships that I really didn’t vibe with. ...more
In this collection, each story is part of a pair, so a detail of one will be reflected or elaborated upon in another. (This is mentioned in the blurb,In this collection, each story is part of a pair, so a detail of one will be reflected or elaborated upon in another. (This is mentioned in the blurb, but I’d forgotten about it when I started reading, so it was only as I progressed through the stories and spotted the links that I became properly aware of it.) It’s a sort of call-and-response structure that makes the book more satisfying as a whole, although at the same time, almost every story can stand on its own.
The stories are set across three centuries in various parts of New England. There are a lot of windswept coasts and woodstoves, quaint little museums and mysterious forests. These are quiet, compassionate stories – it’s not a showy book. The stories are gentle but the writing is sharp, a good combination. The precise way characters’ actions are described, the naturalistic dialogue, reminded me so much of Brandon Taylor; I’ve often wondered what Taylor’s fiction would be like if his characters had a wider range of ages and experiences, and here perhaps is the answer. If you enjoyed the style of The Late Americans but found the focus too narrow, read this.
I loved the pairing of ‘Radiolab: “Singularities”’, a transcript of a podcast episode about a mysterious photograph, and ‘The Auk’, which details how the photograph came to be. Similarly satisfying is the combination of ‘Edwin Chase of Nantucket’, which has a boy struggling to understand his mother’s relationship with an enigmatic visitor who gifts her a painting, and ‘The Silver Clip’ (possibly my favourite?), where the painting resurfaces as part of a new graduate’s unusual friendship with a much older widow. Two of the most effective stories are ‘The Children of New Eden’, about a young couple drawn into a religious cult, and ‘Graft’, in which a woman thinks she may have glimpsed the child she gave up – these stories are not a pair, but they have similar emotional heft and tension. And of course I have to mention the first story, ‘The History of Sound’, which is an excellent opener, instantly engaging, impossible to resist.
Occasionally something doesn’t work: I thought I was supposed to dislike the protagonist of ‘August in the Forest’, but if so, the ending is a shitty outcome for Elizabeth in a way that chafes against the book’s general mood. I also didn’t buy the narrative voice of its partner story, ‘The Journal of Thomas Thurber’, which rings false for its supposed narrator and time period. For the most part though, this works wonderfully, really self-assured writing, a calm confidence to it all, a spellbinding portrait of ordinary lives and the reverberations of small, seemingly inconsequential incidents and choices through history....more
Dead Letters is an anthology with a brilliant concept which just happens to be weighted towards subgenres I don’t much enjoy. If you prefer monster stDead Letters is an anthology with a brilliant concept which just happens to be weighted towards subgenres I don’t much enjoy. If you prefer monster stories, cosmic horror, action/gore and dark fantasy over ghost stories and subtler shades of weird fiction, you might get more out of this book than I did. Which is to say I didn’t love it, but that’s not a value judgement, just a matter of taste. And of course there are some great stories here, especially ‘Re: The Hand (of god)’ by J.A.W. McCarthy, which uses emails and messages to tell the story of a woman who gets trapped at work... with a severed hand... that keeps getting bigger. How you even come up with an idea as original and strange as this story, I’ll never know. Also really liked ‘Something Cool Behind the Waterfall’ by Nat Reiher (similarly original), ‘Family Dirt’ by Justin Allec, ‘The Second Death’ by Christina Wilder, ‘Echo Chamber’ by Gemma Files and ‘Berkey Family Vacation 1988’ by Jacob Steven Mohr....more
A music student arrives in Cambridge to start his degree, aware his ordinary background marks him out as an outsider. Things start to change when he fA music student arrives in Cambridge to start his degree, aware his ordinary background marks him out as an outsider. Things start to change when he forms an unlikely friendship with the wealthy and charismatic Bryn Cavendish, a talented magician with a thing for the occult. Yet as their bond deepens, the narrator’s obsession with both Bryn and his girlfriend Alexa threatens to become dangerous...
Yeah, I know: this premise is the stuff of a thousand debuts, and at first I assumed it would be a retread of themes that appear in lots of first novels. In some ways, it is, and that’s fine with me; as long as these books are well-written and not straight-up plagiarism, I almost always enjoy them. In my early notes, however, I was writing phrases like ‘really not doing anything original’. I’d have put it in the same category as, say, The Cloisters): enjoyable, but hardly breaking the mould. Then something started to shift. It begins with the addition of a horror angle, of course – the suggestion, writ large in the title, that Bryn Cavendish might be something a bit more diabolical than just an amateur magician.
But it goes further: this turns out to be a narrative that subverts and rewrites itself, turning all its ideas upside down and shaking everything out. In doing that, it does more than just tell an engaging story: it gets to the heart of why so many of us are fascinated by these stories about academia and privilege. While there are some powerfully creepy scenes, ultimately what sent the biggest chill down my spine was the warning built in to the narrator’s account – one about the dangers of mythologising a person, a lifestyle, or even yourself. How insidious a fantasy can be, how easy to cling to, and what that might look like from the outside. It’s a stunning spin on familiar tropes.
I read And He Shall Appear twice in 2024: the first time, I felt it gathered pace as it went along, building to a crescendo; I finished the book in a daze, intoxicated by it, already thinking about when I’d read it again. The second time, I was so riveted – all the way through – I could hardly bear to break off. The book it reminded me of most was The Bellwether Revivals (it similarly entwines an outsider-at-Oxbridge narrative with hints of the supernatural), with shades of The Party (themes of obsession and manipulation – as well as just how enjoyable it is to read) and Engleby (the narrative approach). It’s also reminiscent of The Little Stranger in its use of supernatural elements. I am predisposed to love books of this type, but I really do think van der Borgh pulls it off with more panache than most. An instant favourite.
I received an advance review copy of And He Shall Appear from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I recently wrote a newsletter about what I look for in summer reading, and this is a perfect example of EXACTLY the sort of book I was thinking about.I recently wrote a newsletter about what I look for in summer reading, and this is a perfect example of EXACTLY the sort of book I was thinking about. Final Act is soapy, fun and easy to read, but it is also extremely well-written and expertly plotted. It follows a ‘lost’, and later rediscovered, painting by the forgotten surrealist painter of the title. The work, ‘Self-Portrait as Sphinx’, is a sensation in the 1930s and later believed to have been destroyed by Juliette Willoughby’s estranged family. In 1991, a student thinks she’s found it, only to have her research derailed by a conspiracy that will span decades. It’s a juicy, absorbing story, Fake Like Me but with a bigger historical angle, and I ate it up.
Given the book’s title and its central focus, it’s perhaps odd that Juliette’s narrative is the weakest of the three. We start with journal entries and then jump into her perspective – I didn’t think this quite worked, the way we’re at a remove from Juliette’s actual experience and then suddenly not, for reasons of narrative convenience. On the other hand, I couldn’t get enough of Caroline and Patrick’s story. Their world feels so rich (perhaps demonstrating the strengths of Ellery Lloyd as a husband-and-wife writing team) and everything is drawn together with surprising poignancy in the book’s concluding chapters....more
I absolutely cannot resist a ‘lost film’ horror novel, so, although I’ve struggled to get on with Tremblay’s books in the past, I was confident this wI absolutely cannot resist a ‘lost film’ horror novel, so, although I’ve struggled to get on with Tremblay’s books in the past, I was confident this would work for me. And it did! It’s the story of a cult film simply titled Horror Movie, as told by the only surviving member of its cast: the man who played a nebulous character known as the Thin Kid. I don’t want to describe the plot much beyond that; it’s one of those books best experienced with little knowledge of what is to come. It reminded me a lot of James Han Mattson’s Reprieve and John Darnielle’s Devil House, but at the same time, it’s doing almost the opposite of those books; a subversion of a subversion. That’s all I’m saying!
I received an advance review copy of Horror Movie from the publisher through NetGalley....more
The starting point for this anthology is Wellbrook High School, at which (we’re told) a terrible and infamous ‘Event’ took place in 1993, leaving onlyThe starting point for this anthology is Wellbrook High School, at which (we’re told) a terrible and infamous ‘Event’ took place in 1993, leaving only a handful of survivors. Styled as a recreation of the 1993 yearbook, For Tomorrow is a set of stories inspired by this premise. In many cases, surviving Wellbrook students are the protagonists, though some take a less direct approach. The setup also leaves a lot of room for stories that take place in different time periods, with some contributors opting for a nostalgic 90s setting and some the present day.
Three in particular stood out to me. ‘Amusements’ by Verity Holloway sees Libby setting herself up as a psychic in a fading British seaside town (a dependably great setting for horror); it seethes with sinister undercurrents and ambiguity. In ‘Habitual’ by Daniel Carpenter, a struggling Londoner is offered a job and flat in a luxurious, but weirdly empty, building. Featuring the best ending in the book, this story slots into the tradition of urban horror alongside Joel Lane and Gary Budden, and also reminded me a lot of Jonathan Sims’ Thirteen Storeys. Finally, there’s a pleasing 90s-urban-legend feel to ‘Hyperlink’ by Polis Loizou, which sees its internet-obsessed protagonist discovering some oddly addictive music online.
I also liked ‘Shadow Burdens’ by Charlotte Bond; tonally different from the rest, this story follows a woman who can see the shadow-like physical manifestations of people’s emotional burdens, and faces a dilemma when she meets someone with a different shadow to the rest. I knew I was going to like ‘Comments On This Video Have Been Disabled’ by James Everington based on the title alone, and it’s a great take on the ‘found footage’ trope that reminded me of Ray Cluley’s ‘6/6’. Speaking of which, ‘As I Want You To Be’ by Ray Cluley is another strong story, with what is perhaps the book’s best link to the events at Wellbrook, and Lucie McKnight Hardy’s ‘Carrion’ delivers an unnerving modern folk tale in the author’s signature style.
Part of me wishes there had been more ‘yearbook’ content to flesh out the nature of the Event and bring a more cohesive feel to the whole thing. But then again, the lack of specificity allows for a fun range of interpretations (working similarly to the Eden Book Society series from Dead Ink). I always find something interesting to read from Black Shuck Books, and they should definitely be on your radar if you’re interested in modern British horror writing....more
(3.5) Despite a title that seems to be in conversation with Kunzru’s two previous novels, White Tears and Red Pill, this book dispenses with its p(3.5) Despite a title that seems to be in conversation with Kunzru’s two previous novels, White Tears and Red Pill, this book dispenses with its predecessors’ touches of surrealism (the uncanny song in White, the prophetic TV show in Red) and tells a more straightforward story. The three main characters, all aspiring artists, are in a love triangle as students; many years later, one of them – Jay, now so destitute he’s living in his car – washes up at the luxurious home of the other two, married couple Alice and Rob. It’s also a pandemic novel, with all the key scenes set in the late spring/early summer of 2020. Characters’ panic about the virus manifests in a variety of ways (and is arguably the engine of the plot, too).
Much of the first half consists of Jay reflecting on his short, messy relationship with Alice; these scenes are well-written, but inconsequential. While Kunzru sketches a neat portrait of the young Jay – his naivety and idealism, as well as the late-90s London art scene through which he moves – I wasn’t sure why I should care, or where this was all going. Meanwhile, whenever we return to 2020, the dialogue between Jay, Alice, Rob and another couple has a sheen of unreality. Maybe it was just the Covid references, but I felt like I was watching actors perform a scene, rather than eavesdropping on a real conversation.
And I questioned whether this artificiality is deliberate; we are, after all, encouraged to wonder what is true about Jay. (A sculpture made of multiple, spiralling mirrors – which Jay visits several times, and is even moved to tears by – seems significant here. As does the belief, shared by almost everyone and thus communicated to the reader, that Jay’s presence is too wild a coincidence to have happened purely by chance.) I found Jay’s account of himself unconvincing. Are we supposed to think he’s lying? Partly because he’s still hung up on Alice after so long, it’s hard to believe Jay has had the rich life experience he claims; it’s as though he’s jumped from being a student straight into middle age. Which, of course, for the purposes of the story, he has. But should it feel quite so much like that’s the case? Is it meant to be so noticeable?
As I read Blue Ruin, and especially throughout the climax and ending, I kept thinking of questions like this – about the characters, and about the book. I found myself inventing and discarding theories about what was really going on, and whether some of the vaguely frustrating narrative techniques were a tricksy manoeuvre on the part of the author and/or his narrator (as in something like Ottessa Moshfegh’s Death in Her Hands). Should we ask whether this whole story is part of Jay’s performance art, or is that stretching the metaphor too far, inventing an authorial intention that isn’t there? Is it better for fiction to be thought-provoking than a good story? Even if so, is it enough for it to be thought-provoking?
The closing lines put such a neat cap on the story that they make it all seem weightless. As if Rob, Alice et al have disappeared in a puff of smoke. While it takes particular talent to write something that feels that way, I’m not sure I want to read books where the characters leave no impression. I’m left with mixed feelings about Blue Ruin. It’s more interesting to think about than to read. But then, sometimes I really enjoy that.
I received an advance review copy of Blue Ruin from the publisher through Edelweiss....more