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The Other Name by Jon Fosse (translated by Damion Searls) {Reviewed by THOMAS}
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The Other Name by Jon Fosse (translated by Damion Searls) {Reviewed by THOMAS}
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Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket by Hilma Wolitzer {Reviewed by STELLA} A short story entitled 'Today A Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket' seems more prescient than ever. Initially published in the mid-60s this is classic housewife syndrome. A woman, two small children clutching her legs, is stopped stock-still blocking the aisle. “She turned slowly, and the two small children clinging to her skirt held on and tightened the cloth across her hips.” Hilma Wolitzer, the author of five novels and numerous short stories, gets the pitch just right. You can see this desperate mother frozen in her weariness, pocketbook clutched under her arm, unable to respond to her son’s quiet pee-pee plea nor the soon-to-be heavily pregnant narrator attempting to help. Mr A, the supermarket owner, seems to be at a loss also. As the narrator and Mr A. vie for the position of rescuer, a crowd of women gather at the end of the aisle, curious, judgemental, wanting their story too, but not wanting to get too close to the action. “..a tall, raw-boned woman in a Girl Scout leader uniform walked closer. “'I don’t know her .. but I know who she is … her name is Shirley Lewis. Mrs Harold Lewis,' she whispered, and then fell back into the crowd of women, like a guilty informer.” These brief descriptions and snippets of conversation reveal layers of social hierarchy, nuanced gender politics and darkly humourous tragedy. Wolitzer sets up the scenes with panache, spiky emotions fizz on the page alongside both ridiculous situations and everyday loss and love. These stories, predominantly written through the 60s and 70s, are as relevant now as then, and many of the stories float in and out of the lives of a couple, from their youthful sexual explorations (the classic shotgun wedding), family life, and middle-age, culminating in a freshly penned story set in 2020. Paulette's and Harold’s lives are narrated through the witty voice and observant eye of Paulette, as she negotiates childbirth, affairs and boredom. Wolitzer’s lightness of touch is anything but superficial — each quotidian moment reveals a little more about the complexities of relationships and life’s unavoidable contradictions. The wonderful story, 'Mrs X', has Paulie reaching for the children’s binoculars so she is able to spy on her husband down in the apartment building playground. She is unable to see the expression on his face, but her observations reward her with much knowledge. Of course, when he returns indoors, children wrapped around him, the conversation between husband and wife is as ordinary as ever. Boredom and fantasy come into their own in 'The Sex Maniac'. “Everybody said there was a sex maniac on the loose in the complex and I thought — it’s about time. It had been a long asexual winter.” That he is never seen, merely a figment of gossip, makes it all the more exciting for the bored housewives and the local men flexing their protective muscles. The stories, while episodic in nature, build to envelop issues that sit at the heart of close relationships: between lovers, of family members and the impact of childhood on adult behaviour. Delightful to read, this newly published collection is a gem and a great introduction to Hilma Wolitzer’s writing. |
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Essayism by Brian Dillon {Reviewed by THOMAS} An essay is at once a wound and an act of piercing. An essay is not only about (‘about’) its subject but also, whether the writer is aware of this or not, about (‘about’) writing about the subject (and also, by extension, about (‘about’) reading about the subject (although Brian Dillon in his excellent and thoughtful book Essayism is interested primarily the writing of essays (or rather in what he terms ‘essayism’: “not the practice of the form but an attitude to the form — to its spirit of adventure and unfinished nature — and towards much else. Essayism is tentative and hypothetical, and yet it is also a habit of thinking, writing and living that has definite boundaries.” (note here, incidentally, the introduction of the subject of this review within (closer to the surface, though, than this observation) two levels of parentheses)))). An essay is a transparent barrier, a means of focus at once providing intimacy with and distance from its subject, or, better metaphor (if any metaphor can be better than another (and better by what criteria, we might ask (though that is another matter))), an essay is a stick at once both joining and separating the writer and the subject, a tool by which the writer can lever weight upon the subject, which, although never able to be wrenched free from its context (what we might call the hypersubject), a context innately amorphous, unwieldable and inconceivable, provides a point of leverage from which the writer may rearrange the disposition of that grab-bag (or “immense aggregate” (William Gass)) of feelings, thoughts and impressions that is, out of convenience and little more, referred to as the self. To write is to continually and simultaneously pull apart and remake the ‘I’ that writes. An essay is, in Dillon’s words, “a combination of exactitude and evasion,” an eschewing of the compulsion for, or the belief in the possibility of, completion or absolutism, an affirming instead of the fragmentary, the transitory, the subjective. The operating principle of the essay is style, the advancing of the text “through the simultaneous struggle and agreement between fragments,” the production of “spines or quills whose owner evades and attacks at the same time.” Style is the application of form to content, or, rather, form results from the application of style to content. Style can be applied to any subject with equivalent results. Essayism is an essay about essays, or a set of essays about essays, about the reading and, more devotedly, the writing of essays, about the approaches to, reasons for, and functions of essays. Dillon especially examines the connection, for him at least, between the essay and depression: “Writing had become a matter of distracting myself from the urge to destroy myself” (even though “away from my desk it was possible to suppress or ignore the sense of onrushing disaster” (suggesting perhaps that it was only writing itself that presents the void from which it must then rescue the writer (always at the risk of failure))). Is the essay a cure or palliative for depression, or a contributor to, or ‘styler’ of, depression? “What if the ruinous and rescuing affinity between depression and the essay is what got you into this predicament in the first place? Will a description of how you made your way along the dry riverbeds of prose and self-pity provide any clues as to how to get out of the gulch again? How to connect once more, if in fact you have ever really known it, with the main stream of human experience? Such questions seem too large, too embarrassing even though they have never been too grand for the essay. Or they may seem too small, too personal. Same answer.” As the best essays do, Essayism provides understanding without answers and leaves the reader with a habit of thinking, writing and living which will help them to ask just the sorts of unanswerable questions about their own experience, so to call it, that will increase both their intimacy with and detachment from it. |
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Azadi: Freedom, fascism, fiction by Arundhati Roy {Reviewed by STELLA} Azadi is a cry for freedom. It’s a chant originating in the struggle for a self-determined Kashmir, and the title of a collection of nine essays from the perceptive and passionate pen of Arundhati Roy. Famous for winning the Booker Prize for The God of Small Things and then not writing another novel until twenty years later, Roy has never stopped voicing her views on India, its politics and social constraints or excesses, depending on where you fall in this hugely various society. And she has never shied from the criticism she has encountered from some quarters — including from the ruling elites. Being accused of sedition in 2010 has not silenced her one bit. In Azadi, the essays, some previously published as long-form essays, others originally lectures, are urgent, demanding of your attention, and incredibly informative. Here she addresses the continuing rise of Hindu nationalism, the fascist traits of Modi, and the treatment of Kashmir (where an estimated 70,000 individuals have been killed in this conflict). She looks at the tensions between Pakistan and India, and the threat of nuclear weapons escalation. The essays vary in approach and style. 'The Language of Literature and 'The Graveyard Talks Back' both draw on her fiction work, analysing the thematic content of her novels, explaining particular social and cultural contexts or expressing her thoughts on the power of words and story to reach readers and to express the views of those who are often disadvantaged or maligned by society. Other essays, 'Election Season in a Dangerous Democracy' and 'There is Fire in the Ducts, the System is Failing', are more urgent and specific to political situations. In her final essay, written during the first wave of Covid, Roy likens the pandemic to a portal — otherworldly but also an opportunity for change. A slightly hopeful take in ‘the early days'. Since this collection went to print, she has continued to comment on India’s response and much of this has been fraught with anger and dismay. Azadi is a door into 21st century India, a country which Roy describes as a continent rather than a country — a place of 780 languages, different religions and various cuisines. Yet this is the same place where Modi and his supporters push the doctrine of "One Nation, One Language, One Religion, One Constitution”. Whether you read her fiction or essays, all Arundhati Roy’s writing is urgent, thoughtful and forceful. This collection is a welcome addition and a great introduction to her non-fiction. |
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| Nostalgia Has Ruined My Life by Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle {Reviewed by THOMAS} There is nothing funnier than depression, he thought, at least nothing funnier to me than my own depression. There is nothing more ludicrous than my inability to do even the simplest things, the kind of inability you would ordinarily expect to belong to the most difficult things, but really the simplest things are for me the most difficult, or at least indistinguishable from the most difficult, there is no difference between the simplest and the most difficult, but not in a way that would make the most difficult things achieveable, though really there is no reason why this should not be the case, other than my inability to imagine myself as the person who has achieved even the simplest, let alone the most difficult, things, he thought. There is nothing more ludicrous and perforce nothing funnier than that, he thought. There is a rupture of some kind, he thought, between me and my fortunate place in the world, making one of those self-obsessed, self-indulgent, grandiloquent statements that he found intolerable when others made them and so usually pretended not to hear them, which probably made him appear unsympathetic when he was in fact oversympathetic, which is just as useless. Is there any point in being oversympathetic to the self-revulsion of others, he wondered, no, this is just as pointless as my own self-revulsion, experience is disjoined from reality, neither revulsion is reasonable or appropriate, these revulsions are entirely ludicrous and perforce funny. That there is nothing funnier than my own self-revulsion should make my self-revulsion tolerable, but then it would hardly be self-revulsion and therefore not ludicrous enough to be funny, he thought. If I could find relief in this way from my suffering, he thought, recognising the self-obsession, self-indulgence and grandiloquence of this statement about suffering even as he made it, if I could find relief in this way from my suffering it wouldn’t be suffering and therefore wouldn’t be ludicrous enough to qualify as a relief. There is no relief, which only makes my suffering all the more ludicrous and perforce all the more funny. The more pathetic my suffering, the more inappropriate and ludicrous my suffering, the more self-obsessed and self-indulgent and grandiloquent and entirely pointless and unreasonable my suffering, the more I perforce suffer, and the funnier it is. Nothing funnier, he thought. Is this why I enjoyed this book, Nostalgia Has Ruined My Life, he wondered, this book he had read almost inadvertently, this book concerning a depressed young woman’s heroic efforts to achieve not very much and the degrees of shortness to which those efforts fall, this book concerning the disjunction between this young woman and her place in the world, this book at once funny and pathetic and, he supposed, terribly sad, written in the first person by Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle but, as it says on the front cover, fiction, just like what he is writing now. He could not decide if he was oversympathetic or undersympathetic when he found this supposedly fictional woman’s depression so funny, but, he thought with a ludicrously grandiose thought, the tragic is only more tragic for not existing in the context of a tragedy, and it is this disjunction, he thought, that makes depression so ludicrous. Taking it seriously would increase the disjunction and make it more ludicrous still. |
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Mothers, Fathers, and Others by Siri Hustvedt $33
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The Hotel by Sophie Calle {Reviewed by STELLA} This book is exquisite. It’s not just the packaging, even though this is a great start: cloth-covered, gilt-edged, and excellent layout make this a pleasure to hold in the hand and eye. The cover is a triptych of patterns, reminiscent of wallpaper, fabric sheets or curtains and the golden edges are just the right touch of tack and glamour. The endpapers are the perfect hotel green. For this is a book about hotels, or rather those who stay in them through, the eyes of a chambermaid. In fact, a not-a-chambermaid. French artist Sophie Calle spent a few months in 1981 employed at a Venetian hotel. Here she conducted a series of observations in photography and text of the rooms she cleaned when the guests were absent. She was a voyeur, an explorer into what is both intimate and anonymous. She cleaned rooms and took photographs, read guests postcards, noted their underwear, the way in which they slept in the beds. She opened suitcases and clicked her camera. She pried. The result was an exhibition and later a book — a book which until now has been available only in French. This new English-language edition from Silglo is a welcome addition to Calle’s other artist books. The photographs are a mix of black and white and stunning colour. The elaborate decor (the floral glitz and the formal wooden furniture) of the hotel rooms is lovingly juxtaposed with the personal effects of the visitors: some drab, commonplace; others surprising and cumulatively interesting. Why does this guest have a letter from 16 years ago on holiday with them? What can it be but nostalgia? The two women in Room 26 have near-matching pyjamas, porn magazines and cigarettes — they leave behind the two coke bottles, mostly empty and the magazines in the rubbish. The family in Room 47 have a balloon tied to a drawer handle, towels piled up in the bidet, repetitive postcards, and Calle’s assessment on day one, “On the luggage stand, a second suitcase. It is full. I don’t go through it; I just look. I am bored with these guests already.” And what do they leave behind — a deflated balloon and stale biscuits. Some guests are neat, others unpack everything. Calle notes their nightclothes, whether they use them, the arrangement of their pillows — the different approaches between couples. What medicines and cosmetics do they carry with them? She leaves us to draw our own conclusions as to the why. The photographs are intriguing — the objects, the angles with which Calle captures these fleeting moments, these ‘peepings’ into others’ lives through things and the way in which they interact with their environment — the hotel room. The careful calculations of light that cross these rooms, highlighting a crease in the sheet, or a slight rucking of the carpet, or the shine of new luggage or the wear and tear of old, is testament to Calle's skill behind the lens. And the text adds another dimension. It tells us what Calle does, how she sees the guests and what she does in the rooms. Each episode is recorded by Room, date and time. The best episodes straddle multiple days — with each visit to a room (with the same occupants) Calle seems bolder and more intrigued with the evidence of the guests. This isn’t merely reportage — Calle laces her words with droll humour and a storyteller’s gift, taking us, the readers, into our own imagination as we become voyeurs alongside her. Somehow it never seems that she is stepping over a border, although she trends very closely to the edge. We are briefly submerged in the lives of others while remaining at a distance, remote, despite this most intimate experience. |
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Strange Hotel by Eimear McBride {Reviewed by THOMAS} To ‘stay’ in a hotel (as opposed to ‘staying’ home) does not mean to remain but merely to await departure. A hotel is not a home away from home but is the opposite of a home, a place where, as McBride puts it, “nothing is at stake,” a place where action and inaction begin to resemble each other, a place where the absence of context allows or invites unresolved pasts or futures to press themselves upon the present without consequence. There is no plot in a hotel; everything is in abeyance. The protagonist in Strange Hotel is present (or presented) in a series of hotels — in Avignon, Prague, Oslo, Auckland, and Austin (all hotels are, after all, one hotel) — over a number of years in what we could term her early middle age. She spends the narrated passages of time mainly not doing something, choosing not to sleep with the man in the room next door, not to throw herself from the window as she waits for a man to leave her room, not to stay in the room of the man with whom she has slept until he wakes up, not to meet a man at the hotel bar, not to let in the man with whom she has slept and who she almost fails to keep at the distance required by her rigour of hotel behaviour. Her ritual self-removal from the stabilising patterns of her ordinary existence — about which we learn little — in the hotels seems designed to reconfigure herself following the death of her partner without either wearing out the memory she has of him or being worn out by it. Slowly, through the series of hotels, she becomes capable of reclaiming herself from her loss, moving from instances where even slight resemblances to experiences associated with her dead partner close down thought (as with the speaker in Samuel Beckett’s Not I) to a point where memory begins to not overwhelm the rememberer, when the hold on the present of the past begins to loosen, when the path to grief loses its intransigence and coherence and no longer precludes the possibility that things could have been and could be different. McBride’s linguistic skill and introspective rigour in tracking the ways in which her protagonist negotiates with her memories through language is especially effective and memorable. Language is a way of avoiding thought as much as it is a way of achieving it: “Even now, she can hear herself doing it. Lining words up against words, then clause against clause until an agreeable distance has been reached from the original unmanageable impulse which first set them all in train.” Her self-interrogation and her “interrogating her own interrogation” “serves the solitary purpose of keeping the world at the far end of a very long sentence,” but as her ‘hotel-praxis’ (so to call it) starts to erode the structures of her ‘grief-taxis’ (so to call it), language is no longer capable of — or, rather, no longer necessary for and therefore no longer capable of — buffering her from loss: “I do like all these lines of words but they don’t seem to be helping much with keeping the distance anymore.” At the start of the the book she feels as if she has “outlived her use for feeling” and clinically observes that, in another, “sentiment must be at work somewhere, unfortunately”; in Prague she observes of the man whose departure from her room she awaits on the balcony: “She hadn’t intended to hurt his feelings. To be honest, she’s not even sure she has. His feelings are his business alone. She just wishes he hadn’t presumed she possessed quite so many of her own. She has some, naturally, but spread thinly around—with few kept available for these kinds of encounters.” By the end of the process, though — “to go on is to keep going on” — the possibility of feeling begins to emerge from beneath her grief, the present is no longer overwhelmed by actual or even possible alternative pasts, and she begins to sense that she can “turn too and return again from this most fitly resolved past that was never really an option — to the life which, in fact, exists.” |
![]() | Hotel by Joanna Walsh {Reviewed by THOMAS} As a relief from an unhappy marriage, Walsh got a job as a hotel reviewer and spent a period of time living only in places that are intended to be alternatives to home. In this series of short pieces, with occasional appearances by Freud, Dora (the subject of Freud’s early work on hysteria), Katherine Mansfield, KM (her alter ego), and the Marx brothers, Walsh plays rigorously with the idea of the hotel and with the idea of home that is its complement and shadow. Throughout the book, she does such a thorough job of picking away at ideas that vertiginous spaces open up within them, terrifying emptinesses in what had seemed like smooth and continuous thought. She is, understandably, intent on the mechanisms and ellipses by which her marriage has disintegrated: is the fault in the idea of marriage, in her husband or in herself, or is this “only ordinary unhappiness”? Walsh is adept at the re-flexing of banal tropes into fresh and sturdy thought: “We went into marriage to fulfil our individual desires, but we found ourselves required to be fulfilled by what we found there. The marriage problem is the same as the hotel problem. I have second-guessed your desires, and those of others. I have made myself into a hotel.” She is under no illusion that thinking can provide resolution (indeed the benefits of thought are magnified when resolution is impossible or eschewed), aware that problems will remain problems (we may at best hope for them to be problems we to some extent understand): “Plot is good in books but bad in life. There is no plot in a hotel. When I am in a hotel, the bad thing in abeyance but it is waiting to happen outside the hotel nevertheless.” |
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The Books of Jacob by Olga Tokarczuk $40Our Book of the Week, Claire Fuller's Unsettled Ground, has just won the 2021 Costa Novel Award.
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Unsettled Ground by Claire Fuller {Reviewed by STELLA} Reading the premise of this book on the back cover immediately brought to mind the Maysles brothers’ documentary, Grey Gardens, about an eccentric mother and daughter living in a decaying manor and their increasingly perilous financial situation. In Claire Fuller’s Unsettled Ground, the relationship is focused on twins Jeanie and Julius. The sudden death of their mother Dot throws their lives into chaos. The story of their lives — the one told to them and by them — is a fabrication, one which can only harm even while it could be seen as a notion of a romantic idyll: living off the land in a rent-free cottage without the distractions and pressures, nor convenience, of the modern world — no internet or computers (although Julius does have a cell), very little focus on money, no car nor useful appliances. Dot has cared for her children alone, managing to scrape together just enough from the sale of produce from the abundant garden to the village deli, since a fatal accident killed her husband, an accident that the landowner, Rawson, seems to take responsibility for. ‘The Arrangement’ — to live rent-free at the cottage — is often referred to in the children’s lives, but has never been fully explained. It’s a given. And here’s the kicker, the twins are 51, never left home, let alone ventured far from the village or their small plot of land. Julius does odd jobs and labouring on the surrounding farms, while Jeanie, who must take care due to her weak heart, has helped Dot in the garden and house. They have few friends, yet the village knows more about the twins and their history than the twins themselves. Why were there secrets, and what was Dot trying to hide? The twins are a strange mix of naive and resourceful, but Dot’s choices have left them with few options for managing without her. When Dot dies, the true state of her finances come to light — the power has been cut off, she is in debt rather than credit to her deli supplier, having borrowed against her future produce, and she owes a large sum of money to her friend’s husband. Why she needed the cash no one knows. and the money isn’t anywhere to be found. Add to their financial peril, a knock on the cottage door from Mrs Rawson saying they owe thousands of pounds in rent arrears, and the monies are due in a week or they face eviction. A stunned Julius and Jeanie are reeling from their mother’s death, completely unprepared for a life without her, let alone the immediate need to bury her and deal with the various bureaucratic arrangements, and confront the different emotional responses they endure as the true nature of their relationship with their mother surfaces. For Julius, his desire for a relationship, increasingly begrudging responsibility for his sister and delusional actions are taking a toll on his ability to cope. For Jeanie, her lack of schooling (she is unable to read or write), nervousness and fear of her weak heart, paired with her naivety and contempt for contemporary society, creates a perfect storm for further isolation. Yet it is Jeanie who has a tough core — one which may save or suffocate them both. Fuller writes evocatively — as some things are buried, others rise from their beds, their voices loud. The land is alive with rot and renewal, and the past will not be held down. Lush, tense and angry — a portrait of poverty, love and remarkable lies. Shortlisted for the 2021 Women's Prize, and winner of the Costa Novel Award. |