abbie_'s Reviews (1.79k)

I find Andrea Levy’s books comforting in an odd way, like slipping on a pair of old trainers. They’re not the most exciting stylistically, but when you think this was published in 1999 as commercial fiction, the discussion of casual racism in the UK is quite something. This one unfolds slowly, stemming from Faith Jackson, a Black girl whose life has been spent being told she’s ‘not like other Black people’ by white ‘friends’, wanting to reconnect with her family’s roots. She travels to visit an aunt in Jamaica, and from there the family history unspools - I loved the visual of the family tree becoming more filled it at the start of each new section.

It didn’t blow me away, but I always enjoy time spent with characters crafted by Levy.

As usual I’ve fallen very far behind on my reviews so I’m trying to get through the books I finished THREE MONTHS AGO so I at least have a record just for my own sakes. This book is a bawdy queer western with the most chaotic bisexual I’ve ever come across. It never stops for breath, and I did find myself tiring a little of the endless plot point after plot point. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to pick up the sequel but after that ending, I feel like I have to!

My thanks to the publisher for my digital ARC of Cicada Summer by Erica McKeen! I thoroughly enjoyed this sophomore novel, a haunting but somewhat whimsical story imbued with grief. The writing is ethereal, which lends even modern and difficult topics like COVID a dreamy feel.

In one storyline, a woman and her girlfriend have moved in with her grandfather following the death of the woman’s mother. Father and daughter grieve for the same woman, known to them in completely different ways. They find a book of short stories written by the mother, and reading them together, come to see her in a new light.

For me, the mother’s short stories absolutely stole the show. They’re interspersed throughout the text in their entirety, but they could have just stood alone as an excellent short story collection. They’re reminiscent of Julia Armfield, tackling topics like grief, postnatal depression, mental illness and family through horror. I was kind of sad to leave a story behind to get back to Husha and Nella’s story, which isn’t ideal but also is a testament to the strength of the stories.

It’s also a moving exploration of what it means to look after an ageing relative; the sudden removal of privacy, new intimacies, attempts at saving their dignity.

Overall moving and eerie, just how I like it. 

Really enjoyed this chilling (literally), isolated tale of a woman’s escape from an abusive marriage into her work, a research trip by herself on a remote Norwegian peninsula, which sees her become entangled in the lives of the ghosts of the folks living there in the 19th century. I’ve also read The Looking Glass Sisters by Gabrielsen, which was equally good at using isolation and remote settings to create a fierce sense of unease.

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Tracking the migratory patterns of seabirds only consumes part of the narrator’s thoughts. In the Arctic, there are huge swathes of time to fill, plenty of time for less-than-welcome thoughts to ruminate. The narrator’s lover has promised to come out and spend time with her, but frustratingly keeps delaying their plans. This sends the narrator further into the arms of the ruthless atmosphere, the ghosts that reside there.

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Ankomst also provides a feminist perspective of a woman choosing her career over stay-at-home motherhood, a decision which receives a fair amount of backlash from the men in the book. She’s self-sufficient and pragmatic in the face of things (ex husbands, ghosts, ship captains with designs) that could threaten her.

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A good one for a winter’s night, translated seamlessly by Deborah Dawkin.

2024 is apparently the year I’m reaching for more quiet dystopian novels than usual. So far I’ve read They, The Mark and The School for Good Mothers, all set in near-future dystopias that don’t seem outside the realm of possibility. I Who Have Never Known Men is a bit more extreme in its concept, but is equally quietly unsettling.

Translated from the French by Ros Schwartz, this book is told by a woman who was raised in a bunker with 39 other women, caged by guards, never seeing outside - not even knowing if they’re still on planet earth. When one day an alarm sounds just as a guard is unlocking their cage to drop off supplies, the women find themselves faced with a freedom that could be more ominous than their confinement.

The feelings of desolation and solitude compete with hope and a steadfast desire to remain human - whatever that may mean. That’s something our narrator, who has never known anyone besides the 39 woman from the bunker, is constantly grappling with. What makes someone human? At what point do we roll over and give up? Honestly it was a lot of existentialism for quiet 5am dog walks, but I was into it.

I was less into the frequent listing of tinned foods and items that the narrator came across in her ceaseless wanderings. I’m all for quiet dystopians but this did occasionally teeter into boring dystopian territory.

I’ll also say that the narrator of the audiobook wasn’t my favourite. There wasn’t much inflection in her tone, and while it did sort of fit the hopeless-yet-hopeful vibe of the book, it wasn’t to my personal tastes.

My thanks to the publisher for my digital ARC of A Sunny Place for Shady People by Mariana Enríquez, translated by Megan McDowell! It’s always hard when an author has written books you hold in such high regard. To me, Things We Lost in the Fire is a perfect short story collection, and Our Share of Night is a masterpiece. I set the same high expectations for this collection and unfortunately they weren’t quite met. Don’t get me wrong, there were some stellar stories - the last one, Black Eyes was absolutely chilling, I loved it. But a couple of them leant too heavily on the fatphobic idea that being fat is one of the worst things you can be. Others were just a little forgettable.

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But if you enjoyed the mash up of horror and political commentary that Enríquez did so well in TWLITF, you’ll find some gems here too. Homelessness, classism, gun violence, poverty, violence against women all permeate these stories, rubbing shoulders with the supernatural. She also explores illness a lot, so be prepared for some grisly body horror.

I really liked this memoir about a queer interracial relationship between two older women who decide to adopt. Adoption memoirs can often (rightfully) show the dark side of adoption, especially overseas adoption, but this one sees two women, one Black, one white, determined to get it right. The fact is there are lots of children who need a loving family for one reason or another, and lots of people who can’t have kids biologically for one reason or another. Francesca and her wife Annie decide to adopt one such child, and within this memoir talk frankly about raising a young Black girl as an interracial couple, the turbulent process of adoption itself, and what it takes to actively make a family, found family included of course.

I’ve never much looked into the process of adoption, so I was shocked that with the particular centre the author used, prospective parents had to jump through a looot of hoops, including first aid training. It got me thinking of how things might be improved if all parents had to do this - it makes biological parents seem so unprepared in comparison! Like surely everyone who’s going to raise a child could benefit from knowing first aid??

I also loved hearing about the author’s family history, a sprawling one that included a lot of people who weren’t blood related but were family nonetheless. She posits that her family, and Black American families more generally, often follow queer models of family - or at least don’t conform to the white, cishet norm.

A highly engaging memoir, not one I’ve seen read too widely that I hope more people will pick up!

An interesting little collection of ghost stories, probably more suited to the autumn months than hot August days, but here we are! With this collection, Winterson explores more modern ideas of ghosts, fusing them with technology and virtual reality. It’s a fascinating concept, the idea that technology could mean that eventually no one ever really dies. Chilling as well, especially in the context of one story where a woman thinks she’s finally escaped her abusive husband, only to find he lives on via an app.

Some of the stories weren’t quite up to scratch, but others were excellent. I thought The Spare Room was a near perfect example of a horror story - subtle and creepy, plausible and all the more chilling because of that. I also enjoyed the duo of stories No Ghost Ghost Story and An Undiscovered Country, where a man is grieving his partner and desperately seeking  a sign from him, while his partner watches on, unable to give it. Winterson’s little essays peppered throughout were also entertaining reads - come on, everyone loves hearing other people’s paranormal experiences!

But as I say, there were quite a few stories that were just a bit boring, not exciting or particularly well written. The style felt very classic ghost story - pretty simple, lending itself to being read aloud around a fire perhaps. 

This book started off quite strong. I usually love a quiet novel, and as someone who’s just passed their driving test relatively late in life (28 to the protagonist’s 40 but still), I found Sonja quite relatable. But the book loses what little steam it had to begin with about halfway through, and I found myself caring less. It meanders through Sonja’s (occasionally humorous) interactions with the various people in her life, which I liked, and her childhood memories, which I didn’t. These didn’t really serve a purpose in my eyes, and only derailed my attention. If you’re going to read some Nors, I’d recommend Wild Swims or Minna Needs Rehearsal Space instead!

Translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra 

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for my free digital ARC! My relationship with Tokarczuk is a rocky one - I couldn’t finish Book of Jacob, but I think Drive Your Plow is a masterpiece. I’m planning on reading Flights for Women in Translation month. I’m really unsure how I feel about The Empusium. The atmosphere and writing were glorious. It’s set in a remote mountain village where men go to cure their tuberculosis - the same way women were sent to the seaside to convalesce. There’s a strange plural narration at times that reminded me of When I Sing Mountains Dance, used to great effect to curate a sense of mystery and unease. There are mysterious deaths. But (and I had the same issue with Valérie Perrin’s Three) it always sits uncomfortably with me when authors use gender and/or biological sex as a plot device. It doesn’t sit right with me using these things a plot twist. I don’t necessarily think Tokarczuk exploits her characters, they’re treated with respect, but I dunno, just something about it.

It’s also a bit difficult to read at times since these convalescing men just sit around and talk about how inferior women are - but then in the author’s note, Tokarczuk reveals that all the misogynistic things said by the men in the book were a conglomeration of actual misogynistic things said by some of the most respected male authors in the literary canon. Honestly iconic shade from Tokarczuk.

Fantastic atmosphere and writing, a bit opaque in terms of resolution. Looking forward to Flights!