Against the grain.

Publisher: Various (I read Vintage Classics’ edition)
Pages: N/A
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: N/A
First Published: 1899
Date Reviewed: 22nd May 2015
Rating: 5/5

Holidaying with her husband and children on Grand Isle, Edna becomes friendly with Robert, a man close to her age who seems taken with her. On returning home she starts to feel limited in her life as a wife and mother, and slowly begins to make a play for freedom.

The Awakening is a book far ahead of its time. A novella that restricts itself to its subject, in the context of our present day it offers a look at the sort of repressed thoughts women of the late 19th century may have had.

The story, whilst upsetting – of course – is somewhat sublime. You can almost feel the liberties Chopin is taking by writing about the theme in her time and you can predict some of the tale simply due to the fact our society is different. One could argue that Chopin, whilst writing for her own society, has found her target audience in our modern selves – we may not be in a position to be affected in the way she might have wished, because our society has moved on, but we can still relate.

The Awakening was originally going to be called Solitude. It’s not known who changed it – Chopin or her publisher – or why they did, but ‘Solitude’ does express what Edna’s mission is all about. As she is ‘awakened’ to her individuality, her sexuality, Edna seeks time for herself. She may want Robert but she also wants to pursue painting, time to go out rather than play host to every woman who brings her card on a Tuesday, a place of her own bought with her inheritance rather than the house her husband owns.

It’s all about person-hood and, in a way, selfishness. That Edna is selfish is something that was comprehended most by her peers; today it will be down to the individual reader as to whether or not she is so. And it’s an interesting one because Edna is understandable, too. Selfish not because she wants to be free but because we can see how her responsibilities put her in a position that we frown upon today, namely the neglect of her children. The story makes you question how much ‘right’ a mother has to her own time. Chopin brings up the important point that a woman can love her children and still need alone time – in the context of her time that was a particular issue.

Chopin looks at the way a woman in her society was considered owned by her husband, belonging to him. She shows how a woman might want to refute the notion and the use of a fictional character allows her to give physical action to the thought. It’s interesting to note Chopin wrote as a widow; she would’ve likely had more freedom than most of her peers, indeed we could see her in Mademoiselle Reisz. Widowhood also means she would’ve experienced both sides of life – belonging and free – and that she married the man she wished surely influenced the way she writes Edna’s hopes for Robert.

There is plenty of symbolism in the book – birds, Mademoiselle Reisz, the sea. The sea features throughout, both ‘in person’ and as something Edna remembers. It’s the catalyst for change. It represents the freedom Edna wishes for, life without limits, and mirrors her memories of childhood, a meadow’s horizon.

The ending is particularly poignant. You may predict it, you may not, either way it is both satisfying and not so. It’s where Chopin is most bold yet questions are often asked as to why it was written. Is it weakness or freedom? It’s up to the reader to decide because it is also ambiguous. There’s a lot to it, it’s powerful, and you’ll be considering it for days.

The Awakening will awaken in you a love for Chopin. It’s superb; it’s one to savour, to think about, and to add to your knowledge of both literature and social history.

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Or is she?…

Publisher: Viking (Penguin)
Pages: 275
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-241-00350-3
First Published: 13th March 2014 (in translation); 5th June 2014
Date Reviewed: 21st March 2015
Rating: 4.5/5

Maud can’t seem to get through to her family (or anyone else for that matter) that her friend is missing. Everyone says that nothing is wrong, that Elizabeth isn’t missing, but all the signs seem to point towards the opposite. As a child post-WWII, Maud lost her sister, Sukey, and as she goes about her search she remembers this.

Elizabeth Is Missing is a rather excellent novel about old age and the way others treat the elderly.

Our narrator, accidentally unreliable, is an octogenarian who has become very forgetful. Maud thinks the same things over and over, says the same things, and forgets where she is moment by moment. It is in the details that Healey shows us what she is trying to get across: it’s all very well getting frustrated by those who forget, but remember to view things from their perspective. Maud is patronised and knows she is patronised; she also knows that no one is listening to her even when they should. And the reader knows, even when Maud doesn’t notice, that people are not respecting her, are laughing at her. In amongst this is the question of care homes, of old age care in general, and how the wishes of the person should be respected.

Healey’s writing of Maud is simply incredible. She is believable and, though it does not matter in regards to whether it would affect the tale, very likeable. Because you’re on this journey with her, in her head, you don’t feel any frustration or boredom; Healey makes you understand what it is like. You’re able to chastise Maud’s daughter, Helen, for not listening to her mother (whilst understanding the pressure Helen is under); you’re able to think up the rest of what Maud should say yet be satisfied that she does not say it.

Maud’s memory isn’t static – Healey’s story incorporates the progression of memory loss. She manages to make you feel upbeat whilst you begin to loiter on the edges of upset for the character. Something that is never answered (this is not a drawback) is how long we are with Maud. It’s plausible that we spend a few weeks or months but it could just as easily be days.

The structure of the book is quite simply genius. It makes you keep questioning what snippets of information relate to which part of the story, and of course, ultimately, you have to decide which versions of Maud’s many retellings are true. It’s prudent to say that this book isn’t a thriller in the usual sense – ‘thriller’ is the description on the book, but it’s far from edge-of-seat nail-biting drama. You soon work out a few possibilities for Elizabeth and none of them are particularly amazing. The page-turning factor of this book lies in the way Healey makes you want to stick around, to hang out with her expertly-written main character.

What you may find irritating is the almost predictable way no one will tell Maud where Elizabeth is even when it’s obvious they know. There are two points to this withholding. The first is that there would be no story if people told Maud where her friend is. Of course. And as much as this in itself is obvious, you have to just accept that you’re going to have to keep reading to find out for certain, even if you don’t feel it’s much to look forward to. The second point is that it makes perfect sense no one is telling Maud where Elizabeth is. Maybe they have; she’ll have forgotten. Maybe they don’t because they’re sick of repeating themselves. Maybe, if Elizabeth is dead (which is of course possible given her age) they don’t want to upset her. The end of the book is very much a look at the entirety of this second point.

The second ‘plot’, then, concerns the disappearance of Maud’s sister. It’s a long time before the reason for its inclusion, its creation, comes to light. You’re invited to feel confused and perhaps a bit miffed that Sukey gets all this time when the book is about Elizabeth. This plot is confined to Maud’s childhood so the book is effectively part historical fiction. Maud’s long-term memory allows her to tell the reader about this period of her life in a generally usual way.

The only shortcoming can be found in the words Healey uses for Maud’s own descriptions. Some of the terms are too modern or colloquial and not what a British person of Maud’s age would use. These terms are therefore jarring and can pull you out of the text for a bit if you’re susceptible to them (for example, this may not affect American readers but it is going to affect British readers old enough to have witnessed the introduction of the terms). This, however, is a minor issue overall.

Elizabeth Is Missing is driven by all three ‘drivers’ – character, plot, and society. (I realise society isn’t generally thought of but this book’s commentary on issues requires it.) It’s fabulously character-driven, slow but steadily plot-driven, and what it offers for thought will stay with you for a long time and likely affect the way you think and deal with others (or at least make you constantly aware). It’s not going to take you on a whirlwind journey – Maud can’t take the bus with you alone – but it is going to leave you highly satisfied no matter what conclusions you reach in regards to the excellent and superbly devised climax. (Some questions are left unanswered, but there are enough hints.)

Take your place at Maud’s side and prepare to take note of when the gas needs to be turned off and when the kettle’s on the boil. This is a journey without travel and one you’re likely to enjoy very, very much.

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Taking fandom a little too far.

Publisher: Pushkin Press
Pages: 408
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-782-27027-0
First Published: 2007 in Russian; 2015 in English
Date Reviewed: 7th March 2015
Rating: 4/5

Original language: Russian
Original title: Библиотекарь (Bibliotyekar) (Librarian)
Translated by: Andrew Bromfield

In the mid 1900s, a man called Gromov writes several books that don’t do particularly well and are thus forgotten. As time moves on, however, various readers start to find an inherent value in his work. They form ‘libraries’ of people and these libraries often fight to the death to obtain original copies (the only copies worth bothering about) and supremacy. Alexei finds himself in this world; due to his uncle’s death he was looking to sell an apartment and was accosted by these ‘readers’. They want him to be their leader.

The Librarian is a somewhat ambiguous book that looks at obsession, power, and the Soviet Union in a darkly humorous satirical manner. Heavy on gore and strict in its dealings, the content presents a rather unique premise to study.

Elizarov takes the basic idea of literary interest and runs with it. The ‘readers’, as they call themselves, are in essence fans who have taken their loyalty too far. Elizarov essentially looks at the way people find meaning in books and heightens the effect, giving the books power to change readers’ lives. Of course there is always the unanswered question: did Gromov know about this effect? (And did he plan the effect to happen?) This is cause for some of the humour because Elizarov provides extracts from the texts for your perusal and these extracts are undeniably dull. Whilst it is never studied, there is reason to believe that Gromov’s work is truly mundane to the extent that it means Elizarov’s characters are stereotypical fanboys and fangirls. Essentially, we’re looking at the extremely dedicated side of fandom here, the people who find meanings no one else would, and whilst Elizarov isn’t laughing at this concept itself, the way it is placed on those of older generations makes it easier to accept.

So, whether ‘true’ or not, these people are finding power in Gromov’s books. Regular people who work in factories; mothers and daughters; old ladies in nursing homes. The various books when read in one sitting with rapt attention instil inhuman strength, dominance of mind, incredible happiness, beautiful (if unreal) memories and so forth. A lot of the humour can be found in the first section of the book, which reads like a factual report and details the sudden coming to power of a group of elderly women who break through the ward doors, kill all the staff, and take over the building.

This book is very, very violent. Elizarov doesn’t shy from the details, presenting battles in all their graphic detail. And much of the book is about battles, which means it can be hard going. This said, it’s difficult to become numbed to the violence here, as it can be in other books (The Hunger Games comes to mind). You may find it repetitive after a while, but the battles are all as horrific as the first and you never get used to it.

There is a lot of commentary here about the Soviet Union. I can’t pretend to know a lot about this slice of history and it’s fair to say you may feel as though you’ve missed something if it’s not a period you’re particularly familiar with, however considering everything I’ve said above it should be noted that there is enough to ‘get’ in this book that doesn’t depend on knowledge. The basic ideas are obvious and aspects like false memories can be viewed as possible propaganda.

In view of knowledge, however, the writing must be examined. Be it due to the original prose or simply the decisions of the translator, The Librarian is rather dry. It can be difficult to read and unfortunately the eloquence and rather exceptional language doesn’t help. It’s fair to say some of the points and subtlety are lost in the words and where the plot is composed mainly of battles this is more prominent than it could have been otherwise. There is also the fact that many of the characters are referred to by both their full names (and patronymic) and a pet name, and then also a ‘comrade’ name and additional pet names; it’s more confusing than your average Russian novel may be. This, coupled with the constant usage of full names and a basic lack of characterisation (this is very much a plot/meaning-driven novel) takes the issue further. The translation comes with a great many proofreading errors, enough that it does impact the reading.

The book changes its focus towards the end, and this is where most of the ambiguity kicks in. There are a fair number of possibilities but you may still be surprised where it ends up. It could be argued that it finishes without finishing, forever loitering on the borders of an ending, however this is part of the point and something to take heed of when you come to sort through your thoughts. Much can be said: should we consider Alexei the author of the book? Have Alexei’s dreams come true, albeit in a roundabout way? What is Elizarov suggesting by the intimation that all these books can be read one after the other?

The Librarian is an exceptional example of hidden meanings and messages; making the reader work it out doesn’t get much stronger than this. It is dull, writing wise, and it is graphic, and it is absolutely, incredibly, bonkers, but it is also a very good book.

Unique and fascinating, be careful not to let yourself be too enthralled by The Librarian; you never know how much the cost of such a love may be.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No; it’s something else entirely.

Publisher: Hutchinson (Random House)
Pages: 296
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-091-94422-3
First Published: 7th February 2013
Date Reviewed: 11th March 2015
Rating: 4/5

Calamity Leek lives with her ‘sisters’ in Mother’s garden. It’s mainly aunty who looks after them. They have lovely furs to wear, work in the garden, and gain an excellent education. Oh, and they are being trained to fight and sleep on straw. Calamity is reaching the age where she’ll be sent off to war, but one day sister Truly decides to climb The Wall. Nothing will be the same again.

Let’s get this out of the way – The First Book Of Calamity Leek is not a book about books. The title relates to the way in which Calamity must think through her life and come to terms with everything that does not align with what she’s read in her aunty’s appendix. What Lichtarowicz’s book actually is is a very strange, silly-sounding but surprising story.

The writing style is odd. Calamity talks strangely, a particular sort of childish language; uppity, almost. So odd is it, that’s it very possible you’re going to read a few pages and want to move on to something better. (It’s also strangely humorous, both naturally and in that way children can be when you know you shouldn’t be laughing.) Calamity can be irritating, obnoxious, a bit of a pain when compared to her sisters. The truth is that even if you persevere it’s going to take quite a while before you become used to it as well as understand it all.

Understanding. There are two schools of thought here. One is that Lichtarowicz is a genius, that the way she lures you into considerations of a bizarre fantasy world is wonderful. The other is that the subject has been handled in a way you may not find comfortable. Is this a book about pigs living in a barn, about animals? Is it about children? Perhaps it is about birds? Fairies? Ghosts? Suffice to say the confusion, alongside the oddity, is likely going to put you off. Upon working it out you may want to flick through the previous pages.

References to modern media abound to confuse you further. Aunty’s actress days ensure plenty of singalongs: Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music, Grease, and a nod to The Phantom Of The Opera. Whether these were designed to confuse or whether they suggest something more is never explained, but there is plenty to wonder about. The children watch show-reels to learn about men, videos wherein aunty is, to the reader at least, acting in various musicals; they’re are taught that these are real events, or that at least they represent the reality of aunty’s life.

There is much that can be said as to the realistic possibility of what happens – in both the past and present sections. Whether Lichtarowicz wanted realism here is not obvious: it’s more than possible that the things that go on, and the reactions that would be frowned upon in reality are based solely on the way Calamity perceives them. At the same time it’s also possible that it’s the result of the adult way of doing things that may not always gel with a child’s understanding, especially not one in Calamity’s state.

The First Book Of Calamity Leek is incredibly odd and difficult to get through. Its narrator is irritating and it takes a long time until you realise exactly why. The ending is a little ambiguous. This is a book in which you are thrown into a situation with only so much explanation given.

Nevertheless it’s a good book and worth reading. What you discover may shock or surprise you and it will certainly make you consider what you’ve read and the reasons the author has chosen to write the tale the way she has. Calamity is not trustworthy but she’s innocent enough not to realise it and not to see that by reporting what she’s experienced, we will learn the truth.

Give it a go; see what you think. And make time to chew it over afterwards.

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An excellent book about awful people.

Publisher: Little Brown
Pages: 501
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-316-22853-4
First Published: 1st January 2012
Date Reviewed: 24th February 2015
Rating: 5/5

On his wedding anniversary (which his wife would tell you he spent writing about the life of a girl on the council estate) Barry Fairbrother dies. The semi-rural town of Pagford is struck by it, tossed into chaos. The death means there’s a vacant seat on the parish council and it seems everyone wants a look in or has an opinion. Howard and Shirley Mollison who are secretly glad their rival is dead; Miles and Samantha Mollison, one running to take the free spot, the other trying to run clear away from it; Colin Wall and Parminder Jaswant who were friends of Barry and want to keep his dreams alive; Simon Price who will beat up anyone who might ruin his quest to be the next councillor; the teenage children who are affected by their parents’ narrow-mindedness; Krystal Weedon who lives on the council estate so many want divided from Pagford; everyone has something to win or lose.

The Casual Vacancy is a long in-depth novel that looks at the way classes are divided, at social and political problems at a local level, and about how prejudice can obstruct communication, understanding, and empathy. Likely to offend or shock (in fact I’d say it’s likely to shock most readers at some time or other) Rowling leaves nothing to ambiguity – she has things to say and come hell or high Pagford river water, she’s going to say them.

It will come as no surprise, then, when I say that the book is character-driven. The potential bestowal of Barry’s place forms the nucleus around which everything else spins.

It is worth mentioning that there are no good characters in this book apart from the innocent – one cannot call the toddler bad, for example, and likewise young Paul Price, eternally frightened by his abusive father, cannot be seen in a bad light either. Everyone else has a degree of hatred in them. You will be satisfied at some point, yes, by certain downfalls, but it must be noted that Rowling’s message, her reason for writing, requires her to expose this hatred.

At the same time, there are positive traits shown. Of course many characters have very little good in them, at least in the context of this novel, but others have a fair amount of goodness going for them. What Rowling does is look at stereotypes – this is where we initially acknowledge the offensive content; Rowling takes the stereotypes and runs with them. The stuffy, backwards-thinking white-majority middle class country residents? Check. The council-house-and-violence definition known by an acronym? Check. It can be quite difficult to read this book – more at the beginning when you’re not sure what Rowling’s point is, of course, especially as Rowling is so honest. She writes the accents, the ones we all know, the stereotypical speech patterns. She discusses the exclusive meetings and fake niceties, the drugs and the poor home environment. Abuse, self-harm, infidelity, health. The communication problems between children and their parents, parents not thinking of the affect their choices have on their children.

But then you’ll find the author is far from finished. Rowling shows the good side to both sides. She shows what can happen when the closeted look beyond themselves. She looks at the way poverty and hardship isn’t clear-cut – at how it’s often any endless cycle, at how people try to better themselves to no avail when the ‘other half’ won’t let them in. Certainly there is more ‘good’ time spent on The Fields, Pagford’s detested council estate, but then that becomes what you expect. It becomes what you expect even if you acknowledge what the residents of Pagford are saying (acknowledge but not quite accept). Yes, there is the sense that Rowling has a clear side she wants to win, and she’s not afraid to state her piece in the face of potential backlash (backlash that seems to have happened if articles are anything to go by) but there is never a metaphorical stride in. Rowling doesn’t break the fourth wall so much as remain beside the journalist who sits on the sidelines of the council meeting. Rowling’s primary goal is to make you think, and think hard. What’s really worth arguing over? What’s the worth of one person compared to another? And, of course, where much of the situation is so similar to arguments in real life, it is all the more important.

As for the characters themselves then, they are very believable. As well as the accents and realism it’s easy, at least if you’re familiar with the varying cultures (this is where I acknowledge that my Britishness may have aided my reading), to create the image in your head and supply any details that Rowling may have left out. You inevitably create a stereotype but, as you’ve probably guessed by now, again that’s the point and another way to make you uncomfortable. This creation will work no matter who you are; the diversity is yet another purposefully included element.

And if you can get through the hatred there is a lot to like about The Casual Vacancy. Rowling’s writing is fair. The attention to detail is meticulous. The amount of time each character gets is equal to the others. The issues are written without apology, in a way your Victorian melodramatic matriarch would find intolerable. There is reward for persevering, and whilst the ending may not be quite what you expected (it certainly surprised me), you’ll close the book with enough to work out the final message Rowling wants to leave you with. Ambiguity takes its place, but Rowling often withdraws its invitation at the last moment, the writer making use of her character’s personalities for a gain they would despise. Whether you agree with Rowling’s thoughts or not is of no consequence – the important thing is that she makes you think.

Political and very damning, The Casual Vacancy is one you’ll want to set a time for rather than sit down with on a relaxing Sunday afternoon. And whilst you’ll be sticking your finger up at the most basic etiquette by choosing such a time, it’d be hard to say it isn’t worth it.

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