A conversation about hoarding, about collecting scraps of material and balls of wool, lead me to this delightful book. (Thank you to my colleague for their recommendation.) If you are a maker you will understand the problem of, and the desire for, a wardrobe just for fabric, wool, art supplies, and other ‘useful’ materials. You will also know the beauty of changing something from an remnant into an item; — something that has a new lease of life, whether that is practical or simply to behold. If I could do one thing, and one thing only, it would be to make. Current sewing projects include recutting a vintage velvet dress (some rips, some bicycle chain grease) into a new dress, and, recently finished, a long-forgotten half-made blouse — fabric a bedsheet from the op shop. So I felt completely at home in Bound. And I devoured it with pleasure over one weekend.
This is a book about a sewing journey, and a discovery journey. It’s about the end of things and the beginning of things. All those threads that tangle, yet also weave a story about who we are, where we come from and, even possibly, needle piercing the cloth, stitching a path to somewhere new.
Maddie Ballard’s sewist diary follows her life through lockdown, through a relationship, from city to city, and from work to study, all puncutated with pattern pieces, scissors cutting and a trusty sewing machine. Each essay focuses on a garment she is making, from simple first steps — quick unpick handy—to more complex adventures and later to considered items that incorprate her Chinese heritage. These essays capture the joys and frustrations of making, the dilemmas of responsible making (ethically and environmentally), the pleasure of repurposing and zero-waste sewing, and our relationship with clothes to make us feel good, to capture who we are, and conversely to obscure us. The essays are also a candid and thoughtful exploration of personal relationships and finding one’s place in the world. The comfort of one’s clothes and its metaphorical companion of being comfortable in one’s own skin brushing up sweetly here, like a velvet nap perfectly aligned.
The book is dotted with sweet illustrations by Emma Dai’an Wright of Ballard’s sewing projects, reels of thread, and pesky clothes moths. The essays are cleverly double meaning in many cases. ‘Ease’ being a sewing term, but also in this essay’s case an easing into a new flat; ‘Soft’ the feel of merino, but also the lightness of moths’ wings; ‘Undoing’ the errors that happen in sewing and in life that need a remake. There’s ‘Cut One Pair’ and' ‘Cut One Self’. This gem of a book is published by a small press based in Birmingham, The Emma Press, focused on short prose works, poetry and children’s books. (They also published fellow Aotearoa author Nina Mingya Powles’ Tiny Moons.) Bound: A Memoir of Making and Re-Making is thoughtful, charming and a complete delight. What seems light as silk brings us the hard selvege of decisions, the needle prick of questions, and the threads that both fray and bind. Bravo Maddie Ballard and here’s to many more sewing and writing projects.
Beautiful production, beautiful concept, and beautifully executed. The sixth book in the Kōrero series is a standout. You Are Here is a journey, a journey in language, a going home, a seeking of one’s place in a physical external space, and also in one’s interior self. Where do you belong? How do you go home when time and place have been disrupted? You go home by looking towards your land, your whenua. You find your culture in language, in pattern — in mark-making both literal and metaphorical. Reading Whiti Hereaka’s text, looking into Larkin’s drawings and paintings is mesmerising. Questions are provoked and thoughts step one to the next, building connections between the words and images on the page and the concepts they embody. Here there is a conversation between cousins who share whakapapa, through their words and images. As Hereaka cleverly uses the restrictions of the Fibonacci sequence in her text, Larkin’s work also has a pattern set down. Her drawings precise on the graph paper — pen-to-paper, point-to-point — building intricate relationships in space and on the page. In her artwork you see the conversation with weaving, tāniko, whakario and tukutuku patterns. The patterns building a language of connection, moving in unison with Hereaka’s text as she spirals, doubling her words and her thoughts, as she reaches for the elusive and the sure. As anger surfaces, along with shame, passion and determination. And as the language condenses in line with the sequence’s rules, you follow the pattern out and away to the end. Open this book and find on the first page, three words. “You are here.” They sit quiet, small and a little timidly in this white space. End this book and the same three words appear. “You are here” at the centre and determined, held firmly in a Larkin drawing. But the end is no end, it is another beginning, ready for what comes next. You Are Here is also, like the other books on this series, a place where excellent book production meets the content with purpose and care. (Kudos to Lloyd Jones and Massey University Press for this excellent series.) From the subtle embossed letters on the front cover to the paper stock, it is a tactile object — a book you want to enjoy and hold. You Are Here is both intense and lyrical. It is personal and universal. It is a journey of discovery and a work of strength.
If a ghost door-to-door salesperson called at your place, what would you do? In the opening story of Matsuda Aoko’s collection, Shinzaburō tries to ignore the doorbell. It’s persistent and there’s no getting out of answering the door. They know he’s home. His attempts at turning them away are fruitless. There they are — two women dressed identically, yet with different manners. “..the younger one,...raised her head to look towards the spyhole, and said in a weak, sinuous voice, “Come now, don’t be so inhospitable! O-pen up!” If a willow tree could speak, Shinzaburō thought, this is the kind of voice…He blinked and found himself in the living room.” And so, the story carries on, with our hapless Shinzaburō finding himself unable to resist the two women and their special lanterns. His wife is none too pleased when she returns and sees how he’s been duped by the ghost women. The story is premised by a traditional folktale of love and woe, 'The Peony Lantern'. Matsuda Aoko takes these traditional ghost stories and bends them into contemporary settings with her own sense of intrigue and humour. The short stories are variously gothic and satirical in their feminist reinterpretations. In 'Smartening Up', a young woman, obsessed with her body hair, is visited by her interfering dead aunt, an aunt who has definite opinions about an ex-boyfriend, and money wasted on beauticians and clothes. Mostly though she’s concerned — the young woman is destroying the power of her hair! After a bit of a tussle, the two women settle into a discussion about the aunt’s suicide and a housewife’s lot. It’s a conversation that entwines the legend of Kiyohime and ultimately, triggers a programme of hair restoration for our young heroine. “Let’s become monsters together.” Some ghosts just want to be recognised. 'Quite A Catch' dredges up a ghost from the depths, a beautiful woman who long ago in the past was murdered finds a willing partner in Shigemi who fishes her skeleton from the lake. Haunting, it’s an observant eye on expectation and loneliness. The rakugo (a Japanese form of verbal storytelling) Tenjinyama is the inspiration for the tale 'A Fox’s Life', the story of a striking unusual woman. Brilliant, at school she excels in all her subjects and in sports, always finding a shortcut to problems, finding beautiful solutions with little effort, yet she has no desire to take her learning to the next level. At work, this was no different: everything comes easily to her, but she eschews success. She marries a kind-hearted man, stays home, has children, who grow and leave home. Something remains buried within her — a reticence to fully engage all her skills. “Throughout her life, Kuzuha had always had the feeling that she was just pretending to be a regular woman. Of course, that was the path she had selected as a shortcut, and she had never once doubted her decision had been the right one…one day…it occurred to Kazuha that maybe she really was a fox.” Each story in the collection recounts a woman’s life and her place within contemporary Japanese society with links to folktales of love, woe, revenge and mystery. Running throughout the book is another thread — a fascinating twist which draws some of these stories and characters together. It’s a thread that concerns a factory, populated by both a ghost and living human workforce, producing magical or special items which find their way into the world of the living. What these items represent is never fully articulated, but the idea of this place is intriguing and it seems to represent a bridge between the two worlds of the living and dead — each fascinated by the other.
This is a remarkable piece of writing. A memoir, a story about his parents, a family history, an island’s history, a treatise on writing, a question — the question, an exploration of death, of guilt, of shame, and of dominance and harm, but also a book of forgiveness, of wonder, hope, and most definitely, of love. Here tossed up in a looping story literary geniuses rub shoulders with brilliant physicists, and the ordinary Tasmanian, alongside the forgotten, are wheeled in and brilliantly scooped up into a telling of the everything and the particular, and it’s also immensely personal. A telling which is now, the future, and the past. A past which is 40,000 years; and just a blip— a few 1000, and also the merest moment. The bomb. This is a book which talks of war and consequence, where trauma feeds its way into the rivers of generations, where violence is erased, where memory is what we have in all its unreliability, where a truth may be found in what is unsaid or voided. As the reader, are we in the river, beside it keeping pace, or watching it flow past? Or do we find ourselves in one of its many tributaries letting the current take us, to discover we need to turn back and fight our way upstream? Or is this just the task of the writer? There is turbulence — a power working at us. But when we are midstream all is clear whether we are swimming or flying. There is calm, and humour, and an imagination that brilliantly guides us and buoys us on. Flanagan’s father was a POW in Japan. Without the bombing of Hiroshima he would have died. If he had died, the author would not exist. The bomb changed the world. H.G. Wells wrote a book because he was confused about love. A book which inspired a Hungarian Jewish scientist to have an idea about nuclear chain reaction, and then fear drove him to both embrace and reject the consequences. The wry brilliance of Chekhov filters through the pages. The love of language — of words — is delightfully explored on the page and in childhood memories, and in the author’s descriptions of his father’s reading and reciting. And here is the connection to the earth: as his mother fills bags of red soil at the side of the open road for her grey Hobart suburban plot, as Flanagan lies beneath his car by the river on a dewy night, as his great-great-grandfather labours, and his mother’s father ploughs. And here is the story of genocide, whether it is here, or over there, of violence that permeates and of lives that cannot be extinguished. Question 7 is compelling, thoughtful and almost overwhelming. It’s storytelling at its finest — powerful, beautiful and deeply moving.
As I was fixing the puncture on the delivery bike last week, I remembered the last puncture event. It was December and I was in the process of making the Christmas cakes (yes, multiple, and yes, a bit late to the party for a good aging — saying that, my recipe is delicious straight away or well in advance. Thank you Lois Daish!). There was going to be a social media post. Hashtag #whatbooksellersdointheweekend. Alas, December had more pressing matters, like book enquiries and chasing stock, in the ascendant. Anyway, the cakes are eaten, the punctures fixed, but the idea of sustaining treats is still very much on the agenda. For years now, I’ve made at least 2 fruit-filled cakes: one to eat and get you through December and the other for the festive season quietly waiting its turn.
A cake in the tin is a promise of a sit-down and a cup of tea, or a piquantly paired coffee if spice is the taste game. (Top recommended coffee match is the Cardamom Cake recipe from Magnus Nilsson’s The Nordic Baking Book. And our coffee of choice KUSH Port Blend). But back to the point of this post. Puddings et al. , not punctures. If a tinful of cake is a promise, a pudding is the cherry on top.
Belgian culinary historian Regula Ysewijn’s cookbooks are a delightful, and wonderfully informative! From the nifty titles to the contents, to the results. The Belgian writer and photographer focuses on food and social history of Britain and the Low Countries. Pride and Pudding is a history of British puddings (both savoury and sweet), Oats from the North, Wheat from the South is focused on British baking, and Dark Rye and Honey Cake covers festive baking of the Low Countries.* The books are packed with recipes, history and great photogrpahy (her own) and charming illustrations.
In Dark Rye and Honey Cake enjoy Regula’s Waffles for breakfast, a rich Kramiek loaf for morning tea, find out about the Earl of Laetare, partake in a Flemish pancake, and find delight in a special apple cheesy tart.
Pride and Pudding — so many good things, Let’s start with Syllabub — even the word is delcious! Quinces are rippening on the tree, so try that intricate pastry pie — it looks divine. Icecream without a machine? And break out your molds! Filled with recipes, processes, hints, history and joy.
*She’s also produced the recipes for The Officail Downton Abbey Christmas Cookbook and more recently, The Official Bridgerton Cookbook.
There’s nothing like a journal to keep you up with the play, reinvigorate your thinking and introduce you to new ideas. Counterfutures is published biannually in Aotearoa, it’s peer reviewed, and has a bunch of good people on its editorial and advisory boards. It’s a multidisciplinary journal of Left research and thought, and includes essays, interviews and reviews. Published here, and about here, it also connects with international colleagues, both scholarly and grassroots. In this issue, editor Neil Vallelly interviews Princeton Professor Wendy Brown. ‘Towards a Counter-Nihilistic Politics’ is a wide-ranging interview that looks at the 2023 protests on American campuses, an analysis of current left politics, specifically in the US but also broadly relevant to other nations; — its reinvention in the face of one might say disenchantment, and a delve into political philosopher Max Weber, as well as Brown’s own work on neoliberalism and nihilism. In ‘Whakapapa of a Prison Riot’ Emma Rākete and Ti Lamusse, unpack the 2020 uprising at Waikeria Prison with an eye-opening and passionate exposition on the riot, prisoner rights, censorship and free speech. Their critique is sharp and powerful drawing on history, injustices of the past and present, and it’s a call to action for change in our criminal justice system — the kind of thinking and discussion that is missing from most media. In ‘Māori Marx, Māori Modernism: Hone Tuwhare’ Dougal McNeill gets under the skin of the poet’s work. Here is Tuwhare’s socialist connections in his words and deeds. Engaging, and adding further depth to this excellent poet’s body of work. And if you are needing to continuously find a way to unpick the complexities of Israel-Palestine, a conversation between Tariq Ali and historian Rashid Khalidi is enlightening and thoughtful. ‘The Neck and the Sword’ is an in-depth interview which gives excellent insight into Palestinian struggles for statehood. Khalidi goes back to the Arab Revolts of the late 1930s, and how it connects to the Nakba of 1947-8. He highlights the impacts of displacement, the war of 1967, the evolution of the PLO and later Hamas. This is a conversation with clarity of thought, facts and analysis, a conversation rooted in a people’s struggle, and above all humanity. While this interview was recorded in mid-2023, it feels even more important now, when booksellers can be arrested for doing their job, and powerful players are intent on a course of action in Gaza and the West Bank which will lead to further disenfranchisement. And these are just a few of the journal’s entries. Get Counterfutures: Left Thought and Practice Aotearoa on your radar and on your reading pile!
How dangerous is a sad man? Sister Perpetue is on the night shift. She is under strict instructions to watch the patient (or is he a prisoner, shackled to the bed?) — to never let her eyes or mind wander. Yet when he talks, she listens and is caught up in his tale. His horrific story. For is he merely unfortunate, or is he a monster? In The Glutton, A.K. Blakemore turns from witches (her previous award-winning novel captured the puritanical fervour of England, 1643) to the infamy of The Great Tarare — ‘The Glutton of Lyon’. A man so perverse, so tortured by his insatiable hunger, that he will eat anything. The Glutton is a glorious novel. Glorious in its writing; Blakemore paints with her words a world alive with visceral undertakings, both beautiful and appalling. Glorious in its depiction of depravity and desire; the futile attempts to capture love or meaning in a maelstrom of corruption and ignorance. Glorious in its observations of time; this turbulent history of dissatisfaction, desperation, and rebellion. The revolution calls all men to its reckoning, and a boy-man like Tarare turns the heads of more powerful men — men that will command him to perform and then spit him out like gristle that irritates the tooth. And then there are his fellows who will not claim him — who prefer him a spectacle. For what are they, but curious? Hardened and bored by the grind of their days and the poverty of their hearth and heart. In all this, can Tarare be anything other than the monstrous man with his jaws wide open, his throat slack as he ingests mountains of offal, eats small animals alive, and takes in copious buttons, belts, and other fancies as the crowd demands? Grotesque, exhilarating, and strangely beautiful, Blakemore’s The Glutton is a delectable dish. Gobble it up!
There are still plenty of gems in our fiction sale. It’s a great opportunity to discover a new author, to delve into a different genre, and improve your reading addiction. If you haven’t read Nell Zink, you can choose: Doxology or Nicotine. Both are excellent. If you like music the former, but for me the latter is still my favourite. Zink’s writing, with its overtones and undertones (plenty of sly digs at cultural norms and hilarious metaphors about relationships), is clever and exhilarating. In Nicotine she explores family and relationships in her own surprising way. Enter Penny, the unemployed business school graduate, daughter of Norm, the Jewish shaman who is famous for his healing clinics and extreme spiritualism, and Amalia, a Kogi, the young second wife rescued from the poverty of South America, who has become a very successful corporate banker. With parents like this, you know from the beginning that Penny carries some baggage. When her aged father dies, Penny is distraught and is left with more questions than answers about her family. Needing distraction, her family decides that she needs something to do. They send her to rescue her grandparents’ long-abandoned home in a dodgy suburb of New Jersey. We enter Nicotine; — the home of squatter activists whose common cause is the right to smoke. Penny is intrigued by the squatters and attracted to Rob, the very good-looking bicycle mechanic. Rather than throw them out of the house, she becomes part of the group, developing relationships with the home dwellers that will change not only her life, but theirs too. Penny, despite her seeming uselessness, becomes the catalyst for change for all, with many hilarious machinations and sly digs at social conformity on all sides along the way. Zink puts her characters through the paces, never letting up on them, (nor giving up), and plays with societal concepts of capitalism, pragmatism and spirituality. Zink is a ‘naughty’ writer — toying with her reader and her characters, constantly making fun of both in a very appealing and clever way. If you like to look at life a bit sideways then you’ll enjoy her style, playfulness and reflections on people — their gullibility, as well as their backbone.
Gliff is a book about authoritarianism, bonding, boundaries, bureaucracy, categories, choices, climate, community, crisis, cruelty, curiosity, data, definitions, devices, disconnection, doubt, exploitation, fables, fierceness, freedom, hope, horses, humanness, identity, imagination, kindness, language, lies, limitations, loss, meaning, meaningless, money, obedience, pollution, power, possibilities, power, profit, questions, rebellion, a red line, reduction, refugees, regulations, reports, resistance, revelation, rigidity, siblings, story-telling, a strange machine, surveillance, the digital world, the othered, the unwanted, toeing the line, truth, undesirables, verification, words.
It’s a book about now, our near future, the past, time. It’s a book that frightens, dances, plays, whispers and shouts. It’s a book that draws on mythology, fairytales, art, poetry and literature; and gives us words that have come before and will go ahead of us. It’s a warning and a promising embrace.
Siblings Briar and Rose are left to fend for themselves. Leif has found them an empty house to wait in. He’s taken their passports, left them with a stack of tinned food and a roll of notes. Their home has been red-lined, their camper van red-lined. There’s a paddock of horses waiting to be sent to the knacker’s yard. Rose and Gliff have formed an unbreakable bond of perfect trust. Briar is putting the pieces of the puzzle together, while Rose is clear-eyed in instinct if not in knowledge, in a world that insists on order. An order that feeds the machine of the wealthy and the powerful.
Ali Smith’s Gliff is a book that I didn’t want to finish. A book so interesting, nuanced and layered, that I did not want to depart. To stay in this playfulness of words, the richness of language and story, to be suspended with curiosity, while also confronted by the urgency of our 21st century landscape must surely be a work of genius. Fortunately, this book is one of a pair; —Glyph will follow Gliff.
“It’s the same thing time and time again, shamelessly, tirelessly. It doesn’t matter whether it’s morning or afternoon, winter or summer. Whether the house feels like home, whether somebody comes to the door to let me in. I arrive, and I want to stay, and then I leave.” All My Goodbyes is a novel for the restlessness in us all. Mariana Dimópulos’s protagonist is a young woman on the move. Leaving Argentina at 23 in an attempt to thwart her father’s ambitions and to escape the confines of what she sees as her predictable life, she heads to Madrid with the idea of being an ‘artist’, smoking hashish and hanging out, discussing ‘ideas’ with other travellers. After only a month, she is bored and on the move again, reinventing herself — being Lola or Luisa — whichever identity fits, being a tourist or a traveller, making new backstories, but never quite the truth. She is ambiguous to those she meets and, at times, to the reader also. We follow, or aptly, interact with her life over a decade as she swings between several European places — Madrid, Malaga, Berlin and Heidelberg to mention a few — and South America, washing up in rural Patagonia. The narrative is fractured as she relays her memories, skidding across one experience to the next and back again in a looping circuit, tossing us backwards and forwards in time. We are taken into conversations and thrown out again; we interact with those she has formed relationships with and ultimately said goodbye to. We see her as a traveller, tourist, voyeur, baker, shelf stacker, factory worker, farmhand. Upon this fractured narrative, a web is woven as we piece together the relationships that make her and break her — and always there is an impending sense of something or someone that will change her, a sense of threat with the axe taking centre stage. Dimópulos’s writing is subtle and agile. We do not mind being tossed on our protagonist's sea. In fact, we are curious. We love her late-night conversations with Julia in her kitchen, leaning up against the bench with the sleepy Kolya bunched up in his mother’s arms; we wonder when she will give in to the gentle charms of the scholar Alexander; and question why she is fascinated by the uber entrepreneur Stefan. We know, before it happens, that she will abandon them all, that her desire to leave is greater than her desire to stay. She travels full circle: we encounter her back in her homeland — still restless, still moving — living in the southernmost part of Patagonia. Working for Marco and his mother she finally finds a place to stop. Yet deceit and disaster settle here and take her onward and away, against her will and desire. Is she the architect of her own disaster, creating impossible situations? Her abandonment of people in her life is at times mutually beneficial, at other times cruel. Why does she not speak up, or face up to herself, when she could make a difference? Her riposte is always to leave — to turn her back. While the themes in this novel are restlessness, abandonment and departure, the writing, in contrast, is assured, subtly ironic, agile and so compelling that you will want to reread this — you will want to keep arriving.
Be careful what you wish for! A catch-cry of our present time is a desire to find meaningful connection, to be part of a community within which we are specific and individual. Yet in reality we are more likely to find ourselves awash in a social media sea. In Jennifer Egan’s The Candy House, the desire for authenticity and connection is high and the clever Bix Bouton has the key. Bix is rich and successful. A fast-thinker graduate, his start-up, Mandala, took off, but now he’s out of ideas and craving something of the magic of his younger self. Infiltrating an academic discussion group where they are prying open the social anthropologist Miranda Kline’s theory Patterns of Affinity, kicks off the lightbulb for Bix. And the beautiful cube, Own Your Unconscious, is born. Get yourself a beautiful cube and download your memory — your every moment and feeling: either just for yourself so you can revisit childhood or recall a moment; or upload for the wider community — to The Collective Consciousness — so memories can be shared and information found (sound familiar?). Now Bix is richer, more successful, a celebrity who’s a regular at The White House and loved by many. Life is good. Yet at the edges there is doubt. And not everyone is a believer. There are eluders, those that wipe themselves to escape — pretty much losing their identity for freedom from the technological behemoth. There is Mondrian, an organisation that sees ethical problems within this set-up and offers a way out for those who feel trapped. This novel has connections to her Pultizer Prize-winning A Visit from the Goon Squad. There are characters who exist in both, and actions that are revisited by the curious, in particular the next generation who live with the consequences. There’s the anonymity of the urban and the claustrophobia of suburban landscapes, alongside the openness of the desert and the endless possibilities of the sea. All these landscapes play their role in the interior landscapes (the minds) of the diverse array of characters. This is a novel that does not stay still. There is no straight line in The Candy House. Egan writes explosive short pieces, chapters which connect, disconnect and reconnect (sometimes) in surprising ways. Characters are related in familial and relationship lines, or by deed, or the outsourced memory of deeds. Some we meet once, others on several occasions — they are in turn in all their guises: adults, children, parents, siblings. This may sound disjointed, and at times the narrative may lead you astray, but the thematic pulse runs continuously through. As in her earlier Goon Squad, Egan plays with structure and different narrative styles. There is the 'Lulu the Spy' chapter told in bite-sized dispatch commands — a tensely addictive reading experience; there is a brilliantly cutting e-mail conversation chapter where the narcissistic desires of the correspondents will make you wince; and there is the mathematically genius 'i, Protaganist' in which a man tries to realise his crush through obsessive statistical analysis. Knitted seamlessly into this wonderland of ideas are the concrete desires, fears and concerns of various humans, all achingly searching for authenticity within an illusionary world. An energetically clever novelist, Jennifer Egan’s The Candy House gives you sweet treats, as well as a whirlwind of sugary highs and lows. Put down the cube and pick up The Candy House.
What to do when you’re read all of one of your favourite author’s books and there is nothing new on the horizon? Go backwards, of course! When you discover a writer you enjoy, it is usually somewhere mid-stream in their writing journey. They have risen to the top of the publicity machine, or cracked the bestseller list. Or you’ve discovered them via a friend’s or bookseller’s recommendation. Maybe they have made it through the distribution chain, been spied by a bookseller, landed on a shelf, and made it to your hand almost unbidden. Possibly you noted a review or were taken by the jacket design. Whatever myriad way in which you discover new authors, it’s bound to be somewhere in the midst of their writing career. (Unless they are a one-hit wonder!) So going backwards, when forwards is not an option, is often a possibility and adds context to what has come after. I thoroughly enjoy Sheila Heti’s writing. While I appreciate her obvious knowledge of literature and her skill with language, it is her curiosity which is most endearing. A curiosity with her own psyche and with writing as an experiment as well as an experience, paired with her sly wit, make her books thought-provoking and enjoyable. Her work starting with How Should a Person Be? (not her first published work — somewhere in the middle) is based on herself or a fictionalised idea of Heti. One can never be too sure about reality with Heti, but many of her books are described as ‘novels’. Her books are equal parts hilarious, earnest, infuriating, heartfelt, and compelling. This range of responses can be raised on a single page sometimes, and maybe this is what makes her work so interesting. So, to going backwards…
Ticknor, initially published in 2005, is a historical novel of sorts. Inspired by the real-life friendship between the American historian William Hickling Prescott and his biographer, George Ticknor, it’s a novella exploring friendship and scholarly society. Don’t let the unfamiliar names put you off. I knew nothing about these fellows, and it didn’t matter. Ticknor is a study in envy. And also an exercise in form. It’s been compared with Thomas Bernhard’s The Loser, and garnered a bit of attention in literary circles when it was published. And here is one literary circle where the bonds of a one-sided friendship has no opening. For Ticknor, this is a closed circle, one which means more to him than he does to his fellow writers. While his childhood friend climbs the ranks of fame and fortune, Ticknor becomes increasingly psychologically distraught and paranoid. A bitterness seeps in much like the rain that wets him through as he stands outside Prescott’s house deliberating his attendance at a dinner party to the point where it is too late to venture inside! Here is Ticknor, hardly likable, and here are his cronies, even less likable and disagreeably pompous. And yet, this is what Ticknor aspires to, inclusion and feted admiration. Should we sympathise? Heti balances our hand and heart with Ticknor’s absurdities and the ludicrous situation of scholarly jealousies. Here humour, her sly wit, come to the fore, and paired with the taut writing, make Ticknor, the novel, a worthy contender, while Ticknor, the man (in this fictional telling) not a contender at all. This novella isn’t the best of Heti’s work, but I enjoyed the stylitsic form and playful pointedness, and the wit keeps you there. Heti’s writing is always pushing at possibilities and exploring new ways to tackle the novel as form, as well as exploring how we live in the world. Her latest book, Alphabetical Diaries, is a case in point. Experimental work that is amusing, and rich with ideas and curiosity.
Oscar Mardell's freezing works poems are a clever addition to the tradition of New Zealand gothic literature. Think Ronald Hugh Morrison’s The Scarecrow and David Ballantyne's Sydney Bridge Upside Down and you’ll get a sense of the macabre that edges its ways through these poems like entrails. There’s the nostalgia for the stink of the slaughter yards, the adherence to the architects of such vast structures on our landscapes, and the pithy analysis of our colonial pastoral history. That smell so evocative of hot summer days cooped up in a car travelling somewhere along a straight road drifts in as you read 'Horotiu' with its direct insult to the yards and its references to offal. In these poems, there is the thrust and violence of killing alongside the almost balletic rhythm of the work — the work as described on the floor as well as the poetic structure of Mardell’s verse.
“ th sticking knife th steel th saw
th skinning knife th hook th hammer
th spreader the chop & th claw "
“ the dull thud resonates
through bodies / still
swings rhythmically & out of time
pours out of me / equivocal ”
Most of the poems note the architect and the date of construction for these ominous structures, which had a strange grandeur — simultaneously horrific and glorious. One of the outstanding architects was J.C.Maddison, a designer known for both his slaughterhouses and churches, alongside other stately public buildings. In 'Belfast', Mardell cleverly bridges these divides — the lambs, the worship, the elation.
“ did he who set a compass
to port levy & amberly
who traced th wooden hymnhouses
for st pauls / divided
& th holy innocents / drowned ”
There are plenty of other cultural references tucked away in these poems. Minnie Dean makes an appearance in Mataura and James K Baxter in Ngauranga Abattoir. In the latter, Mardell slips in Baxter's line "sterile whore of a thousand bureaucrats". Yet the poems go beyond nostalgia or clever nods to literature, to sharpen our gaze on our colonial relationship. 'Burnside' tells it perfectly:
“ & ws new zealands little lamb
to britains highest tables led
& were th final works performed
out here in godsown killing shed ”
Mardell’s collection, Great Works, is pithy and ironic with its clever nods to cultural and social history, gothic in imagery, and all wrapped up like a perfectly trussed lamb in our ‘God’s Own Country’ nostalgia, with a large drop of sauce and a knife waiting to slice.
We desperately need more time to read, so this summer we are prioritising reading over pretty much all other activities. Here are a few books we feel are pulling us towards them.
STELLA:
Theory and Practice by Michelle de Kretser
The Life and Opinions of Kartik Popat by Brannavan Gnanalingam
A Sunny Place for Shady People by Marianna Enriques (translated by Megan McDowell)
Tremor by Teju Cole
Ticknor by Sheila Heti
Take What You Need by Idra Novey
The Royal Free by Carl Shuker
Thread Ripper by Amalie Smith (translated by Jennifer Russell)
THOMAS:
Tell by Jonathan Buckley
Diaries by Franz Kafka (translated by Ross Benjamin)
All My Precious Madness by Mark Bowles
The Planetarium by Nathalie Sarraute (translated by Maria Jolas)
Portraits at the Palace of Creativity and Wrecking by Han Smith
Orbital by Samantha Harvey
Concerning the Future of Souls by Joy Williams
Slender Volumes by Richard von Sturmer
I Don’t Care by Ágota Kristóf (translated by Chris Andrews)
The Plague by Jacqueline Rose
Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other by Danielle Dutton
Not pictured but certainly on the pile:
The Calculation of Volume, Book I and Book II by Solvej Balle (translated by Barbara J. Haveland)
What books are on your summer reading pile? Lets us know — or let us help you build it!
Click through to find out more:
STELLA:
Gliff by Ali Smith
Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner
The Empusium: A health resort horror story by Olga Tokarczuk (translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones)
Brown Bird by Jane Arthur
THOMAS:
Parade by Rachel Cusk
Kick the Latch by Kathryn Scanlan
Lori and Joe by Amy Arnold
Alphabetical Diaries by Sheila Heti
Spent Light by Lara Pawson
Earth’s End publishes excellent graphic novels in Aotearoa. The latest from their publishing stable is Episodes from the pen of Tāmaki Makaurau cartoonist, artist and editor Alex Scott. Here you have a series of slice-of-life stories —episodes — that capture growing up in the city in the 1990s and the influence of media and advertising on society, particularly young people. Scott has narrowed in on the influence of advertising and the role of television initially, through to the advent of social media, to disrupt and to create an arena where there can only be disappointment and confusion. In the first story eating breakfast is dominated by the hyperactive images of Space Cadet cereal. There is no touching the ground here, rather a sense of disconnect. There are stories about relationships and desire, mostly not realised, where the protagonist has romantic expectations that occur only in soap operas. A teen narrows in on an overly hyped beauty product as the key to popularity. A man is traumatised from working in the advertising world. There’s the world of the mall, and hanging out at the beach. Judgements abound based on peer pressures, heavily influenced by advertising, reality TV and the addictive nature of the TV series. Yet there are also feisty rejections of these messages, and growing suspicions on the part of some of the protagonists. As technology changes, and the media platforms vary, Scott cleverly changes the dimensions of the frame. Gone is the TV screen rectangle. The phone takes over with its vertical reference. To reflect the screen-like style, text is captioned rather than speech-bubbled, giving another sense of remove. In the later stories, social media is king, and there is a distinctive shift to self-absorption — the screen turns on the self recording every moment in that strangely manufactured way. The illustrations are wonderful, with details that will keep you looking and looking again, seeking out the familiar. In a strange way, there is comfort in the absurdity; and yet it is this exact absurdity that questions our relationship with media, especially in the formative years of childhood and the headiness of growing up. The stories in Episodes are sad and funny, thought-provoking, and all too real. Here you will find the wonderful awkwardness of adolescence, the kid that is always sideways to the world, along with the epiphany of being yourself, and the sometimes crushing, but always necessary, understanding that life isn’t like the movies. A ballad to — and a warning about — our media-obsessed society.
Here is a book where the abject meets the sublime, where objects trigger histories, and where history is bound to objects; where in every place and in every object an association can be made (some juvenile , others frightening) and where the most mundane of activities unleashes waves of emotion. Lara Pawson is on her knees cleaning the ancient tiles in her flat. She is dusting the tarnished sporting cup in which she spies a moth trap. She observes with a degree of contempt but also reassurance the sponge tucked behind the downpipe. The egg timer is its own bomb, the toaster shoved in her arms by a recently widowed neighbour a disaster waiting to happen. How can she take this functional object into her kitchen without contemplating torture? Walking with her dog along damp streets, and through scrubby wastelands, her mind wanders to other forests, other spaces of escape and entrapment. Spent Light is deplorable and beautiful. As you think you can read no more, you are drawn in by this persistent voice, by the intelligence and desperation of this mind as it grapples with history, with the objects that connect us to human actions, to human depravity and suffering. And yet, it also gives us a vision of overwhelming love, of connectedness in spite of horror; to a place where an object can tell us a history — its story, but also a story of others it has touched. For it is in the seeing, in the looking, when one thinks if only they could close their eyes, close their minds, that a truth will come. Lara Pawson is facing her demons, or is it our collective demons, and she is shocking, She confronts us with her determination and savage humour. She picks at the wound and somehow simultaneously has the ability to make a scab that will protect and heal us all. Spent Light is as compelling as it is repellent. A book filled with horrors (some intensely difficult, others facile) which are countered with remarkable acts of love and care, all held in the silent, yet powerful, presence of objects. Remarkable.
Love her or hate her, you will enjoy Sadie! Sadie Smith (not her real name) is undercover. She’s out to find the dirt on the eco-radicals; and if she can’t find some, she’ll get creative. In a small remote village, the Moulinards’ commune on a scrappy piece of land, overseen by the charismatic Pascal (ex-Paris, wealthy lad living it rough and oldest friend to Sadie’s hapless ‘boyfriend’ loser film-maker Lucien). Pascal, along with his selected idealistic brotherhood are hanging on the words of modern day hermit Bruno Lacombe. Bruno lives in a cave and emails the group his missives on human history, the superiority of the Neanderthal, the earth’s vibrations, and other intellectual musings of a madman and a sage. The concerns of the local farmers and the newly arrived eco-radicals are the same. Industry is moving in with its pumping of water and singular crop fixation. There have been isolated incidents of sabotage. And Sadie’s boss wants the commune gone. Sadie's job is to get inside and find out what they will do next. And if there is no to-do list, entice some action. Sadie arrives into a dry hot summer in her little white rental, enough alcohol to keep cool and then some, and is ‘waiting’ for Lucien on his family’s estate — a rundown dwelling now rigged up with sensors, high speed internet and other spy gadgetry. Sadie’s reading Bruno’s emails, but not getting a lot of information about a plot to take out the new infrastructure. What she is getting is a fascination for Bruno and his sideways take on humanity. She’s ready to meet Pascal and gain his trust. It helps, or so Sadie wants us to believe, that she is gorgeous. She easily gains his trust, more to do with her set-up relation with Lucien than anything she particularly does, and Pascal’s never ending ability to mansplain. The women at the commune have different ideas about their assigned roles, more akin to the old patriarchy than new ideas. It doesn’t take Sadie long to get offside with them. She’ll have to be more careful to avoid their ire and their mistrust. So what is Rachel Kushner up to here? In Creation Lake, she’s pointing a very cynical finger at our attempts to save ourselves. Here comes corruption and ego in several guises, here is the power of ideas that can alter lives, here come belief systems that fall flat, and there go the Neanderthals walking with us still (according to Bruno), and here is the biggest fraud of the lot: Sadie Smith, who will be unequivocally changed by her encounter with the Moulinards and Bruno Lacombe. This is a clever, funny book with an unreliable (and unlikeable) narrator at its centre, with ideas leaping from the absurd to the strangely believable, and a cast of characters who get to walk on to the stage and play their bit parts to perfection, with references to ‘types’ as well as particular possibly recognisable individuals. Creation Lake deals with big issues — the climate, politics, industry, and power — with a playfulness and Intelligence that ricochet much like the bullets in Sadie’s guns. It encompasses ideas about where we came from and where we might be going with wry wit but also a serious nod to our current dilemmas. It’s not all doom, and Kushner may be giving us the opportunity to leave our hermit caves and look up. Although this may be a riff on the riff. And cynicism may be the winner after all — unless radical social change can capture Sadie's imagination at 4am. You’ll have to decide.
Orbital is hypnotic. The first revelation is the language. Harvey’s languid prose takes you somewhere unknown, somewhere beautiful and beguiling but also strangely unsettling. Then you notice that time is upended, that all the rules of earth that you know but hardly consider are unpicked; —are absent. Because you, like the six people circling the earth, are transported into this whirring machine. You are in orbit. Here a day is sixteen days. A morning every ninety minutes. A space station observing the earth, watching a typhoon, lamenting the planet called home, recording what happens below and what happens within; —an endless cycle of experiments, observations, and routine. Six people morphing into one organism as their lives in this bubble of a world push them, more accurately float them, closer to each other to a place where dreams overlap and longings coincide. And where each of the six, ironically, captured by individual thoughts, and misgivings, are more alone than ever. They revel in the wonders of space; —the magnitude of the universe; —the mysticism of the moon, the awe of spacewalking, and the unfathomable future of life on other planets. They are in admiration of technology, while simultaneously in despair at what they observe on that precious planet, Earth. Yet, there is also reverence and wonder. A ballad to the small blue planet that sustains us and that holds so many things of beauty. From the space station nature is overwhelming; —the orange deserts, the great swathes of ocean, the ice of the polar caps, the beguiling southern auroras. Harvey’s imagining of Earth from space through the eyes of six humans from different nations as they observe an Earth that has few borders (the great rivers show, and the coasts of Europe are well lit) and a radiance that captures the planet as a whole as if you could hold it in your palm, also dives into the particular, the minuscule; —those moments that are individual and small in the scale of things (especially if you are orbiting in space). A grandmother at the market in Nagasaki, an astronaut making contact with a lonely woman on Earth via ham radio, a postcard given with love depicting a painting framing a question about viewpoint, the regret of a flippant answer, and the obsession with a disaster which becomes a ritual. These beautiful juxtapositions of the grand and the particular are caressed by Harvey's language and descriptive narrative. This is observation at its best. The observation of our planet, (triggered by the author’s watching of live feed from the ISS when suffering from insomnia), and the observation of humanity in all our glory and failure. Little wonder that this novel is Booker Prize shortlisted. Beguiling and breathless with a rhythm all its own, this is a small novel packed with ideas, a celebration of our planet, as well as a call to action for embracing and protecting all its wonder, natural and human.
Every good book experience starts with the simplest of things. An excellent board book can open a young mind to the world and their own experience in it. At VOLUME, we are always looking for interesting picture books that will surprise and delight. Board books for the very youngest start the journey of a reading life. Here are a few recently published titles:
Titiro/Look is a bilingual first words book. Another excellent title from Aotearoa children’s author and Illustrator Gavin Bishop. The design is excellent, with its arresting illustrations and clear visual information. There’s a great range of subjects, creating plenty of opportunities to expand vocabulary and create conversations, making it a perfect book for looking at, and interacting with, for parent (or grandparent) and child.
So excited to see a new addition to the playful series from creator Antonia Pesenti. Party Rhyme! is as much fun as Rhyme Cordial and Rhyme Hungry. With hairy bread and party bats it will be hard to keep the laughter and rhyming under control. But not to worry, there will be a bear hug to keep everyone feeling cosy at the end. The lift-the-flap formula works brilliantly with Pesenti’s books, and they are robust and create just the right amount of anticipation.
If you are after a sweet bedtime book, look no further than Good Night Belly Button. Reminiscent of the classic Good Night Moon, the youngster in this story is being tucked into bed, from the tips of the toes up to the chin, all snug and sleepy. This long format board book slowly raises the blanket with each turn of the page. Good night little feet, good night little calves, good night little knees…
And here’s a wonderful title now available as a board book. Press Here by designer Hervé Tullet is brilliant. It’s all about colours and movement. It is clever and interactive without any moving parts, but plenty of lateral thinking. Highly enjoyable and endlessly fascinating! It is magic?
If you are interested in a Book Subscription for a young reader, we have designed some perfect book packages. For the youngest, we recommend WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF BOOKS. We create reading subscriptions for all ages and can adjust to fit your requirements.
Not sure which appeals the most? —Use the ENQUIRE button or just email us to start a conversation.