Black Butterflies by Priscilla Morris

One of the things I love about following book prizes is that they sometimes highlight books which weren't on my radar that I probably wouldn't have read otherwise. When the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023 longlist was announced it was the first I'd heard about “Black Butterflies” but this debut novel certainly packs an emotional punch and I was enthralled by its harrowing story. It begins in the Spring of 1992 as tensions are rising in the city of Sarajevo. Zora is a teacher and respected artist whose elderly mother is poorly. When she asks her older husband to accompany her mother to the English countryside to stay with their daughter, Zora plans to eventually join them. She's reluctant to leave this diverse and beautiful city she loves. However, when the Bosnian War escalates and conditions turn dire she and her friends and neighbours find themselves trapped in a metropolis which is continuously bombed while essential utilities cease and resources dwindle. This personal tale shows the first year of the Siege of Sarajevo from the inside. It contains heartfelt moments of humanity and instances of vicious cruelty as the resilience of these survivors is severely tested in brutal circumstances.

Though its narrated in the third person, this novel presents the world fully through Zora's perspective. So the city is shown to be full of superb architecture, surrounded by a gorgeous environment and rich with delicious food. As a historic crossroad and European centre it's also filled with people from many different cultures and backgrounds. But dramatic political changes mean that distinctions in nationality and religion which didn't matter before now mean everything. Nearly every ordinary citizen is either a target or under suspicion. It's horrifying how conditions deteriorate so quickly as the city turns into a war zone. The novel powerfully captures the way this creates a surprising juxtaposition of normalcy and desolation. It also produces odd intimacies with strangers on the street and neighbours. Sometimes this sudden closeness is fleeting as people shelter from an attack and other times it forms bonds which last. We witness how communities can come together and how strangers often argue about possible misinformation while waiting in long lines for water. I felt so drawn into Zora's experiences it made these conditions feel increasingly palpable and frighteningly real.

Amidst so much death and destruction, it's very moving how the novel presents art as not just a frivolous respite but an essential testament. Zora became famed for her paintings of bridges not only as a symbol which connects people to each other but as magnificent objects. The story traces how her attitude toward her art and its practice are changed by larger events. While she continues to teach her remaining students, she takes a neighbour girl under her tutelage and they create pictures with what materials are available. This relationship and the desire for people to still experience beauty comes to feel so precious especially as the assault reaches the city's most sacred landmarks and the meaning of the novel's title becomes clear. A community art show which might seem quaint in other circumstances here feels like a last string of humanity which people desperately cling to and it becomes a poignant celebration.

I don't know a lot about the Bosnian War and reading this powerful story has prompted me to want to learn more. But it also shows how even many of the civilians caught in the crossfire or forced into military service didn't understand what the fight was about which adds to an understanding of the absurdity and senselessness of war. It's a timely reminder that even the most robust civilizations become terrifyingly fragile when fear and hatred are allowed to create divisions. So I became thoroughly emotionally invested in Zora's struggle. The book grows increasingly tense in a way which kept me gripped but also woke me up to the reality of how such assaults on ordinary citizens has happened and continues to happen in other parts of the world today. It's an accomplished work of fiction and I'll be eager to read anything Priscilla Morris publishes next.

The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister by Olesya Khromeychuk

Since the escalation of Russia's war on Ukraine in February 2022 the media has widely reported on the battles and unjustified aggression of Putin's forces. However, the killing started many years before this as Olesya Khromeychuk clearly lays out in her memoir about her brother Volodya who died on the frontline in eastern Ukraine in 2017 while defending his country against Russian soldiers. As a historian of war and a Ukrainian, Khromeychuk is well situated to give a contextual understanding about why this occurred from both a personal and political perspective. It's a tender account of her brother's fragmented life and the grief that she and her family experienced after his death. It's also an excoriating look at Western attitudes towards this war, the Ukrainian government's bureaucracy, selective reporting by the media and the fallacy of Russian's advancement into a sovereign nation. Her views are well-reasoned and informed, but if Khromeychuk's frustration about these groups and systems seems harsh it feels fully justified – not from the personal loss she's experienced but the horrifying fact that this brutal war still continues.

It's touching how Khromeychuk's brother is shown to have been an artistic, complicated, brave and sometimes difficult person. An account of such personal loss and the fact he died in battle might easily have lead to a romanticised version of this individual's life. But the author consciously works against this exploring the complexities of her brother's life from her experiences with him before his death and what she discovered after he was killed. This makes him feel all the more real. It's especially affecting how Khromeychuk also created a theatrical play about his death incorporating photos and videos found on his phone. The description of her process doing this and the effect the production had on her family is very moving. It adds to the sense that creative methods are needed to inspire a sense of understanding and change. This book is certainly unique in the method Khromeychuk has created to combine her analytical understanding of larger events with very personal details and a relevant invocation of folklore. Statistics about deaths caused by war will always reduce people who were lost into numbers so it's important to always remind ourselves that these figures include so many individual losses. I'm glad to have read this informative, frank and urgent memoir.

Still Born by Guadalupe Nettel (translated by Rosalind Harvey)

I enjoyed taking my time reading this thoughtful and emotional novel while on a long train journey through the Alps. Although “Still Born” primarily alternates between the stories of two women's lives as they grapple with the question of parenting, it gradually expands to become a nuanced exploration of mothering amongst a number of other characters as well. At the centre are Alina and Laura who are in their 30s. When Alina and her husband decide to do whatever it takes to have a child, her longtime friend Laura is initially confused because they'd previously resolved not to have children. So much so that Laura had herself sterilized. But when she hears her neighbour's troubled child Nico having severe outbursts through the walls of her apartment she becomes increasingly involved in his and his single mother's lives. Though it meditates a lot on parenting, the novel also dynamically addresses issues to do with female friendship, careers and relationships – as well as feminism, sexuality, economic disparity and political unrest.

I think it was partly an effect of lockdown and the timing of when my neighbours had two young children but that long period at home made me hyper aware of the struggle of parenting – just like Laura experiences. I've heard fights and long extended tantrums through the walls I share with my neighbours. Reading this novel I felt slightly guilty because I don't have Laura's altruistic impulse to help care for these children though the mother and child in this story are clearly in much more desperate need. There's the tricky thing of not respecting a neighbour's privacy and what's the line between showing concern and being an imposition. These dilemmas are definitely dealt with in Laura's story too. It's really meaningful how the novel approaches this issue and asks whose responsibility it is to take on parenting roles. Is it all down to the parents or extended family and friends or anyone who witnesses children in need of caring? What happens when the bond between parent and child is transferred to another party and powerful emotional connections are formed?

The story explores this through the involvement Laura takes in Nico's development, but also pigeons which nest on her balcony and a nanny who becomes instrumental in caring for a extremely ill infant. I found it really moving how the story gradually builds the meaning of what it is to be a parent and how this is more expansive and porous than our traditional ideas about this role. It also shows how parenting changes over a long period of time with the way Laura's relationship to her mother transforms. An adult child's relationship to their mother or father is very different from how it was when they were younger and it's touching how the story traces the way mother and daughter come to understand each other as fully rounded individuals – rather than only as parent and child.

Another thing I loved about this novel and it's almost eerie when this occurs, but Laura is reading a novel I just recently read and loved which is “Solenoid” by Romanian writer Mircea Cartarescu. I read this several weeks ago, partly because I figured it had a good chance of being listed for this year's International Booker Prize, but then I realised it wasn't actually eligible and I kept on reading its many hundreds of pages anyway because this novel is absolutely brilliant and fascinating and wild. However, what are the chances? Out of all the books that could be referenced in this novel it's one I also read recently and have been thinking a lot about. So whenever this happens in a book I'm reading it feels like a wonder synchronicity is happening or a dialogue between books in a way which makes reading feel like a larger conversation.

There is also Alina's side of the tale. When she finally does become pregnant there are severe complications. I don't want to give any spoilers if you've not yet read this book, but don't let the title of the novel make you think you know what's going to happen. It is heartrending following her and her husband's journey as they go through this process. And it contrasts in such an interesting way with Laura's experiences where the role of being a parent becomes something Alina desires so much while also not wanting it. This tension must be something all parents feel no matter the health and welfare of their child, but definitely if a child's development is impeded by such difficult restrictions. It's so so moving how her side of the story plays out. But it's also interesting because the author chose to narrate Alina's story in the third person but Laura's sections are all in the first person. I know some readers have expressed how this division didn't work so well for them. I did feel it was clunky at some points because the sections about Alina seem to be from Laura's perspective but then they go into such detail that even though these friends are very close it seemed like there are scenes and dialogue which Laura couldn't know. And this created an unnecessary level of confusion in the narrative. But I can see why Nettle chose to relate the story in this way and it creates another contrast between a deeply interior account and viewing the experiences of someone going through the challenging process of parenting from the outside.

Overall, I think “Still Born” is excellent. Though it raises a lot of meaningful and eternally pertinent questions it's also a gripping story. As it went on I became increasingly tense and I couldn't stop reading. It's the first book I've read by her but it's Nettel's fourth novel and I believe her previous books have been translated into English as well so I'm looking forward to exploring those. I can see why it's the most highly rated novel from the International Booker Prize longlist according to GoodReads as I discussed in a video I made recently comparing all the books' star ratings. It is also on the official International Booker shortlist. It'll be exciting to see if it wins, but regardless I'm so glad to have read this novel which is written in such an engaging style while dealing with parenting issues from a beautifully humane and new angle.

Whale by Cheon Myeong-Kwan (translated by Chi-Young Kim)

It's not often that I finish reading a novel and I'm so uncertain how I feel about it. You might think that such ambivalence might be an indication of great artfulness, but I'm not so sure. It might just mean this is a really messy book.

It's puzzling what to make of this carnivalesque, multi-generational fable. It's something like a mash up of the novels “One Hundred Years of Solitude”, “Orlando”, “Norwegian Wood” and “A Little Life”. It's at once fantastical and rooted in a specific period of South Korean history. It places women at the centre of the story showing their resilience and struggles in a male-dominated society, but it also sexually objectifies them. Its playful narrative voice is both charming and aggravating. It philosophically explores aspects of society and human nature, yet it's also sometimes simplistic in its observations. It's about alienation, love, greed, loneliness, revenge and large penises.

So it's difficult to know how to respond to this highly imaginative tale which primarily centres around Geumbok, a woman from humble origins whose business acumen leads her to achieve great success, and her mute daughter Chunhui whose imposing body possesses supernatural strength. The picaresque story presents their lives in a series of episodes which loop back on themselves with plenty of digressions and side characters who frequently return whether they are living or dead. It's a wild adventure which is both wondrous and frustrating.

There are many disturbing scenes of abuse, mutilation and rape. It's not the depiction of these actions which is objectionable but they are presented in a way which almost feels cartoonish because there are few physical or psychological consequences. This is probably because the mode of storytelling is like a fairy tale which isn't concerned with realistic repercussions. But then, it's a novel that's also rooted in history because it refers to the war between the north and south, the battle against communist sentiment and the popularity of John Wayne movies. So it's confusing to know whether the narrator is taking these scenes of brutality seriously or just using violence as a way to embellish the plot.

The story also casts long lingering indulgent looks at the female body describing breasts, women's genitals and large asses. This isn't simply reflecting the way they are objectified by male characters. These are often juvenile representations which don't really serve a purpose except to titillate or repulse. Equally when men are physically described it frequently focuses on characteristics such as imposing muscles or a pitiful lack of muscle or a sexual organ so large no woman could possibly resist it. Later on in the novel there is also a gender transformation which occurs or an apparent transformation. This could have been interesting but it occurs in a point in the character's life when it's not about their inability to achieve success as a woman, but about meeting a young woman so desirable the only way this character can be with her is to present herself as a man. Yes, it mentions how this character found it easier to no longer be sexually objectified as a woman but really she was progressing fine on her own. Moreover, when this character switches genders their personality also instantly changes from caring and empathetic to greedy and unkind. So rather than this being a method of exploring nuance it feels like it's simply reinforcing the gender binary.

To be honest, as discomfiting and off putting as many of these things were I could have tolerated them more if I didn't find the narration so irritating. The authorial voice guides us through this tale and frequently speaks to the reader in a casual and direct manner. At times this is quite playful, but it often questions the validity of the story being told. There are wistful speculations on possible reasons for characters' motivations and reasoning. A rhythm is built whereby the consequences of a scene are described as happening because “This is the law of... ideology, habit or gambling.” This comes to feel more simplistic than profound or rueful. It also calls into question the truth about the story being presented. For instance, in one scene a character drowns. The narrator questions whether this was really a suicide as it was initially presented but then goes on to describe in detail how this suicide actually occurred. So what's the point of the narrator raising uncertainty or claiming that certain things are unknown? The story almost always shows and makes it very clear what actually happened and why. Yes, there are many things about history which can't be known because we have no tangible evidence. But if a story is presented in a way which is definitive and allows no room for ambiguity why are you questioning it – especially as the reader is never given anything about the identity or motivations of the authorial voice? It comes across as very muddled.

Despite all these troubling aspects of the novel there's a lot about this story which is fun and surprising. I'm not trying to contradict all the points I just made, but it's definitely an engaging tale in terms of spectacle. So I was often compelled to continue reading it just to see what would happen next and its final sections are quite moving in how the story comes together. This is especially true in the disconnection between mother and daughter. The mother's drive for autonomy leads her to emotionally distance herself from her imposing daughter while maintaining a deep sentimental attachment for a gigantic sea creature leading her to build a movie theatre shaped like a whale. Equally, the daughter who has suffered tremendous abuse because of her simple and straightforward relationship with the world longs terribly for an emotional connection which can only be found with the spirit of an elephant. Rather than being able to forge honest human relationships their feelings are projected onto these giant animals in a way which I found deeply poignant.

So how do I ultimately feel about this novel? I'm really not sure: I felt frustrated and even irritated by some aspects. At other times I was absorbed by the sheer bombastic nature of it. However, a lot of that comes down to spectacle. Clearly it contains a lot of creativity and imagination, but is there a deeper meaning? I'm not convinced.