Best of the Year: New Discoveries

I just can’t seem to stop reading this year – 160 books and counting! So obviously, a simple Top Ten List won’t do for me. Bear with me, as this is yet another of my posts by categories. When I say New Discoveries, I don’t mean books that were published this year (I’ve already got a post on those), but authors that I may have previously heard about from social media or my blogger friends, but I’ve only just started reading this year.

Ioanna Karystiani: Back to Delphi, transl. Konstantine Matsoukas, Europa Editions.

Quite a challenging read for a mother of sons, this is the story about a middle-aged woman trying to reconnect with her son, who is on a brief release from prison for a rather grim crime. Told first from the mother’s point of view, and then from the son’s, it is a powerful story of the emotional baggage we all carry around with us and the challenges of communicating within the family.

…no matter how well you think you are communicating, no matter how close you think you are, there is still something about the young man in front of you that remains unknowable and slightly frightening. And you know that society places the onus far more on you than on any father figure for the way you raised your child. Any of their flaws and inexplicable impulses are a reflection on you; psychoanalysts and the press, as well as public opinion, will put you on trial. 

I’m not sure that anything else by this author has been translated into English, and I wish my Greek were good enough to read more. I hear she is also active as a scriptwriter, so maybe I can dig out some films written by her.

Abdulrazak Gurnah: Admiring Silence.

I was at work in London the day they announced the Nobel Prize for Literature, and I instantly rushed upstairs to the library to seek out the work of this British/Tanzianian writer. This was the first one I picked up, and on the strength of it, I have bought two more of his books (including a signed copy of his latest Afterlives from the London Review Bookshop, who organised a Q&A one evening with him recently, with Kamila Shamsie as the interviewer). His novels of displacement, of recreating an identity, of the impossibility of a return to your old life, really spoke to me. The quote below, for example, really shook me to the core (a sense of guilt I’ll probably carry for the rest of my life):

we need you here. Forgive me for saying this, but they don’t need you there. They have enough of their own people to do whatever is necessary, and sooner or later they will say that they have no use for you. Then you will find yourself in an alien land that is unable to resist mocking people of our kind. If you come back, you’ll be with your own people, of your own religion, who speak your own language. What you do will have meaning and a place in the world you know. You’ll be with your family. You’ll matter, and what you do will matter. Everything that you have learned there will be of benefit to us. It will make a difference here, rather than being… another anonymous contribution to the petty comfort and well-being of a society that does not care for you.

Marian Engel: Bear.

After hearing Dorian enthuse so much about this book, I had to read it and make up my own mind. I was certainly intrigued by it – although it was far less titillating than some recent reviews have tried to make it out to be. It felt much more like a fable, a simple story but with hidden depths. It is a novel about loneliness, about losing and regaining your passion, about reconnecting with nature and with your own true self.

What we have here is a smelly bear, farting freely, with suspicious little eyes and a dirty bum. Yet all this ceases to matter as the narrator bonds with the creature – or perhaps with what the creature represents to her. There are moments when she wishes to be annihilated by the bear – and at some point she very nearly is 

I immediately went on to read another novel by Marian Engel, the far more messy and obviously feminist Lunatic Villas, which I liked less, perhaps because of its sprawling nature. Yet I will certainly explore more of her body of work (not all that extensive, unfortunately, since she died relatively young).

Yoko Ogawa: The Memory Police, transl. Stephen Snyder, Vintage.

Of course I’ve read many reviews of Ogawa’s books, a number of which have been translated into English. But somehow, I never quite took the plunge. Hearing her talk about The Memory Police (published nearly 30 years ago) at the Edinburgh Literary Festival last year made me think it would be perfect reading matter for me, but I did nothing about it. That’s just how it goes sometimes with inertia! Luckily, book expert Jacqui and her colleagues at the Chorleywood Bookshop sent this to my son as part of his subscription, so I got a chance to read it before he did. I am still discombobulated by the beautiful descriptions which contrast with the rather frightening subject matter of enforced collective forgetting.

… this is the kind of book that can be interpreted in many ways: a political allegory; a story about grieving and the fear of ‘losing’ the loved one all over again as the memories fade; the inevitable physical and psychological decline as we grow older, even a slide into dementia; the impossibility of ever fully conveying the world as a writer; that the arts may be the only thing that save us ultimately and differentiate humans from other living beings.

Brian Moore: The Doctor’s Wife.

Another shocking omission from my reading: Irish (later Canadian) author Brian Moore. I have heard of his work, even bought the Judith Hearne book a few years back, but it’s still sitting patiently, unread, on my shelves. So it’s thanks to the #1976Club and several of my favourite book bloggers reviewing this title that I finally made his acquaintance – and it certainly was memorable, even if the book and its premise feel slightly dated. It is a Madame Bovary for the 1970s, I suppose, but the 1970s in Northern Ireland, which was probably more like the 1950s in England. Nevertheless, I became completely immersed in the story and felt sorry for everyone concerned. Even when they don’t deserve it.

The other thing that most readers take issue with is her apparent readiness to abandon her son. I wonder if Moore is once again pointing out double standards here (how many men readily abandon their children and embark upon new relationships and build new families), but also pointing out that uncomfortable truth that mothers discover their own redundancy when their children hit their late teens, especially boys, who might side more with their father. 

Isn’t it funny how, even when you are sure that a certain writer will be your precise cup of tea, you keep on postponing that moment of becoming acquainted? Maybe I am saving them for a rainy day? Well, these past two years have certainly taught us to make the most of things, and not delay for the rainy day…

All these wives of doctors…

When I tried to find the book by Brian Moore The Doctor’s Wife at the local library, they didn’t have it, but instead, they had a rather unexpected one dating from 1864 with the same title. So I ended up reading both of them, since they are related thematically, but separated by 110 years or so. They are both about women married to doctors who dream of ‘something more’ and embark upon affairs. What is interesting is that, although they are very different in terms of sexual explicitness, in both books the ‘heroines’ are viewed as someone else’s wife and property, and adultery is very much frowned upon (yet the authors have a sneaky sympathy for the adulteress).

Mary Elizabeth Braddon: The Doctor’s Wife

This prolific author shot to fame with her novel Lady Audley’s Secret and became very much known as an exponent of the ‘sensation novel’ (what would nowadays be called pulp or trash fiction or chick lit), which relied on huge coincidences, Gothic elements, and other soap opera stalwarts such as bigamy, fraud, false identity, assassinations etc. In The Doctor’s Wife, Braddon was trying to prove that she had literary chops as well, so she cuts down on the melodramatic plot features (although not entirely) and tries instead to focus on the psychology of her characters.

George Gilbert is the doctor of the title, a rather naive, inexperienced young man, who falls in love with the pretty, dreamy Isabel, while visiting a friend of his in London. Isabel is rather keen to escape her family, for her father is a con man and her stepmother would rather she helped around the house instead of daydreaming and reading far too many romance novels.

Although there is a complete mismatch between the kindly but very practical George and the unrealistic, Madame-Bovary-like Isabel, they get married. What surprised me was how modern some of the descriptions of marital relationships were; Haddon shows surprising sympathy for her ‘superficial’ heroine, although the village community disapproves of her.

He had married this girl because she was unlike other women; and now that she was his own property, he set himself conscientiously to work to smooth her into the most ordinary semblance of everyday womanhood, by means of that moral flat-iron called common-sense.

I have heard of a lady who was an exquisite musician, and who, in the dusky twilight of a honeymoon evening, played to her husband – played as some women play, pouring out all her soul upon the keys of the piano, breathing her finest and purest thoughts in some master-melodies of Beethoven or Mozart. ‘That’s a very pretty tune,’ said the husband complacently. She was a proud reserved woman, and she closed the piano without a word of complaint or disdain; but she lived to be old, and she never touched the keys again.

Isabel starts fantasising about a young local landlord Roland Landsdell, who seems like a brooding Byronic figure. He showed great promise when young, but has frittered away his youth living an expensive lifestyle abroad, and not produced anything much beyond a volume of poetry.

Roland’s schemes were not successful… because he had no patience to survive preliminary failure… He picked his fruit before it was ripe, and was angry when he found it sour, and would hew down the tree that bore so badly, and plant another. His fairest projects fell to the ground, and he left them there to rot; while he went away somewhere else to build new schemes and make fresh failures.

At first, Roland is amused by the naivety of Isabel, and there is much charm and humour in their initial scenes together:

‘You are fond of Shelley?’

‘Oh yes, I am very, very fond of him. Wasn’t it a pity that he was drowned!’ She spoke of that calamity as if it had been an event of the last week or two…

‘Yes, it was a pity, but I fancy we’re beginning to get over the misfortune.’

However, he soon fancies himself in love with her too and tries to convince her to run away with him. Although their love affair is never consummated physically (Isabel is almost shocked that he would dare to hope for more than pining sighs and reading together under a tree), the village gossips are out in force. What with her husband falling ill, her father making a surprise reappearance, Roland furious at being turned down, Isabel is beset by the demands of men from all sides. We are meant to find her foolish, but not wicked, although it might be hard for modern readers to believe she could be as ‘pure-minded’ as all that.

Despite the long digressions and repetitions, the side characters who are great fun but not really essential to the story (like Sigismund Smith, who writes sensation novels), the undeveloped but potentially interesting secondary threads (perhaps because the novel initially appeared in serialised format), plus a love for the rather contrived plot twist, I rather enjoyed Braddon. I zipped through this work at great speed, and thought her sardonic humour and gentle mockery of each one of her characters worked really well. I can understand why she was so widely read back in the day.

Brian Moore: The Doctor’s Wife

By way of contrast, Sheila Redden, the doctor’s wife in Brian Moore’s novel (who is mostly referred to as Mrs Redden throughout the book), although not much more sexually experienced than Isabel (she married her husband very young), does consummate her adulterous relationship with the charming young American Tom while on holiday in France. In fact, she is so besotted with him and her newfound sensual delight, that she is considering running away to America with him after only one week together, although that would mean leaving her fifteen-year-old son behind in Belfast with her husband.

The doctor and his wife are supposed to be enjoying a second honeymoon in the south of France, where they originally honeymooned. Their marriage is not exactly unhappy, but they are not well matched and communication is kept to the bare minimum.

At home, these last years, conversations seemed to fail. At home, if she would try for an hour of ‘general’ talk, it was like floating on water. The moment you thought of sinking, you sank. Kevin would turn back to the television, she to a book. Lately, she read books the way some people drank.

The husband is not only disdainful of his wife’s love of literature and travel (and the French language), but once he finds out that she is having an affair, he becomes downright jealous and vicious.

It’s books of course that you got all your notions from. Not from real life. All those novels and trash that’s up there in your room at home. I wonder sometimes if some of these authors who write that stuff shouldn’t be prosecuted… Because you’re not the heroine of some bloody book.

This book might take place in a post-Pill, post-1960s sexual revolution world, but Sheila and Kevin live in Northern Ireland and are from a Catholic background (even if she hasn’t been to church in ages). The chaos of Northern Ireland is always there in the background, although not in a heavy-handed way. Sheila clearly feels trapped there and, early on in the book, she envies French parents and wishes she could let her child go wherever he pleases ‘without your worrying about bombs, or their being stopped by an army patrol, or lifted in error by the police, or hit by a sniper’s bullet’. It certainly plays a big part in her desire to escape (even if she hasn’t quite admitted to herself yet what she wants to escape from). The men in her life (her husband, her brother, her son and even her new lover) are all fairly manipulative – they try to push or pull her in directions that suit them best. She has hitherto been quite passive and allowed them to get away with this. In the course of this novel, the scales finally fall from her eyes and she emerges from hibernation.

I know several readers thought Tom’s character was a bit less clearly defined (and I agree we get no direct insight into his psyche), but I did not find it implausible that a 26-year-old would fall for a 36-year-old. If the younger person were a woman and the older person a man, no one would blink, yet everybody in the book seems irate when it’s the other way round and believe that the relationship is doomed. It probably is, but not sure that age is the determining factor here.

The other thing that most readers take issue with is her apparent readiness to abandon her son. I wonder if Moore is once again pointing out double standards here (how many men readily abandon their children and embark upon new relationships and build new families,), but also pointing out that uncomfortable truth that mothers discover their own redundancy when their children hit their late teens, especially boys, who might side more with their father. The ultimate hypocrisy of course is about how much more easily a husband’s adultery is accepted rather than a wife’s, and Dr Redden’s obsession with revenge demonstrates that perfectly.

I was impressed with both authors’ ability to understand and describe women, without judgement (although they each get some sort of punishment), making us the reader rather sympathise with them, however faulty their reasoning. I was startled by just how well these books spoke to each other, although it was pure accident that I read them in parallel. Long live library serendipity!

Thank you to Jacqui, Ali, Simon and Cathy, who have all recently reviewed the Brian Moore book and made me curious to read it myself.

Last But One Book Haul of 2018

I still have some books that are winging their way towards me, and I may still be swayed by one or two reviews or recommendations before I close up book-buying-shop next year. Of course, I will still have the Asymptote Book Club subscription to stave off my hunger pangs. And a couple of hundred of unread books on my shelves…

So, with that caveat, what are my most recent acquisitions?

First of all, #EU27Project noblesse oblige, I had to find a book for Bulgaria and Slovakia. Well, strictly speaking, I’d already found a book for Slovakia but then I  met a translator from Slovakian, Julia Sherwood, at the Asymptote Book Club meeting, and so I had to buy one of the books she translated. This is Pavel Vilikovsky’s Fleeting Snow, a gentle set of reminiscences about a long marriage as the wife of the narrator gradually starts to lose her memory. A very different novel about the fall of Communism in Bulgaria, Party Headquarters by Georgi Tenev seems to not have found many fans abroad, but that rather incited me to read it and make up my own mind.

From publishers, I received two crime novels to review. Bitter Lemon Press sent Petra Hammersfahr’s novel The Sinner formed the basis for the recent TV series, although the setting has been changed from Germany to the US. Many of the links are more obvious in the book than in the TV series, so it’s interesting to compare the two. Meanwhile, Simon and Schuster sent RJ Bailey’s  Winner Kills All, featuring female Personal Protection Officer Sam Wylde. In the wake of the huge success of the TV series The Bodyguard, this book series may do very well indeed!

Most of the other new arrivals were the result of reading other people’s blogs. So hereby I am naming and shaming them! Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings is responsible for Portraits without Frames: Poems by Lev Ozerov, essentially a group portrait of Russian writers of the 1920s and 30s in free verse form. Jacquiwine’s Journal needs to take a bow for Brian Moore’s The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, although it may take a while until I summon up the courage to read this very sad tale. Melissa Beck, who blogs at Bookbinder’s Daughter, is the one who first drew my attention to Odessa Stories by Isaac Babel, translated by Boris Dralyuk (who also is one of the main translators of Ozerov). Last but not least, Kate at Books Are My Favourite and Best, with her #6Degrees link for December made me stumble across Black Run by Antonio Manzini, and I remembered I’d come across it before, mentioned by another Italian writer, and my ordering finger was once again hyper-active.

Who needs divorce lawyers sucking you dry, when your online friends also make sure they finish off your budget through their recommendations?