I’ve read two short story collections by Izumi Suzuki; the first of these, Terminal Boredom, was incredible, while the second, Hit Parade of Tears, seI’ve read two short story collections by Izumi Suzuki; the first of these, Terminal Boredom, was incredible, while the second, Hit Parade of Tears, seemed to drop off quite significantly in terms of quality. When Terminal Boredom was published, I could find very little information on the author – there wasn’t even an English-language Wikipedia page for her at the time – and I had no idea she’d also written novels. In fact, it turns out Suzuki was a more prolific writer than I’d initially assumed. This book, the first of her novels to be translated, follows a beautiful but unhappy young woman’s adventures in the Tokyo music scene of the 1970s. Towards the end, it takes a more serious turn when she (rather inexplicably) marries an unpleasant bully. From what I can gather, parts of this are pretty true to the author’s own life; accordingly, the protagonist here is named Izumi.
Set My Heart On Fire reminded me insistently, maybe even eerily, of Anna Kavan’s writing: its semi-autobiographical nature; the narrator’s detachment and ennui; the drugs; an abusive, loveless marriage. Kavan, too, is a writer whose oeuvre is a mixture of speculative and realist fiction. Even Izumi’s preference for musicians as romantic and sexual partners is reminiscent of the way Kavan portrays racing drivers in ‘World of Heroes’. Maybe it’s unfair to say this novel pales in comparison to Kavan’s Who Are You? or Julia and the Bazooka, but the thematic (and, sometimes, stylistic) similarities are so strong I couldn’t help comparing them. There are some really vivid, arresting moments in Set My Heart On Fire, and if you know the author’s life story, it’s difficult not to read a certain pathos into the ending. Yet it feels frustratingly uneven, with a dizzying amount of random sex in the first two-thirds followed by an abrupt drop into more gruelling subject matter when Izumi meets Jun. So far, I’ve found Suzuki’s realist fiction less successful than her sci-fi....more
It’s funny to think I might never have read this – while I loved Spider, it didn’t make me immediately want to go out and buy everything else the authIt’s funny to think I might never have read this – while I loved Spider, it didn’t make me immediately want to go out and buy everything else the author had written. I only picked up Dr Haggard’s Disease because I found a copy in one of my favourite charity bookshops. Now I’m kicking myself. I think it might actually be a masterpiece. Why isn’t it better known, more widely read? And have I been sleeping on the rest of McGrath’s books?
Edward Haggard is a man who has led an extremely limited and suppressed life. Now a country doctor, he mostly keeps to his isolated, windswept house and tries to cope with the pain caused by ‘Spike’, the metal pin that holds his hip together, legacy of an old injury. His sole relationship seems to have been an affair some years ago. He was a promising young registrar; she was the wife of a senior pathologist. Haggard is already utterly consumed by memories of this woman, but they really explode back into his life when he receives an unexpected visit from her son, a young RAF pilot. Soon, it appears the obsession is transferring itself from mother to son in unique and disturbing fashion.
I’ve mentioned many times that I dislike the trope of a person being obsessed with a short relationship many years in the past. It’s often used as a lazy way to demonstrate a character’s emotional immaturity, or a plot point to bring them back into contact with someone or something. But here is a rare example of a story in which it works beautifully. It’s painfully obvious to the reader that the affair was much more significant to Haggard than to Frances – a fact of which, even after so much obsessive reflection, he appears unaware. The depth of his obsession has overridden reality (as we see when he claims to have manifested a haunting by her, a disturbing hint of what’s to come). Then there’s the uncomfortable fact that Haggard narrates the whole tale of the affair, including many intimate details, to his lover’s son. This always-disconcerting background hum rises to a crescendo when Haggard’s beliefs about James – his ‘disease’ – reach their apotheosis. It’s a revelation that paints our protagonist as not just disturbed, but truly deranged.
Yet worse is to come. That final scene! That last line! That hideous, indelible image! Has any novel of obsession ever segued quite so effectively into psychological horror?
The books I love can be roughly sorted into two categories: those that thrill me with the skill of the writing, and those that seem to speak to my soul. Dr Haggard’s Disease was both. It’s an immaculately written, riveting, unsettling novel, one that immediately felt close to my heart....more
Beautifully written, The Devil’s Own Work is the tale of a haunted writer. This character, known only as Edward, achieves success and fame at a high cBeautifully written, The Devil’s Own Work is the tale of a haunted writer. This character, known only as Edward, achieves success and fame at a high cost – but we see the whole thing unfold through the eyes of his admiring (and somewhat wimpy) friend, whose name we never learn. The book’s brevity presents a conundrum: it’s good partly because the style is so elegantly concise, but I’d like to have read much more about every character, every scene. More of a short story than a novella, really, but a good one, with something of M.R. James about it.
Anna Kavan does Gothic with a novella that feels like it could belong in a short story collection by Daphne du Maurier. The Parson wasn’t published unAnna Kavan does Gothic with a novella that feels like it could belong in a short story collection by Daphne du Maurier. The Parson wasn’t published until after Kavan’s death, but is estimated to have been written at some point between the late 1950s and early 60s, which places it after Sleep Has His House but before the success of Ice. It’s about the relationship between a young lieutenant, nicknamed ‘the Parson’ for his pious bearing, and Rejane, an initially charming woman whose beauty and refinement conceals her scheming nature. The plot hinges on their visit to a ruined castle, where Rejane’s true nature becomes clear. These scenes are deliciously melodramatic and full of portent: ‘an aura of sadism and terror clung to the walls’... Much has been made of how The Parson prefigures Ice; I’ll be honest, I didn’t really get that from it, but I liked it a lot. I particularly enjoyed the cryptic setting, a ‘small northern country’ with scenic extremes right out of a fairytale (plus a hotel with the glorious name of The Hope Deferred).
This was a charity shop find: I was drawn in by the blurb, cover and first couple of pages – plus the fact that I’d never heard of it, usually my mainThis was a charity shop find: I was drawn in by the blurb, cover and first couple of pages – plus the fact that I’d never heard of it, usually my main criterion when looking at secondhand books. When I got a bit further in I realised it wasn’t for me at all, but I had the time to finish it and thought I might as well do so. Cathy is a solitary woman in her thirties who is on the verge of taking her own life when she receives an unexpected visit from her estranged sister’s ex, Stephen. He tells her that Veronica Karen (who apparently insists on being called by both names) is seriously ill and has suddenly disappeared. What follows is a sort of road trip as Cathy and Stephen visit various friends/acquaintances, trying to find Veronica Karen and ruminating on the past. I expected the story to be darker and more mysterious than it is; there’s a lot of strangely pitched humour that I never really got to grips with, and Cathy’s scatterbrained narrative voice is difficult to follow. (Side note, but I really just can’t imagine this book being published with this cover now – I feel like it’d have bright colours, something to denote ‘quirkiness’ and an Eleanor Oliphant vibe.)
(2.5) Probably not the best place to start with McInerney, who I haven’t read before; this was a random find in a charity bookshop. It’s always a bit (2.5) Probably not the best place to start with McInerney, who I haven’t read before; this was a random find in a charity bookshop. It’s always a bit of a gamble when you read something that was originally up-to-the-minute decades after its publication (I suspect this wasn’t all that up-to-the-minute anyway, but it’s certainly determined to act like it is, with the pop-culture/fashion/celebrity/etc. references stuffed in at every turn). Follows a mediocre journalist, his model girlfriend, and their author friend through various empty exploits around New York. It rattles along at a clip, and I read it really quickly, but I got to the end without caring once about anyone or anything in it. Also, despite the presence of numerous sex scenes, curiously sexless somehow.
A short, satirical novel about a young Belgian woman who spends a year working for a huge import-export company in Tokyo. First published in 1999, it A short, satirical novel about a young Belgian woman who spends a year working for a huge import-export company in Tokyo. First published in 1999, it reminded me a lot of a much more recent book – There’s No Such Thing as an Easy Job – in its portrayal of Japanese work culture (as well as the plot following a person who takes on a series of jobs). Of course, the protagonist here is a westerner, which makes for a very different perspective on said culture, often a highly judgemental one. The narrator’s observations are also frequently very funny, albeit caustically so in a way that won’t work for everyone.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Come Join Our Disease in this dark, ultimately tragic tale of a family locked in time. Four elderly sWe Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Come Join Our Disease in this dark, ultimately tragic tale of a family locked in time. Four elderly siblings – Milly, Agatha and identical twins Ellen and Esther – live together in the squalid remains of their family home (along with George, who’s confined to the cellar). They have rarely left the property, and in old age they are still naive about most aspects of ordinary life, clinging instead to memories of the few youthful outings that comprise their only experience of the outside world. Milly’s narration unravels their history: the death of their mother, the cruel dominance of their controlling father, how George came to be part of the family, and how exactly their self-imposed imprisonment began. Milly’s voice is a perfectly balanced combination of tender nostalgia, dark humour and sinister threat: it shouldn’t work, but it does, brilliantly. Despite their seclusion and eccentricity, and the disgust provoked by their filthy living conditions, I wanted to spend more time with these characters....more
Most of this book isn’t what most would call horror – but honestly, the ending frightened me more than anything has in a long time. The Wishing Game rMost of this book isn’t what most would call horror – but honestly, the ending frightened me more than anything has in a long time. The Wishing Game really goes for the slow burn, to the point that even the titular game itself is shrouded in mystery for most of the book. We read about the allegiances and enmities between several students at Kirkston Abbey, an unforgiving boarding school, and the even more fraught drama erupting among their teachers – a powder keg ready to be set alight by a particularly manipulative boy, Richard Rokeby. It fits well into the ‘dark academia’ niche, if that’s your thing. It’s page-turning and dramatic and tense throughout (even if it did take me quite a while to get to grips with the many similar boys’ names). That ending, though: real chills.
I feel like I’ve heard so much about Tam Lin as a cult book, and I’ve owned a copy that I’ve been meaning to read ‘soon’ for four years, and decided tI feel like I’ve heard so much about Tam Lin as a cult book, and I’ve owned a copy that I’ve been meaning to read ‘soon’ for four years, and decided this autumn had to be the time I actually did it. And... and... it is a lovely story, if not quite the transcendent experience I was hoping for. It’s a retelling of the traditional Scottish ballad in which the characters are students at a small ‘liberal arts’ college in 1972. There’s a fantasy element, but it’s a relatively small part of the story, the majority of which is taken up by these students’ everyday lives, relationships, etc.
It reminded me a lot of a novel I read a couple of years ago, Alice Elliott Dark’s Fellowship Point; while the two have little in common in terms of plot or style, they’re both books that create worlds, slow-paced and full of detail. Fellowship Point wasn’t among the best books I read that year, or even that month, but I remember it with greater clarity than I do most books I read around the same time. I think the same thing might happen with Tam Lin, and I think I’m much more likely to remember the way it feels than anything specific about the story.
I found the progression of the relationships in this book quite alien, yet occasionally so true: confronting Nick about a possible instance of cheating, Janet ‘felt suddenly incapable of either ignoring the matter or dealing with it... so huge a collection of unspoken thoughts between them that no single one could fight its way out of the tangle’. Its slow pace makes the story feel more indulgent – it suits the story well – even if at times it risks feeling too self-indulgent on the author’s part (the college is obviously based on her own, etc). But overall I found it charming. The descriptions of the campus, and particularly the writing about seasons and nature, are gorgeous. I really disliked the ending, though (get that it’s the early 70s, get that the story has to follow the ballad, still hated it)....more
(3.5) The Debt to Pleasure was one of those books (like Spider last year) that I’ve long been aware of, never read, but always had a feeling I wou(3.5) The Debt to Pleasure was one of those books (like Spider last year) that I’ve long been aware of, never read, but always had a feeling I would enjoy. And I did enjoy it – though it wasn’t quite as much of a success as Spider, and I’m erring on the side of generosity with my rating. Written as an elaborate, literary cookbook, it tells the life story of a man named Tarquin Winot, who fancies himself a glamorous, successful and beloved aesthete but whose truth – revealed through his own words – is something rather different. This sort of sinister unravelling of an unreliable narrator is always appealing to me; Lanchester’s is a wittier approach than, say, Perfume or American Psycho, with Tarquin writing in a flowery parody of Nabokovian prose. I prefer my fictional psychopaths a little more self-aware: Tarquin is so thoroughly delusional that even as the true extent of his villainy becomes clear, it’s difficult to find him truly menacing. And I realise this is an absolutely stupid complaint, but there is just too much food writing. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the journey.
For ten years, Herman – a Parisian teacher – and his family have been spending the summer months in their rural second home. They always leave on the For ten years, Herman – a Parisian teacher – and his family have been spending the summer months in their rural second home. They always leave on the 31st of August; this year, they stay on for a few days. This might seem like no big deal, but in That Time of Year the date, which represents the transition from summer to autumn, takes on an eerie, symbolic significance. ‘Because what did they know of the fall around here, what did they know of these people’s ways once all the outsiders were supposed to have left?’
On the evening of the first day of September, Herman’s wife Rose and their eight-year-old son don’t return from a trip to a nearby farm. When Herman attempts to get the local police to search for them, he’s met with indifference. Instead, he’s encouraged to stay in the village, take a room in a shabby hotel, and settle there for an indeterminate period of time. Against his initial wishes, he gradually finds himself assimilating.
While this is a new translation, it’s not a new book – it was originally published in 1994. That accounts for the lack of mobile phones and internet, which helps to give the story a sense of timelessness. Adding to this are the peculiar customs of the village. For example, all women wear a version of the same blouse, patterned with apple blossoms; the arrangement of lace details indicates their marital status. The exaggerated contrast between the village and Herman’s home city of Paris is both comical and deeply sinister.
Several times in the past, I’ve read an advance copy of a book and, in the absence of any other information about it, have been unsure whether something is missing. When I got to the last page of That Time of Year, I stared at it for several minutes, thinking, surely that can’t be it?! I thought some pages had accidentally been omitted. Thankfully, there are a few English-language reviews of the original available online, and these confirm that the non sequitur of an ending is, indeed, the ending. So, you know, be prepared for that.
I recently read another book in which characters travel to an isolated location and find themselves frequently hindered by the eccentric locals: What Happens at Night by Peter Cameron. It addresses similar themes more effectively, and That Time of Year suffers by comparison to it. This is the first thing I’ve read by NDiaye, and I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t the best introduction to her work. I will read more by the author, but if you’re looking for a book about outsiders in a strange, remote community, I’d recommend What Happens at Night over this.
I received an advance review copy of That Time of Year from the publisher through Edelweiss.
Cracks is one of five books I picked up at a charity bookshop shortly before lockdown began. It isn't a book I was looking for – I hadn't heard of it,Cracks is one of five books I picked up at a charity bookshop shortly before lockdown began. It isn't a book I was looking for – I hadn't heard of it, or the author, before. Based on the blurb plus a scan of the first few pages, it struck me as something like Picnic at Hanging Rock (the hothouse atmosphere of an all-girls school; an unexplained disappearance) meets The Virgin Suicides (first-person plural narration, dreamy tone). The South African setting also interested me.
The school at the centre of the story sits alone amid the arid landscape of the veld. Indeed, it's so cut off from the world that the fact it's in South Africa is irrelevant in terms of social/political context. When the characters of Cracks are students, in what seems like the late 1950s, the curriculum puts a heavy emphasis on sports, and the girls of the swimming team are perceived as the cream of the crop. At the beginning of the book, 13 former members of the team gather for a reunion. Their memories are drawn back to the year a girl disappeared. The women narrate the story as a chorus; one of them is called Sheila Kohler. (Kohler has said that Cracks is not autobiographical, though she did attend a girls' boarding school in the middle of the veld and received a similar education to the characters in the book.)
In such an isolated location, with no male students or staff, it's no big surprise that the girls develop crushes – or, in their parlance, 'cracks' – on Miss G, their boyish swimming teacher. What is more surprising (and disturbing) is Miss G's behaviour towards the girls. She gives them alcohol, invites them to her room to play inappropriate games, picks favourites, and gives terrible advice. But it's with the arrival of a new student, the beautiful Italian aristocrat Fiamma Coronna, that things really escalate. Miss G becomes so obsessed with Fiamma that her behaviour ceases to be simply strange; it becomes outright stalking and, eventually, sexual assault. The swimming team, neglected by their idol, inevitably turn against the new girl.
Kohler's prose conjures up a beautiful, lucid, lonely world, the air 'sweet with honeysuckle, jasmine and orange peel', the lawns 'incandescent with heat and sheen', and a 'mist like gauze' hanging across the 'star-wild sky'. The narration also works well: the girls share so many experiences and feelings, it doesn't seem unnatural for them to speak as a chorus. The story is not quite as successful. It's believable that the girls would fall under the spell of Miss G as teenagers, but the horrible climax of the Fiamma plot didn't convince me, and nor did the characters' inability to confront any of this as adults. At this point, the lyrical style started to seem less of a considered choice and more like a smokescreen for an inadequate ending.
In the end, it reminded me most of Such Small Hands, and I also think the Virgin Suicides comparison stands... but personally, I didn't like either of those books. It has a bit of the 'author didn't know how to end the story' energy you sometimes find in debuts, though Kohler had in fact published two novels and two story collections before it. Until reading some other reviews I had no idea Cracks had been made into a movie (with Eva Green as Miss G); though I don't think the book is completely without merit, it seems the general consensus is that the film is better.
Joel Lane's first collection, first published in 1994 and out of print until this new edition from Influx Press. Like his first novel, the superb FromJoel Lane's first collection, first published in 1994 and out of print until this new edition from Influx Press. Like his first novel, the superb From Blue to Black, it seems preternaturally assured and feels like the work of a much more experienced writer. The hallmarks of his whole body of work are already in place: the cool, measured tone; Birmingham locations; political undertones; sense of loneliness; elements of the weird and supernatural accepted as ordinary by the characters. Indeed, the first story, 'Common Land' – in which an artist falls back into a relationship with her ex, only to find herself shut out from otherworldly goings-on with his housemates – is such an exact summation of Lane's style that it might as well be a litmus test for one's appreciation of his writing.
The Earth Wire is so consistently excellent that it's hard to pick favourites; it isn't a novel-in-stories, but Lane's mesmerising tone is so unwavering, and in some ways it feels like a single dreamlike narrative, passing through varying scenes and brushing past different people. One story, 'The Foggy, Foggy Dew' (the earliest in the book, dating back to 1986) could literally be described like this, as its protagonist loses his way in surreal monotony, seeming to step through time. 'Wave Scars' may be an early sketch for From Blue to Black, the mercurial, beguiling Steven mirroring the novel's Karl. 'And Some Were Missing' is an unnerving tale in which a community is tormented by what the narrator calls 'antipeople'. There is, however, an obvious standout: the virtuosic 'The Clearing', a very human dystopian story, eerily apt for 2020, in which the poor and sick are increasingly numerous, and increasingly being forced into inadequate housing.
Has there ever been another writer whose every sentence is a potent distillation of their stylistic approach? Anna Kavan and Fleur Jaeggy are the only others I can think of. As always, I found so many phrases and passages quotable that I stopped keeping track of them after the first couple of stories; I would have ended up with hundreds, if not thousands. In a Joel Lane story, even a sentence that would appear innocuous if encountered elsewhere – such as 'no light came from the window' – seems to stand for everything and mean much more than it says.
I first became aware of Pharricide in 2013, when I read Nicholas Royle's First Novel – it's one of many 'first novels' referenced in the book – buI first became aware of Pharricide in 2013, when I read Nicholas Royle's First Novel – it's one of many 'first novels' referenced in the book – but at the time it was only available in the original French. So I like the serendipity of the fact that I'm reading Pharricide in English now, six years later, thanks to Royle's own translation.
Think of a particularly twisted story, and chances are Pharricide outstrips it. Bleak, disturbing and supremely fucked up, it tells the story of Geoffroy Lefayen, who becomes lighthouse keeper at the notoriously isolated Cordouan (a real place). He records his experiences in a diary; in an early entry, he ominously states that 'Cordouan has saved my knives from retirement'. What follows is a terrifying odyssey of violence and psychological terror, featuring possibly the most deranged marriage scene in literature. And rather a lot of taxidermy. Yet Pharricide is oddly funny, and Geoffroy more sympathetic than he has any right to be.
Alison Moore's afterword is an excellent addition; it brought out things I hadn't paid attention to and confirmed things I'd suspected. Short and sharp and indelible, Pharricide contained scenes that will stay with me. I won't forget Geoffroy in a hurry.
Sometimes you read an author’s best book first, and their others all end up seeming like paler imitations of it; sometimes you have a reasonable overvSometimes you read an author’s best book first, and their others all end up seeming like paler imitations of it; sometimes you have a reasonable overview of their oeuvre before you get to it, and it appears as a glorious summation of everything good about their work. The Brimstone Wedding is an example of the latter. I’d read three other Barbara Vine books (The Minotaur, Asta’s Book and A Fatal Inversion) before it, but this one is the one: I know this is partly my own biased perception at work, but it seems to take everything I have most enjoyed about the others and craft all that into a story whose brilliance made me increasingly dizzy with joy.
Jenny is a care assistant in her early thirties; married to her childhood sweetheart, Mike, she has lived her whole life in a tiny Norfolk village, the sort of place where everyone knows everyone else’s business. But she’s nursing an explosive secret: an affair with Ned, a TV producer who (along with his wife and daughter) owns a second home in the area. While trying to figure out what to do about this ticking time-bomb of a situation, Jenny grows close to her favourite resident at Middleton Hall, Stella, an elegant 70-year-old woman who has terminal lung cancer. Despite their differences, the two women become each other’s confidants. In what seems to be a final confession, Stella tells Jenny the defining story of her life, one that involves a secret house and a forgotten film star called Gilda Brent.
Though it’s mainly Stella’s story that drives the plot (the likely outcomes of Jenny’s affair are painfully obvious, to us if not to her), The Brimstone Wedding wouldn’t work half as well as it does were it not told in Jenny’s voice. The reader comes to understand Jenny better than most people understand themselves. She’s a smart and intuitive woman who is also very naive, entirely ignorant of life beyond the village, with old-fashioned perceptions for a young woman in the mid-90s; someone who is certainly not stupid but has a limited vocabulary and a limited worldview. Not forgetting her superstition, which is so strong and so definitive it almost lends a folk horror slant to the plot. Relating the entire tale through such a distinctive character is no mean feat, but Vine never puts a foot wrong.
Spacing out the central story as Jenny hears it from Stella is also a stroke of genius: the reader is as keen as Jenny to get to the next meeting and hear the next instalment. And that – great storytelling – is really what makes The Brimstone Wedding so wonderful. Everything I have loved about Vine’s other novels is realised to its full potential here: the rich, almost fussy language (the beautiful fenland descriptions, portraying unspoilt countryside through the seasons, are a highlight); the slow-burn intrigue; the character development. Throw in a perfect narrative voice and you have a truly spellbinding book that is literary triumph, gripping mystery and tragedy all in one.
Seven years after the death of his wife, Aoyama is ready for a new relationship. His friend Yoshikawa, an entertainment industry player, cooks up whatSeven years after the death of his wife, Aoyama is ready for a new relationship. His friend Yoshikawa, an entertainment industry player, cooks up what initially seems like a hare-brained scheme involving a fabricated film; the women invited to audition for the leading role will really be auditioning to be Aoyama’s second wife. To Aoyama’s own amazement, it works perfectly and he falls hard for the demure and beautiful Yamasaki Asami. Yet there’s something amiss about this seemingly perfect woman...
I found most of Audition entertaining and absorbing. It’s a short novel with swift pacing and strong narrative momentum, and I was intrigued by the enigmatic Asami – Murakami drops hints for the reader while the smitten Aoyama remains oblivious. The male characters’ observations about women and relationships are often unpalatably sexist, but I can deal with that if it serves a purpose in the story, as it does here.
But then: the ending. It reads like the author wrote the rest of the manuscript years earlier, forgot about it, found it lying around one day, slapped together something vaguely resembling a climax and thought ‘that’ll do’. Sure, it’s gory and nightmarish, and that’s effective in its own way (albeit rather a cheap way). But the reveal of Asami’s motive just seems silly, not to mention devoid of tension, with Aoyama just, somehow, abruptly coming to a realisation about what drives her, rather than Asami herself confessing/explaining it. And the final lines are almost funny in how dismissive they are. Maybe I should’ve just watched the film instead.