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1624 reviews
Graft: Motherhood, Family and a Year on the Land by Maggie MacKellar, Maggie MacKellar
reflective
4.25
"We live between the domestic and the wild, linked by nature and, it seems, either protecting it, trading with it, or using it for our own means. It’s a constant seesaw of compromise. This life for that. This lamb raised for wool, that one for meat. This eagle trapped by us, in the hope it will survive. That ewe attacked by an eagle, unable to be saved. I think of sheep tracks across an open paddock; they appear as an invitation, a random path, but they never are. And I think of my feet making new tracks, crisscrossing this place. Perhaps my movements are likewise more intentional than I can see, and if I keep myself open, keep watching, I’ll make my peace with the choices I’ve made."
Lots of people told me I would love this, and having read it, I can see why. It is a beautiful piece of nature writing. The description of birds alone makes the spirit soar with them. Mackeller structures the book around the seasonal rhythm of life of the farm and ties the natural cycle into a cycle of motherhood. Death is also ever present in the narrative. Mackeller has a bracing yet empathetic voice when describing the constant struggle to keep sheep alive and to keep the ewes on task as mothers. Mackeller captures both the relentlessness and the sheer joy of life.
Mackeller acknowledges that for those of us living on stolen land, a sense of place must, by necessity, be complicated. On the whole, however, she does not deal with the complexities of farming on a landscape taken through war. This may have dispelled my discomfort or at least acknowledged it. Mackeller describes her childhood terrain as "not mine to love," and yet, mine and love are not the same things. This book is beautifully saturated with weary love, one of its greatest strengths.
Lots of people told me I would love this, and having read it, I can see why. It is a beautiful piece of nature writing. The description of birds alone makes the spirit soar with them. Mackeller structures the book around the seasonal rhythm of life of the farm and ties the natural cycle into a cycle of motherhood. Death is also ever present in the narrative. Mackeller has a bracing yet empathetic voice when describing the constant struggle to keep sheep alive and to keep the ewes on task as mothers. Mackeller captures both the relentlessness and the sheer joy of life.
Mackeller acknowledges that for those of us living on stolen land, a sense of place must, by necessity, be complicated. On the whole, however, she does not deal with the complexities of farming on a landscape taken through war. This may have dispelled my discomfort or at least acknowledged it. Mackeller describes her childhood terrain as "not mine to love," and yet, mine and love are not the same things. This book is beautifully saturated with weary love, one of its greatest strengths.
Sun and the Star, The: A Nico di Angelo Adventure by Rick Riordan, Mark Oshiro
emotional
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.0
This had significantly more talking-about-feelings content than Riordan's solo work, which I actually thought worked quite well. The setting, the action scenes and the complex relationships between gods, demi-gods, titans, and various mythological players all felt perfectly in tune with the rest of the series. Nico's characterisation, in particular, was far more fleshed out than he has been able to achieve in other books, and I thought Oshiro and Riordan stepped deftly around some of the less well-executed parts of his arc in previous books (especially his crush). Riordan has always tried to give his young readers versions of themselves to relate to in his books, making his characters have real problems like ADHD, poverty, trauma and absent parents. Here, some of the arcs are focusing more on exploring the consequences of that. The extra emotional processing conversations are combined with some more directly allegorical content. Nico, whose powers are closely connected to his trauma (and who Riordan has chucked quite a lot more trauma at in the series'), makes an excellent subject for exploring how to live with it. I can see, for some kids, this book is a literal lifesaver.
I think the extra emotional content makes this more suited, I suspect, to more emotionally developed tweens, and the focus on exploring early romantic relationship dynamics (there is no sexual content at all) might also suit young adults who like this genre. Certainly, the humour, the action and the plotting are well-enough paced to carry the more introspective bits (absolutely a page-turner), making this clearly an adventure book, just one with some emotional reflection.
I think the extra emotional content makes this more suited, I suspect, to more emotionally developed tweens, and the focus on exploring early romantic relationship dynamics (there is no sexual content at all) might also suit young adults who like this genre. Certainly, the humour, the action and the plotting are well-enough paced to carry the more introspective bits (absolutely a page-turner), making this clearly an adventure book, just one with some emotional reflection.
Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih
adventurous
reflective
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
"Rationally, I know what is right: my attempt at living in this village with these happy people. But mysterious things in my soul impel me towards faraway parts that loom up before me and can't be ignored. How sad would it be if my sons grew up with the germ of this infection in them, the wanderlust."
This is a really complex, dense novel, which I fear I will not do much justice to. Like many 1960s postcolonial fiction stories, it weaves together stories of gendered and colonial violence in a narrative that sprawls despite its relatively tight cast. The novel is balanced between two protagonists - one, Mustafa Sa'eed, is the quintessential African in Europe, a man who becomes a professor, a literati, a political commentator, a lawyer and a token African/Arab on a dozen prestigious posts before imploding his status and then retreating to a small African village where he proves unable to live a traditional life. The other, our narrator, is paralysed by indecision and caution, visiting Europe but not staying, joining the civil service, which he treats more as a restriction than an enabler, drifting between his eminent village elder of a grandfather and the bustling, urban world of those trying to construct a country from what has been left. This is rounded out by Mahjoub, a cynically optimistic (optimistically cynical?) childhood friend of the narrator who runs much of the village and has a political career. Neither Majoub nor our narrator, however, are big fish. They are just men trying to work out a pathway between tradition and modernisation, culture and colonialism, in a world with little power.
Our characters debate change - its existence, more than its value. Sa'eed's glittering career is also hollow - one predicated on entertainment, not impact. He is feted as a symbol, but the rapacious extraction of resources and the denial of real power remains. He views his obsession with the Western canon - a room of musty, smelly books - as a barrier to happiness, all while capturing a yearning for a world beyond the village. Despite this, he is a surprisingly empathetic figure, as we meet him saturated with regret.
These themes also play out in Sa'eed's personal life. He serially dates, lies to, manipulates and ultimately inflicts violence on white women in Britain. These women are portrayed both as vulnerable and as orientalising of him. Ultimately, he kills his wife, Jean, whose scenes with him indicate her capacity to violently silence him, devour him, and recreate him as she wills. In her courtship, she insists he let her destroy objects of immeasurable cultural worth, increasing the stakes. These scenes play with the varying power dynamics, although Jean's leaves any form of realism into some world of surreal symbolism.
The local women in the village are portrayed with sensitivity and humanity. Hosna, a local woman, fights to raise her children free of servitude, which conflicts with the village traditions. This story provides a strong counterpoint to Sa'eed's insistence that the village provides the only route to happiness. The village for Hosna is anything but, and it is the narrator's passivity and inability to take a position, which ultimately dooms her. Salih does not seem to be a fan of romantic love; our narrator at one point refers to it as "the germ of contagion that oozes through the universe". Attracted people, like nations, are ultimately combatants.
In other words, there are a lot of ideas here - several readings worth - and a lot to explore and reflect on. The violence against women was a little too visceral (and as is typical of the time, not always shown from the perspective of the women) to make that entertaining. However, I found myself in this reading, always wanting to read just another chapter.
This is a really complex, dense novel, which I fear I will not do much justice to. Like many 1960s postcolonial fiction stories, it weaves together stories of gendered and colonial violence in a narrative that sprawls despite its relatively tight cast. The novel is balanced between two protagonists - one, Mustafa Sa'eed, is the quintessential African in Europe, a man who becomes a professor, a literati, a political commentator, a lawyer and a token African/Arab on a dozen prestigious posts before imploding his status and then retreating to a small African village where he proves unable to live a traditional life. The other, our narrator, is paralysed by indecision and caution, visiting Europe but not staying, joining the civil service, which he treats more as a restriction than an enabler, drifting between his eminent village elder of a grandfather and the bustling, urban world of those trying to construct a country from what has been left. This is rounded out by Mahjoub, a cynically optimistic (optimistically cynical?) childhood friend of the narrator who runs much of the village and has a political career. Neither Majoub nor our narrator, however, are big fish. They are just men trying to work out a pathway between tradition and modernisation, culture and colonialism, in a world with little power.
Our characters debate change - its existence, more than its value. Sa'eed's glittering career is also hollow - one predicated on entertainment, not impact. He is feted as a symbol, but the rapacious extraction of resources and the denial of real power remains. He views his obsession with the Western canon - a room of musty, smelly books - as a barrier to happiness, all while capturing a yearning for a world beyond the village. Despite this, he is a surprisingly empathetic figure, as we meet him saturated with regret.
These themes also play out in Sa'eed's personal life. He serially dates, lies to, manipulates and ultimately inflicts violence on white women in Britain. These women are portrayed both as vulnerable and as orientalising of him. Ultimately, he kills his wife, Jean, whose scenes with him indicate her capacity to violently silence him, devour him, and recreate him as she wills. In her courtship, she insists he let her destroy objects of immeasurable cultural worth, increasing the stakes. These scenes play with the varying power dynamics, although Jean's leaves any form of realism into some world of surreal symbolism.
The local women in the village are portrayed with sensitivity and humanity. Hosna, a local woman, fights to raise her children free of servitude, which conflicts with the village traditions. This story provides a strong counterpoint to Sa'eed's insistence that the village provides the only route to happiness. The village for Hosna is anything but, and it is the narrator's passivity and inability to take a position, which ultimately dooms her. Salih does not seem to be a fan of romantic love; our narrator at one point refers to it as "the germ of contagion that oozes through the universe". Attracted people, like nations, are ultimately combatants.
In other words, there are a lot of ideas here - several readings worth - and a lot to explore and reflect on. The violence against women was a little too visceral (and as is typical of the time, not always shown from the perspective of the women) to make that entertaining. However, I found myself in this reading, always wanting to read just another chapter.
Body Friend by Katherine Brabon
challenging
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.5
"With others, we become alternative versions of ourselves. We become so many people when we walk out the door, when we face the street and see our friends and talk to strangers and colleagues and speak to our loved ones and then again when we lie down at night. I am all of them. And this has always been the difficulty."
This book won me over gradually. At first, it appears wholly too much on the nose. Our unnamed protagonist, following a joint replacement which eases her pain but does not cure her condition, meets two women uncannily like her, who have diametrically opposed ways of responding to chronic pain. Frida (yes, really) pushes our protagonist relentlessly into the stimulation of water exercise, pushing her to embrace her body and build its strength. Sylvia (yep, Plath quotes abound) encourages her to endless retreat and rest. Even our protagonist is unsure these women are real, we care less. Since they are metaphorical in some sense, our protagonist's unease is just about how metaphorical she is.
However, as the story and the writing progressed, I found myself drawn in. Not by the story, which is skeletal, but because Brabon has such resonant explorations within this obvious construct. She explores the tensions between activity and repose, courage and safety, stimulation and reflection. She also covers the ineffable experience of simply being in pain, despite whatever you do, and the complexity of human response to not being in control.
But it is her gentle exploration of the ways in which we lose ourselves to others that is the most unexpected. The woman tries to be what Frida and Sylvia want her to be, but also what her partner, colleagues and family want from her. She is attracted to others because she wants to be them, or like them. She struggles to assert herself in ways that are not refusal and even to understand herself. The closer the friendship, the harder it becomes to draw the lines. This is subtly shaded by the competitiveness she also feels with others close to her. This is very human and is celebrated just as its limitations are explored.
It seems inevitable that the book will conclude with an epiphany that both Sylvia and Frida are necessary. Brabon, however, calls us out on that assumption at the perfect point in the unfurling/unravelling, firmly centring the book as one which explores, not judges or summarises: "such formulations would have felt like an intolerable violence to me, a piercing and pinning down of story and logic, narrative and symbolism when none of it resembled what it felt like."
This book won me over gradually. At first, it appears wholly too much on the nose. Our unnamed protagonist, following a joint replacement which eases her pain but does not cure her condition, meets two women uncannily like her, who have diametrically opposed ways of responding to chronic pain. Frida (yes, really) pushes our protagonist relentlessly into the stimulation of water exercise, pushing her to embrace her body and build its strength. Sylvia (yep, Plath quotes abound) encourages her to endless retreat and rest. Even our protagonist is unsure these women are real, we care less. Since they are metaphorical in some sense, our protagonist's unease is just about how metaphorical she is.
However, as the story and the writing progressed, I found myself drawn in. Not by the story, which is skeletal, but because Brabon has such resonant explorations within this obvious construct. She explores the tensions between activity and repose, courage and safety, stimulation and reflection. She also covers the ineffable experience of simply being in pain, despite whatever you do, and the complexity of human response to not being in control.
But it is her gentle exploration of the ways in which we lose ourselves to others that is the most unexpected. The woman tries to be what Frida and Sylvia want her to be, but also what her partner, colleagues and family want from her. She is attracted to others because she wants to be them, or like them. She struggles to assert herself in ways that are not refusal and even to understand herself. The closer the friendship, the harder it becomes to draw the lines. This is subtly shaded by the competitiveness she also feels with others close to her. This is very human and is celebrated just as its limitations are explored.
It seems inevitable that the book will conclude with an epiphany that both Sylvia and Frida are necessary. Brabon, however, calls us out on that assumption at the perfect point in the unfurling/unravelling, firmly centring the book as one which explores, not judges or summarises: "such formulations would have felt like an intolerable violence to me, a piercing and pinning down of story and logic, narrative and symbolism when none of it resembled what it felt like."
Mapping the Darkness: The Visionary Scientists Who Unlocked the Mysteries of Sleep by Kenneth Miller
3.5
An engaging history which follows the careers of the first professional sleep science lab, from founder Nathaniel Kleitman's flight to NYC from anti-semitic exclusion in Europe, Miller details the development of a career, a lab, the breakthrough of discovering REM sleep, the formation of a professional discipline and cohort and then onto the impact of discovering the deliterious effects of sleep deprivation, shift work and early school for teenagers.
Miller draws four personalities and histories out here in particular. Kleitman's journey, his single-mindedness in pursuit of a career, and how this then applies to establishing a whole new approach to studying what happens when we sleep, dominates the early part of the book. We get a brief cameo by his student Eugene Aserinsky, who dips in to discover REM sleep, but leaves after he and Kleitman struggle to work collegially. Kleitman's heir, in this narrative, becomes rather William Dement, who takes the research into what sleep is and pioneers sleep medicine. Dement is the heart of the book, an inconclastic leftwing figure, who packs his waking time with work, a support role for Black students, Vietnam War protesting and his family (who all move into Stanford's first Black-concentration dorm in its first year, for example).
Miller's clear affection for Dement may colour at times his approach to Dement's involvement in sleeping pill trials and promotion (the Halcion saga plays out mostly in footnotes, which I'm not sure is justifiable)). Dement's star pupil, and family friend, Mary Carskadon, who pushes into studying childhood development and sleep, and ends up leading a charge to move school hours for teenagers "back" to 8:30 (these Americans, who start school for teens at 7:30am, are mad). Carskadon never really siezes the focus from Dement, who remains a strong force even past retirement.
This is a science history, and is probably more focused on the history than on the science. Those seeking a better understanding of sleep might leave disappointed, unless they are very new to the topic. But it is startling to realise how recent any understanding of sleep is, and the history of this topic provides insight into the development of science as a whole.
Miller draws four personalities and histories out here in particular. Kleitman's journey, his single-mindedness in pursuit of a career, and how this then applies to establishing a whole new approach to studying what happens when we sleep, dominates the early part of the book. We get a brief cameo by his student Eugene Aserinsky, who dips in to discover REM sleep, but leaves after he and Kleitman struggle to work collegially. Kleitman's heir, in this narrative, becomes rather William Dement, who takes the research into what sleep is and pioneers sleep medicine. Dement is the heart of the book, an inconclastic leftwing figure, who packs his waking time with work, a support role for Black students, Vietnam War protesting and his family (who all move into Stanford's first Black-concentration dorm in its first year, for example).
Miller's clear affection for Dement may colour at times his approach to Dement's involvement in sleeping pill trials and promotion (the Halcion saga plays out mostly in footnotes, which I'm not sure is justifiable)). Dement's star pupil, and family friend, Mary Carskadon, who pushes into studying childhood development and sleep, and ends up leading a charge to move school hours for teenagers "back" to 8:30 (these Americans, who start school for teens at 7:30am, are mad). Carskadon never really siezes the focus from Dement, who remains a strong force even past retirement.
This is a science history, and is probably more focused on the history than on the science. Those seeking a better understanding of sleep might leave disappointed, unless they are very new to the topic. But it is startling to realise how recent any understanding of sleep is, and the history of this topic provides insight into the development of science as a whole.
Age of Vice by Deepti Kapoor
mysterious
tense
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.25
I can absolutely see why this book has been optioned for the screen: it is a taut thriller at its best, with a social conscience but not one strong enough to get in the way of the story. Kapoor writes visually, with strong imagery around the various locales, from the forest migrant camps to the mountains tourist retreats to the lazy beaches and Dehli's pulsing streets.
The book also has a slowly expanding cast of characters and a story which teases you and slowly shifts your perspective as you follow familiar scenes from a new perspective (one of my favourite aspects of the writing is the subtle contradictions in the way scenes play out from the focus of a different character, reminding us of how fragile memory is and how influenced by what matters to us, and how we see ourselves). The complex, sprawling plot and switching points of view would all translate well into a television series.
I liked the ways that Kapoor weaves caste, class, colourism, gender and regional tensions into her plot, reflecting the natural ways in which these impact people's lives. I particularly appreciated how some prison stories were handled for nuance and empathy.
However, I just didn't love it that much. After a strong, tightly focused start, the latter part of the book focuses increasingly on the dynamics and secrets within the ultra-wealthy, dirty Wadia family, which was simply not that interesting. I slowly realised that the book (intended as the first in a trilogy) would require us to care about the vacuous Sunny Wadia, and his rich-boy problems, and I simply wasn't going to do that. Honestly, I found it hard to care about Nada, whose character was rich, simply because she was so invested in Sunny's struggles. Nada's struggle between her values and her attraction to Sunny's world was engaging but fell down when it came to the pouting, drug-addled playboy himself. It isn't that Sunny seems unrealistic (although there are some Dues Ex Machina moments) but mostly just that he isn't interesting. It is hard to care about a three-way struggle between forces that seem repellant. At least this made me less invested when the ending had some cliffhangery elements.
Still, I would probably watch the series and see if it had more life on screen and with actors to provide some of the charisma described but not really shown in the book. I have really loved Kapoor's short, more indie fiction in other forms, but gangster fiction might just not be for me.
The book also has a slowly expanding cast of characters and a story which teases you and slowly shifts your perspective as you follow familiar scenes from a new perspective (one of my favourite aspects of the writing is the subtle contradictions in the way scenes play out from the focus of a different character, reminding us of how fragile memory is and how influenced by what matters to us, and how we see ourselves). The complex, sprawling plot and switching points of view would all translate well into a television series.
I liked the ways that Kapoor weaves caste, class, colourism, gender and regional tensions into her plot, reflecting the natural ways in which these impact people's lives. I particularly appreciated how some prison stories were handled for nuance and empathy.
However, I just didn't love it that much. After a strong, tightly focused start, the latter part of the book focuses increasingly on the dynamics and secrets within the ultra-wealthy, dirty Wadia family, which was simply not that interesting. I slowly realised that the book (intended as the first in a trilogy) would require us to care about the vacuous Sunny Wadia, and his rich-boy problems, and I simply wasn't going to do that. Honestly, I found it hard to care about Nada, whose character was rich, simply because she was so invested in Sunny's struggles. Nada's struggle between her values and her attraction to Sunny's world was engaging but fell down when it came to the pouting, drug-addled playboy himself. It isn't that Sunny seems unrealistic (although there are some Dues Ex Machina moments) but mostly just that he isn't interesting. It is hard to care about a three-way struggle between forces that seem repellant. At least this made me less invested when the ending had some cliffhangery elements.
Still, I would probably watch the series and see if it had more life on screen and with actors to provide some of the charisma described but not really shown in the book. I have really loved Kapoor's short, more indie fiction in other forms, but gangster fiction might just not be for me.
The Swift Dark Tide by Katia Ariel
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
3.25
"It seems to me that opening a marriage is less about trading permissions and more about riding a force. This is its brutal and wonderful power, its unstable elemental property, what makes it bloom like nitrous oxide and slide like mercury; the final stage of labour, irreversible and bloody."
The writing here is as gorgeous as the cover. The prose is assured, with Ariel wielding her keyboard with confidence in the joy of words, sharply and effectively contrasting with her documented her journey to confidence in her own sexuality. She writes with sensual force, and control even as she writes about the gradual surrender of control in her increasingly messy personal life, the discovery of a heart sensuality with a complexity new to her. The overall effect can be stunning, a balance that stops this from feeling either too uncertain or lacking in vulnerability to connect too.
A Stella nomination tempted me back to this memoir (and it won't be the last), but my discomfort with the genre remains. I am acutely aware of the act of writing and how it intersects with future events (Ariel's husband is painted in saintly colours, at times without the life and movement the 'character' would require to feel real, making me even more acutely aware that this is the story of a family going through something difficult.). There is also something about doubling down on subjectivity, which probably contradicts my preference. These are not mediated factors here, making this less comfortable.
Or, to quote one of my favourite bits, "it makes me suspicious of our love of words, of names, of the way we have played with them like glitter when they were really ground up glass."
The writing here is as gorgeous as the cover. The prose is assured, with Ariel wielding her keyboard with confidence in the joy of words, sharply and effectively contrasting with her documented her journey to confidence in her own sexuality. She writes with sensual force, and control even as she writes about the gradual surrender of control in her increasingly messy personal life, the discovery of a heart sensuality with a complexity new to her. The overall effect can be stunning, a balance that stops this from feeling either too uncertain or lacking in vulnerability to connect too.
A Stella nomination tempted me back to this memoir (and it won't be the last), but my discomfort with the genre remains. I am acutely aware of the act of writing and how it intersects with future events (Ariel's husband is painted in saintly colours, at times without the life and movement the 'character' would require to feel real, making me even more acutely aware that this is the story of a family going through something difficult.). There is also something about doubling down on subjectivity, which probably contradicts my preference. These are not mediated factors here, making this less comfortable.
Or, to quote one of my favourite bits, "it makes me suspicious of our love of words, of names, of the way we have played with them like glitter when they were really ground up glass."
The House of Rust by Khadija Abdalla Bajaber
adventurous
emotional
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
"Being is to be alive, awake—to believe, not to roll under the world as it is. Are you alive if you do not question the world? If you do not go to war with yourself in deciding how to acquaint yourself with it or challenge it?"
This is a complex, dense and often challenging read, but it also provides rich rewards in a magical, imaginative story of the coming of age of a difficult, stubborn young woman who yearns and fights for more than she is offered.
The first half of this novel leans toward the magical, as Aisha undertakes an epic sea journey with a talking cat to rescue and bring home her father. She must use her wits, her beloved knife and her faith to brave the sea, supported by creatures who live in their own, often arcane, interconnected city of spirits. Mombasa is a character here - with its calls to prayer, its witchcraft, its fisherman and wedding singers, and our cast of talking animals give us the feel of a city of multiple communities.
The second half leans more towards realism, as upon her return, Aisha's problems do not magically disappear. Her family struggles to reshape into something stronger, and she faces a crushing expectation of marriage, to which the most likely alternative is a vulnerability terrifying to her grandmother. Aisha is single-minded and stubborn, often blind to those around her. She refuses to cow to the selflessness demanded of women, to be cowed by her uncertain social status into accepting bargains she does not want. She often subverts our expectations of a heroine, refusing to follow even a hero's script.
House of Rust captures the exquisite pain of growth. The bittersweet mix of grief and relief that accompanies making your own way, even when that means leaving pieces of yourself, images of who you might have been, behind. The way that growing up also changes your dearest relationships. Those around her all struggle, in some way, with how to restrain themselves from protection, which becomes constraint - including a mysterious, possibly formerly malevolent, creature who has lost his power for his people in his fear of his own power.
There is some social commentary here and a sharp picture of a specific community replete with colorism and snobbery as well as communal support and sustaining faith in Islam.
I'm still not entirely sure of all that was going on. This is possibly partly because this is written for a local audience—for those who know and love this culture, with a reasonable expectation that outsiders will keep up or not. But also, much of the meaning is in ellipses, and riddles abound in the text. Even the characters frequently misunderstand each other. It would be a rewarding re-read for a restful and curious brain, and one I will list for when I have retired or have a long holiday.
This is a complex, dense and often challenging read, but it also provides rich rewards in a magical, imaginative story of the coming of age of a difficult, stubborn young woman who yearns and fights for more than she is offered.
The first half of this novel leans toward the magical, as Aisha undertakes an epic sea journey with a talking cat to rescue and bring home her father. She must use her wits, her beloved knife and her faith to brave the sea, supported by creatures who live in their own, often arcane, interconnected city of spirits. Mombasa is a character here - with its calls to prayer, its witchcraft, its fisherman and wedding singers, and our cast of talking animals give us the feel of a city of multiple communities.
The second half leans more towards realism, as upon her return, Aisha's problems do not magically disappear. Her family struggles to reshape into something stronger, and she faces a crushing expectation of marriage, to which the most likely alternative is a vulnerability terrifying to her grandmother. Aisha is single-minded and stubborn, often blind to those around her. She refuses to cow to the selflessness demanded of women, to be cowed by her uncertain social status into accepting bargains she does not want. She often subverts our expectations of a heroine, refusing to follow even a hero's script.
House of Rust captures the exquisite pain of growth. The bittersweet mix of grief and relief that accompanies making your own way, even when that means leaving pieces of yourself, images of who you might have been, behind. The way that growing up also changes your dearest relationships. Those around her all struggle, in some way, with how to restrain themselves from protection, which becomes constraint - including a mysterious, possibly formerly malevolent, creature who has lost his power for his people in his fear of his own power.
There is some social commentary here and a sharp picture of a specific community replete with colorism and snobbery as well as communal support and sustaining faith in Islam.
I'm still not entirely sure of all that was going on. This is possibly partly because this is written for a local audience—for those who know and love this culture, with a reasonable expectation that outsiders will keep up or not. But also, much of the meaning is in ellipses, and riddles abound in the text. Even the characters frequently misunderstand each other. It would be a rewarding re-read for a restful and curious brain, and one I will list for when I have retired or have a long holiday.
Life Skills for a Broken World by Ahona Guha
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
4.5
"You will never feel truly okay in a world beset by inequality, nastiness, and poor distribution of resources. The world is connected in many ways, and things that might feel distant currently (such as climate change, geopolitical conflict, or economic policy) will inevitably come to affect your life. Filling your own cup first is important, but a mentally healthy and meaningful life inevitably requires social connections and contribution to the wellbeing of other people. Exclusively tending to your own thoughts, feelings, and wants won’t create the broader social conditions all humans need to have a good life. Equally, ignoring your own needs and only giving to other people will also leave you unhappy and stressed."
I would strongly recommend this to, well, probably everyone, but definitely those who find themselves motivated around wanting a better world, but who could still use a bit of advice about living in this one. Gua structures short chapters which outline core psychology concepts, with an explanation for how they can be useful, usually some examples of how she herself uses them, some suggested actions and one or two recommendations for future reading. The concision, short chapters and checklists would make this accessible even for the overwhelmed.
The concepts here are thankfully not sold as some recently discovered miracle. Gua draws from ACT and CBT, and core skills in a professional's toolkit. She explains where they come from and how a framework works, and gives you pathways to follow up. I especially loved how she integrated a core tenet of ACT - that aligning actions and values assists in finding meaning - into an understanding of a society in crisis. I also very much appreciated her desconstruction of how positivity can become counter-productive, and practical suggestions on being informed without hyperconnected or trusting misinformation. She tackles how to deal with common issues, such as a fear of being disliked, grief and setting expectations. Other sections deal with concepts such as acceptance, boundaries, emotions (What are emotions? is a chapter), finding joy, experiencing awe and soothing yourself. She tackles some of the worst aspects of consumer culture and includes tips for reducing reliance on the treadmill.
"Think about the impact consumerism, capitalism, and the pressure to live, look, and behave a certain way have on your mental wellbeing. At best, it might exert a slight tug and sway you away from your values. At worst, you might be completely burnt out and exhausted by trying to maintain your lifestyle, trapped on a hedonic and consumerist treadmill as a way of soothing yourself, further perpetuating your need to keep working so hard."
In all sections, she balances individual needs with remaining socially responsible and connected. She advocates strongly that being mentally well relies ultimately on being connected, and on having a functioning society around us. This is not a recipe for being happy all the time, but something is promising here in living a meaningful life that feels emotionally sustainable.
I would strongly recommend this to, well, probably everyone, but definitely those who find themselves motivated around wanting a better world, but who could still use a bit of advice about living in this one. Gua structures short chapters which outline core psychology concepts, with an explanation for how they can be useful, usually some examples of how she herself uses them, some suggested actions and one or two recommendations for future reading. The concision, short chapters and checklists would make this accessible even for the overwhelmed.
The concepts here are thankfully not sold as some recently discovered miracle. Gua draws from ACT and CBT, and core skills in a professional's toolkit. She explains where they come from and how a framework works, and gives you pathways to follow up. I especially loved how she integrated a core tenet of ACT - that aligning actions and values assists in finding meaning - into an understanding of a society in crisis. I also very much appreciated her desconstruction of how positivity can become counter-productive, and practical suggestions on being informed without hyperconnected or trusting misinformation. She tackles how to deal with common issues, such as a fear of being disliked, grief and setting expectations. Other sections deal with concepts such as acceptance, boundaries, emotions (What are emotions? is a chapter), finding joy, experiencing awe and soothing yourself. She tackles some of the worst aspects of consumer culture and includes tips for reducing reliance on the treadmill.
"Think about the impact consumerism, capitalism, and the pressure to live, look, and behave a certain way have on your mental wellbeing. At best, it might exert a slight tug and sway you away from your values. At worst, you might be completely burnt out and exhausted by trying to maintain your lifestyle, trapped on a hedonic and consumerist treadmill as a way of soothing yourself, further perpetuating your need to keep working so hard."
In all sections, she balances individual needs with remaining socially responsible and connected. She advocates strongly that being mentally well relies ultimately on being connected, and on having a functioning society around us. This is not a recipe for being happy all the time, but something is promising here in living a meaningful life that feels emotionally sustainable.
The Anniversary by Stephanie Bishop
emotional
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.75
Psychological thriller is one of my least favourite genres, and the Anniversary has a foot too firmly in that camp for me to love it. The execution here is almost flawless, however, with a fine balance between tension around what is going on, and tension around how the reader might feel about what is going on. This is all sharply laced with social commentary around gender, fame and careers.
Bishop pulls no punches in highlighting the very different expectations that women face to be considered brilliant, and also the very different expectations they face around providing familial support. By weaving these themes tightly into the plot, the book stays both focused and multi-faceted. She demands respect and empathy for her protagonist, while refusing to turn her into a paragon of relatability, and this is probably the thing I liked most about it.
Bishop pulls no punches in highlighting the very different expectations that women face to be considered brilliant, and also the very different expectations they face around providing familial support. By weaving these themes tightly into the plot, the book stays both focused and multi-faceted. She demands respect and empathy for her protagonist, while refusing to turn her into a paragon of relatability, and this is probably the thing I liked most about it.