Fee
I just did not get on with this book. All the good bits about the validity and examination of self and the musings on existence were cancelled out by too much chat about the technicalities of warfare, and the unbelievably badly written female characters. Praying hard that this is a one-off blip in Calvino's work.
A thoroughly strange little book, The Body Artist clocks in at only 128pp but it fair packs a punch. Don DeLillo's writing conveys a pervasive sense of stillness and silence throughout as he explores the profundity and bizarreness of grief, the necessity of art and performance, and the inescapable consequences of cause and effect. My first DeLillo, but definitely not my last.
This is the story of a young Italian nobleman who, after a disagreement with his parents, climbs a tree and vows never to let his feet touch the ground again. Calvino's masterful, folkloric writing style is possibly the only thing that could temper this ridiculous, whimsical story, sculpting it into an allegory about the power of determination and defiance, and a rousing testament to the courage needed to live life on your own terms - all accompanied by a hunting dachshund with small dog syndrome, of course (Ottimo Massimo 4 lyf yo!). Bloody brilliant. Put me in mind of both A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Márquez, and The Wasp Factory by Iain M. Banks.
I put off reading Ursula K. LeGuin's pioneering sci-fi classic for a very long time as I'm really not a fan of the genre, but when I finally did pick up this wee novella it blew me away, and I was left kicking myself for not reading it sooner.
Set in the far future on the ice planet of Gethen, against a backdrop of the intricacies of interplanetary diplomatic relations, Le Guin explores what a society might look like in which gender is no longer a defining characteristic, and writes with remarkable prescience considering this novel is fifty-four years old this year.
“Because of our lifelong social conditioning, it is hard for us to see clearly what, besides purely physiological form and function, truly differentiates men and women. I eliminated gender, to find out what was left. Whatever was left would be, presumably, simply human. It would define the area that is shared by men and women alike.” —UKLG
The novel unfolds into further complex, layered narratives reflecting on the importance of community and collaboration, the dangers of xenophobia, and our deeply rooted and enduring need for connection in both the microcosm and the macrocosm, as well as treating us to snippets of the folklore of Gethen, all in Le Guin's engaging, beautiful prose. Genly Ai and Estraven's journey across the hinterland of the Gobrin Ice will stay with me until the end of my days. Can't recommend highly enough.
Another gloriously bizarre mythical tale from Italo Calvino, and my favourite of the three that make up his Our Ancestors triptych (along with The Baron in the Trees, and the Non-Existent Knight). Perhaps unsurprisingly in a tale about a man blown into two functioning halves by a cannonball, this is a story about the duality of self, and the importance of making peace with every facet of our selves - good and bad, virtuous and shameful - but more than that, this story also cautions us against assuming that the grass is always greener and reminds us to always be grateful for what we have now, regardless of how little our lot might seem at the time. A hugely thought-provoking and often very dark book but, in keeping with the theme, laugh out loud funny in places.
+1 star for a goat in a little suit and a duck in a wedding dress, and for said animals having a lovely time on a swing
I loved every single page of this fucking massive book and its heartfelt embracing of all things occult and strange. Mariana Enriquez approaches magical realism in the same way that Toni Morrison does: with a completely straight face. No winking from the sidelines, no nudging reminders that we're experiencing the ‘other', or that everything may not be as it seems. This is quite simply reality: blood soaked, ceremonial, and dark, dark, dark, not quite separate from our own but just a little out of step, like viewing a Magic Eye picture of the exact moment of your death. Her spiralling narrative is unbelievably deft, and requires your trust in a way that I've never encountered in fiction before, almost as if you're required to give something of yourself over to Enriquez in exchange for prose. If you're lucky you'll get it back.
Reminiscent of the visceral horror of Poppy Z. Brite, with the scope and scale of Yaa Gyasi's Homegoing. Keeping everything crossed that more of her work is translated into English sooner rather than later.
I've been meaning to get around to Maggie Nelson's Argonauts for the longest time but I was in the mood for true crime and had this book to hand so it snuck in first, and it turned out to be a great introduction to her work. Nelson writes unflinchingly about the brutal murder of her aunt in 1969, and the trial, almost forty years later, of the man who murdered her, which Nelson attended along with the rest of her family. As always, I have so much admiration for people who can go through these traumatic experiences and process them in such a way that the outcome is something beautiful, like this book. I read it twice because I was so caught up in Nelson's writing the first time through - her incredibly frank autobiographical passages are particularly hypnotising - that I missed some of the important details of the case. It's a beautiful tribute to the aunt that Nelson never got the chance to know.
Transcendent is a big word that I see bandied around often in the literary world but if it could ever legitimately apply to anything, it's Joy Harjo's writing. This memoir straddles the spaces between reality and myth, and I am a sucker for the liminal. Harjo weaves together stories of violence and alcoholism and pain and loss with uplifting tales of ancestral magic, poetic joy, and love. She is an incredible woman, who made it, against the odds, against the world, despite them all, and we're lucky she did.
That first cry opens the earth door.We join the ancestor road.With our pack of memoriesSlung slack on our backsWe venture into the circleOf destruction,Which is the circleOf creationAnd make more-
My second Jessie Kesson, almost as beautiful as the first. Once again set in a farming community in the northeast of Scotland, Another Time, Another Place examines how that community is forced to change to accommodate three Italian prisoners of war who have been billeted in farm cottages there. The story is told through the eyes of an unnamed female narrator who struggles with the confines of her small community and its rules and boundaries, and imagines casting off the expectations placed on her. As in Glitter of Mica, Kesson's writing is dreamy, almost stream-of-consciousness, fragmented into vignettes that gradually reveal a plot. This is slow, sublime reading.
A great collection of Scottish folk tales by Carl MacDougall, both contemporary tales and retellings of the classics, all accompanied by Alasdair Gray's iconic illustrations. The standouts for me were The Water Horse, a retelling of the kelpie myth, and the genderbending King's Chamberlain.
Nae maiter, frien's, whate'er befa'
The puir folks they maun work awa
Through frost and snaw and rain and wind,
They're workin' life out tae keep life in.
Beautiful writing from the late Roger Deakin, who comes across as just the loveliest man, completely absorbed in his beloved hobby of outdoor swimming. Inspired by John Cheever's The Swimmer, Roger set out to wildswim through the British Isles; we are consequently treated to his musings on everything from pondweed to land rights, all hilariously and tenderly relayed with a singular passion that few of us are lucky enough to experience. With so many pools closing in the last few years this reads like an elegy in retrospect, and I do wonder what Roger would make of our current situation, and what steps he might take towards rectifying it.
Like so many other readers I picked Ritual up because it was the inspiration for Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man, one of my favourite films. Other than the insular village setting and some loose character sketches, and the basis for the infamous scene between Edward Woodward's devoutly Christian policeman, a naked Britt Ekland, and a bedroom wall, there are very few similarities between the book and the film. I am frankly baffled that people have given this five stars because it's fucking dreadful. My biggest takeaway from it is that David Pinner is a boob man:
Her curved breasts were tense with concentration.
The children stood arms akimbo. They were not going to be pushed around by the desire which rippled along her nipples.
She moved towards the village, allowing her hips to continue the conversation. Anna turned her head to see if her rhythmical magnet was functioning properly. It was. She stopped, pursing her nipples towards him and then swung on.
Now murder and Anna's nipples surged unheard in the undercurve of the wave.
He was looking forward to making that lovely titty lady tonight.
The nipples licked the edge of the waistcoat like dwarfs' tongues.
“Only his teeth sweated.”
“David listened with his groin.”
With the incomparable Rachel Pollack nearing the end of her incredible life, I'm re-reading some of my favourite works of hers. This book was so meaningful for me as a teenager, and I was comforted to find that my opinion of it hasn't really changed nearly thirty years down the line. Nineties goddess-centric lesbian fiction at its very best.
Like every collection of short stories this was a bit up and down for me, but the highs vastly outweighed the lows, particularly the final story, Mother of Stone, the perfect mix of mythology, academia, body horror, and the uncanny that I didn't know I needed. John Langan's writing is lush and inventive and visceral, deliciously self-aware and very reminiscent of the horror I read and loved as a teenager in the nineties.
“This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, and not with a whimper, but with the bleak gusto of a low-budget horror movie.”
More beautiful writing from Akwaeke Emezi in their first poetry collection, tackling big topics like sexual assault, abuse, and loss, and testing the limits of the precarious balance of sacred and profane. Each poem is resonant with rage and grief and steeped in magic. I really enjoyed this but I definitely prefer their longform writing - their prose benefits from the room for expansion that poetry cannot provide. Regardless, Emezi remains one of my favourite contemporary writers and I look forward to gaining more context for this collection via their memoir.
