A thriller with a generous helping of the gothic, We Live Here Now gave me exactly what I wanted from it: a couple with secrets, a spooky house on theA thriller with a generous helping of the gothic, We Live Here Now gave me exactly what I wanted from it: a couple with secrets, a spooky house on the foggy moors, and some suspiciously friendly villagers. Not forgetting a bit of the ‘is any of this really happening’ mindfuckery that Pinborough does so well.
A freak accident leaves Emily in a coma, and when she finally recovers, she finds her husband Freddie has sold their house in London and bought Larkin Lodge, a country home in Devon. After a few strange incidents, Emily becomes convinced the house is haunted and obsessed with finding out what happened to its previous residents. Meanwhile, both halves of the couple are keeping things from each other (and they’re not the only ones).
Pinborough drip-feeds information in just the right way: the reader is always a few steps ahead of the characters, but it’s still difficult to guess how it’s all going to end. We Live Here Now doesn’t break the mould, but if you’re looking for a gripping read it definitely fits the bill. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
I received an advance review copy of We Live Here Now from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
When I skimmed the first few pages of Bring the House Down, I couldn’t help but read on... and on... and on. At the Edinburgh festival, womanising theWhen I skimmed the first few pages of Bring the House Down, I couldn’t help but read on... and on... and on. At the Edinburgh festival, womanising theatre critic Alex watches a one-woman show, files a scathing one-star review, then promptly sleeps with the performer he’s just trashed. When she finds out, the performer – Hayley – retaliates by turning her show into ‘The Alex Lyons Experience’, a rebuke of the review... and of Alex as a person, which transforms it into a viral success. It’s one of those simple-but-rich ideas that makes a perfect starting point for this kind of chatty, accessible litfic, acting as a springboard for bigger questions about art, power, bad behaviour and the nature of criticism.
Simultaneously the book’s masterstroke and biggest flaw is its narration. The story is told not by Hayley or Alex or a chorus, but by Sophie, a long-time journalist colleague of Alex’s who is also at the festival and effectively (sometimes literally) has a ringside seat to the whole thing. Sophie is sympathetic to Hayley while remaining Alex’s friend, which allows for an arm’s-length ambiguity in the story’s approach to its characters. Of course, the use of Sophie’s perspective means her own life inevitably becomes part of the plot; some of this is comparatively tedious, if useful as a foil to the chaos surrounding Alex. Sometimes it feels like we’re following a subplot that wandered in from a different book, and while it all ties together in the end, it doesn’t totally land. Sophie doesn’t get the ending I’d hoped for (... was I supposed to feel sorry for Josh?), though admittedly, this is entirely in keeping with the themes.
Another big advantage of Bring the House Down is the way it plays with perspective. Alex, it turns out, has caused a lot of harm, but mostly inadvertently, within consensual relationships; at what point do we move someone out of the ‘bit of a cad’ category and into ‘creep’ or even ‘abuser’, and what then? What of the fact that Hayley’s show would never have become successful without the catalyst of his review? Then there’s Sophie, who has a lazy approach to criticism (stock phrases, insincere praise for things she didn’t even understand). Is her generous dishonesty any better than Alex’s brutal truth? Plus there’s Alex’s own privilege; as the well-connected son of a famous actress, he’s cushioned from real-world consequences in a way the likes of Hayley and Sophie aren’t. Even if he gets thoroughly cancelled, what’s at stake for him, really?
The book certainly packs a lot in, combining its conversation-starting central themes with reflections on grief and an examination of relationships, family and parenthood. Bring the House Down is thoughtful but it could also easily be a read-in-one-sitting kind of book, such is the momentum it gathers. It strikes the right balance between taking a stance and allowing the reader to make up their own mind; it’d make a great book club choice.
I received an advance review copy of Bring the House Down from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
(3.5) Audition opens in a restaurant, where our narrator – a successful, well-established actress – is having dinner with a younger man. The nature of(3.5) Audition opens in a restaurant, where our narrator – a successful, well-established actress – is having dinner with a younger man. The nature of their relationship is ambiguous, but she’s convinced onlookers assume she’s paid him to be there (although in true Kitamura style, it’s not at all clear whether anyone is really thinking this. The line between perception and projection is smudged beyond recognition – something that’s spelled out when the narrator pulls up the memory of a time, years ago, when she was mistaken for an escort while dining with her father).
We soon learn that the young man, Xavier, initially approached the actress with a misunderstanding about their connection to each other. This is (seemingly) quickly dispensed with; still, she doesn’t dismiss him outright, and he becomes a sort of avatar for existing anxieties around her career and life choices. The narrator is in the middle of rehearsals for a play, and much of her energy is focused on her inability to grasp a transformative scene. Then there’s a break in the novel in which she seems to nail it; she goes from frustration to enlightenment without us seeing anything of how she achieves that. Except that isn’t all that’s changed. Her family is mysteriously transformed.
If Kitamura’s work might already be described as a fiction of overthinking, Audition takes her characters’ trademark maladaptive daydreaming to its not-so-logical conclusion. Lines blur between performance and reality, art and truth – between one’s real life and a what-could-have-been version of it spun out from a fleeting thought. So thick are the layers of meaning, so stark the gaps in any explanation offered, that it’s difficult to discern whether we are being presented with an elaborate roleplaying exercise, a deep-rooted delusion, a thought experiment or an alternate reality. No answer is forthcoming. The gaps are part of the architecture.
And yet, for all its conceptual ambition, Audition fell a little flat for me. Maybe that was inevitable – I’ve been really impressed by the two Kitamura books I’ve read so far, and this one has been hyped as a breakthrough moment, a new peak. Expectations were, possibly, too high. I still think she’s a phenomenal stylist, and no one writes obsessive rumination quite like her, but the high concept here works against her usual strengths. Compared to A Separation and, especially, Intimacies, Audition feels thinner. Kitamura thrives on the friction between people, the way perception warps in relation to others; here, that interplay is transposed onto big, splashy themes rather than playing out a hundred little times in minor interactions.
There’s plenty to chew on, as always with this author, but Audition left me hungry for something more substantial. Kitamura’s best work burrows deep into psychological ambiguity while still maintaining a strong sense of narrative momentum; here, the ambiguity feels untethered, the story fragmented to the point of weightlessness. That’s the point of course, and I did find it interesting to read something more postmodern from Kitamura – this makes a lot of sense as a direction for her work, and framing the story within a performance theme is really clever. I just found the core questions of the novel less appealing than the broader-ranging, yet more intimate, concerns of A Separation and Intimacies, both of which I’d recommend above this.
I received an advance review copy of Audition from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I know of Kate Folk’s writing from Out There, which I liked a lot less than many of you, feeling it very much conformed to the currently fashionable tI know of Kate Folk’s writing from Out There, which I liked a lot less than many of you, feeling it very much conformed to the currently fashionable template for a debut short story collection: modern disenchantment combined with speculative elements and/or light body horror, listless narration and stuff about dating/sex. I've read loads of these books (and probably abandoned even more), and Folk’s didn’t stand out from the crowd. Approaching Sky Daddy, I thought: this has a hell of a hook, but it too seems like typical short-story material, far too gimmicky to build an entire novel around. I’m happy to say I was very wrong about this.
Sky Daddy’s narrator, Linda, has much in common with the protagonists of countless 21st-century urban-ennui novels. She lives in undesirable conditions (an illegal windowless bedsit housed in a family’s garage) in a prosperous city (San Francisco) and has a depressing, low-paid job (moderating offensive comments posted online). But it doesn’t take long for her particular quirk (kink?) to become apparent. Linda is attracted to aeroplanes – not just aesthetically, but sexually – and more than that, she is convinced she will one day marry her ‘soulmate plane’ by... dying in a plane crash. When she discovers her colleague Karina is part of a group who make vision boards to ‘manifest’ the things they want out of life, she sees an opportunity to make her dream a reality.
Like I said, I initially feared the plane-sexuality of it all would overwhelm anything else the book had going for it. In fact, Linda’s obsession – how it infuses her whole personality and being – is exactly what makes it so strong. Her voice is flawlessly honed (I’d love to know how many times this was redrafted; it is unusually smooth and consistent). Folk perfectly marries the story’s innate deranged irreverence with just the right number of heartfelt moments. Also so zippy it’s difficult to believe this thing is 370 pages in print.
Even though the plot hits all its marks – a trigger, a sort of quest, at least some character development for Linda, a couple of heartfelt moments and a really well-crafted ending – it’s still difficult to find anything to compare Sky Daddy to. I mean, can you imagine a combination of Convenience Store Woman and The Necrophiliac? (Probably not.) Linda’s delusion and obsessiveness also reminded me of The Paper Wasp and A Touch of Jen.
I received an advance review copy of Sky Daddy from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
(3.5) It’s the late 19th century and a discontented sailor, Arnold Lovejoy, has been charged with a task by the Ashleys, a powerful whaling family. He(3.5) It’s the late 19th century and a discontented sailor, Arnold Lovejoy, has been charged with a task by the Ashleys, a powerful whaling family. He must cross the Chukchi Sea on board a ship, the Esther, and find their daughter’s husband, who has settled on the ice and refuses to return home. This voyage is stark and punishing, rendered in long, brutal scenes of whale-hunting. But as it progresses, it grows stranger. Notably, there’s the presence of a giant bird-man who can only be seen by the ship’s two youngest sailors. And of course the climactic sequence, when Lovejoy and Thule actually reach Leander’s cabin; I won’t spoil it except to say it is wonderfully dreamlike, surreal and lucid.
Told in more than two hundred short chapters, North Sun has a pleasingly abstract texture and is full of evocative description. Characters talk in riddles – Lovejoy’s first line of dialogue is this: ‘Your frown is like a symbol in some long-lost alphabet.’ It’s as if a story about adventure at sea had been reworked by a writer like Sarah Bernstein or M. John Harrison. This is a novel that would slot straight in to one of those ‘books that feel like A24 films’ lists.
I received an advance review copy of North Sun from the publisher through Edelweiss....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
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
(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
Camilla Bruce’s fifth novel is a light-hearted supernatural confection about a conniving woman’s battle of wits with her wily nieces. Clara Woods is aCamilla Bruce’s fifth novel is a light-hearted supernatural confection about a conniving woman’s battle of wits with her wily nieces. Clara Woods is a social-climbing, diamond-loving widow who’s quietly delighted when her wealthier half-brother dies, leaving her in charge of his daughters. She assumes their fortune will now be hers, but it turns out to be locked away until they’re older – plus the girls are rather savvier than anticipated, and come with strange and unexpected abilities (Lily can sense people’s true emotions; Violet can talk to the dead). This wasn’t the creepy gothic novel I was expecting, but rather a horror-comedy – more The Canterville Ghost than The Turn of the Screw – and the joke wears thin after a while. While Aunt Clara is cartoonish in her villainy, the girls are so dull and smug that I found myself rooting for Clara anyway (at least she’s entertaining), and the ghosts’ antics are repetitive. Once the setup is established, which happens early on, there’s only so much that can be done with it. The ending is a letdown too; I was hoping for a ghoulish twist. Good as undemanding fun, a bit disappointing as a spooky season pick, and not a patch on Bruce’s You Let Me In.
I received an advance review copy of At the Bottom of the Garden from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I enjoyed If We Were Villains when I read it in 2017, but I’m puzzled by the reputation it’s acquired in the years since. It seems to be treated aI enjoyed If We Were Villains when I read it in 2017, but I’m puzzled by the reputation it’s acquired in the years since. It seems to be treated as one of the totemic campus novels, often spoken about as though it is equivalent to The Secret History rather than a pastiche of it (I always assumed it was a deliberate one – an homage in which Shakespeare takes the place of Classics). Rio’s second novel, then, arrives with a lot of expectation heaped on it. Can the author create a similarly compelling story outside an established and well-loved formula?
On the evidence of Graveyard Shift, I’m not convinced. It starts well enough, with five friends meeting at midnight in a churchyard that sits on a university campus, only to discover a mysterious open grave. Definitely academic, certainly dark. Too bad, the rest of it’s a damp squib. Despite being short, it’s devoid of tension or urgency, and the prose is riddled with cliches (‘like a dog with a bone, she refused to let the matter drop’ is a typical sentence). The characters are a grab-bag of features with no real personality, and the ending is silly. This might have made a decent episode of a podcast or something but it doesn’t work as a book.
I received an advance review copy of Graveyard Shift from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
An absolutely brutal and brilliant collection. Rejection is short: there are seven stories, of which the first five are substantial character studies,An absolutely brutal and brilliant collection. Rejection is short: there are seven stories, of which the first five are substantial character studies, and the last two a coda to those (the stories are all linked). The character studies, in the main, follow unhappy and self-sabotaging people: in ‘The Feminist’, a man who’s furious his status as a self-proclaimed feminist doesn’t get him dates; in ‘Pics’, a woman whose obsession with a crush destroys her life; in ‘Ahegao’, a gay guy who struggles not with his sexuality but with the fact that he can only get off on a particular, hard-to-articulate fetish. The broader themes here – dating, the internet, the soul-crushing combination of the two, repression, and, obviously, rejection – are explored in a lot of contemporary fiction, but it’s Tulathimutte’s writing that really makes it work: raw, shorn of any restraint, horribly true. The obvious point of comparison is Kristen Roupenian’s You Know You Want This – in particular, ‘The Feminist’ followed by ‘Pics’ reminded me of the one-two punch of ‘Cat Person’ and ‘The Good Guy’ – and I also thought a lot about Paul Dalla Rosa’s use of voice in An Exciting and Vivid Inner Life.
I received an advance review copy of Rejection from the publisher through Edelweiss....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
The synopsis of State of Paradise sums it up so well, there’s almost no need to write a review at all. This does indeed depict a funhouse of uncannineThe synopsis of State of Paradise sums it up so well, there’s almost no need to write a review at all. This does indeed depict a funhouse of uncanniness hidden in Florida’s underbelly and a sticky, rain-soaked reckoning with the elusive nature of storytelling. Its narrator, who works as a ghostwriter of popular-but-trashy thrillers, has recently returned to her home state of Florida. She’s living with her mother and next door to her sister, who’s become addicted to MIND’S EYE, a virtual reality headset that was handed out free during the pandemic. It’s a time of increasingly extreme weather, and during one particularly apocalyptic storm, her sister disappears.
When the story starts, its contours seem familiar; van den Berg relies on that precise assumption to wrongfoot the reader. You might think you know what the narrator’s referring to when she talks about ‘the pandemic’, but then she describes some of the lasting side effects – her bellybutton has changed shape, her sister’s eyes are a different colour – and suddenly you’re wondering if this story is taking place within our world at all. Unfamiliarity with the setting adds a further sheen of weirdness to the whole thing (I imagine this book reads very differently if you’ve ever lived in Florida). This sense of a slightly altered world is key to State of Paradise’s mission. It’s a slippery story about stories – about how we rewrite our histories to empower (or deny) ourselves.
For me, it was all strongly reminiscent of Alexandra Kleeman’s novels You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine and Something New Under the Sun. In fact, it’s as though someone spliced the two of them together: the surreal setting and mysterious disappearances from You Too, the overtones of climate disaster from Something New, the cult elements from both. This was slightly to State of Paradise’s detriment; I just love Kleeman’s writing so much, and this doesn’t quite hit the same heights. It’s also a lighter, less complex read compared to van den Berg’s last novel, The Third Hotel.
I liked it, though – the palpable humidity of the setting, the startling suggestions about our narrator’s account of her own past. Unsurprisingly, I would firmly recommend this book to fans of Alexandra Kleeman’s fiction. I’d also compare it to other tricky, hallucinatory narratives like The Scapegoat and Looking Glass Sound, and in its last act it reminded me of nothing so much as the wild twists of The Writing Retreat.
I received an advance review copy of State of Paradise from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Having long been a fan of Mariana Enríquez’s short stories – especially the superb Things We Lost in the Fire, the first of her books to be translatedHaving long been a fan of Mariana Enríquez’s short stories – especially the superb Things We Lost in the Fire, the first of her books to be translated into English – I was excited to get stuck in to this brand-new collection. ‘Face of Disgrace’ is creepy and genuinely disturbing at points; ‘Different Colours Made of Tears’ has good character work and a strong voice; both of them are anchored by original concepts. ‘A Sunny Place for Shady People’ is unexpectedly poignant, ‘A Local Artist’ starts strong and has a well-realised setting. Unfortunately, most of the rest don’t get much better than merely ‘fine’. There’s little here that lives up to Things We Lost in the Fire, or even the earlier, less polished The Dangers of Smoking in Bed.
Not for the first time, I wonder why the synopsis and marketing of a book doesn’t reflect the actual content of the book. Sunny Place is sold as a collection of macabre stories exploring ‘love, womanhood, LGBTQ counterculture, parenthood and Argentina’s brutal past’. I’m not sure I could locate some of these themes in the book if I tried (did I miss whatever the ‘LGBTQ counterculture’ part was supposed to be?) This is a collection that leans heavily on body horror; it’s really the main theme that runs through most of the stories, so it’s weird this isn’t mentioned anywhere. Body horror is a specific flavour of horror, and while it has been present in Enríquez’s stories before, it’s more prevalent here, and much blunter too. This results in the type of horror story I admire rather than like. I appreciate it takes skill to get under the reader’s skin, to provoke disgust, but I don’t feel pleasantly spooked by these kind of stories, just a bit nauseous.
I’m tempted to wonder if something was lost in translation here – and not just the title (which sounds bizarrely cheesy in English, and strikes entirely the wrong tone for the book). Two of the stories are based on urban legends that are so well-known as to border on cliche; I initially assumed these must be less well-known in Argentina... except I’ve been looking through the reviews in Spanish, and a recurring criticism there is that Enríquez is trying too hard to tailor her style for Western audiences. Finally, to go back to the body horror thing: honestly, I didn’t enjoy the way many of these stories use disability or disease to incite fear. Maybe this has always been a feature of Enríquez’s writing and I haven’t picked up on it enough; maybe there’s just a lot more of it in this book. Either way, I wasn’t comfortable with it.
I received an advance review copy of A Sunny Place for Shady People from the publisher through Edelweiss....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
I was interested in this book as I’ve read and enjoyed some of the author’s horror comics via Instagram. While those are typically adaptations of otheI was interested in this book as I’ve read and enjoyed some of the author’s horror comics via Instagram. While those are typically adaptations of other people’s stories, usually from reddit posts and Twitter threads, the eleven stories here are all original. (Aside from one, a riff on the 19th-century story best known as ‘The Green Ribbon’ and recently reinterpreted by Carmen Maria Machado in ‘The Husband Stitch’.)
Highlights include the urban legend vibes of ‘Bus Stop’; the moody, Junji Ito-lite ‘Butter Corn Ramen’; and the punchy modern ghost story ‘Viola Bloom’. The longer comics work best, and I also found them more effective when framed as a personal experience of the narrator, which takes the edge off anything that seems inconclusive. Shorter pieces like ‘Forest Fruit’ and ‘Hangnail’ hinge on visual punchlines; I’d call these dark jokes more than ‘horror stories’. Others have great setups – ‘Better Kate Than Never’, ‘Murder Party’ – but don’t do anything truly unexpected with them.
My main problem with Bad Dreams in the Night – and I realise this may sound nitpicky to some – is that little knowledge or appreciation of contemporary horror seems to have gone into it. Instead, it’s inspired more by a combination of old children’s books and the sort of ‘this really happened to me!’ stories people post online in the hope of creating a viral creepypasta. This is reflected in the author’s notes accompanying each story, some of which take away from the effect. Reading the explanation for ‘Green Ribbon’, you’d think Ellis was the first person to conceive of telling this story from the woman’s perspective. One note starts with the words ‘not too much to say about this one’ – in which case, surely it’s better not to have a note at all.
So, I liked this perfectly well but it’s all quite insubstantial. I’d perhaps consider buying it as a gift for someone who doesn’t usually read horror – and to be fair, I think that’s probably who it’s aimed at anyway! If you enjoyed this and are looking for more short horror stories in graphic novel format, I’d recommend Emily Carroll’s Through the Woods.
I received an advance review copy of Bad Dreams in the Night from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
The premise of The Other Valley is high-concept, yet so simple it seems amazing no-one’s written this book before now. There’s a community in a valleyThe premise of The Other Valley is high-concept, yet so simple it seems amazing no-one’s written this book before now. There’s a community in a valley. Some distance either side lie duplicate valleys – exactly the same, except one is twenty years in the past, the other twenty years into the future. Movement between valleys is both physically taxing and strictly controlled: requests must be approved or denied by a special council, the Conseil (and they are almost always denied).
Our protagonist and narrator, Odile Ozanne, is a 16-year-old schoolgirl who hopes to join the Conseil. At the same time as she enters the competitive ‘vetting’ process to win an apprenticeship, she accidentally witnesses a visit from residents of the future valley. She recognises them as the parents of her classmate Edme, and realises what this must mean: in the near future, Edme will die. Odile is drawn to him; they become friends; she begins to fall in love. In the second half of the story, we meet Odile as an adult and see how the events of her youth have affected her life.
This is a beautifully written book. One of the most impressive things about it is the clear distinction between its two parts. In the first half of the book, the valley is wistful, nostalgic and magical. The elegant prose, the evocative settings, the sense of potential surrounding both Odile’s future career and her putative relationship with Edme – all combine to create an impression of a place that feels at once familiar and entirely otherworldly. In the second half, however, that pretty facade is ripped away. We’re clearly in the same place, just seeing behind the curtain, being shown the details of the dirty work that makes this idyll possible for the lucky few. It’s such an effective way to illustrate different facets of a fictional world.
I was worried, early on, that this would be one of those books in which the course of someone’s entire life is dominated by a brief, youthful infatuation – a common plot point and one I dislike. But Howard is clearly aware this is a cliche. There’s a good balance between the obvious fact that the story’s world is unlike ours (time travel is possible here; regrets can be fixed, at a cost) and Odile’s own acknowledgement that she barely knew Edme. It’s a refreshingly unsentimental take on the trope, one that still allows for pathos and emotional heft.
The Other Valley is my favourite kind of speculative fiction, mastering the formula of compelling genre hook + stunning writing. So interesting, accomplished and such a smart idea, it’s not the type of book that immediately strikes you as a debut. I’d go out and get all the author’s other books if I could.
I received an advance review copy of The Other Valley from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Still working out how I felt about this. The effect of one of Levy’s stories on its own is like a short sharp shock but collectively it can be the oppStill working out how I felt about this. The effect of one of Levy’s stories on its own is like a short sharp shock but collectively it can be the opposite: deadening. Not necessarily a bad thing; I think that effect fits in well with the style and themes of the collection, the numbness of a life lived online, the desensitisation of exposure, the assertion that ‘nothing is stable, especially not the self’. But I also can’t help thinking the stories work better as I originally encountered (some of) them – in isolation, on websites – than they do collected in a book. Because of that (?) I still think the ones I read that way (‘Cancel Me’, ‘Good Boys’, ‘Internet Girl’) are the best. There’s an insanely good run in the middle, though, with ‘Cancel Me’ followed by ‘Shoebox World’ and ‘Z was for Zoomer’, like three shots of adrenaline in a row.
I received an advance review copy of My First Book from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
This was one of my most anticipated debuts of the year. Gabriel is a writer in his twenties whose father has passed away; his mother is in a care homeThis was one of my most anticipated debuts of the year. Gabriel is a writer in his twenties whose father has passed away; his mother is in a care home. When he moves into his parents’ old house, Gabriel retreats further into himself. Are the strange things he describes – a manuscript that keeps changing, the house crumbling, his own skin peeling off – all in his head? It’s a great concept that’s held back by frustratingly childish language and humour. At many points you’d think the narrator was meant to be about 12. I enjoyed various inserts into the main narrative (some stories ostensibly written by Gabriel’s ex; a somewhat metafictional script) much more than that narrative itself. I liked the way the ending brings everything together, poignantly framing the way Gabriel finally shucks off the shroud of grief, but it doesn’t fully offset the unevenness of the rest. As imperfect as first novels sometimes can be, though with sparks of interesting style. I’ve enjoyed other short stories by Smith, and think that’s perhaps where his strengths as a writer lie, at least at this point.
I received an advance review copy of BRAT: A Ghost Story from the publisher through Edelweiss....more