Our Evenings by Alan Hollinghurst

Hollinghurst's great big epic spans decades touching upon key moments in the life of English actor Dave Win who narrates this novel. He's an English bi-racial gay man who recalls his early life attending a boarding school from the age of 13. His single mother is a working class seamstress and he's never met his Burmese father. In some ways he's a familiar Hollinghurst character in that he's both an insider and outsider as he receives a scholarship which grants him access to an elite education and the social sphere of the middle/upper class. A crucial early scene recounts a visit with the Hadlows, a wealthy liberal family who have sponsored him. But they also have a bullying and detestably snobbish son named Giles who is Dave's contemporary. We follow Dave's progression through school up until his major exams as he gets involved in acting, experiences desire for other boys and navigates various social spheres between family, schoolmates and older men.

This is not a novel which is heavily driven by plot but is more about leisurely following Dave's observations and the social dynamics of the situations he encounters. I think we're encouraged to read between the lines as the characters interact but also as Dave detects the emotional mood/social dynamics of every room he enters. Hollinghurst elegantly describes not only the setting but the complexity of this atmosphere steeped in class sensibility and certain conventions. I heard the author describe in an interview at the Southbank how he intentionally made the first half of this novel slow to mimic the feeling of actually being at school where any developments seem to occur over a long period of time. It is effective in conveying that feeling but it also means there isn't much immediate suspense. It's more about the subtle tensions of Dave's yearning to understand/fulfil his sexual desires (especially amidst this time when homosexuality was being decriminalised in England), engage with culture at the school between music and the theatre and adapt to his mother's changing domestic situation.

Given that Dave is mixed race one of the immediate challenges he continually faces in 1960s Britain is dealing with various levels of racism from passive to aggressively overt. It's shown how exhausting it is that Dave must frequently declare his origins and heritage when he meets someone new. Of course merely replying he's from a particular English county isn't enough because the English people he encounters demand to know where he's “really” from. It's like he must perform being Burmese though he knows little about the country. There's a bitter and humiliating early memory of being told to wear a gaung baung in front of his class. I was also struck by a scene where Dave reads up on Burma from a Western perspective/looking at a map to understand the land where he's partly descended from. One way he deals with pressure concerning his race is to utilize his talent for doing impressions by pretending to be Jeeves, a quintessentially English P.G. Woodhouse character. Making people laugh is an effective strategy used to deflate the tension regarding his racial difference.

Dave's mother Avril is also a fascinating figure and she has an increasingly close relationship to Esme, her benefactor, business partner and lover. The moments of real 'couple' behaviour he oversees/overhears has a sweetly tender quality to it, but there's also a sense of melancholy dismay that they are hesitant to be openly loving in front of Dave. Conversely, Dave does declare his own sexuality though he and his mother share such a loving and mutually-supportive relationship. It's moving following how the women take it in stages towards more openly living as a couple – though some extended family reject them. There's an especially enjoyable section where the trio go to the seaside and Dave becomes attentive to the hidden gay world: the graffiti in the toilet and a local experience at his home where he overhears men arranging a rendezvous from a party line phone call. The connection between mother and son is one of the most compelling aspects of the first half of this novel and I really appreciated the way in which Hollinghurst portrayed Avril's quiet conflicts with great subtlety.

Though it's interesting following the development of Dave's acting career and a number of romantic relationships he becomes involved in over the years, what I found most poignant about the second part of the novel is when he revisits locations from the first part. Hollinghurst captures so well the strange sense of returning to a place that was significant in one's youth. Dave almost seems like a ghost returning to his old neighbourhood, school and home as they retain an emotional charge, but he's become something of an outsider. Taking a boyfriend to his mothers' home and the area he grew up is a bittersweet experience because he's aware that any strangers who view them must assume that Dave is the newcomer to this area and not his white partner. As the years roll by when he returns again to some of these locations the environment itself has changed with many newly opened shops or trees which have grown taller. In addition to piecing together what's occurred in Dave's life as time leaps forward there are also small glimpses into changes in the lives of peripheral characters. The fates and tragedies of these barely glimpsed figures is all the more poignant because of the precision of Hollinghurst's dialogue and how these characters' awkwardly acknowledge loss.

This isn't a criticism of the novel, but it's a bit of a shame that as Dave becomes an adult and moves away to make his own life it means Avril and Esme naturally become less present in the narrative. I wanted to know more about their lives and stories but we're mostly cut off from seeing further developments in their relationship until much later. Instead we only get updates when there are major changes which are nonetheless still poignant to read about. While it makes sense that we continue to follow Dave's narrative I would have liked an additional section giving Avril's perspective to recount the events from her point of view (though this would have made it a very different novel.) Nevertheless, there are several scenes with Avril and separate interactions with characters close to her which provide glimpses into the complexities of her life and position.

Throughout the decades there are also fleeting but persistent encounters with Giles. He seems to represent a kind of foil to Dave's life. Temperamentally Dave would have been more naturally suited to being Mark and Cara's child, but instead they bred conservative twit Giles. I like how the novel quietly interrogates where family is really found – is it with those we're genetically connected to or the family we create? There's a touching moment where Dave finds a photo of his father from 1945 and learns a bit more about his parentage. Though he's been entirely shaped by being raised in England he's indelibly tied to this heritage because it impacts how he's socially accepted in this country and dictates the roles he can play in his profession.

The story also meditates on what drives a politician with grand political ambitions. There's no easy answer for why Giles would be so reactionary (becoming a leading voice in the campaign for the UK to leave the European Union) except that he has an inborn sense of entitlement and selfishness. Though some were motivated to vote Leave for economic reasons, Giles and some of his supporters were driven by a desire to 'take back the UK' and keep immigrants out. We see some characters who feel emboldened by his example to voice their beliefs more vociferously. This, in turn, leads to a rise in racism and xenophobia. Although Giles' presence felt a little confusing in the first part of the novel it makes more sense considering the full arc of the book. It's interesting to consider people we've known for the majority of our lives but who we don't necessarily like – yet there is this connection to them and even if we encounter them only sporadically they have this longstanding presence.

I greatly admired the way this novel represents the complexities, contradictions and questions which can be contained in one person's life. It also presents a complex view of transformations in English life over a long stretch of time. I especially liked how the overarching narrative traces connections between different generations and Dave's gradual movement from receptive youth to experienced elder. I'd be eager to reread this novel at some point to tease out answers to certain questions the narrative presents, but I'm sure it will also feel poignant re-experiencing Dave's early years while knowing how the lives of all the major and minor characters play out.

Long Island by Colm Tóibín

A striking thing about reading Toibin's novel “Brooklyn” was how much its emotional power slowly crept up on me. The story follows Eilis Lacey, a young Irish woman who is coaxed into moving to America in the 1950s to find work. While this book was engaging and beautifully written I didn't understand the point of it until Eilis gradually became caught in an unbearably tense dilemma. Suddenly the overwhelming heft of its meaning hit me and I was both utterly engrossed and very moved by it. Since “Long Island” is a direct sequel to “Brooklyn” many readers will wonder whether its necessary to read this earlier book first. This new novel certainly stands on its own and it cleverly keys readers into the drama of the first book in case they're not familiar with these characters. However, there's also a great pleasure in already intimately knowing these characters so I think it's advisable to read “Brooklyn” first and it's certainly worthwhile.

Unlike “Brooklyn”, “Long Island” immediately has a gripping plot as we meet Eilis again twenty years later. She's living a seemingly content life with her Italian-American husband Tony and their two nearly adult children when an unexpected visitor arrives at her home. This stranger tells her that his wife is pregnant with Tony's child and when the baby is born he will leave it on Eilis and Tony's doorstep. The news not only makes Eilis question her marriage and the choices she's made, but brings into sharp focus the limitations of her position. Tony's family close ranks and Eilis is expected to support her husband (and this new child) even though he's betrayed her. Since her mother back in Ireland will soon be celebrating her eightieth birthday, Eilis has a convenient excuse to return to her native country and take some time to think about how she wants to handle this painful situation.

When she embarks on this journey the narrative point of view begins alternating between Eilis, her lifelong friend Nancy who is now running a chip shop whose fumes and rowdy customers disrupt the locals and Eilis' old flame Jim who now runs his family's pub. Nancy and Jim have been through a lot in the intervening years. They've made tentative plans for the future but the reintroduction of Eilis creates new possibilities and problems. In this story Toibin cleverly reproduces the central drama of “Brooklyn” that made it so thrilling while bringing a new spin to the story following the lives of these characters who are a little older and more world-weary. Their options for making big life changes seem to be shrinking, but there are still unexpected possibilities. While this trio are the heart of the story there are a host of brightly rendered individuals from Nora Webster, the protagonist of another novel by Toibin, to Eilis' irascible old mother to Tony's brother Frank who is obliquely referred to as “one of those men”. The communities of a New York Italian/American quarter and a small town in Ireland are brought vividly alive with interfering family members, gossiping neighbours and charismatic banter.

However, Toibin also has a masterful ability to suggest much more through what's left unsaid between the characters. There's the painful silence between a married couple lying in bed together who are awake in the dark. But there are also acute gaps in dialogue between characters. For instance, in one scene a character asks another “Can you say you love me?” and the other character replies “Yes, I can.” But this isn't the same as actually saying aloud “I love you.” Some characters exhibit hilariously blatant contradictions claiming not to be gossips but eagerly spreading rumours. The narrative also seamlessly moves between these characters' thoughts of an imagined future and the actual reality of what they want or need or what's possible. Toibin expertly describes how people keep each other in check and control each other while intending to be supportive. He shows how people want to know each other's business but not openly communicate with them. The story demonstrates the ways communities and families support one another, but also inhibit individuals from realizing their potential if their identity and dreams don't align with the values of the majority.

“Long Island” is a wonderful addition to the ongoing tale of these characters and I hope Toibin continues to write about them from new angles and introducing new drama to this beautifully realised fictional world.

Western Lane by Chetna Maroo

I was initially a bit apprehensive about how much I could connect with this novel's story as I knew it centres around a girl who plays squash. Since I have zero interest in sports I approached it cautiously. But I instantly felt involved in this tale which has a wonderful quietness to it. Beneath the surface action there is a lot of subtle power which arises through finely crafted descriptions of this family's life. It gradually shows how there are silences which can grow between family members until they become monumental. At the beginning the narrator, Gopi, informs us that she was 11 years old when her mother died and we follow the aftermath of her loss. She's left with her two older sisters and brooding father living in a town on the outskirts of London. Instead of dealing with or discussing their grief, the father trains his girls to play squash in a sports centre called Western Lane stating to them “I want you to become interested in something you can do your whole life.” In other words, this is an activity that can potentially stave off the void that's been created because of the loss of their mother.

Gopi develops a passion and talent for playing which her Pa fosters leading up to a local tournament. She spends so much time refining her technique in this empty box of the squash court repeatedly hitting a ball against the wall. It turns into a space which has a timeless quality to it where neither her adolescent development or the loss of her mother matters. The story traces this period showing no matter how much we'd like to remain suspended in the present moment change is inevitable. This becomes apparent through gradual shifts which occur in the family's routines between work, school and home life. Their restrained interactions are charged with an aching sorrow because of the loss of Gopi's Ma and all the emotions they're suppressing. What her sisters and father are truly feeling can only be guessed at in brief moments of overheard conversations or uncharacteristic behaviour. At the same time, the prospect of Gopi's own displacement becomes more probable as her aunt and uncle offer to take her into their home to relieve her father of the burden of raising three daughters on his own. It's heartrending following Gopi's lonely journey as she becomes more and more disciplined in her training while the conspicuous absence within her family grows larger.

I admire Maroo's pared down narrative style which builds precise details of action and dialogue to give an intricate portrait of Gopi's world. As time moves on and their lives necessarily progress without Ma there are reminders that she's gone. Gopi attends a Gujarati school in addition to her English education. This was her mother's primary language. There are moments when one sister still tries to speak to Ma using it or when their father seems to see Ma in a living room chair. While each member of the family mourns in their own way, the aunt and uncle as well as the Gujarati community hurriedly move in to provide instruction for the motherless girls and fill their kitchen with food. The narrative gracefully moves between tender private moments of family life and more public demonstrations of being a functioning unit. While it's definitely a melancholy story there's also a lot of warmth and joy to it. The sisters share such a close physical bond often climbing into each other's beds but they all have distinct personalities. There's also a sweetness to how adolescent Gopi invests so much energy and focus upon this tournament when we know in ten or even five years time the result won't matter to her because she'll have grown and moved beyond it.

It's also a story of an immigrant family and community in Britain who have connections between India, Kenya and Pakistan. While there are subtle tensions which arise from this such as a wariness about Gopi and Pa developing close relationships with a white woman and her son Ged at Western Lane, it's not dramatised for the sake of the plot. It's simply there in the background as part of their lives and I appreciate how this is presented so naturally. Though the family possesses a strong sense of self through their place in the community there's still an ambivalence about how to interact with each other given the tremendous loss they've sustained. Equally, Gopi is so uncertain in how to communicate openly with Ged though there are strong feelings between them: “We were shy and afraid because there was all this feeling between us and we didn't know who we were.” It's beautiful how moments like this capture all the awkwardness of adolescence where so many emotions are present but can't be adequately expressed. At the beginning of the novel her sister Khush assures Gopi that “Things are going to be okay” and we know this will be true despite the depression which could overwhelm them. But it's very touching how this novel shows the way Ma's absence will always be a part of their lives but it won't be the main thing which determines their future.

I imagine some readers might grow impatient with this novel or feel its plot is too slight, but I felt very moved by the gentleness of its story. It's interesting that Chetna Maroo worked alongside author Thomas Morris in The Stinging Fly's workshop program. He's a writer that similarly writes about scenes of contemporary life in a way which stirs a lot of subtle emotion. “Western Lane” feels like a promising debut and I hope Maroo writes more.

Nevada by Imogen Binnie

When I was in my late teens I got a temporary job in a bookstore. I've often thought I could have spent my life at this retail gig that I wasn't particularly skilled at simply because I like to be near books. This is the employment Maria, the protagonist of Imogen Binnie's “Nevada”, has settled into. She describes in brilliant tragi-comic scenes how she's settled into working at a large old bookstore in New York City. Most of her days are spent lingering around the most obscure shelves of books and occasionally sneaking out to buy a bagel. She observes how “Her job exhausts her and her girlfriend exasperates her.” Her only real passions beside reading are riding her bicycle around the city and blogging about what it's really like to be a trans woman. She's both trying to understand her own experience and demystify what it means to be trans because “Maria is transsexual and she is so meek she might disappear.” Though she's extremely forthright in her opinions concerning this, she's so emotionally inhibited her girlfriend is fed up. A confrontation with her and taking one too many liberties at her job propels Maria out of her static existence. She spontaneously journeys across the country in her girlfriend's “borrowed” car and meets an individual she views as a younger version of herself who she hopes to inspire.

This novel was originally published in 2013, but it was reprinted last year as a trans fiction cult classic replete with endorsements from leading queer writers such as Torrey Peters, Andrea Lawlor and Brontez Purnell. There's a real charm to the narrative voice which uses a vernacular that is both self-deprecating and self-assured as it honestly describes the perspective of its heroine. She's completely aware that she's caught in a rut, but can barely muster the energy to take her scheduled estrogen injection – let alone build a more fulfilling life for herself. This is partly because her thoughts are so consumed with issues around her trans identity it exhausts her. As we learn about her development and her challenges of achieving self acceptance, this preoccupation seems totally justified. But, on the other hand, she allows it to overwhelm her to a degree where she perpetually feels on the brink of tipping over into chaos and losing her hard-won autonomy. Amidst this struggle she lays out and clarifies so many commonly misunderstood notions about what it's like to be a trans woman it's wonderfully refreshing reading her frank account.

Though this book presents itself on the surface as a road trip novel it subverts this concept by barely showing the actual trip and doesn't aspire to any neat notions of self discovery or inspiring connections. It's quite surprising how the narrative perspective shifts to the younger and equally inert figure of James in the later part of the book and the novel's ending is daring in how resolutely it avoids a tidy conclusion. But this made it feels all the more realistic and poignant for me. Maria and James aren't individuals who can find direction in their lives based on clear goals. Instead their meandering paths are more often steered by chance in a world that is largely mystified by their complex true identities and cruelly unconcerned with their well being. The information and sense of community they glean is mostly found online as there are so few points of physical connection available to them. Naturally, the internet is a behemoth of unsubstantiated knowledge and conflicting opinions. Maria's own closest in-real-life friend Piranha is wonderfully supportive but has her own serious issues to contend with and guidance can't be foisted upon Maria. So I grew to dearly care for these characters in their precarious situations and greatly appreciated receiving Maria's forthright and funny point of view.

The World and All That It Holds by Aleksandar Hemon

The vivid intensity of both love and war are majestically captured in Aleksandar Hemon's sweeping historical novel “The World and All That It Holds”. The story begins with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, the incident which famously initiated WWI. This is witnessed by pharmacist Rafael Pinto who goes out into the streets after making a romantic overture towards a calvary officer. It's an occurrence which permanently changes the course of this poetic and fanciful man's life as thereafter he's conscripted and thrust into battle. There he meets and begins a passionate affair with fellow soldier Osman. We follow Pinto's rootless existence over multiple decades as he is nationless and desperately struggles to survive. The gritty details of conflict are paired with the ardor and enduring bond between these two men in an evocative way. These accounts are infused with Pinto's religious sensibility as a Sephardic Jew – not in a dogmatic way but which expresses the soulful feeling of this emotional individual. It's an integral part of his heritage so informs the way he frames events and the world around him. In doing so, we view this period of history through a striking new lens and witness the story of a uniquely epic romance.

The act of storytelling takes a central role in the novel. This occurs on multiple levels from Osman's charismatic ability to entrance fellow soldiers with his tales to the frame surrounding this book explained in the epilogue. Though Pinto only briefly glimpsed the shooting of Franz Ferdinand he eventually tells and retells the story so many times it acquires many dramatic flourishes. This is a natural consequence when any lived moment subsequently becomes one of historical importance. He comments “I can confirm, from personal experience, that we are always late to the history in which we live.” What might have felt random and fleeting at the time takes on a seismic meaning when we understand what followed. So we follow Pinto as he's haplessly swept into events to do with migration and civil unrest over the decades. As the burden of exile mounts he falls into despair reasoning “God was invented by the lonely people, by those who could not bear to think that no one would ever care about them, spend a thought on their loneliness. We are not chosen, what we are is terribly lonely and unloved.” Rather than faith, the only thing which prevents him from becoming completely disconsolate is his enduring loving connection to Osman and the duty he feels to care for the girl who might be Osman's daughter.

It's refreshing to gain a different view of such large scale conflicts from a point of view not often explored in historical accounts. This is especially true when it focuses on individuals without any particular political conviction who nevertheless become the casualties of war as in the novel “At Night All Blood is Black”. Hemon's novel posits that alongside the bloodshed and madness, passion was also possible. This is portrayed in the encampments where such clandestine sexual meetings between men occur as an open secret or something which is unimaginable to others. Rather than fetishising such experiences, the novel shows Pinto's fierce longing for such sensuality amidst the brutality. It seems only natural that intense encounters between soldiers might turn into loving and sustained relationships. Sebastian Barry also portrayed a same sex relationship which blossoms amidst battle in his novel “Days Without End”. Though that story came with a welcome message of hope, it's more likely true that most homosexual love affairs which occurred in such circumstances ended in tragedy. Though Hemon's novel fully embraces the likely fate of his characters it also shows how transcendence can be found in beauty and passion.

Vladimir by Julia May Jonas

There are many elements in Julia May Jonas' debut novel “Vladimir” that make it such a tantalising and compelling read. In the story's prologue its unnamed fifty-something literature professor narrator casually mentions that she's staring at an unconscious Vladimir who she has tied to a chair. He is an extremely sexy forty year old husband, father, respected novelist and visiting professor who she's infatuated with. Naturally there's the thrilling tension throughout the novel as we wonder how things came to this point and what will happen after the “liminality” of this scene ends. The narrator herself is in a different kind of tense and uncertain position throughout the book. Her husband John who also teaches in the English department at her small university has been accused of misconduct after having a number of affairs with students over the decades. The narrator was aware of these dalliances but they have an open marriage. Now she's also come under the scrutiny of students and her fellow faculty. Some see her as a victim because she's a wife who has been cheated on by a disgraced husband. Others view her as a conspirator who enabled and permitted her husband's affairs. She patiently (with begrudging tolerance) listens to their concerns and points of view, but she absolutely believes that because the college students her husband slept with consented to the relationships there was nothing wrong with these affairs.

Throughout the novel we're thoroughly entrenched in the narrator's highly educated and convincing point of view – so much so that we can be lulled into a definite stance on issues to do with consent and questions concerning power dynamics in sexual relationships. But as the events of the story dramatically unfold these arguments and issues are revealed to be much more complicated. The narrator herself also unravels as her deeply-ingrained insecurities about ageing, beauty and status as a writer become apparent. This all filters into her desire for Vladimir who is experiencing his own sense of inner crisis despite superficially being a success. Matters are further complicated as we hear the voices of John and their adult daughter Sid who is scathing about her father's behaviour but in some ways mimics it. This all makes for a juicy novel filled with a lot of intrigue and it's a fascinating way to approach these topics. As the story is dominated by the narrator's point of view the slight shift at the end to consider the voices which have been conspicuously absent throughout the book make a big impact and left me with a lot to ponder.

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis

In the opening lines of “Less Than Zero” Ellis seems to lull readers into believing that his debut book will be a comic coming of age novel. 18 year old Clay has just returned to his native city of Los Angeles during the winter break of 1984 and been picked up at the airport by his ex-girlfriend Blair who comments that “People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.” When this novel was first published in 1985 I don't know if LA folk discussing driving was as much a cliché as it's become – so much so that the SNL sketch “The Californians” made a hilarious daytime soap parody where car talk drowns out any other dramatic issue. But the emphasis on the frivolous mechanics of navigating the complicated road networks makes Clay immediately realise the importance of the superficial over the substantive in this city where he originated. As we follow his month of partying, drug taking and emotionless hookups with women and men, the humour initially found in all this meaningless consumption and frivolous interaction takes on a feeling of dread. After a while the reader realises that amidst the spectacle of these ultra-privileged young people's lifestyle there is a looming emptiness and soullessness from which there can be no return. So much so that being a passive witness can be the only response when confronted with death, rape and destruction. It's no wonder that when discussing this novel Ottessa Moshfegh remarks “If this book is an existential satire its actual premise is that the world is hell disguised as paradise.”

Of course, it's only a paradise for people who desire a landscape populated with beautiful young people engaged in endless parties with their seemingly inexhaustible funds as their parents are all wealthy from the film industry or real estate business. Those parents are conspicuously absent or, when present, act as badly or worse than the children. Clay's own parents show little interest in his life or well-being beyond enquiring what he wants for Christmas. The only thing close to morality in this affluent world comes through empty words spouted by televangelists on money-motivated religious programs. As Clay stumbles through this city of drug-fuelled revelry and gossip many people's names begin to blur together but this is apt because the characters frequently refer to individuals whose identities they can't recall. A sense of quiet desperation gradually comes through. The words “Help Me” are anonymously scrawled in a buzzing club. Clay inexplicably cries in a bathroom or stares vacantly into the distance while standing naked in a window like an Edward Hopper painting. Visiting places from his childhood give no sentimental feeling because they aren't connected with any firm emotions. Julian, his best friend from high school, just wants money from him. This eminently photographable rarefied environment steadily becomes less amusing as it's revealed to be completely hollow and frighteningly sinister.

What's so effective about this style of narrative is the way it normalises violence and impending disaster. Since everything is underpinned by emptiness there are no stakes. So as increasingly horrific things occur they come to feel meaningless. Drug addiction, poverty, mutilation and even murder are just a joke to this elite group. Real life and film increasingly blur. Rumours of impending disaster become present with houses falling into the sea, earthquakes, inhumanly high temperatures, roadside accidents, sexual assault, exploitation and physical attacks. It's all fodder for more anecdotes blithely recounted at another party. Anyone sensible will know that such a superficial lifestyle will be unfulfilling, but the point seems to be that our culture continuously glamorises and strives to maintain this style of living which will always collapse because it has no foundation. The question shouldn't be why such violence occurs in the novel, but why do we continue to believe that such frivolous beauty and ravenous consumption at the expense of others will ever lead to fulfilment? How can such an environment be so repulsive but also so compelling to watch? Many will want to turn away, but Clay is tragically trapped in this horrific reality. So even though I didn't love reading this novel I appreciate that it has meaning and a message.

Trust by Hernan Diaz

It's impressive when a novel draws you so fully into its story only to pull the rug out and make you question the validity of what you're reading. Diaz presents four different manuscripts about Wall Street tycoon Andrew Bevel and his brilliant wife Mildred in a way which makes you reassess and question the legitimacy of what came before each part. Every section creates a persuasive picture of these figures and their role in financial affairs which led up to the Great Depression. Though the novel continuously reframes the same characters and events it shows them from radically different angles. Far from being convoluted or repetitive, this gives a dynamic understanding of how narrative can be shaped to fit the ideologies and points of views possessed by different authors. Moreover it's captivating how it lulls the reader into the magnetic glamour and power of these individuals who are at turns sympathetic and suspicious, seductive and repulsive, the saviours of America and the scourge of the nation.

Diaz cleverly plays off from the double meaning of words such as “trust”, “bonds” and “futures” which refer to financial arrangements as well as human relationships. In doing so, he shows how business isn't simply a matter of mathematical equations because there are real world implications and its motives are often based in human emotions. The novel interrogates a capitalist system which allows high proportions of a nation's wealth to be in the hands of relatively few people. The way the story plays out makes us question the honesty behind the stated moral imperatives of moguls who claim to be acting in the best interest of the general population and their country while also increasing their own power and wealth. Crucially, the story also depicts an example of a man driven by communist ideas who earnestly endeavours to query the system and spread news of an alternative ideology. However, his schemes seem as egotistically driven as the financial leaders he scorns. Threaded through the stories of these domineering men on either side of the political divide is a virulent misogyny which leads to the suppression of women's voices. So it feels only fitting that the final two narratives of this novel are handed over to female characters who relate their points of view in a memoir and diary entries.

The novel is deeply compellingly in its series of dramatic reveals which cleverly prompt the reader to piece together an understanding separate from any single one of these narratives. But I think it's also a valuable exercise in questioning how we view history and the motives behind certain stories – especially those that are spun by people in power. Excessive wealth is so often justified by tales of individuals who have earned it through hard work and ingenuity. It's condoned through philanthropy which washes clean any cut throat measures or misconduct which led to its creation. These persuasive mythologies lead to complacency. However, as Diaz demonstrates in this book, there are multiple viewpoints which give very different perspectives on how and why such fortunes are built. It's a message and methodology we should carry with us whenever reading the news or listening to the self-satisfied stories of those in power.

Maps of Our Spectacular Bodies by Maddie Mortimer

Having a serious illness inevitably changes a person's relationship to their own body. This is the experience which is creatively and movingly dramatised in Maddie Mortimer's debut novel. Lia is a writer and artist who illustrates children's guides to the body as well as being a wife and mother. At the beginning of the novel she receives the news that her cancer has recurred and she will have to undergo another cycle of brutal treatment. The story follows Lia and her family's extremely challenging process of dealing with this and come to terms with her past. While they love and support Lia through this illness, her adolescent daughter Iris and her academic husband Harry struggle to deal with their own issues because ordinary life doesn't stop.

Running alongside the tale of their lives is a narrative voice which is marked in bold type. The identity of this narrator is intentionally elusive as it could be interpreted as the disease, Lia's body, a projection of her psyche (feelings of guilt, anger or restlessness) or genetics itself as it travels through generations. The voice is sporadic at first, but it comes to have a stronger and more prominent presence in the story. It's both an antagonist and a reliably familiar presence in Lia's life. It can be at turns mischievous and funny in its (high and low) cultural references as well as threatening and manipulative. Though it can feel disarming to have this odd presence amidst a more traditional narrative it comes to feel like an integral part of the story and makes sense since when our lives are disrupted by serious illness it can feel like another entity with its own agenda is constantly with us.

I was somewhat hesitant to start this book since people very close to me have struggled with cancer, but I ultimately found it extremely beneficial reading such an impressive debut novel. It helped me process my feelings surrounding this condition and the emotional and practical implications of dealing with such an illness. The story sympathetically shows how everyone has their own unique ways of coping with the life altering challenges which accompany cancer. It's also extremely artful how Mortimer describes methods of viewing the body and how we can reconsider our relationship to our physical being. There are also multiple emotionally-charged scenes which I know will stick with me such as when Iris undergoes a painful stunt to impress the school bully only for it to backfire and when Lia is groped on a train by a group of raucous lads. Scenes of strife are also mixed in with moments of tenderness such as when Harry cares for Lia or when Iris and Lia playfully come up with multiple creative answers for Lia's school test questions.

There were some moments where it feels like the author is controlling the nebulous voice to make a statement or get a point across rather than it coming organically, but for the most part it feels like an authentic presence that Lia is inextricably linked to. I was also somewhat uncertain if the scenes from Lia's early life were necessary to flash back to, but ultimately this comes together to make a poignant statement about how the past and present intersect, just as the beginning of life/potential of life circles back to our lives' inevitable end. Overall I was impressed by the scope and ingenuity of this novel to give a different perspective on the physical and mental process of illness. It's a moving and memorable experience reading it.

Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart

As much as I loved Douglas Stuart's debut novel “Shuggie Bain” and its complex portrayal of a mother's addiction to alcohol, I was left longing to know a bit more about Shuggie himself and what it's like to be a young working class gay boy in Scotland. There are many touching scenes with Shuggie and it primarily focuses on his perspective, but it's really the story of his mum Agnes. So I was thrilled to find that “Young Mungo” is almost exclusively about Mungo himself. Superficially the two novels might seem similar as they include characters from the same socio-economic background in the 1990s who are also wrestling with issues to do with poverty, addiction and toxic masculinity. However, the characters in “Young Mungo” are distinct and deal with the challenges they face in very different ways. Another issue which is touched upon in “Shuggie Bain” that I wanted to read more about was the sectarian conflict in Glasgow between Catholics and Protestants. This clash is also brought centre stage in this new novel because Mungo is born into a Protestant family and gets drawn into the resulting street violence with Catholics. Moreover, it's the queer 'Romeo & Juliet' story I always longed to read because Mungo falls for Catholic teen James. The result is a beautiful and devastatingly moving romance that's also about a personal quest for acceptance in a community that cannot accept or allow difference.

The novel is cleverly framed around a fishing trip that Mungo's mother forces him to join in order to toughen him up. The two older men who lead him into the wilderness grow increasingly sinister and there is a building tension to this storyline intercut with scenes leading up to this expedition. Gradually we get to intimately know about the struggle of this young man who was named after the patron saint of Glasgow. Naturally Mungo is severely teased about his name. However, he's also made to feel severely self-conscious about his nature and mannerisms which don't conform to the macho walk of other “Proddie boys”. The author poignantly describes this pressure to conform: “This swagger was a uniform as ubiquitous as any football top. It had a gangly forward motion like a big-balled, bandy-legged weasel, head swung low, eyes always fixed on the prey ahead, ready to lunge with either a fist or a silver blade. Mungo tried his best to wear the uniform but he felt like an imposter. It was a poor imitation.” It's so powerful how the language Stuart uses in this description is laced with the potential violence simmering beneath the surface.

When this violence actually occurs in the story it's brutal and horrible, but it's certainly not simply for dramatic effect. Given the real life cruelty so many young men like Mungo have experienced and continue to experience this depiction feels both pointed and relevant. For some people reading a physical copy of the UK hardback in public will be a challenge in itself. The cover photograph by Wolfgang Tillmans which depicts two men kissing might stir adverse reactions from some who notice it and this potential might make some readers self-conscious about holding the book up, but I feel like this adds to the provocative statement this novel is making. For those who have trepidation about reading such a proudly gay story with an in-your-face cover I think it's also important to note that this is a novel that balances its sexual scenes with an exquisitely delicate tenderness which anyone can relate to. Equally, its violent scenes are balanced with endearing humour and a welcome message of hope. Nor does it simply present a cast composed of heroes and villains. Mungo's mother, brother and the men who take him into the wilderness are nuanced individuals whose cruel and unfortunate actions spring from a mixture of selfishness and the overwhelming pressure of their circumstances. It's also poignant how his spirited sister Jodie faces her own troubled journey as a clever young woman being used by a married man.

I have a particular personal appreciation for how this novel presents the way James, a rural gay teen in the 90s, longed for platonic connections with other gay guys and how he found this through a party line phone service. It was something I could really relate to having grown up in the same pre-internet era when I had to find innovative ways of making such connections with a dispersed small pool of individuals under the fear of being found out. Though there's so much about this novel's craft I admire, it's this kind of detail and the beauty of its central love story which really tugged at my heartstrings.

To Paradise by Hanya Yanagihara

Though Hanya Yanagihara's “A Little Life” was a million-copy bestseller, it also sharply divided readers with some hailing it a life-changing triumph and others deriding it as manipulative misery porn. The author's new equally lengthy 700-page novel “To Paradise” is eliciting similarly mixed responses as Alex Preston has already declared it a “masterpiece for our times” in The Guardian while in Harper's Rebecca Panovka criticised the novel's aspiration to be an “epidemiological cautionary tale” and posits that “if the antidote to dangerous ideas is didactic storytelling, I have to wonder (apparently with Yanagihara) whether the cure is worse than the disease.” I'm sure some other readers will similarly overly hail or excessively disparage this new novel in an argumentative fashion. However, rather than making a strident declaration about my overall assessment of “To Paradise” my gut response and balanced opinion is that it's an impressive, thought-provoking epic (especially because it remains so wonderfully engaging for hundreds and hundreds of pages), but its structure also presents some uniquely frustrating difficulties. 

The novel centres around one New York City square, but its three different sections straddle three different centuries with three very different stories. Not only do the circumstances and characters radically change between parts, but so does the style of each section as they move from a Jamesian psychological/social drama couched in an alternate history to a dystopian future where the draconian government takes severe measures to contain a multitude of deadly new plagues. Also the characters between sections share little or no connection to each other (though certain links eventually become clear) these different individuals all have the same names: David, Charles and Edward. At one point a character wryly comments: “that is a lot of Davids”. Though this all sounds extremely confusing as an outline one of the wonders of this novel is that it all becomes quite clear during the actual experience of reading the book. 

I can't help but feel the recycling of names throughout different sections isn't really necessary and is more about a self-conscious statement the author is trying to make. In an interview in The Observer, Yanagihara commented “We're often renaming things in the United States, either to eradicate a bad memory or to try to dissociate it from a person who history has not treated kindly or who deserves to be treated with more respect. There's this idea that naming something changes the fundamental nature of it, but does naming who we are make us more real to others? Or is it simply a way of making ourselves more real to ourselves?” These are interesting questions to ask, but challenging the notion of how we use names by repeatedly using them in a single novel feels needlessly confusing and the effect the author was aiming for didn't really resonate with me.

However, it's to Yanagihara's credit that she skilfully evokes distinctly different worlds and uses such rich detail that I almost always understood what was happening and emotionally connected with the characters involved. Any confusion lay not so much in the characters' identities but in mentally trying to link the sections together. My advice is to not burn yourself out doing this. No doubt some scholar detective might tease out many connections between sections but I don't think it's necessary to do so to enjoy this book. Overall themes definitely emerge regarding privilege, the nature of love, the meaning of freedom, how we strive for utopian ideals, the state of America and questions surrounding national/racial/sexual identity. These are ideas to reflect upon in retrospect as the immediate drama of each section yields numerous pleasures and many gripping moments. It took a little time for me to orientate myself within each new section (and the second and third sections are broken down further into two more distinct parts) but I always became thoroughly engrossed.

Yanagihara does have a habit of pulling the rug out from under her readers. It often felt like every time Jude achieved some happiness in “A Little Life” it was soon squashed. Similarly, every time I became heavily engaged with each part of “To Paradise” the section would end with a nail biting cliffhanger and the story moved on. I'm not a reader who requires a tidy ending but when I'm prevented from knowing the fate of so many characters I've come to dearly care about it's frustrating wondering what's become of them. Small hints are built into some sections when characters reflect upon their pasts, but I think readers should prepare themselves that this novel won't offer a firm conclusion. Nevertheless, the many stories this book contains are meaty enough that I thoroughly enjoyed the ride.

Clearly, I have very mixed feelings about this novel. From the outside I'm not sure if it all hangs together, but when I was actually reading it I was thoroughly engrossed. That's an impressive achievement for such a shapeshifting book. It's wonderful how Yanagihara reimagines a 19th century history for America where homosexuals were free to marry, but also become entangled in all the class conflicts that accompany the state of marriage. Some of the other things I loved most about the novel were David's obsessive and passionate nature in the first section, the complex arguments surrounding Hawaiians who petition for a return to an indigenous monarchy in the second section and in the third section the unintentionally funny detail that Great Britain is renamed New Britain as it becomes a paradise that outsiders yearn to move to. There's a lot more I enjoyed about this book and I'll certainly continue to mull over it in the weeks to come. I'm also sure it will inspire even more passionate discussion amongst readers and I can't help but feel that's always a good thing. 

The Fell by Sarah Moss

How can writers capture the feeling and repercussions of the pandemic in their fiction? As early as May 2020 an anthology called “Tools for Extinction” came out which included work from writers around the world responding to the ongoing crisis and Ali Smith's “Summer” included the pandemic as part of its storyline. It's curious to see how such recent events are embedded in a past which is now being fictionalised – especially as there's the possibility we could return to a state of lockdown and quarantine at any time. Although we usually go through our lives with little sense that we're living through history most people understand that these extraordinary times have significantly and permanently altered the world. Having so many people isolated in their homes has led to enormous emotional, financial and physical consequences. It's often remarked that writers need a sufficient distance from events to fully encapsulate their larger meaning in literature, but that depends on the strategy the author takes. 

In her new novel Sarah Moss' tactic is to embody the immediate thoughts and actions of four different characters in a village. “The Fell” is set in November 2020 during the second national lockdown in England when residents were ordered not to leave their homes. Kate is a single mother who recently lost her job at a cafe because of the pandemic and now worries about how she'll pay her bills. Although she knows she's breaking the rules, Kate leaves her adolescent son Matt at home to go for a solitary stroll across the countryside. She does this despite the threat of government fines and citizens being encouraged to inform upon any neighbours who break the rules. It says something about her state of mind and the pressure she's under that her feet seem to lead her outside and that she doesn't return even when it's getting dark and she knows the sensible thing would be to turn back. Though the risk is small, the stakes are high. And this is the dilemma we've all faced over the past two years when for many people it's more a question of personal responsibility than any outside pressure to follow the rules.

Things go badly wrong for Kate and it changes what's only been a theoretical crisis into a real crisis. The narrative revolves between the perspectives of Kate, Matt, their older neighbour Alice who is shielding at home and rescue worker Rob. It movingly follows the mental process many of us have gone through when confined at home with all the attendant fear, boredom, frustration and self-pity as well as feelings of guilt for reacting like this when we reason that there are other people who are suffering in more severe ways than we are. Moss captures the sense of stasis and how “A person can doubtless live like this indefinitely, the background murmur of dread only a little louder week by week, month by month”. Following these characters' mental states we get a sense of the building crisis as what was formerly abnormal becomes normalised. As they experience an extremely difficult predicament they are forced to consider their own resiliency and ability to cope under these circumstances. In particular, I was entranced by the way Kate is driven to a state of such crisis that she experiences a semi-hallucinatory encounter with a raven that's like a spectre from a Shakespearean tragedy.

There is so much in this novel which feels relatable and there's a solace in reading about characters who have felt many of the same emotions I have during this time. Alice feels inspired to bake batches of cookies, but since she lives alone the dilemma is there is nothing to do with all these cookies but eat them all herself. She also takes a strange comfort in watching rollerskating tutorials from California on her computer. However, Matt reaches a point where he feels like he's seen everything he's interested in online and nothing is being updated anymore. It becomes even more evident that the internet is a receptacle through which people voyeuristically experience the world and it becomes many people's only touchstone to the outside – including awkward video call chats with family members while eating a meal. Everything becomes glazed with a sense of the unreal: “because your mind and memory can't get much purchase on pixels on a screen, because nothing feels real any more.” Moss encapsulates the texture of recent times in this novel while also contemplating the way we handle facing our own mortality and negotiate the risks that we feel are worth taking in life. It's an innovative and effective approach to representing what we've all just lived through.

Heaven by Mieko Kawakami (translated by Sam Bett and David Boyd)

Nothing twists my heart like recalling the alienation I felt in childhood. That was a time of blistering self-awareness made all the more painful by children around me who gleefully pointed out my apparent “flaws” and punished me for them. In retrospect we like to say it's our differences which make us unique. We like to assert how the antagonism we endured has made us stronger. These are empowering notions, but what truth does this rationality hold when we still experience the visceral sting of emotional wounds from bullying? 

Mieko Kawakami's novel “Heaven” meditates on the real meaning of these trials of childhood. It contemplates who really holds the power in a dynamic where the few who are weak are preyed upon by the dominant majority. It questions what lessons are learned and what truth is revealed by these conflicts. We follow the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy cruelly nicknamed Eyes by the boys at his school because he has a lazy eye. They relentlessly bully him for this. As their savagery escalates he befriends his classmate Kojima, a female classmate who refuses to practice standard hygiene for a special reason and gets cruelly persecuted by the other schoolgirls. 

There's a beautiful tenderness to this story as these two find friendship amidst their alienation and suffering. They pass each other notes and have awkward meetings to discuss things which are alternately banal and meaningful. This feels very true to the experience of adolescence. Equally, it's poignant how the narrator finds solace and relief in small things like putting his hands in the cool space of his desk. It's also powerfully described how his unruly emotions often physically control him. Kawakami also portrays the suffering and after-effects of bullying so sharply where the narrator finds himself driven to the point where “I started crying all night long... I couldn't stop the tears. I asked myself if I was sad, but I had lost touch with what sadness was supposed to be.” These experiences are vividly rendered and made me really reconnect with similar feelings from my own childhood. 

The story contains a deep thoughtfulness as the narrator and Kojima formulate competing perspectives when the bullying they experience intensifies and persists. They have very different feelings about the agency they possess. Where the narrator sees himself as a helpless victim, Kojima asserts “I bet we could make them stop. But we're not just playing by their rules. This is our will. We let them do this. It's almost like we chose this.” Her reasoning verges on making her a martyr: “Everything we take, all of the abuse, we do it to rise above.” Meanwhile the narrator does his best to simply endure and survive. It's a complicated reckoning which leads to some scenes which are almost surreal in tone. There's also an odd lengthy exchange with Mamose, one of the bullies who questions how we commonly perceive the state of the world: “Listen, if there's a hell, we're in it. And if there's a heaven, we're already there. This is it.” The conclusions these different adolescents come to make the reader reevaluate the meaning of these youthful conflicts and how we can get past them. Reading this emotional novel is an unsettling and rewarding experience. 

Circus of Wonders by Elizabeth Macneal

The 2017 cult hit film 'The Greatest Showman' inspired marginalized people about the solace that can be found by establishing your own community with others who don't fit in with larger society. But it also perpetuated a dangerous mythology about P.T. Barnum as a showman who wholeheartedly believed in this ethos and deeply cared about the welfare of the performers in his freak shows and circuses. Elizabeth Macneal's new novel “Circus of Wonders” presents a more complicated fictional story of such an impresario with Jasper Jupiter who in 1866 aspires to create a show that will eclipse Barnum in its success and draw Queen Victoria to attend. He does this through mercenary exchanges purchasing individuals with physical aberration from their families, tyrannically working his crew and making dangerous deals to enhance the spectacles. Though this egotist's circus is at the centre of this novel, Macneal primarily focuses instead on the points of view of two far more sympathetic characters. 

A young woman named Nell feels isolated in her community because of birthmarks which speckle her skin and, though she's kidnapped by Jupiter, she comes to embrace the circus' opportunities and the sense of importance which comes from being refashioned into a wonder known as the “Queen of the Moon and Stars”. But she soon realises that this isn't necessarily an empowering form of celebrity, her newfound freedom has limitations and the public's adulation has a sinister side. Jasper's brother Toby has always been the more awkward and less favoured of the pair. From an early age they hatched a dream of forming a circus together, but Jasper's ambition supersedes his brotherly love and there hangs between them a secret from their days being involved in the Crimean War. The complicated relationship between Nell and Toby plays out amidst the rise to fame of Jupiter's Circus of Wonders.

It's a dramatic and moving tale which delves into the moral ambiguities which arise when people who have been diminished by their families and communities seek to achieve independence through the only methods which are available to them. I have a natural affinity for tales of circus life and one of my favourite novels is Angela Carter's “Nights at the Circus” so I was instantly drawn into Macneal's story. As with her debut novel “The Doll Factory”, she has a wonderful talent for vividly creating a sense of history within her fiction and evoking how it might have felt dealing with the struggles that these individuals faced in particular periods of the past. By referencing iconic fairy tales within the novel, Macneal reminds us that these are stories of wondrous magic but they also have a dark heart and timeless lessons about the price of obtaining what you most desire.

Kololo Hill by Neema Shah

What is it like for a family to be forced to leave everything behind and start again? This is the terrifying question at the centre of debut novel “Kololo Hill”. The story hinges upon a significant moment in Ugandan history when in 1971 an officer named Idi Amin became dictator after a military coup. Amidst the brutalities of his new regime, he forcibly removed the entrepreneurial Indian minority from Uganda. I first learned about this shocking period of history when reading another recent debut novel “We Are All Birds of Uganda” which describes the desperate flight from the country. Neema Shah positions Amin's decree halfway through her novel so we follow a family's life in the before and after of this enforced expulsion. This makes it a dramatic and gripping experience because just as we become familiar with the daily life of this family they are uprooted and flung into a new life in England. For couple Asha and Pran who were recently married it presents an even greater complication because they have different passports so are no longer allowed to live in the same country. The catastrophe of the expulsion and the violence this family experiences and witnesses transforms each individual as they struggle to adapt and adjust to their changed circumstances. It's powerful how this novel prompts the reader to question how they would cope if suddenly forced to leave behind the only home they ever knew.

The question of nationality and the meaning of home become so complicated when considering the history of colonialism and the economic disparity between classes in Uganda. The family's community built on an area known as Kololo Hill has clear demarcations between the higher area inhabited by the prosperous Asian community and the lower area with cramped accommodation for black Ugandans. Shah sensitively probes the tensions of these divisions while faithfully representing a family caught in a larger thorny social and political system. The question of their moral responsibility is intriguingly represented in a central mystery concerning what happened to the family's “house boy” December. It was moving following their emotional and physical journey through the revolving perspectives of Asha, her mother-in-law Jaya and her brother-in-law Vijay. Each has a very different point of view and way of coping so I thought it was clever how the author split the story between them. It's especially poignant the way the family recall to each other specific details about Uganda that they loved as a way of not allowing the harrowing experiences of their escape from dominating the memory of their lost country. I found it really powerful how the novel artfully represents this complex history. It left me wondering how I would cope with being forced to flee my home and how it would transform my familial relationships.