This is my review of The Glorious Heresies: Winner of the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction and the Desmond Elliot Prize 2016 by Lisa McInerney.

“It hit him like a midwife’s slap” is a good line in the Irish idiom, but what would a teenage boy know about midwives? I appreciate the raw energy of Lisa McInery’s style and the sincerity of her portrayal of a group of dead-end Cork-based drug-takers and dealers, prostitutes and criminals, their excuse being poverty in post-financial crash Eire, and a flaky, hypocritical Catholic tradition.

Nevertheless, what is described on the back cover as a “punchy, edgy, sexy, fizzling, feast of a debut novel”, “a gripping and often riotously funny tale”, left me cold. I found the unrelenting sordid violence unrelieved by any of the famous Irish quirky humour or lyrical prose. At one point, when a man is shot, there is no real sense of shock or emotion. It may of course have been the author’s intention to portray death like that in an arcade game, but across the board, characters are not developed in any way that makes me engage with them. Although it did not promise a “happy ever after”, the ending seemed somewhat sentimental.

This is one of those novels which divides readers. Whether or not one likes a novel is always subjective. Some of the most challenging novels the most worth reading are an acquired taste. However, after decades of reading a wide variety of fiction, I may commend this as a debut novel (but why should one make allowances for a first book anyway?) but, as others have said, it is quite long with a shambling plot, and I did not feel it was worth spending the time needed to read it.

⭐⭐⭐ 3 Stars

 

This is my review of My Wish List by Gregoire Delacourt.

“How can you do such a disgusting job – I work in advertising – and write such lovely books?” This sentence in the gushing postscript to this short novel explains the growing sense of unease I had experienced when reading it. This story is a marketable product pitched at female readers by an author with a knack for adopting the “voice” of “ordinary”, admittedly somewhat stereotyped, women, and for identifying an intriguing situation on which to build a bitter-sweet scenario.

In this case we have Jocelyne, owner of a small haberdashery in Arras, slipping into slightly overweight middle age with her dependable but dull and on occasion boorish husband, with two now adult children who have “flown the nest”. She seems to have had more than her fair share of misfortune: the loss of her mother and her father’s onset of illness when she was still a teenager put paid to her youthful ambitions, leaving her with low self esteem and a nagging sense of having made too little of her life. Into this rather unpromising situation falls the bolt from the blue of a huge lottery win, raising the dilemma we all share as to how we would spend this, if given the chance. Jocelyne’s periodic “wish lists” – progressing from “a lamp for the hall table” to “spend a fortnight in London with my daughter”, highlight the common inability to think on a grand enough scale, particularly if one is accustomed to put one needs second. Eventually, she only lists a Porsche as a “folly” that will please her husband.

There are some interesting aspects to the story: her fear that the money will destroy what is good in her life, her awareness that the most valuable things in life cannot be bought with money, that the planning of purchases over time can be more satisfying than a huge spending spree, money no object. The presumably intentional irony is that her knitting and sewing blog which costs nothing does more good in the world than the huge cheque she has won. Is it also intentional irony that the man she loves is so unworthy of her devotion, or are we meant to think that love itself is simply what counts more than money?

In the end, the novel disappoints by proving too shallow and sentimental, aptly described by the wonderful French word “guimauve” – marshmallows and mushiness. The two main male characters – husband and shadowy male love interest – are both too underdeveloped to be convincing and the plot drifts to a limp and disappointing ending.

⭐⭐⭐ 3 Stars

This is my review of The Aspern Papers by Henry James.

Determined to succeed where his colleague failed, an unnamed editor insinuates himself into the decaying Venetian villa of the ageing Juliana Bordereau. His aim is to obtain by some means the literary treasure he believes her to possess, the papers of her former lover, the long-dead, celebrated poet Jeffrey Aspern. Inspired by scholars’ interest in the letters of Shelley to his sister-in-law Claire Claremont, this novella is a subtle and absorbing psychological study of the destructive and corrupting effects of obsession, and of the complexity of people’s motives, set against the background of a crumbling, magical nineteenth century Venice with which everyone who has visited this city will still be able to identify.

In what James apparently regarded as one of his best works, his famously convoluted prose seems surprisingly clear and accessible, the dialogue is sharp and the descriptions evocative and vivid, as in the description of Venice viewed from a gondola as a series of scenes from a play. I like the way that the narrator made predatory by his obsession is not the only main character to be flawed: the ageing Miss Bordereau is understandably concerned to safeguard her privacy and may wish to provide for her faithful niece’s uncertain future, but proves mercenary and manipulative; Miss Tita may be a longsuffering companion with a sense of honour and duty, but proves not to be above taking the opportunity to exploit her exploiter. I think it might have been even better if the narrator had not appeared so self aware at times, but overall would recommend this as an introduction to Henry James, or in my case a book I have reread with undimmed admiration.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

This is my review of The Power of the Dog (Vintage Classics) by Thomas Savage.

In 1920s Montana, brothers Phil and George devote their lives to running their prosperous cattle ranch. Despite living and working so closely together, even to the point of sharing a bedroom, the two could not be more different. George is stolid, dull, but decent and kind. Phil, a brilliant literary creation apparently modelled on the author’s step-uncle, is a complex, multi-talented man of intriguing contrasts: intellectually brilliant, musical, athletic, skilful with his hands, Phil has not only rejected the glowing career he might have pursued, but insists on wearing the rough clothes of a working man and resists any kind of change, scorning for example the cars which disrupt the flow of cattle to the railhead. For reasons continually implied, but never fully revealed, he has twisted his sensitivity and insight into the winkling out of any weakness in the creatures he hunts: “He knew if a timber wolf was lame, noted the fainter print of the favoured paw in dust or snow. In the sudden elbow of a stream where the baffled water turned upon itself he watched the trout ‘conceal’ itself in the shadow of a rock”. The same applies to those unfortunate enough to cross his path, subjecting them to merciless jibes if the mood takes him. So, when lonely George marries a young widow whom Phil regards as a socially inferior gold-digger, he sets out with typical obsessive patience to destroy her. The tale is bound to end in tragedy, but for whom?

By turns nostalgic, poignant or ironic, this gripping psychological study is very-well constructed so that, on reflection at the sudden unexpected ending, a trail of previous random details reveal themselves as clues and slot neatly into place. All the main characters are fully developed, with a depth and subtlety which even evokes some sympathy for Phil. Digressions on the way are as striking as the main plot, in their vivid descriptions of the terrain, and the portraits of minor characters, such as the Indian, unable to give up his pride over being the son of a chief, who leaves his poverty-stricken reservation without permission in order to show his own son the fertile lands of his youth: “the fields thick with purple lupine that waved and billowed in the breeze like water….the dark gray thunderheads that reared high over the mountains and lumbered like grizzlies across the sky, heavy with water”.

The fact that so much of the novel seems to have been based on Thomas Savage’s own experiences of belonging to a large ranching family gives the book its authenticity. It is a pity that this book was not hailed as a masterpiece when it first appeared in 1967. Perhaps even now that it has been “rediscovered”, too many readers will be put off by the instances of at best cavalier and at worst cruel treatment of animals in the book, starting with a graphic description of castrating calves in the opening paragraph: but this is all part of the reality of a life which the author knew first-hand.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

This is my review of The Followers by Rebecca Wait.

Drifting through life in a state of apathy bordering on depression, single parent Stephanie becomes dominated sexually and mentally by the magnetic Nathaniel who persuades her to join what turns out to be his religious cult, housed in a rundown, isolated moorland property called The Ark. This is much to the disgust of Stephanie’s spiky and perceptive twelve-year-old daughter Judith. Stephanie’s decision contributes to a chain of events leading to a shocking climax.

Following the common device of hooking the reader with a flash forward in the first chapter, we are introduced at the outset to a dysfunctional young adult Judith, reluctantly visiting Stephanie in jail where she is serving what sounds like a life sentence for a crime which has left her daughter understandably emotionally scarred. For quite a large part of the book, I would have preferred not to know this in advance, but was eventually won over by the author’s effective interweaving of “Before” and “After”.

Rebecca Wait is skilful in gradually revealing the chain of events, and in showing us the characters’ personalities and often confused thoughts. I was particularly struck by her portrayal of children, not just Judith on the verge of adolescence, but also those born and raised in the Ark who have been taught to view as an evil “Gehenna” the outside world which they have never experienced, even to the extent of walking down a street or watching TV. The gulf between the two worlds is continually shown through the by turns humorous and poignant interactions between Judith and Moses, the boy of her age who desperately wants to be her friend whilst clinging to the comfort of the beliefs she continually questions.

This is not merely a tension-building, gripping page turner but also a psychological drama exploring such issues as responsibility for one’s actions, dealing with conflicting values and guilt, and the extent of one’s duty to other people. I found the build-up to the climax too melodramatic, but it is arguably only reasonable that at this stage all the adults have become at least a little mad. Even given that Nathaniel had a talent for picking out weak and suggestible people, I was unconvinced that "the followers" would accept so meekly the increasingly erratic and extreme Nathaniel’s religious cant and manipulative ploys, but agree that there are plenty of real-world examples of a never fully explicable willingness to be controlled. It was chilling to read how the children had been conditioned, partly through knowing no other life.

Although most of the characters are insufficiently developed, one could argue that the story has been pared down to make a greater impact, leaving readers free, unlike the "followers", to reflect and draw conclusions for themselves.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon.

When a middle-aged woman disappears from a suburban road, gossips fear the worst, but her neighbours are embroiled in a rising tide of panic and recrimination as they fear that a guilty secret from the past is about to be exposed. Prompted by the vicar’s sententious platitude that “if God exists in a community, no one will be lost”, bossy ten-year-old Grace and her compliant but underestimated friend Tilly pose as helpful brownies to gain access to neighbours’ homes in order to check whether or not God is there. Quite how this is going to help the situation is never made quite clear.

The story is set in the long, hot summer of 1976 which a number of writers have used as a backdrop to weird goings-on. Despite some novel if overwritten images –– “the sky was ironed into an acid blue, and even the clouds had fallen from the edges, leaving a faultless page of summer above our heads”, “the avenue…bewildered by the heat” – I grew weary of descriptions of the unrelenting drought, but this may have been the author’s intention. The focus on “contemporary accuracy” with references to Harold Wilson and his pipe, “Are you being served?”, “The Good Life”, Patsy Cline singing “Crazy”, “The Drifters” and “Angel Delight” often seems contrived.

At first, the chapters written from Alice’s viewpoint seem the strongest, until the contrast begins to jar between her childishness and some implausibly insightful comments: observing a Mrs Morton she reflects “Early widowhood had forced her to weave a life from other people’s remnants, and she had baked and minded and knitted herself into a glow of indispensability.” In order to drip-feed the reader with the details of what is really afoot in “The Avenue”, Joanna Cannon has to resort to a number of different viewpoints, all in the third person and often involving flashbacks. This often makes the storyline seem fragmented, with the highly stereotyped adults soon becoming tedious caricatures. Trite comments apart, there is a good deal of humour in the book, but the hypocrisy and prejudice of the adults is laid on with many trowels.

As the story labours its way to a surprisingly abrupt and anticlimatic ending, I was probably wrong to be irritated by a number of small errors: the “six week” school summer holiday runs from early July through to September, starting on July 5th, at least a fortnight earlier than I remember to be the case. Dahlias bloom in July alongside freesias – perhaps a quirkish effect of the heat. The persecuted Walter Bishop has several cedar trees in his front garden, something I have never seen outside a stately home. My main problem was being unable to form a clear sense of place – a mental picture of the estate, somewhere a bus ride from Nottingham. At various points, we are told about terraces and a corner shop, but houses in the Avenue have garages and sound detached. Lace-curtained windows of kitchens and “living rooms” both seem to overlook the road plus the houses seem to have “sitting rooms” as well. Here, an alcoholic single mother lives close to a property manager. The neighbours mostly seem to have known each other from childhood but are they working or middle class? You need to know this about a community in the UK. And, although some appear to have jobs, how is it that they all seem able to converge on a dramatic scene at the drop of a hat?

It’s the fantasy land of a children’s story in what purports to be an adult novel. The “genres” are all mixed up but in the end it proves to be a lightweight, by turns sad, funny, sentimental, unsubtle psychological novel. A poignant situation and any sense of real suspense are both blunted by a storyline which descends into tongue-in-cheek parody – to give it the benefit of the doubt – particularly when the neighbours gather in their deckchairs to watch over the creosote image of Jesus which has appeared on a drainpipe.

⭐⭐⭐ 3 Stars