Books

Le Serpent majuscule (The Grand Serpent) by Pierre Lemaître – Should fictional cruelty be kept within certain limits? Discuss!

Pierre Lemaître became an internationally bestselling author on the basis of his ingenious if far-fetched, macabre, “romans noirs” crime fiction. So his switch to historical novels via “Au revoir là-haut” (The Great Swindle) did not please all his fans. The decision to publish in 2021 Le Serpent majuscule (The Great Serpent), his first novel, written in the nineteen eighties, is apparently an attempt to make amends.

With only minimal editing, this “rings true” for its period. It’s a world without mobile phones, social networks, surveillance cameras, centralised computer records and advanced use of DNA: in short all the sophisticated technology now available to trap a serial killer.

The interest in psychology which runs through Lemaître’s work is already evident in this first novel, focused on the two main characters, Mathilde and Henri. These are psychopaths who applied their skills to a noble cause in the French Resistance, but whose ruthlessness in peacetime is channelled into contract killing for financial gain. For some, the suspense lies in whether and how Mathilde, with her alternating periods of mental astuteness and signs of dementia which make her an increasing liability for Henri to employ, will emerge triumphantly, escaping her just deserts.

Promoters of the book have no trouble in culling phrases from reviewers, like Le Figaro’s, “Délicieusement immoral”, but as his “Avant-propos” or foreword shows, Lemaître is keenly aware of many readers’ reservations over his casual erasure of characters to whom they have become attached, and he seems perhaps surprisingly anxious to defend himself. I take his point that misfortune and bad luck are “what happens in life”, so why fight shy of including them in a novel? He also argues that since it’s predictable that crime novels will contain bloodshed, perhaps sensitive readers should simply avoid them.

Overall, Le Serpent majuscule repelled me with the sheer degree of its clinically described gratuitous violence, wreaked not only on fellow-villains but also on the few decent and potentially interesting characters. The dispatch of individuals by shooting or bludgeoning, be it for unexplained reasons, in error, or as “collateral damage” in the course of pursuing another target, became tedious. Mathilde’s confused and contradictory thoughts became repetitive. Between the bursts of brutality, the narrative drive often seems plodding.

Apart from the obligations of a French book group deadline, what kept me going was the chance to learn some more of the idioms and ”argot” with which this novel is peppered in the French version.

I may persist with the historical trilogy, “Les enfants du désastre” which starts with “Au revoir là-haut” set in the First World War and its aftermath in France. This would seem a less unedifying use of one’s time, also displaying better Lemaître’s development as a writer.

Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf: provoking thought

Published a century ago in 1925, “Mrs Dalloway” may sound too dated and trivial, in describing a day in the life of Clarissa, a privileged, upper class woman who is preparing for an evening party. With an army of servants to do the actual work, she has time to wander round Bond St. and St. James’s Park, observing with fascination the world recently restored to peace after the ravages of the First World War, yet feeling invisible, continually drifting into nostalgic flashbacks. When young, should she have married Peter Walsh, who challenged her to think and take risks in life, or was she right to become the wife of conventional, materially successful Richard? Had her intense early friendship with a charismatic girl called Sally Seton really been her only experience of true love?

Virginia Woolf has attracted interest as one of the pioneers of “the modern novel”. Certainly, her writing is experimental, varied and original, run through with a common thread of “stream of consciousness” or what she called “free indirect discourse”. Written through a third person narrator, this is the attempt to capture a person’s often unexpected and confused train of thought, the sudden leaps, blank spaces and interruptions. Reading Woolf requires continuous concentration to avoid spinning out of mental control, a passenger clinging on without a seatbelt only to land back unexpectedly on a track of clear, down-to-earth prose. One striking example of this is where Peter Walsh hears a “bubbling, burbling song…. like water spouting…. from a shape like a rusty pump” which turns out to be an old beggar woman to whom he gives a coin – yet this small incident is expanded over several pages to trigger, no doubt, a great variety of responses in different readers.

Woolf liked to complicate the issue by switching the point of view without warning, which serves to supply different interpretations of the same situation. So, partly during a chance visit from Peter Walsh, we see him and Clarissa observing each other, on the verge of regretting what might have been, yet probably indulging in self-delusion. It seems that Woolf was critical of writers like James Joyce, whom she studied carefully, but found wanting, too “confined to the short-term”, in his focus on the thoughts of a single character.

Plot seems incidental, apart from Woolf’s introduction of another, on the face of it very different, character in the form of Septimus Smith, about whom Clarissa is made aware without ever meeting him. He is a bright young working-class clerk who has survived the First World War physically, but is severely shell-shocked. This was a condition little understood at the time, which aroused her concern, perhaps because of the mental problems which enabled her to portray a psychotic state of mind so acutely. Her experiences fed a strong dislike of authoritarian, opinionated medical men, like the oppressive Dr. Bradshaw. Some of the most moving passages are the relationship between Septimus and his sweet young Italians wife Rezia, uncomprehending but empathetic, whom Bradshaw views as an impediment to the young man’s recovery, when the reverse is the case.

Virginia Woolf wrote later that Septimus was Clarissa’s “double”, and she vacillated as to which one of them would finally give up a life which was both loved and an intolerable burden. While able to understand why what we would now call PTSD might drive Septimus to suicide, I could not identify with Clarissa feeling “glad” that he possessed the courage which she lacked to commit an act of “defiance”, and “embrace” death. I’ve simplified her reaction, but it still seems confused when analysed in greater depth. Yet perhaps the mixture of clarity and misperception in her thought processes is the main point.

The novel culminates in a lengthy account of the party, in which Woolf applies her barbed wit, no doubt parodying many of her well-heeled acquaintances: “She must go up to Lady Bradshaw (in grey and silver, balancing like a sea lion at the edge of its tank, barking for invitations, Duchesses, the typical successful man’s wife)….” This, together with the inconclusive and rather bland ending, further obscure the nature of the connection between Clarissa and Septimus. I would judge this a major shortcoming in the novel, if it did not appear arrogant to criticise such an admired work.

“On the Beach” by Nevil Shute

“This is the way the world ends”

British author Nevile Shute’s classic novel “On the Beach” was published in 1957, the year in which the UK Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was launched, both reflecting the growing public alarm over the risk of a Third World War likely to involve atomic bombs, as the Cold War came to a head. Having emigrated to Australia, Shute set the novel largely around Melbourne on the far southern coast.

In the opening pages, we may wonder why naval officer Peter Holmes has been unemployed for months, can no longer drive his prized Morris Minor and uses a bicycle with a trailer of his own design to collect milk from a local farm. It soon becomes apparent that during a violent and ill-judged chain reaction in  the previous year of 1962, so many countries  north of the Equator launched nuclear  “cobalt” bombs that virtually no one can have survived in  the entire northern hemisphere. Now there is evidence that massive quantities of deadly radioactive dust are being carried inexorably southwards by the winds – it is only a matter of time before they reach the Melbourne area.

Shute’s style is plain and direct, even plodding, with a focus on minute detail, perhaps a product of his training as an engineer. All of this can combine to create quite a banal effect. However, although perhaps not intentionally, this adds to the sense of people subjected to a threat which often seems unreal and hard to believe.

The novel is essentially about how people react to this type of situation. Peter’s wife Mary lives in a domestic bubble, ever more preoccupied with planning and replanting her garden even when told that everyone in the area has only as a matter of weeks to live. From the outset, her feisty friend Moira seeks refuge in parties and alcohol. Moira’s father continues to spread muck on his farm to make the grass grow evenly and labours to construct a new fence on his land. Peter’s American boss Dwight speaks of his wife and children back home as if they are still alive, buying them presents. Overall, most people seem remarkably passive, perhaps because fatalistic. One could of course argue that to carry on regardless is the best course if there is no alternative. It is only when they actually see others falling ill and dying that some opt to risk their lives in the dangerous sport of motor racing, and the system of law and order finally crumbles

This potentially powerful theme is weakened by being somewhat repetitive, with the lengthy descriptions of the submarine Scorpion travelling thousands of miles under Dwight’s command, tasked with reporting on the scale of visible damage, together with any evidence of human life. Owing to the fear of contamination, only coastal settlements can be viewed through a periscope from a “safe” distance, with shouted messages through a megaphone the sole means of attempted communication.

The sometimes corny dialogue and dated attitudes may be an accurate reflection of life at the time, and inaccuracies over the nature of a nuclear calamity on such a scale are excusable. We may find it implausible that, for months, life in and around the small town of Falmouth seems to carry on much as usual despite a lack of petrol – a shortage of socks being one of the first signs of economic collapse to cause concern.  Yet we need to remember the problems of obtaining information and maintaining communications only a few decades before the largescale development of the internet and mobile phone.

Also, perhaps Nevile Shute’s main concern was to shake readers out of their complacency in ignoring the writing on the wall before it was too late. “On the Beach” has renewed relevance now, when increased instability in the Middle East, and Ukraine and growing tensions between superpowers feed fears of a Third World War and spark concerns over a nuclear calamity.

Despite moments of humour, I found this a depressing read, since from the outset the outcome seems inescapable. It lacks the quality of writing and insights of, for instance, “The Plague” (La peste)  by Camus to which I could relate strongly during Covid, but of course involves a less apocalyptic situation, and concludes on a slightly more hopeful and positive note.

It’s worth knowing that the book’s title was a Royal Navy term to mean “retirement from service”.  It also appears in T.S.Eliot’s poem, “The Hollow Men” which includes the lines:

“In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river.                                                                                                                                                                                                     This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper”.

Je l’aimais or Someone I loved by Anna Gavalda

A mother of two little girls, Chloé is devastated by her husband Adrien’s abrupt announcement that he is leaving her – taking a flight to be with a mistress of whose existence Chloé has been totally unaware.

Surprisingly, Chloé seeks the support of Adrien’s parents, despite the fact that her father-in-law Pierre seems unlikely to be sympathetic – an undemonstrative man whom Adrien and his sister Christine have always criticised for his harsh, uncaring treatment of them as children. It therefore appears odd that Peter should insist on driving Chloé to the family’s holiday home where she may feel calmer. I suspected that this would be the cue for an imprudent romance between the unlikely pair. Far from this, Pierre uses their seclusion as an opportunity to unburden himself to Chloé. He confesses to a passionate longstanding affair which he had to give up years earlier out of a sense of obligation to his wife, who refused to divorce him since it would have meant a loss of material benefits and status. His message to Chloé is that, in abandoning her, Adrien is not only displaying a courage which his father lacked, but also giving her the freedom to embark on a new life.

It seems that the author had experienced a recent divorce, so that perhaps the writing of the novel was cathartic. However, Pierre’s argument seems both overly simplistic and highly debatable.

This debut novel by Anna Gavalda which has proved the first in a string of bestsellers, is distinctive in being written in a play-like format, almost totally dialogue, with no real plot and little context. The downside of this is that, too often, one has to stop and check who is speaking. Otherwise, it’s a relatively easy read for someone learning French. However, the lack of context and action reduces one’s ability to engage with any of the characters.

Situations are gradually revealed or implied through the dialogue, until roughly halfway through, Pierre becomes the main character, indulging in a monologue of “telling” which becomes tedious in its repetition. Meanwhile, Chloé’s plight recedes into the background and is left unresolved.

Initially, Chloé’s emotions are portrayed realistically, together with her relations with her children. Pierre seems a less convincing character. Many of the situations described seem somewhat clichéd.

Made into a film in 2009, this tale may have found a more effective format, but the novel lacks depth and one does not feel much sympathy for any of the characters when it reaches its limp conclusion.

“The Stolen Heart” – The Kyiv Mysteries by Andrey Kurkov: “Why the heart is not meat”

The Stolen Heart” is the second novel in “The Kiev Mysteries” series, set in 1919 in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution. Samson Kolechko is a young detective, tasked with his older colleague, renegade priest Kholodny, to gather evidence of a normal activity which it appears has suddenly been declared a crime: “the illicit slaughter of livestock and violation of the decree of the ExProfFooCom banning private trade in meat.” It seems that Kurkov, with his preference for black humour and farce as a way of debunking authoritarian regimes could not resist using an actual example from the period.

As is often the case with crime novels, the questioning of those who have bought meat from the agent Briskin, held on remand, grows repetitively tedious, yet perhaps this serves to add to the flavour of senseless times, with Kiev increasingly under the control of the Red Army, and sinister Soviet secret police organisation, the “Cheka”, dedicated to combating “counter-revolution and speculation”.

One of the strengths of “The Silver Bone”, which contributed to its longlisting for the International Booker Prize, was its portrayal of life in an atmospheric old city which has been suddenly overturned by uncertainty, arbitrary violence and acute shortages of substances as basic as salt. A scene in “The Stolen Heart” portrays an enraged cabby whose vehicle has just been rammed by a village cart, abruptly withdrawing his complaint in return for a few pounds of the cart’s load of salt. However, by this stage, the reader has “got the picture” and wants something more.

Although “The Stolen Heart” has received some good reviews, I was left with three main reservations. One is the heightened surreal aspect which first appeared in the previous novel: Samson’s severed ear, which mysteriously shows no signs of decay, is kept in a Monpensier (luxury sweets) box which can be hidden in convenient places for eavesdropping on useful conversations audible to Samson despite being some distance away.

Secondly, there are too many incidents which remain unresolved, and it was only on reaching the last page, to “The end. But to be continued”, that I realised that each book in the series is like a long episode, rather than a freestanding tale in its own right. The result of this is that the “denouement” tends to be underwhelming, and aspects remain irritatingly unclear if one has forgotten some detail in the previous novel.

I also found many of the dialogues quite unconvincing, and the descriptions overloaded with banal minor details – while the major ones too often remain obscure, and written in a distracting style which reads like a too literal translation – yet the translator has won prizes for his work, also writes reviews, his own fiction and teaches in university English departments. So perhaps he is retaining the style of the original Russian. The effect of the frequent odd or ill-chosen turns of phrase is that one does not engage so strongly with the characters. But is it meant to be a kind of Eastern European “absurdist” style intended to be part and parcel of the satire?

Just occasionally, there are moments which ring true, generally involving Samson, as when he reflects at a very inopportune moment,

“Could it be said then, that Samson loved Nadezhda in German? Reliably, calmly?

Samson considered this. The idea of loving in German did not appeal to him. The world war that had ended the previous year gave it a cruel, bloody connotation.

No, he decided. He loved Natasha respectfully rather than calmly. While she loved him pityingly”.

Is it a printing error that the map of Samson’s Kyiv, 1919, bears not a single place name apart from the River Dnipro? I would like to have been able to locate the streets and squares named so precisely – perhaps they were too long to fit legibly on the page.

Kurkov’s success as a writer appears to have been enhanced by his courage, albeit through the medium of satire, in exposing the corruption of post-Soviet Ukraine in the 1990s. My admiration for his debut novel, “Death and the Penguin”, inspired me to embark on the current series. I plan to try “Grey Bees”, the tale of a beekeeper living in Ukraine’s Grey Zone between rival forces in the current conflict.

But I don’t think I shall return to find how life works out for Samson and Nadezdha, although their names suggest that it will be well.

This Thing of Darkness by Harry Thompson – A Masterpiece Overlooked as was Fitzroy.

At 750 pages, this is a megatherium of a historical novel, to cite the name of the giant fossilised sloth which Darwin comes across during his five- year exploration of South America while employed as a naturalist aboard the survey ship, HMS Beagle. In the span of almost four decades from 1828, it is hard to keep track of the vast cast of characters, many of whom only appear briefly from time to time. Women play a minor role, and tend to be passive stereotypes, but that reflects life at the time.

Although Darwin is the most famous, the focus is on Robert Fitzroy, appointed Captain of the Beagle at the age of twenty-three, not only for his aristocratic connections, but also his brilliant performance as a student at the Royal Naval College. His first task is to complete the survey of the complex coast of Patagonia, with the harsh climate which drove his predecessor mad. The novel brings home the enormity of the task of mapping a continent with the limited equipment available, the cultural gulf between the Europeans and the various tribes they encounter, and the human cost of the well-intentioned desire to achieve “progress” complicated by the innate human drives of competition, domination and greed.

A central theme is the relationship between Fitzroy and Darwin, forced into close companionship for months on end in the cramped confines of a sailing ship. A bone of contention between them is the explanation of the variations in the creatures observed on their travels, whether alive or preserved in layers of exposed rock. Initially destined to be a clergyman, and troubled by his conclusions, Darwin finds it increasingly hard to deny the existence of some kind of evolution, as we now call it. Fitzroy, despite his analytical mind, cannot give up his belief that surviving species remain as they were first created by God, with only limited changes through adaptation to different environments.

Frustrated by the government’s refusal to fund further voyages of the Beagle, he resolves to finance them himself, running up excessive debts in the process. Constantly dealing with dramatic changes in the weather, he begins to see patterns, and while employed in later life at the Board of Trade sets up a weather forecasting system to issue storm warnings which save lives. Pressure from the owners of fishing fleets, concerned by the loss of earnings when forecasts keep their boats in port, lead to abandonment of then daily weather reports. This proves the last straw for a man who has suffered throughout his adult life from periods of depression.

At times of stress, Fitzroy suffers brief but severe manic episodes, which put both him and his men at risk. At a time of such prejudice against madness, it is surprising that he is not demoted for that reason. The extreme loyalty he arouses in his crew may partly explain this. The practice of sending little boys, as young as ten (or twelve in his case) off to sea to learn the ropes may have aggravated his instability.

Darwin is more balanced, and ultimately more successful. Yet he is presented in an unflattering light. His fellow officers on The Beagle generously bring him examples of unusual creatures they have found, but when these are shipped off to England, it is Darwin who receives all the credit, never acknowledging their contribution.

This novel is based on such detailed research on sailing 19th century ships in often atrocious weather conditions, and on every aspect of the varied landscapes and society of South America at the time, as well as the contrasting vivid portrayal of London and the rural south of England, that I imagined the author must be some nerdish eccentric. In fact, Harry Thompson was a highly successful television producer and comedy writer, who produced, for example, “Have I Got News for You”. His sense of farce pervades this book with flashes of irony and dark humour which lighten the theme.

By the age of 45, he had also found time to write a string of books, including biographies and this debut novel, “This Thing of Darkness”, which arguably deserved to win the Booker Prize rather than merely be longlisted. Ironically, the winner was John Banville’s “The Sea”, so different that the two novels seem to defy comparison in the same contest.

What might Harry Thompson have gone on to achieve, had he not died prematurely of lung cancer, never having been a smoker? It is a pity that many people will lack the time to embark on this book, or be deterred by its length. Reading it proves an absorbing, immersive experience, creating a powerful sense of many different places, and enabling us to identify with characters despite the accepted attitudes, value and knowledge of their day. Admittedly , in some dramatic scenes of near-death experiences, the derring-do may seem overdone; otherwise, the tedium and hardship of long days at sea, or struggling over unfamiliar, harsh terrain feels oppressive, but authentic. The political corruption of the period is all too similar to that of today – plus ça change!

Thompson really succeeds in bringing a fascinating period of history alive. This novel is a remarkable achievement, moving and informative, that will linger in the mind.

Precipice by Robert Harris: A Study of Obsession

The First World War may seem an overused theme for a novel, but Robert Harris approaches it from a fresh angle by portraying the real life situation of a British Prime Minister under great political stress, as strongly resisted demands for Irish Home Rule were eclipsed by the imminent threat of strife in Europe in the summer of 1914. Herbert Asquith found relief in an unwise affair with an aristocratic socialite less than half his age. He was known to enjoy the company of pretty young women, described by his sharp-tongued wife Margot as his “harem”, but Venetia Stanley was different with her obvious intelligence and ability to act as a sounding board for his concerns.

At times it is hard to credit how Asquith was able to walk about without any apparent security guards, or find time for long afternoon drives with Venetia in the countryside, cocooned behind blinds in the back of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Most extraordinary, at a time when London households might receive up to 12 postal deliveries a day, as Asquith’s obsession with Venetia grew, he wrote several times a week, on at least one occasion four times in a single day. With an increasing lack of caution, he gave her unique access to classified information, including telegrams, details of military plans or sensitive issues which were being covered up.

Venetia kept more than 500 of these letters, which have survived to be selected for inclusion in a skilful blend of fact and fiction, for Asquith himself later destroyed Venetia’s replies. Robert Harris has also been obliged to invent Paul Deemer, the imaginary policeman who is transferred to a secret team to investigate the apparent security leaks from the Prime Minister’s office. In later chapters, Deemer feels ineasy as a voyeur, intercepting love letters laced with sensitive information which amount to the politician with the highest office in the land committing a serious offence. Why is Asquith doing this, and can Venetia be trusted? What damage will be caused if the situation comes to light? If it remains concealed, what are the unintended consequences?

Certain aspects of the plot, involving Deemer for instance, seem too contrived. Some reviewers have found the pace unduly slow, or felt unable to care enough about the main characters: a self-indulgent older man and pampered, aimless younger woman. There are moments of high tension, although inevitably sapped for readers wise after the event, such as the disastrous Dardanelles campaign which portrays Churchill in a poor light.

The plot may be thin, but the author is probably more concerned to capture a sense of time and place: a deferential society in which wealthy, privileged people were above the law, protected from the need to face up to their actions; a world where intelligent young women were discouraged from pursuing any ambition or self-fulfilment other than marriage to suitably rich man. Yet an unexpected tragic and pointless war gave them the scope to do “men’s jobs” and widen their horizons.

This is essentially a psychological study of obsession, in which, while seeing their flaws, we can feel some sympathy for Venetia, Asquith, and even his wife Margot, clearly wronged, but portrayed as irritating and unpleasant. We may feel relief over the shift in Venetia’s thinking as she begins to find Asquith’s neediness oppressive, but her decisions at the end seem highly questionable.

“The Silver Bone”, (The Kiev Mysteries 1) by Andrey Kurkov –

Set in the Kiev of 1919, this historical crime fiction provides a striking portrayal of life in the Ukrainian People’s Republic, newly formed in the wake of the Great War and the Russian Revolution, its independence undermined by a confusing succession of competing Bolsheviks, White Russians, and Hetman-led Cossacks. Perhaps this enables us to identify even more with the perpetual state of uncertainty and disarray which the citizens of Kiev have to endure now.

In the dramatic opening pages, former student Samson Kolechko’s right ear is severed by a passing Cossack’s sabre, which also leaves his father lying dead in the street.  On returning to the scene, Samson finds that his father’s shoes have been stolen, but his wallet remains, stuffed with banknotes, although some are useless, having been replaced recently by yet another new regime’s currency .

When his flat is requisitioned by a couple of corrupt Soviet soldiers, who use it to store stolen goods, Kolechno fears for this life. By a rare stroke of luck, his ability to write coherent reports gains him employment as a detective at the local police station. Intrigued by a curious silver bone among the stolen items, he embarks on a dangerous investigation.

The first in what promises to be a series of “The Kiev Mysteries”, this novel was longlisted for the International Booker Prize, and has been widely praised. Andrey Kurkov was already well-known for his writing, including “Death of a Penguin”, a satire on the political situation in the Ukraine of the 1990s.

Translated from the Russian, the style is sometimes stilted, but this may enhance the sense of a past age. Based on a good deal of research of the period, including a street map of the main locations, “The Silver Bone” relies on black humour and a touch of surrealism, which some may find unnecessary and irritating, to keep us engaged in a world of arbitrary decisions. People survive by keeping their heads down in a world of sudden violence and niggling deprivation. They’re are beaten if they resist attempts to commandeer all but their most basic items of furniture; they are ordered to remove snow drifts in the streets, without being given the necessary equipment. Power cuts are frequent, goods and services are best paid for using some item in short supply, even as basic as salt, if one can get hold of it.

Unfortunately, apart from a few dramatic moments, and an ironic twist at the end which paves the way for a sequel, the solving “mystery” proves a disappointment- convoluted and unconvincing, weighed down with some unduly long or tedious descriptions. Left with a sense that the denouement doesn’t quite “add up”, one cannot muster the energy to trawl back through the text to work out why.

Apart from Samson, the characters are mainly two-dimensional, with a few exceptions like Kholodny who has abandoned the priesthood to become a policeman. When asked by Samson what people will believe in when they forget god, he meditates, “In themselves, in the future, in the power of nature”, sadly a case of overoptimism.

There are parallels between this and the earlier “Death and the Penguin” but the latter is more subtle and original in its quirkiness, contriving to escape censorship in corrupt regime.

“Nickel Boys” by Colston Whitehead: disturbing for good reason.

After his parents’ departure to make a better living in California, Elwood is left to grow up in the Florida of the 1960s in the segregated black neighbourhood of Frenchtown, Tallahassee. He is kept on the straight and narrow by his stern but loving grandmother. A bright, thoughtful boy, he is fatefully influenced by a record of Martin Luther King’s speeches, which he plays obsessively.  His potential is spotted by a teacher, who eases his path to a technical college, the route to a better life.

Through an unlucky chain of events, he is obliged to hitch a ride to his first day at college, and just happens to be picked up by the driver of a stolen car.  With a prejudiced court, the penalty is disproportionate This leads to his incarceration in the grim institution of the Nickel Academy, based  on a  former real reform school, Dozier School in Florida, which operated for more than a century.  It was exposed recently as the scene of much appalling violence against pupils, including unrecorded deaths and burials. Not only this, but the inequity between the treatment of the  black and white students, and the cynical exploitation on the part of local people, including influential members of the local “clan”, Ku Klux implied, in siphoning off food and equipment intended for the boys, added to the injustice which Colson Whitehead clearly felt impelled to make more widely known.

Thinking I had read enough fiction about boys being abused at school for one lifetime, I avoided reading this at first. However, having walked out of the highly praised film version of it, because I could not engage with the technique being used, I decide to read the book in order to grasp exactly what it was about. This would be an unbearably bleak read were it not for the vivid descriptions of a society which kept flagrant inequality alive with a casual, unthinking acceptance, and the author’s flashes of dry, ironic humour, against the odds.  The novel resembles his debut novel, “The Underground Railway” in tending to digress into the lives of various minor characters, but is different in the authentic ring of its sense of place, rather than any hint of magic realism.

He also lightens the plot by shifting forward in time for much of the final Part 3, to show us the life of an adult Elwood who has survived the Nickel Academy to make a living, but we see the permanent scars in apparent difficulties in sustaining emotional relationships, and no evidence that he has managed to fulfil his intellectual promise.  Sometimes, the narrative drive seems to lose momentum, but the plot comes into sharp focus with a dramatic and unexpected twist at the end.

I was interested to read Colston Whitehead’s description of the two central characters as the  “two different parts of my personality”, with Elwood Curtis being “the optimistic or hopeful part of me that believes we can make the world a better place if we keep working at it”, and his friend Jack Turner, “the cynical side that says no—this country is founded on genocide murder, and slavery and it will always be that way.”

“The Nickel Boys” is a book that all young white people would benefit from reading, to gain an understanding of the wrongs suffered by black Americans over time. Whitehead is a talented writer who merits being one of the few to win the Pullitzer Prize twice.

“Walk the Blue Fields” by Claire Keegan: on the path to something remarkable

Set mostly in rural or coastal Ireland, these stories probably resonate most strongly with those who have first-hand experience of its recent past: the folklore, superstition, dominance of the Catholic Church and close-knit, by turns supportive and judgemental communities, where every individual’s business is known, often in several versions, scarcely before an assumed event has taken place.

Varying a good deal in length, the eight short stories have many common features: a strong sense of place, even if one has never visited it; a quirky or unclear scenario; insensitive or controlling men; unfulfilled women who sometimes summon the strength to break free; the appearance of remarkably prescient healers and fortune-tellers, while priests break their vows and doubt their faith. A drip-feed of explanations lead to the climax, often followed by an inconclusive ending which leads the reader to ponder what might happen next.

Yet reviewers differ widely in how they rate these stories. Despite the hook of its title, “A Long and Painful Death”, I found the opening story quite unengaging with its detailed descriptions of the commonplace and a main character known only as “the woman”. So it took a reader who recognised the location “on the seaward side of a winding road high over the Atlantic ocean on the western edge of the island of Achill, itself perched on the western edge of the island of Ireland” to trigger an appreciation of the descriptions. Only at the end did I grasp that this tale is all about writer’s block. Having arrived at the house of a famous dead author, the woman spends the day doing anything but produce some words, yet her writer’s mind is continuously noting her surroundings as a possible source of material and inspiration. It is not until the last page that the vital idea for a dramatic plot comes to her from an unexpected quarter.

”The Parting Gift”, is a poignant portrayal of a teenage girl who has sold her horse to buy the plane ticket to New York so as to escape from such a restrictive life, with a darker undercurrent, on the family farm, that she is unfamiliar with the security baggage scanner at the airport. It seems like a forerunner of Claire Keegan’s much-admired novels, “Foster” and “Small Things Like These”, with its clear prose, tight structure, ear for dialogue and skill in implying the complex relationships between the family members.

“Dark Horses” is perhaps the least memorable story, perhaps because at barely eight pages, it is too short to do much more than demonstrate Claire Keegan’s ear for the banter of Irish men in a pub.

At the other extreme of thirty-five pages, “Night of the Quicken Trees” was a little too fey and contrived in weaving folklore into the tale of two lonely neighbours, where the exaggeration and humour of turf-cutter Stack frying eel while his pet goat Josephine has the run of his chaotic house, take the edge off the melancholy off a women driven half-mad with grief over the loss of her child. This mixture of comedy and sadness is also evident in what some regard as the finest story. Again at about forty pages, “The Forester’s Daughter “ is long enough to have mini-chapters, to chart the course of an unwise marriage, trapping an ill-matched pair, with the plot revolving round the anthropomorphic dog Judge, which husband Deegan gives his daughter as an unintended birthday present.

These stories are quite thought-provoking if not as moving as they could be, and I shall read the initial set, “Atlantic” which established Claire Keegan as a prize-winning writer. However, her work seems to have evolved over the years, from an over-reliance on folk tales and caricatures to her admired novellas: “Foster” and “Small Things Like These”. Their subtlety stems from some striking original prose employed to create the sense of place, the authentic ring of the dialogue and insight into her more convincing characters’ thoughts and interactions.