The Shadow King by Maaza Mengiste

One of the reasons I enjoy reading great historical fiction is that it illuminates periods of the past that I was totally unaware of. Most of my understanding of the events surrounding WWII are centred around an American and English perspective. So prior to Mengiste's “The Shadow King” I had no knowledge of Mussolini's 1935 invasion of Ethiopia, one of the last sovereign African countries at that time. As Mengiste has explained in interviews, the Second Italo-Ethiopian War is well documented but there are few written historical accounts of Ethiopian women's active involvement in defending the country through these battles. This novel provides a different framing of this period by insisting on the prominence and importance of these women. The author introduces us to this era by focusing on the story of Hirut, an orphaned girl who becomes a maid to Kidane who is an officer in Emperor Haile Selassie's army and his strong-willed wife Aster. As the invasion begins the balance of their lives is totally upended and their relationships alter in accordance with the joint will to fight to maintain Ethiopia's independence. The result is a dramatic story filled with bloody battles and the emotional journeys of individuals whose lives are fundamentally changed by these larger events. 

The difficulty with some historical novels is that they are so steeped in a narrative of the past it's a challenge to enter as a reader if you aren't equipped with a knowledge about it. This was definitely why I found it hard to finish reading “Wolf Hall” on the first go and why it took supplementary reading for me to better understand the events and drama being portrayed. The same was true for Mengiste's novel. Frequently throughout the story I found myself entrenched in scenes of conflict I struggled to understand so it was difficult to emotionally invest in the outcome. I fully accept this is a problem of my own ignorance about the series of historical events being portrayed. Like with Mantel's fiction, I think the payoff gained from really concentrating and reading additional material is worth it because “The Shadow King” is undoubtably an impressive work of fiction. I'm equally sure that reading this novel a second time will yield a lot more pleasure because I'd be able to focus more on the development of the characters, the links between them and the symbolic resonance of the story more than working so hard to follow what was actually happening. However, this means that at the moment this is a novel I admired more than really enjoyed.

Where this book shined the most for me were in private moments where a character like Hirut realises she is trapped in events much larger than herself. There's a sudden understanding that this entangled political conflict has irreparably changed her in a way that runs counter to her own natural development and she must radically redefine herself in order to survive. But there are different strategies for making this happen. In the case of Aster, she takes a stand against her own husband and insists she can play an active leading role in defending their country. In the case of the cook, she cannily flies under the radar by refusing to divulge her name or make her identity known. It's moving how Mengiste shows the way identity is distorted and reformed by the trauma of war. I also found it powerful how the characters aspired to shape the narrative of history while the conflict was still in progress through the photographs being taken and the news which was portioned out to the rest of the world. It's compelling how Mengiste portrays an evolving sense of national identity when a country struggles to maintain its independence and how that country's true character resides in the collective will of its people rather than a figurehead like Selassie who fled into exile. This novel shows that the truth of a nation is found more often in what its citizens' sacrifice rather than the spoils of war.

Attrib and Other Stories by Eley Williams

The short stories in Eley Williams' debut collection may not have any concrete connection to each other, but many of them depict brief moments of emotional drama. However, instead of burrowing into the characters' feelings or reasons for these instances of lovers breaking up and other life changes, the stories are filled with seemingly trivial, distracted trails of thought that we follow through until the apparent crisis has passed. This technique might feel hollow if it weren't for the skilful way the author shows how our encounters with others (especially in highly dramatic moments) are often consumed with a fragmentation of different thoughts. It points to the gaps between language and meaning, emotion and its expression, experience and memory. While this left me wondering about many of the details behind these stories, I was nevertheless very moved by the sensation of these private moments of contemplation which are often punctuated with a playful curiosity and humour. 

There's an affectionally-portrayed introversion to these tales. We follow narrators who recite the lyrics to a song from the musical Oliver! or recount how starlings were brought to America by a man honouring Shakespeare. There's an accumulation of odd tidbits and facts which clutter an inward looking mind. This sensibility is enhanced by the way the narrators have more evident connections with animals or insects rather than humans. There's a hedgehog paddling in a swimming pool, a landmine seeking rat with great comic timing and a spider who constructs elaborate tricks. These are beings whose interior realities are ultimately unknowable and so they are in a way safe as confidants. But there are also beautiful moments of romantic tension where a narrator is mesmerised by the colour of a boy's eyes who he hides in a closet with or a narrator who panics over whether to kiss their same-sex partner in a gallery. 

Naturally, I felt the strongest bond with stories where there was a clear tension and something precious was at stake (even if I wasn't certain about the dramatic architecture surrounding this moment.) Several stories express an intense longing for a lover or friend without describing the particular circumstances. 'Concision' is a heartbreaking tale where an abruptly ended phone conversation results in the narrator staring contemplatively at the numerous black holes in the landline receiver. 'Spins' recounts a narrator's fumbling attempts to furtively dispose of a lover's silk pyjamas in a bin that's a sufficient distance from their home. 'Platform' describes a photo taken during a lover's departure at a train station and how the toupee of a man in the background flew off his head at that exact second. There are volumes of unspoken emotion invisibly built into the background of these tales.

Not every story is built around an untold crisis. There are tales that compellingly focus more on an obscure job like recording sounds to go with an art exhibit's audio guide or a chef who specialises in cooking birds in alcohol or a story about the construction and meaning of rosettes in politics. Some stories pushed too far into obscurity so I was left feeling puzzled rather than moved by the unknown details surrounding them. But, on the whole, the stories in this collection are so innovative and enjoyable. Their sense of humour and wordplay alongside an affection for second person narrators felt reminiscent of Ali Smith to me and that's always a good thing. There's something so unique about Williams' slant on the world that I'm very much looking forward to reading her novel.

Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

I always feel some trepidation picking up a classic novel I know I should have read before – probably in my teenage years. Like “Frankenstein”, “Jane Eyre” and “Little Women” I've come to “Rebecca” relatively late in my life. I was already familiar with the story because I've seen the equally classic 1940 film of Du Maurier's novel directed by Alfred Hitchock. But, of course, the great thing about a classic novel is that no matter how much you feel you already know it because it's so much a part of our popular culture the actual experience of reading it for the first time is often surprising and delightful. To finally read that famous opening line “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again” was to discover this story anew. I was instantly bewitched by the naïve young woman who finds that becoming a man's second wife means that she's entered into a love triangle with a ghost. Du Maurier evokes such an all-consuming and uneasy sense of atmosphere as she describes this unnamed narrator's introduction to becoming the new mistress of the grand estate of Manderley. From the memories of everyone who knew her, the routines of the household, the decoration of the rooms and the monogramed stationary, the presence of the late Mrs de Winter is everywhere felt. It's such a gripping and enlightening experience reading this novel for its mysteries and suspense, but also because its meaning can be interpreted in different ways. 

The narrator is so shy and meek it's impossible not to initially feel sympathetic towards her as she escapes a terrible job as a companion to the snobbish wannabe Mrs van Hopper by marrying Maxim de Winter. This romantic trajectory of a humble young woman entering into a relationship with a wealthy emotionally uptight man felt so reminiscent of “Jane Eyre”. It's no wonder the author Sarah Perry describes Maxim as “Mr Rochester at the wheel of a motor-car.” Like Mr Rochester, Maxim also has a secret about his previous marriage and, rather than being open and honest with his new wife, it takes dramatic events for the truth of the past to be revealed. Maxim's masculine arrogance certainly doesn't help the fundamental misunderstandings which occur in their relationship, but the narrator also concedes at one point how her own attitude creates a barrier between her and others: “I wondered how many people there were in the world who suffered and continue to suffer because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth.” Like many introverted people, she lets her imagination run wild, especially in regards to her assumptions about people and what she believes people think of her. Of course, she has a right to be suspicious as she overhears some servants and “friends” candid thoughts about her, but she constructs a false system of beliefs about her place in the household in a way which is psychologically masochistic.

More than the narrator, the most fascinating character in the novel is certainly Mrs Danvers. Du Maurier sets us against her from the very beginning or, at least, makes us fear her through the narrator's eyes as she's described in such creepy terms with her “skull's face, parchment-white, set on a skeleton's frame”. Her attitude and manner is so foreboding and stern Mrs Danvers is much more like a school mistress who must be appeased rather than a head servant who manages the household of Manderley. Yet, her maniacal loyalty to Rebecca, the first Mrs de Winter, and fierce care for her remaining things which she dusts every day reveals she has such enormous stores of unvoiced grief for this lost woman. It's hard not to interpret Mrs Danvers' feelings for Rebecca as romantic given her overriding obsession with her and the fact that she fondly looks through the drawers of her underwear. While you could interpret this as a negative representation of homosexuality, she also must be one of literature's great queer villains. As Carmen Maria Machado describes in her memoir, it's hard not to love a figure like this because she's so fabulous in her misery and unvoiced passion. But, even though Mrs Danvers is cunning and vengeful, she's also sympathetic when in rare moments of grief she weeps and mentally breaks down. It's no wonder that Mrs Danvers has taken on a life of her own inspiring tales like Rose Tremain's excellent short story 'The Housekeeper'.

It's also fascinating how Rebecca looms so large throughout the story like an ominous spectre – not least of all because her name is emblazoned on the novel's cover whereas the name of the narrator is never even mentioned. She was someone with a legendary charm and beauty and the narrator is clearly consumed with jealousy. Surely this speaks about her own insecurities rather than the perceived malice of this lost woman's spirit. Of course, we can never get Rebecca's point of view since she died before the start of the story. So we can only speculate about her identity based on second-hand accounts. If you see her through Mrs Danvers' eyes Rebecca is like an empowered short-haired feminist figure who has eschewed any need for a man. From Maxim's perspective she was a cunning, selfish nymphomaniac. And from Jack Favell's perspective she was a mischievous woman to be manipulated and used for his own purposes. Out of these subjective points of view emerges a dynamic character who will remain a figure of endless fascination. No doubt, both the narrator and Rebecca are characters that readers make different conclusions about every time they read this book which is partly why it's considered such a classic.

Though there's no question this novel is magnificent and I enjoyed it thoroughly, I don't think it's entirely perfect. The later part of the book is almost entirely consumed with unearthing whether Rebecca's death was a crime or not. We follow the machinations of this quest for justice in tedious detail as figures are drawn out one by one to provide testimony. Rather than in a courtroom this is pursued by tracking down an individual that is sketchily referred to in an appointment book. It all felt somewhat ludicrous to me as surely no firm conclusions could be drawn from whatever is found but the narrator's nerves are constantly frayed as she's certain some incriminating evidence will be revealed at every turn in the road. This was when my sympathy for the narrator waned and I felt more irritated by her. Overall, it just felt like a somewhat clunky way to reveal yet another hidden layer to Rebecca's character that none of the characters knew about and a too convenient way to get the main characters away from the house for a certain amount of time. Nevertheless, the mystery about Rebecca's true identity is so enticing I'm sure I'll come back to read this novel again and look for more clues. That Manderley ends in a great conflagration seems like the ultimate last word from Rebecca herself that she will ultimately remain unknowable.

Cardiff, by the Sea by Joyce Carol Oates

Joyce Carol Oates excels at writing stories of psychological suspense which also contain an underlying layer of more profound and unanswerable questions. In “Cardiff, by the Sea”, her new collection of four novellas, she presents several differently compelling and inventive strategies for teasing the reader into questioning what's real and what's only a part of the narrator's imagination. In the title story, an emotionally-charged terrifying childhood memory haunts a scholarly young woman. In “Miao Dao”, a stray cat becomes a kind of ghost guardian for a vulnerable teenage girl. A bright young student falls prey to her influential mentors in “Phantomwise:1972”. And, in “The Surviving Child”, a new wife joins a household haunted by the memory of a mother who tried to eviscerate her family. These are innately dramatic situations whose psychological complexity is furthered by the longer amount of space the author allows for them to be told, but the stories remain compact enough for their tension to remain breathtakingly persistent. Recent books of short stories by Oates such as “Pursuit” and “Night-Gaunts” present similarly suspenseful situations, but it's interesting how the author works in this new book with slightly longer forms of narrative to produce an effect that is very reminiscent of Henry James' “The Turn of the Screw.” 

Two of the funniest and most vivid characters in this collection are Elspeth and Morag who are the great-aunts of Clare, the protagonist of “Cardiff, by the Sea”. Clare travels to Maine after being informed that a grandmother she didn't know existed has left her a house in her will and the aunts take her into their home while the estate is being settled. The dialogue between the two aunts whips across the page as they relentlessly bicker and fuss over Clare who is caught helplessly between them. They're like an elderly female version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee from Lewis Carroll's “Through the Looking-Glass”. In fact, a more explicit reference to “Alice's Adventures in Wonderland” comes in “Phantomwise:1972” where the student protagonist is named Alyce. She becomes the assistant and romantic interest/carer of Roland B___, a famous poet who remarks that he once met the original Alice who inspired Carroll. It's delightful to see how Carroll's writing continues to inspire and reconfigure itself within Oates' fiction.

I often remark how Oates' writing almost feels prescient given that her subjects frequently mirror the most topical debates occurring at the time of her book's publication. Here again, Oates' sensitivity for the questions dividing current politics inform her storylines. A pointed message is made in the novella “Phantomwise:1972” which, significantly, is set in the time immediately before the U.S. Supreme Court's landmark decision on Roe v. Wade. Given the vacancy on the Supreme Court left by Ruth Bader Ginsburg's death and her proposed replacement, the topic of abortion has come to the forefront of American politics again. Of course, this is an issue Oates has written about numerous times before, most notably in her tremendous novel “A Book of American Martyrs”. But, in this new novella, Oates considers the point of view of a young woman who finds herself unexpectedly pregnant and encounters a crisis because she's not able to legally obtain an abortion. The story serves as a stark reminder at this crucial period of time that vulnerable young individuals will face innumerable challenges if these laws are overturned.

The opening of Oates' 2007 novel “The Gravedigger's Daughter” included a scene where a parent comes close to killing everyone in his family before committing suicide. This tragic circumstance occurs again but in very different contexts in two of the novellas in this collection “Cardiff, by the Sea” and “The Surviving Child”. In returning to the region of her birth family, Clare discovers her father might have executed her mother and siblings when she was very young but there's a compelling mystery throughout the story about whether this was in fact what happened. In “The Surviving Child” Elisabeth marries a widower whose first wife Nicola was a famous poet that is posthumously accused of killing herself and her daughter. The son Stefan narrowly survived this harrowing incident and continues to live with his father and new stepmother in the upmarket house where this tragedy occurred. Elisabeth's experiences living in this solemn estate are extremely eerie and tense in way that resembles Daphne du Maurier's “Rebecca”. It's fascinating how Oates reconfigures instances of filicide in her fiction to give very different slants and perspectives on this almost unspeakable crime to show the multitude of societal pressures and psychological derangements which might motivate them.

What brings all these gripping novellas to life is Oates' masterful use of description and pace to evoke visceral feelings of dread in the reader's imagination. In the large unsettling house Elisabeth inhabits it's remarked “Doorknobs feel uncomfortably warm when touched, like inner organs.” The squirming discomfort and unsettling atmosphere these metaphors and figurative language cause make these compulsive stories darkly pleasurable to read. Equally, Oates uses creepy imagery such as a spider web to invoke a mood but also to suggest deeper meaning. In the title novella it's asked “But why are you walking away? Is this not the intersection with another? Another life, whose web you have blundered into.” Here the recurring image prompts a feeling for how our lives are made up of innumerable paths and possibilities, but we are simultaneously trapped in our circumstances. In this way, Oates ingeniously builds stories which are both thrilling and prompt deeper questions about the mysteries of existence. 

You can also watch me interview Joyce Carol Oates about this collection here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGJlsLdSd28

Exciting Times by Naoise Dolan

Multiple friends of mine who’ve read Sally Rooney’s phenomenally popular novel “Normal People” have asked me for suggestions of what they can read that is “just like Normal People”. I think “Exciting Times” by Naoise Dolan might be the answer. Of course, to say that this debut novel is “just like” Normal People does a disservice to the originality of Dolan’s tale and the uniqueness of the authorial voice. But there are several similarities. It’s a contemporary novel about young people new to adulthood. Although it’s set in Hong Kong, it’s by an Irish author and the narrator is Ava, an Irish woman who moved there to teach English to rich children. There’s a difficult romance at the centre of the novel and a suspenseful element driving the story is about whether or not they’ll get together. Factors such as social class and money play into the tension of the central relationships. It concerns a lot of miscommunication or failed communication which is muddled by the medium of modern technology. It’s a poignant and oftentimes funny story. There’s also the fact that in the acknowledgements Dolan thanks Sally Rooney alongside a couple of other contemporary Irish writers. These aspects all mean that if I were an algorithm I’d offer up “Exciting Times” as an if you read and enjoyed Normal People suggested purchase. Thankfully, I’m not an algorithm so I have a bit more to say about what makes this novel great.

The novel fits into a tradition of Irish books which explore the subject of emigration. Ava seems to have moved so far away from her native country because she feels like an outsider and she’s not entirely sure what to do with her life. This distance gives her a unique perspective on her own sense of nationality and the way she’s viewed by others. Given that she teaches English as a foreign language, there’s a lot of wry commentary on language itself: the limitations of it but also the cultural significance of how and where it’s used. She meets an English banker named Julian whose upscale apartment she moves into and they have sex but they are not “together”. This is another fascinating way the novel tests the limitations of language. Everything about their actions fit into the definition of a romantic relationship, but neither Ava or Julian will label it as such. But, also, Ava makes a lot of pointed commentary about how Julian uses the English language verses how she uses it as an Irish person. This shows a tradition of cultural imperialism and also a grotesque snobbery on the part of the English. Growing up with the influence of English culture in Ireland leads her to observe “The English taught us English to teach us they were right.” And the self-consciousness she feels teaching English prompts her to sardonically reflect “Sometimes I wondered if I was actually a native English speaker.”

The crux of the story concerns a romantic triangle Ava becomes caught in when she enters into a loving relationship with Edith, a lawyer looking for the sort of emotional commitment that Julian denies Ava. For a while, Ava tries to maintain both relationships separately but the pressure gradually builds forcing this ambivalent individual to make some tough decisions. I often found myself very sympathetic to Ava while also being very critical of her actions and choices. So it’s engaging how Dolan treads that line and it’s refreshing to see a sympathetic portrayal of bisexuality in a novel. I can’t think of many books that have successfully done this other than Rooney’s first novel “Conversations with Friends” or Rowan Hisayo Buchanan’s “Starling Days”. It’s also noteworthy the way Ava looks with a somewhat critical eye at how Ireland has been changing in recent years. She comments how on social media many of her old school mates publicly supported the 1995 referendum on same-sex marriage, but these are also the same women who ostracised her by labelling her a lesbian when they were girls in school.

One of the most relatable things this novel does is describe the dynamics of online culture/social media etiquette and the feelings of self-consciousness this medium evokes. So much of Ava’s time and energy is invested in browsing the online history or status updates of the people she’s most interested in rather than trying to communicate with them directly. The novel also shows how a lot of exchanges or interactions are made indirectly through this medium. Ava is intensely aware when her stories on Instagram are viewed by Edith and she’s very nervous about viewing Edith’s stories because then Edith will get a notification that she’s viewed it. It reflects the absolute absurdity of this world but it also shows how difficult it is for people to be emotionally open and how they can grow dependent on the ambivalence romance offers. When Edith tries to confront Ava about this she notes how “she asked if I thought I'd gone for unavailable people because I knew I'd never have to face the reality that being with them would not solve all my problems. I told her she had no business saying something that perceptive.” This perfectly summarizes how Ava is an intelligent and funny, but flawed individual. “Exciting Times” is the kind of relatable and modern story that I hope to see in more new novels and (aside from obvious comparisons) Naoise Dolan is definitely a unique new voice in fiction.

A Saint from Texas by Edmund White

Edmund White has a writing style which instantly charms and bewitches me whenever I open his books. Though he's probably most famous for chronicling the gay experience in his invaluable series of autobiographical novels and memoirs, he's also very accomplished in writing great historical fiction such as “Fanny: A Fiction” and “Hotel de Dream”. He has a tremendous talent for intelligently dissecting social class and mores while delivering a gripping story. This is certainly true in his new novel “A Saint from Texas” which chronicles the lives of twins Yvette and Yvonne Crawford who are raised in rural Texas in the 1950s. Though they are identical their personalities couldn't be more opposite. Yvette is studious and pious where Yvonne is free-spirited and socially-ambitious. Yet they share an inseparable bond throughout the very different paths they take in life. Narrated from the perspective of Yvonne, we follow her ascent to the heights of Parisian society when she marries a Baron and takes a series of lovers. All the while she maintains a correspondence with Yvette who loses herself in charitable work with a religious organisation in Colombia. It's a brilliant study in duality and one of the most pleasurable stories I've read in a long time. 

There's a sympathetic tension at the heart of this tale. Most of us feel the tug between being “good” and “bad” throughout our lives and this novel entertainingly dramatises this struggle by following the stories of two individuals who take very different paths. But the way White delineates their stories abstains from assigning value judgements to their actions and natures. Yvonne unashamedly follows her desires whether it be sexually pursuing men or women she's attracted to or obtaining a noble title which will grant her the social position she craves. Yet, Yvette pursues her religious ambitions with equal determination as she desires to be utterly selfless and exceedingly holy. The seriousness with which White treats her piousness and belief in scripture shows an admirable broadmindedness. But the author is also careful to chronicle the pitfalls of both paths in life whether it be the shallow snobbery of high society or the way dogmatic systems of belief encourage people to dangerously repress their instincts. The novel shows there is certainly no “right” way to live. What shines through are these two high-spirited personalities who lift off from the page.

White excels at writing about sex in a way which recognizes its central position in both the imagination and in our social interactions. So Yvonne doesn't shrink from describing the physical details of the female friend she fondles under the cover of darkness or the submissive will of the man she confidently dominates. There's also an acknowledgement of the brash desires of young men who exhaustively try to make women comply and the taboo subject of incest. Yvonne observes how “In our family the worst things imaginable happened so fast they couldn't be understood. The horrors weren't unprecedented but were instantaneous.” So it's startling when their father violates his daughter by taking advantage of her naivety and piousness. It's also tragic and moving how a family secret like this remains buried and can persist throughout the women's lives. This shows how no matter what path the sisters take in life, the entitled and pernicious “righteousness” of the patriarchy is what trumps all behaviour.

Alongside these deeper issues, the intricate detail and living history of Parisian society is wonderfully described throughout the novel. No doubt White's own fascination and experience of this world which he brilliantly captured in his memoir “Inside a Pearl” informed Yvonne's education about the many layers of this milieu. I love how the novel simultaneously shows the strong allure and the hilarious absurdity of the strict rules and aristocratic levels of this society. For all Yvonne's earnest and skilled abilities to integrate into it, she remains an eternal outsider. The way that she ultimately conquers and triumphs over her adopted nation is thrilling and I was gripped throughout this lively novel. It's also poignant how White suggests that sainthood is not necessarily obtained through “good” acts but in the loyalty and love of true sisterhood.

The Housing Lark by Sam Selvon

London house prices are notoriously expensive. Many young professionals today have little hope of getting onto the property ladder without outside assistance. So it's fascinating to read Sam Selvon's novel set in the 1960s about of group of working class individuals of Caribbean descent who are fed up with their cramped, crumbling rented rooms in Brixton and hatch an ambitious plan to pool their money together and buy a house of their own. It's a good idea but this particular group of men struggle to concentrate and cooperate given their propensity for drinking, smoking and chasing women (or “birds” as they're often called in the novel.) They also often fail to support each other at crucial moments such as when one group member lands in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Selvon dramatises this tension well while creating a story that is so funny and witty that I felt totally engrossed by his characters' rambunctious conversations and farcical excursions. It's an invaluable portrait of a community in London at this time which was previously under-represented in fiction and it's no wonder that the writer Caryl Phillips commented “Selvon's meticulously observed narratives of displaced Londoners' lives created a template for how to write about migrant, and postmigrant, London for countless writers who have followed in his wake, including Hanif Kureishi and Zadie Smith.” 

Selvon poignantly observes divisions within the community where people from certain Caribbean islands receive preferential treatment over others. The black rent collector is viewed as a traitor to his community. Also, it's somewhat shocking to read about the way this group of men refer to women in their casual conversation. Battersby dreams of women who can be physically changed to suit his mood by twisting their breasts. When they go after a woman they refer to her as “a thing” and a character named Fitz claims “I beat she like a snake. All woman want is blows to keep them quiet.” However, this blatant misogyny is undermined by certain scenes such as a sexist man who is quickly domesticated or conversations between women in the community who are facing their own struggles. And, crucially, it's the women around the men who come together to get things in order towards the end of the novel. The men in the group also make fun of each other for their clumsy attitudes towards women such as a character named Sly whose foolhardy method of trying to seduce white women is to chase after them calling “Cur-rey? How would you like a good Indian cur-rey?” because he assumes this is the food English women like best.

There are multiple scenes in the novel which are so funny and also give social commentary on British society in a style which reminded me of Evelyn Waugh's “Vile Bodies” or “Scoop”. One hilarious highlight in the novel is a trip to Hampton Court that was conceived as a moneymaking scheme for the group. The chaotic nature of their trip and the way the men reimagine the historic location as it was in the times of Henry VIII is uproariously funny. However, the humour is punctuated by serious observations. It's noted of a West Indian named Charlie Victor that “in fact he fooling himself that he just like any English citizen, loneliness busting his arse every day.” And when their trip comes to an end the tone changes sharply as the bus driver coldly states: “They should put the lot of you on a banana boat and ship you back to Jamaica.”

One of my favourite characters from the novel is a man named Gallows who lost a five pound note a long time ago and spends much of his time walking through the city with his head down searching for it. This sort of dogged but ultimately fruitless attitude pervades the tone of the book which makes these characters very endearing in how it presents their strengths as well as their faults. “The Housing Lark” is a brilliant comic story of London life like none I've read before and it's also humbling to daydream of a time when someone could buy a house in London for £20-£30K!

Indelicacy by Amina Cain

There have been many novels about writers grappling with the process of writing. So much so that it's almost become an eye-rolling cliché and could be considered the ultimate form of navel-gazing. But Amina Cain's “Indelicacy” does something very different with this well trodden subject matter. It's a retrospective tale narrated by Vitória who worked as a cleaner in a museum before marrying a wealthy man. Throughout her life she's been driven by a passionate desire to write. The form of her writing changes over time. She jots down striking observations and interpretations about the paintings she sees in the museum and many of these are reproduced in the text of Cain's novel. In doing so, this story builds to a fascinating meditation about the creative process and the way the imagination interacts with our subjective reality. It also shows how the impulse to create can be a motivation that both sustains and debilitates us as it can supersede every other form of human desire. This novel is also a fascinating character study of an abrasive personality who sometimes struggles or fails to connect with women and men in enticingly dramatic ways. 

The time and place of the story is never specified which gives the narrator's tale a kind of timeless quality. It also allows a more concentrated focus on her inner life and thought process as larger societal issues aren't involved. Yet this novel does also say something striking about class and privilege. Becoming financially secure through her marriage gives her more time and freedom to write, but it also creates new anxieties and problems for the narrator. Her connections with other women also provides an interesting contrast to her own experiences. Antoinette, a fellow cleaner at the museum, was a good friend of hers and driven by materialistic daydreams. But in her new marriage Vitória breaks their connection and they are estranged for a long time afterwards. As the lady of the house, Vitória tries to become friends with her maid Solange, but Solange rebuffs any form of intimacy which frustrates and dismays the narrator. Vitória also forms a friendship with a dancer who becomes very successful and seems to fully realise her artistic ambitions in a way which persistently eludes the narrator.

The novel forms an interesting extension to Woolf's assertion that a female writer needs a room of one's own. Vitória arranges her entire life in a way which makes space for her ability to write just as she endearingly describes her desire for a quiet space to read without interruption from her noisy family in her early life: “When I tried to read, I was always interrupted, so I had to do it where my family couldn't find me. Under a tree that took me thirty minutes to walk to.” She seems to believe that once she has attained the freedom and space to write the great work she's always felt was within her will fully emerge. So it's almost ironic that once she has finally attained this her most sustained piece of writing is about the long process of getting to this point.

It's also funny how she feels no connection with the literary community that surrounds her. At one point she attends a public interview with an author whose books she likes and finds the experience so disappointing that she bluntly insults the author and interviewer calling them “worms... of the worst kind. When you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.” Vitória is so forthright and vociferous about what she's feeling she succeeds in alienating herself from almost everyone around her. Yet her response is also a reaction to the male gaze which she has always been hounded by and she's aware of the assumptions men make about her. So her solitude and rejection of men has a pointed reason. It's interesting to consider if this kind of isolation is necessary for the writer's creative process or if this is just symptomatic of an antisocial personality type. Whatever its meaning, this fascinatingly sharp-toothed novel gives a lot to ponder.