The Milky Way: An Autobiography of Our Galaxy

Moiya McTier

In The Milky Way: An Autobiography of our Galaxy, Moiya McTier combines her Ph.D. in astrophysics with her knowledge and love of mythology to write an autobiography of the Milky Way.

Speaking in the first-person voice, the Milky Way announces it wants to tell its own story instead of relying on others to speak on its behalf. Accordingly, it describes its origins, its structure, its size, its changes over time, the birth and death of its stars, its neighbors, its enormous black hole, its likes and dislikes, and its ultimate demise. The language is conversational, but the science is detailed and extremely complex. It is quite the challenge to wrap one’s head around the billions of years of our galaxy’s existence; the billions of stars it encompasses; the magnitude of what is in our galaxy and beyond; and the distances measured in difficult-to-fathom light years.

The Milky Way describes our ancestors’ attempts to explain its presence through mythology, as well as the pivotal role it has played in advancing human culture and civilization. It explains astronomical discoveries of the past through to the present and shows how discoveries and calculations, building on each other, are constantly revised as new knowledge and information becomes available. And it reminds us of how much we have yet to learn.

The measurements, concepts, and terminology can be baffling for anyone with even a rudimentary background in astrophysics. Dr. McTier tries to demystify the complex educational content by peppering her discussion with references to popular movies and entertainment figures, adopting an irreverent tone, injecting an upbeat humor, and ridiculing human foibles. Her sardonic humor works up to a point, but some may find its excessive use tiresome after a while.

Any attempt to demystify science and to inject us with a dose of humility by reminding us of our barely-a-dot existence in the vastness of space is well-deserving of accolades. Kudos to Dr. McTier for having the courage to communicate what we have learned so far about the Milky Way in a fresh, highly original, accessible, and entertaining manner. Although much of the scientific information may be challenging to digest, there is still plenty to glean about the nature of our galaxy from her effort.

We are just an infinitesimal dot in the universe, but thanks to Dr. McTier, those of us who have no prior knowledge of astrophysics have a better understanding of just how infinitesimal we really are.

Recommended.

The Stationery Shop

Marjan Kamali

The Stationery Shop by Marjan Kamali is a love story that spans several decades beginning in 1953 in Iran.

Against the backdrop of political turmoil in Iran when different factions are vying for power, Bahman and Roya have a chance encounter in Mr. Fakhri’s stationery shop. Sharing a passion for Rumi’s poetry, the two begin to meet regularly in the stationery shop. Their love blossoms. In spite of fierce opposition from Bahman’s mother who has selected a different bride for her only son, Bahman and Roya become engaged. But politics and family intervention thwart their aspirations for marriage.

When a coup spearheaded by the Shah overthrows the Prime Minister, Iran erupts into violence. In the ensuing chaos, the lovers’ hope for marriage is sabotaged. They fail to meet at the designated time and place, each blaming the other for failing to show up. A broken-hearted Roya and her sister leave for America to study. They subsequently marry and reside in America. In spite of her happy marriage, Roya continues to be haunted by her love for Bahman and his failed promise. Decades later, a chance encounter enables her to visit Bahman and learn the truth of what happened on that fateful day.

The novel is a quick and easy read. It has some interesting segments on the political turmoil in Iran. There are also some mouth-watering sections describing the ingredients and preparation of Persian food. But it is primarily a story of thwarted love fueled by implausible coincidences and chance encounters that stretch believability. The love between Roya and Bahman burns furiously, consuming them for several decades. The duration and intensity of their love after so many decades makes the situation highly improbable. The novel is riddled with too many coincidences and chance encounters that stretch plausibility.

Family opposition to young love coupled with crossed messages and a character who tries but fails to unite the lovers has strong echoes of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. But unlike Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers, Bahman and Roya fail to engage as characters. Roya’s obsession with Bahman that drags on for several decades is unrealistic, tiresome, and slows the novel down. A more realistic approach to the romance set against a backdrop with a heavier emphasis on Iran’s political upheaval would have done much to further reader interest and engagement.

Bitter Orange Tree

Jokha Alharthi; translated by Marilyn Booth

Bitter Orange Tree by Jokha Alharthi, translated from the Arabic by Marilyn Booth, unfolds in the first-person voice of Zuhour, a young Omani student studying at a British university. Zuhour braids together four threads in a non-linear structure, dipping spontaneously in and out of the threads until each is gradually revealed in its entirety. Her voice is plagued with guilt, regrets, and unshakeable sorrow.

The primary thread explores the back story of Bint Aamir, Zuhour’s adoptive grandmother, who dies shortly after Zuhour leaves Oman for her studies. Bint Aamir’s back story reveals the struggles of her early childhood after she and her brother are cast out of their home. Upon her brother’s death, she moves in with her relatives, Zuhour’s grandfather and his family. She raises Zuhour’s father as if he were her son, and raises his children—Zuhour and her two siblings—as their surrogate grandmother. Zuhour describes Bint Aamir as tall, proud, intelligent, selfless, and a childless spinster fiercely protective of the adopted children under her care. Taken for granted, ignored, blind in one eye, Bint Aamir’s physical condition deteriorates with age until she is no longer able to walk. After her death, Zuhour is haunted by the sound of her voice, pleading for companionship.

The second thread is of Zuhour’s older sister, Sumayaa. Described as an energetic, lively, talkative dynamo in her youth, she enters her marriage full of hopes and dreams. Her husband physically abuses and torments her, and despite her repeated attempts to return to her family, she is always sent back to live with him. After his accidental death, Sumayaa loses her voice and will not—or cannot—speak.

The third thread involves Zuhour’s class mates, two Pakistani sisters, Kuhl and Suroor. Kuhl is in love with Imran, a young Pakistani from a rural, impoverished background. She marries him in secret, afraid to tell her parents who would never approve of her marriage to someone beneath her social class. Zuhour becomes part of their circle and is attracted to Imran.

The fourth thread depicts Zuhour’s struggles with living in a foreign country, speaking a foreign language, and accommodating to a foreign culture.

The narrative constantly shifts between these four threads in a series of vignettes and anecdotes. Peppered throughout are Zuhour’s dreams, memories, and glimpses of Omani life. A mournful tone permeates as Zuhour considers the plight of different generations of women who have in common cultures that deny women freedom and agency. She is burdened with grief over the trajectory of her grandmother’s life, her sister’s crushed spirit, and Kuhl’s need for secrecy. The narrative offers no resolutions, no expressions of hope—just sorrow and despair.

Alharthi demonstrates sympathy for the plight of women and their suffering. She successfully captures a sense of mourning and profound sadness, but the novel is missing narrative build-up, movement, and character development. All that is offered are a series of vignettes of thwarted female aspirations. That may be sufficient for some readers; but others may be left wanting and hoping for more.

Keats: A Brief Life in Nine Poems and One Epitaph

Lucasta Miller

In her biography, Keats: A Brief Life in Nine Poems and One Epitaph, Lucasta Miller breathes life into John Keats, the person. The strength of her work lies in portraying Keats as a fully embodied, living, breathing human being with both feet planted firmly on the ground while his genius soared to dazzling heights.

Keats emerges as a sensitive, complex figure. He was considered an outsider in class and social status. He came from a dysfunctional family; was abandoned by his mother; was plagued with money-issues as an adult; had no fixed abode; possessed an undying passion for sensual language and word play; and harbored a fierce commitment to composing poetry. Keats’ genius was cut short when he died at the young age of twenty-five. He struggled during his life and did not receive the recognition and acclaim he was to receive after his death. He is now considered one of the greatest poets in English Literature. His poems, especially his Odes, are a staple diet in literature anthologies.

Miller explores nine of Keats’ most famous poems and his epitaph. She begins each chapter by citing the poem or a short excerpt from it if it is lengthy. She then contextualizes the poem by discussing the circumstances that gave birth to it. Where was Keats living when he wrote it? Who was he with? What did his conversations and letters reveal about his thinking? What was the catalyst that triggered its composition? What/who were his influences?

Miller analyzes Keats’ family background; education; prolific letter-writing, especially to his brother George and sister-in-law Georgiana; living arrangements; and the conversations recorded by his friends. These form the backdrop to her discussion and interpretation of Keats’ most famous poems. But whereas her work presents a commendable guide to Keats’ life, and whereas she paints a compelling picture of Keats the individual, her interpretation of his poems is subject to debate, especially her predilection for seeing in them evidence of Keats’ ostensible ambivalence toward women, his frustrations, and his political leanings.

Keats’ poems, especially his Odes, deserve better than to be reduced to historical, sociological, or psychological evidence for what Keats the man was experiencing at the time. These poems are sensuous, beautiful, and brilliant works of literature that stand on their own merit. They are not fodder for sociology, psychology, or history. Any interpretation of the poems should be grounded in the actual words of the texts themselves since once pen is put to paper, a work of literature takes on a life of its own regardless of who, what, when, where, how, or why it is written. To read Keats’ poems as statements about Keats the man or as indicators of the internal conflicts within the mind of Keats the man is to perform a disservice to Keats the poet.

Keats the poet deserves more than this. And so do the poems that attest to his genius.

The Tablet of Destinies

Roberto Calasso; translated by Tim Parks

The Tablet of Destinies by Roberto Calasso, translated from the Italian by Tim Parks, is a slim volume that delves into myths from Mesopotamia.

The narrative unfolds in the form of a conversation between Utnapishtim and Sindbad the Sailor. A shipwrecked Sindbad turns up on the island of Dilmun where Utnapishtim and his wife have lived for thousands of years ever since they were granted eternal life by the gods. Hungry for company and eager to tell his stories, Utnapishtim takes advantage of Sindbad as his captive audience.

Utnapishtim weaves together episodes of different myths from Mesopotamia. Included is the story of warring gods, the defeat of Tiamat, and the ascendance of Marduk in the Enuma Elish, also known as The Babylonian Creation; the friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the flood story, and Utnapishtim’s immortality in the Epic of Gilgamesh; and Ishtar/Inanna’s possession of the mes, her marriage, and her descent into the underworld in The Hymn to Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth. Episodes from these and other myths appear intermittently, looping in and out of each other’s stories. Eventually, each myth is told in its entirety, but its episodes are scattered throughout and have to be pieced together at the end of the narrative. This mingling of myths suggest they should not be viewed as separate entities but as different iterations of a continuous, cohesive whole.

Most of the conversation is conducted by Utnapishtim, eager to tell his story. Sindbad occasionally interrupts with a short tale of his own or a question. More often than not, Utnapishtim is unable to provide an adequate response, claiming to be simply repeating what was revealed to him by the god Ea. He frequently sounds baffled by his predicament, unsure if the gods have forgotten about him. He waits. And he tells his stories.

Utnapishtim has accepted his fate, but this acceptance is tinged with notes of melancholy. He emerges as a compelling character, embroiled in a circumstance not of his own making, unsure of what the gods want from him, and desperate to transmit his stories. His blurring together of the different myths suggests he sees them as one long, uninterrupted narrative of our beginnings. Although he narrates weighty, mythological events that presumably go back to the beginning of time and the creation of humans, he adopts a matter-of-fact tone throughout. His goal is to transmit the stories to someone who will carry them off the island since he is unable to do so, himself.

Calasso has provided a vigorous rendition of these myths. The looping in and out of different myths makes for fascinating reading, especially if one can recognize which episode came which myth and how they blend together to make a cohesive whole. But this technique is rewarding for those already familiar with the mythology of ancient Mesopotamia. For others, it may prove to be too much of a challenge.

Recommended.

Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic with Essays on the Poem, its Past, and its Passion

Sophus Helle

Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic with Essays on the Poem, its Past, and its Passion by Sophus Helle, in addition to being a brilliant new translation, includes five essays in which Helle provides commentary, analysis, insights, and interpretation. Helle’s structural analysis and close reading of the text is fresh, illuminating, and inspiring.

In his Introduction, Helle discusses the fragmentary nature of the Gilgamesh series of tablets that have so far been discovered and deciphered. He explains the nature of the cuneiform system of writing and provides a detailed description of his methodology in translating the poem. Raised dots indicate missing sections and whole lines are left blank if scholars have determined the number of missing lines. The reader is given a visual representation of how much of the epic is missing. Helle translates directly from the Akkadian but also identifies and includes the Old Babylonian Version and the Standard Babylonian Version when the versions differ. The translation includes copious footnotes and an extensive bibliography.

The five essays following the translation include commentary, interpretation, and an exploration of the main themes. Through close textual and structural analysis, Helle garners dazzling new insights, breathing life into the text. The Prologue reveals it is Gilgamesh who sets down his story, making the poem an autobiography told in the third person. Helle argues the wording at the end of the poem, far from being abrupt, is designed to lead us back to its beginning. He compares it to a snake biting its tail, a looping strategy designed to encourage continuous reading. He explores the significance of the wall of Uruk, interpreting it as structure and metaphor and identifies the poem’s different literary forms. And since the Prologue invites us to read the poem aloud, Helle concludes it was probably recited and/or performed in front of an audience.

These valuable insights continue at a dizzying pace. Helle suggests the poem should be read as a series with each Tablet as a rounded, self-contained episode and with the whole forming a larger story. His analysis of Gilgamesh’s character—his excessive desire, surplus energy, and aggressive tendencies—is particularly astute and explains much of what was otherwise baffling in Gilgamesh’s behavior. And, finally, Helle argues that Gilgamesh’s greatest achievement is to learn from Uta-napishti the skill of storytelling and its role in achieving his much sought-after immortality.

Helle’s scholarship is impressive. Avoiding academic jargon, his style is clear, accessible, and engaging. His analysis is thoughtful and inspiring. He reveals the depth and enduring qualities of this ancient masterpiece, breathes new life into it, and convincingly argues for its continued resonance and relevance.

This brilliant, exciting translation and commentary is highly recommended for those approaching the poem for the first time and for others who have read multiple translations.

The Fish Can Sing

Halldor Laxness; trans. Magnus Magnussun

The Fish Can Sing by Halldor Laxness, translated from the Icelandic by Magnus Magnusson, unfolds in the first-person voice of Alfgrimur, an orphan. Abandoned by his mother in a small fishing village on the outskirts of Reykjavik, Alfgrimur is raised by an elderly couple who become his surrogate grandparents.

Growing up in the humble cottage at Brekkukot, Alfgrimur shares his home with a motley crew of eccentric characters from all walks of life who traipse in and out of his grandparents’ home, availing themselves of their hospitality. Some stop there on their way to somewhere else; others come there to await death. Alfgrimur describes their mannerisms, clothing, habits, anecdotes, euphemisms, and philosophical outpourings as they gather together in the evenings. The characters are unique, quirky, and treated with fondness and respect.

A prominent figure in the novel is the elusive Garðor Holm who rose from humble beginnings in the village to become a world-famous singer and Alfgrimur’s conflicted mentor. Alfgrimur’s grandfather, known as Björn of Brekkukot, is a generous, compassionate man of few words who behaves with integrity, dignity, and charity. Alfgrimur’s grandmother instils in him respect for others and generosity of spirit. The two are memorable characters, speaking primarily through their actions. Their few words are imbued with wisdom and compassion for the less fortunate. Their goodness and humility represent a bygone era.

Although the word “love” is not spoken in the home and demonstrable physical affection is eschewed, Alfgrimur grows up in a loving, secure environment. His goal is to live within the confines of his small village since that is all he has ever known and loved; his ambition is to be a fisherman like his grandfather. He struggles to find his place in a world in which modernity encroaches on simple village life, transforming lives and livelihoods as it does so. Alfgrimur’s grandparents recognize the impending changes and insist on an education and a better future for their adopted grandson.

Laxness paints a touching portrait of a small village in rural Iceland in the early twentieth-century where a way of life is slowly dying with the encroachment of modernity. Traditional ways of being and doing clash with a modern business class espousing differing values. This clash threads its way throughout the novel, generating a nostalgic tone for the past and a concern for the future.

Laxness’ diction is immersive. The smells, sights, sounds, and activities of an Icelandic fishing village are brought vividly to life. The narrative voice is whimsical, ambling, and replete with affectionate humor. The movement is slow and meandering. The intimate, ethereal quality of the prose; the affectionate treatment of the eccentric characters which populate its pages; and the endearing snapshot of a quaint Icelandic village at the turn of the century work in unison to make this a memorable read.

Highly recommended.

Ovid's Heroides: A New Translation and Critical Essays by Paul Murgatroyd, Bridget Reeves, and Sarah Parker

Ovid’s Heroides: A New Translation and Critical Essays by Paul Murgatroyd, Bridget Reeves, and Sarah Parker is designed as a textbook for students of Ovid and/or classical mythology.

The work consists of translations of Ovid’s fictional letters, in Latin verse, written in the first-person voices of prominent female figures in Greek and Roman mythology. The twenty-one letters are addressed to spouses and lovers. Among the voices we hear is Penelope scolding Odysseus for his delayed homecoming; Briseis writing to a sulking Achilles; Phaedra attempting to seduce Hippolytus; Dido alternating between pleading with and berating Aeneas; Ariadne cursing Theseus; Medea spewing venom at Jason; and Helen coyly responding to Paris’ attempts at seduction. Included in the twenty-one letters are a few in the voice of the male hero addressing his female beloved.

The authors situate each letter/poem by providing background and context. This is essential since the letters refer to characters and events in classical mythology which may not be familiar to all readers. Each letter is succeeded by critical remarks, commentary, highlights of salient features, questions to stimulate critical thinking on the poem and on the characteristics of the letter-writer, and references for further reading. When relevant, the authors include brief mention of later representations in literature, art, film, and music of a myth and its characters.

The letters are variations of the same themes: love, betrayal, and pleas for rescue from abduction or abandonment. The tone varies depending on the situation of the ostensible letter-writer. Ovid exposes the writer’s raw emotions through the first-person voice. Some of the letters are witty and amusing. Some are riddled with anxiety. Some are positively angry. And some reflect the heart-break of abandonment and abject helplessness.

Ovid’s experience with exile and marginalization may have led him to sympathize with others who had been similarly marginalized and rendered voiceless by society. By articulating the perspective of women and giving voice to the voiceless, Ovid undertook a task that is remarkable for a man of his time and place. His Heroides is a rich, lively, and entertaining reading experience that deserves wider circulation than it has so far received.

Recommended.

The Faraway Nearby

Rebecca Solnit

Rebecca Solnit opens her memoir The Faraway Nearby with a chapter on the one hundred pounds of apricots she receives from her mother. She dutifully spreads the apricots out on a sheet in her bedroom floor to prevent them from crushing each other. Each day she observes them in their different shades and different stages of ripening. And as she does so, she tells the story of her contentious relationship with her mother, beginning with her mother’s constant criticisms and rejections which continued well into her adult life until her mother’s gradual descent into Alzheimer’s.

As Solnit spins her tale, she traverses a wide array of topics, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Shahrazad’s story-telling, Che Guevara’s work with lepers, her battle with breast cancer, fairy tales, her stay in Iceland, arctic explorers and arctic survivors, the blank slate of the snowy arctic, the visual arts, labyrinths, empathy and distance, absence, numbness, and spinning a tale of self. The recurring themes throughout are her relationship with her mother, the intricate interconnectedness and changeability of all things, and the stories we tell that make us who we are. “We think we tell stories, but often stories tell us,” she says.

Solnit’s tone is quiet, meditative, and intimate. Her voice is authentic. She takes seemingly disparate stories and connects them in surprising ways, weaving in stories from mythology as she does so. She structures her narrative so chapters mirror each other. Her opening chapter of “Apricots” is succeeded by five chapters and a middle chapter called “Knots.” Solnit then unties the knot or unravels the thread by repeating the same chapter headings in reverse order and concluding with “Apricots.” She is a Penelope weaving her tapestry by day and unwinding it at night.

With the final chapter, we come full circle, beginning and ending with “Apricots.” But we are not in the same place because Solnit is no longer the same person she was in the opening chapter. She has undergone a transformation as a result of her experiences and her story-telling. The apricots assume a metaphorical significance. They are the memories she needs to sort, preserve, and discard from her memory bank. Through the telling of her story, she loses pieces of her former self, experiences a death of sorts, and gives birth to herself anew. And as with all birth and death, pain is intrinsic to the process.

Solnit begins her memoir by challenging the reader with a question, “What’s your story?” She prompts us on our journey by sharing her story with sensitivity, depth, empathy, insight, and a profound sense of the interconnectedness and fragility of life. Everything changes, she reminds us. Nothing stays the same.

Solnit’s intimate and precious gift of her journey inspires us to reflect on our own story, the story that makes us who we are.

Highly recommended.

Pandora's Jar: Women in the Greek Myths

Natalie Haynes

Pandora’s Jar: Women in the Greek Myths by Natalie Haynes explores ten famous women in classical mythology by dedicating a chapter to each woman.

Beginning with Pandora and concluding with Penelope, Haynes examines the literary sources of these mythological figures, their various appearances in classical plays, poems, and artifacts, as well as their more recent manifestations in art, music, theatre, and film. Her exploration includes Jocasta, Helen of Troy, Medusa, Clytemnestra, Eurydice, Phaedra, Medea, and the Amazons.

By exploring their representation in various classical works, Haynes expands our understanding of these figures. Her interrogation demonstrates their contradictory portrayals even within the classical period. They were used as scapegoats for the failings of men; as tools to implement a god’s vengeance; punished for being victims of male aggression; outsmarting their male counterparts; unfairly depicted as villains and monsters; and blamed for situations over which they had no control. She fleshes out these women, giving them voice and a nuanced portrayal.

Among the classical playwrights, Euripides emerges as a favorite for writing strong roles for women and for placing them center stage instead of relegating them to the margins. He gives voice to their suffering and subordinate status as no other classical writer has done. His Medea is praised for its portrayal of a brilliant, scheming woman whose speeches about the position of women in patriarchy continue to resonate centuries later.

Haynes is well-versed in the classics. She provides a broad outline of the texts in which each of the women appear. And then she interrogates the text and poses questions to challenge the predominant lens of male privilege. She peppers her analysis with Greek and Latin words, translating them and explaining their linguistic ambiguities. She argues our perspective on these women has been colored by centuries of a skewed interpretation of language influenced by a misogynistic lens. She aims to encourage a re-visioning of these women and offers a new and invigorating re-interpretation of their role in mythology.

Haynes’ feminist analysis of these famous women in classical texts is accessible, lively, and peppered with humor and wit. Although her extensive knowledge of classical literature is apparent, she doesn’t weigh the work down with heavy scholarship. Her language is accessible and engaging; her interpretations are provocative and refreshing.  She challenges the reader to re-visit the women in classical mythology with a fresh look and a more nuanced and balanced lens.

Highly recommended.

Out Stealing Horses

Per Petterson; trans. Anne Born

Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, translated from the Norwegian by Anne Born, unfolds in the first-person point of view of Trond Sander, a sixty-seven-year-old man who has retired to a small, isolated village in Norway. He wants only to be left alone with his dog and to surround himself with nature as he struggles to find the time and space he needs to reflect. He is painfully self-conscious, sensitive, and honest. He wants to fit in with his rural surroundings and fend for himself as if to prove he can make it alone.

Trond describes in meticulous detail his daily activities and chores as he prepares his small home for winter. As he does so, he reflects on his life, focusing on a summer when he was fifteen years old and staying with his father in a cabin in Norway. It was during that summer his best friend, Jon, carelessly left his loaded hunting rifle at his home. His younger brother picked up the rifle and fired at his twin, accidentally killing him. The incident traumatized Jon who disappeared from Trond’s life. It also impacted Trond. The memory resurfaces when Trond discovers that his closest neighbor in this isolated village is none other than Lars, Jon’s brother who accidentally shot his twin.

The novel alternates between Trond’s activities in the present and flashbacks of that summer. The threads intermingle with a scene or activity in the present conjuring up a memory from the past. Trond talks to himself as if he trying to come to terms with the events of that summer, when he learned his father, Jon’s mother, and a family friend were part of the resistance during Nazi Germany’s occupation of Norway. His father was a courier for the resistance, smuggling documents and people across the border to Sweden. It was also during that summer he bonded with his father, a bond that is shattered when his father sends a flippant letter to his wife and children, announcing his disappearance from their lives.

Trond’s melancholy saturates his reflections and activities. He feels deeply, but as a character, he remains elusive since we are never permitted to penetrate his shell. His focus on performing daily, labor-intensive chores provide satisfaction and a sense of achievement. But they are also a tactic to delay him in dealing with the pain he feels at the death of Jon’s brother, his father’s disappearance from his life, and the deaths of his sister and wife. Wherever he goes, he is reminded of the events of that summer. His understanding of the past has changed now that he reflects on it with the eyesight and maturity of old age. But there are aspects of it that continue to elude him.

The tone is elegiac; the sentences long and rhythmic, connected by a series of ‘ands’ that accumulate detail. An overriding sense of loss permeates this story of an old man reflecting on his life and the difficult memories that surface. His temporal shifts serve as a reminder that the past is never really past. We carry it with us always. It impacts our self-image, our lives, and our relationships with others. And, as in the case of Trond, it can continue to haunt us many decades later.

A quiet, poignant, and compelling meditation on aging and loss.

Highly recommended.

Salka Valka

Halldor Laxness; translated by Philip Roughton

Salka Valka is epic in scope. Written by the 1955 Nobel Prize winner for Literature Halldor Laxness, and translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton, it tells of the struggles of a small fishing village in Iceland. The central character is Salka Valka, the young, illegitimate daughter of a destitute mother.

Salka is eleven years old when we first meet her. Having run out of funds to get to Reykjavik, she and her mother arrive at the village of Óseyri in Axlarfjörður. The two seek shelter and end up at the Salvation Army building. Even at this young age, Salka is outspoken, headstrong, and independent. The two eventually find permanent lodging and young Salka begins working in the fishing industry to earn an income.

We follow the trials of these two individuals, their interaction with the villagers, her mother’s involvement with the Salvation Army, and their gradual estrangement from each other. Salka becomes increasingly independent and self-reliant. Deemed an anomaly among the village women, she is outspoken, strong, hard-working, and has the audacity to wear men’s trousers. Her hard work pays off, enabling her to own a share of a fishing boat. She becomes a union organizer for the fishermen and advocates for their rights. All the while she contends with sexual abuse and harassment. And on more than one occasion, she acknowledges her lack of femininity, perceiving herself as a boy.

Salka is courted by two men. She falls in love with her childhood sweetheart who exploits her love for him; she is simultaneously attracted and repelled by her mother’s former fiancé, a drunken, bedraggled boor who transforms himself into a successful, sober tycoon and claims her as his muse.

The second half of the novel is embroiled in politics as the villagers are courted by the “Bolshies” on one side and the “Independents” on the other. Laxness presents both sides of the debate at length. The villagers fluctuate from one side to the other at the slightest whim and without fully comprehending the ramifications of their choice. This section gets too bogged down in the pros and cons of political discourse, slowing the narrative down unnecessarily. Salka Valka gets tossed around in the political turmoil. She tries to maintain independence, focusing on the path she thinks will best help the fishing industry, but she eventually sides with her lover, a spokesperson for the Bolshie cause.

Laxness’ diction is sparse and realistic. Against the backdrop of a bleak landscape are the villagers struggles with Iceland’s weather, isolation, poverty, and meagre existence. The novel can be unwieldy at times, especially during the drawn-out political fracas. However, Laxness sustains reader interest through his keen eye for detailing the topography, the harshness of village life, the scruffy children, and the chorus-like villagers. They are a bedraggled, lice-ridden, smelly, rough, impoverished, and gossipy lot. They are also undeniably real and depicted with sensitivity and compassion. His greatest success lies in his depiction of Salka Valka. He captures the tortured spirit and complexity of this extraordinary young girl with tenderness and honesty—a remarkable achievement since he was only in his late twenties when he composed the novel.

An epic novel, wide in scope, and immersive in detail. Highly recommended.

The Sentence

Louise Erdrich

The title of Louise Erdrich’s novel The Sentence carries a double meaning—the sentence imposed on Tookie, the central figure, for breaking the law; the last sentence of a book that ostensibly kills a bookstore patron.

Tookie, a Native American, steals the corpse of her friend’s deceased lover as a favor to her friend. Carrying the corpse in a refrigerated grocery van, Tookie delivers the corpse to her friend unaware that packets of cocaine are strapped to the corpse’s armpits. Tookie is arrested and serves a ten-year sentence for trafficking drugs across state lines.

The novel unfolds in the first-person point of view of Tookie, an engaging narrator. She describes the circumstances that led to her stealing the corpse, her capture, and her ten-years of incarceration. After her release, she works at Birchbark Books in Minneapolis, an independent bookstore specializing in indigenous books. The bookstore is actually owned by Louise Erdrich. Tookie marries Pollux, the former tribal police officer who arrested her. She is happy in her marriage, happy in her work. But then Flora, one of the patrons at the bookstore dies after reading the last sentence in a book she has left open by her side. Her ghost haunts the bookstore and taunts Tookie. And so begins a tug of war between Tookie and Flora’s ghost.

Most of the novel takes place in 2019 and 2020. Erdrich weaves the Covid pandemic and its impact; the murder of George Floyd; the demonstrations, riots, and looting in Minneapolis; and the Black Lives Matter protests. She also includes copious examples of past injustices suffered by indigenous people and blacks at the hands of government and its institutions.

The novel’s strength lies in capturing the fear, uncertainty, and chaos unleashed by the pandemic and the murder of George Floyd. It also captures the camaraderie and support across racial and ethnic lines of the demonstrators united in their demands for justice. Ample room is given to Native American beliefs and rituals ranging from cures to common ailments, protection from injury or harm, and the expulsion of ghosts. But perhaps the novel’s greatest strength lies in its affirmation of the power of books.

Tookie devours books during her incarceration. Her employment in a bookstore provides her with ample opportunity to indulge her passion for books. And since bookstores are deemed essential during the pandemic, the bookstore is able to stay open and supply its patrons through online orders. The last pages of the novel, a book lover’s potpourri, list the books mentioned in the novel.

Erdrich tackles several plot lines in the novel, taking it in different directions. As a result, the novel appears disjointed and lacks cohesion. There is too much going on at once. The insertion of mini history lessons and the airing of past grievances of Native Americans and Blacks inject the flavor of non-fiction. They detract from the narrative. Although these are legitimate concerns, perhaps they could have been integrated into the narrative more seamlessly to quell the impression the novel is a platform to expose social injustice.

An engaging novel, recommended with some reservations since this is a case of less would have been more.

Underland: A Deep Time Journey

Robert Macfarlane

Underland: A Deep Time Journey by Robert Macfarlane is a fascinating exploration of what lies beneath our feet. In prose that is eloquent and lyrical, Macfarlane ventures down various underlands to describe what he sees, hears, and experiences.

Macfarlane takes the reader back in time on journeys of descent into the earth to explore what he refers to as deep time, the chronology of the underland or earth’s history. He weaves mythology, anthropology, archaeology, and stories of former explorations into his narrative. His descents include ancient burial sites; a laboratory located half a mile under the earth to search for the presence of ‘dark matter;’ the wood wide web interconnecting roots and fungal networks under the earth; the catacombs and labyrinths under the streets of Paris; underground rivers and caves in Europe; caves in Norway that boast red dancing figures painted on their walls over two thousand years ago; a deep-sea maelstrom; and Greenland’s ice caps and moulins. The underland harbors imprints of man’s incredible achievements thousands of years ago. It also shoulders the damage human activities have caused in recent years.

Earth’s underland is a geological time-keeper that is simultaneously inspiring and humbling, exhilarating and haunting. This breathtaking exploration of what lies beneath our feet raises profound questions about our relationship to the environment and the legacy we leave behind.

A thought-provoking, compelling book full of facts, commentary, and insights underlying the magic and mystery of this fragile blue planet we call home.

Highly recommended.

To the Lighthouse

Virginia Woolf

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf is in three sections. It opens with the Ramsay family in their rented summer house on the Isle of Skye. Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay and their eight children are joined by six guests, including a painter and a poet. The family’s plan to visit the lighthouse is thwarted by bad weather. This first section is followed by an interim section called, “Time Passes.” The final section takes place ten years later when the surviving family members and their guests return to Skye. Mrs. Ramsay and two of the children have since died. Mr. Ramsay takes his two youngest children to the lighthouse. In other words, very little happens on the surface of the novel.

Although it lacks a conventional plot, the novel more than makes up for it with style and technique. Virginia Woolf’s remarkable skill as a writer is on display throughout. Her focus is on a character’s interiority where all the “action” occurs. Her sentences flow seamlessly from spoken dialogue to a character’s thoughts. She weaves in and out of their thoughts and internal debates as they question themselves; analyze one another’s actions and motives; explore relationships; brush against patriarchal constructs; ponder the meaning life, art, and beauty. She moves effortlessly from one character’s interiority to the next, the transition so seamless that it can be a challenge to discern who is thinking what.

The novel is much like a tapestry. A thread or motif early in the novel is picked up later and later still so that a clear pattern doesn’t emerge until the novel is complete. The impression created is a constant moving backwards and forwards in time, much like the ebb and flow of a wave. Her shifts from spoken dialogue to monologue frequently occur within the same paragraph to suggest one flows into the other, conveying the free-flowing movement of waves. This technique is reinforced by the frequent references to water throughout.

The middle section, “Time Passes,” is eloquent, poetic, and brilliant. It captures the inexorable movement of time and its impact on people’s lives and belongings. Through her detailed description of the house in Skye, Woolf illuminates the ephemeral nature of existence. A home that once housed the Ramsay family and their brood of rambunctious children and house guests now stands as a crumbling testament to the ravages of time: its condition deteriorating; their numbers declining.

The novel is at once challenging, eloquent, brilliant, poignant, and beautiful. Virginia Woolf somehow manages to capture the intensity and longing and aloneness of human experience in breathtaking prose that whirls and spins and ebbs and flows. Although it was written 100 years ago, the novel feels as fresh today as if Virginia Woolf wrote it yesterday. A mark of a true genius.

Highly recommended.

Kaikeyi

Vaishnavi Patel

Kaikeyi by Vaishnavi Patel is loosely based on the Indian epic, the Ramayana. Patel refashions Kaikeyi, the youngest wife of King Dasharath, as a feminist heroine who advocates for equality for women and who willingly sacrifices herself and her reputation to prevent a war. She is portrayed as intelligent, astute, asexual, and determined to do what she thinks is right regardless of personal cost.

Kaikeyi’s first-person narrative begins with the story of her childhood as the daughter of King Ashwapati of Kekaya. The only girl among seven brothers, Kaikeyi learns to ride a horse, maneuver a war chariot, and wield a sword and bow. She marries King Dasharath of Kosala where her influence in the court increases after she saves the king’s life in battle. Along with her sister wives, Kaushalya and Sumitra, she forms the Women’s Council, a body that addresses grievances and advocates for greater freedom and rights for women.

All is going well until Dasharath decides to name Rama, his eldest son, as his heir. In a desperate attempt to avoid war, Kaikeyi exercises her right to the boons promised to her by Dasharath. She sends Rama into exile for ten years and has her son appointed as king. But things don’t turn out quite as she had hoped. Kaikeyi is castigated as a villainous step-mother by some and applauded as a hero by others.

Patel introduces several new elements into the Indian epic. She fills in the gaps of Kaikeyi’s life missing from the original, provides background, character development, and gives her a strong voice to challenge patriarchal norms. Probably the most significant addition is Kaikeyi’s magic—her ability to enter the Binding Plan which enables her to see the strength of her connections to others through the threads that link them together. She uses this ability to gauge her influence. Other changes in the re-telling include her portrayal of Rama as manipulative, power-hungry, and chauvinistic; and Ravana as a somewhat sympathetic character who mourns for his dead wife and who wants to protect his daughter, Sita.

The narrative immerses the reader in the culture and mythology of India with its plethora of gods and goddesses, asuras, and rakshasas. The retelling is engaging, imaginative, and immersive. Patel weaves a good story and tells it well. Readers who are familiar with the epic may be disturbed by the liberties Patel takes in deviating from the original source and in her transformation of its characters. But it is important to keep in mind that as an author, it is within her prerogative to re-imagine the tale as she fit.

The novel does not claim to be other than what it is: Vaishnavi Patel’s vision of the story of Kaikeyi. Her vision makes for a good story and a rewarding read.

Recommended.

White on White

Aysegul Savas

White on White by Aysegul Savas unfolds in the first-person point of view of a nameless student—probably a female although that is never specified—conducting research on Gothic nude sculptures of the 12th and 13th centuries. She rents a lower floor apartment from Agnes, an artist, who lives out of town with her husband.

When Agnes unexpectedly shows up to occupy the upper studio to prepare for an upcoming exhibit, the two begin meeting casually. As the days turn to months, it becomes apparent Agnes is facing difficulties in her marriage and has nowhere else to go. She is estranged from her husband and her grown children. Her behavior becomes increasingly erratic; her ability to paint stymied. She paints a white-on-white canvas and declares she doesn’t know how to proceed. Much of her narrative consists of lengthy anecdotal confessions spoken in the direct voice to reinforce immediacy; the narrator’s response is passive and reflected in the indirect voice to reinforce distance and lack of empathy

The novel strongly echoes Rachel Cusk’s Outline with its barely present narrator observing a stranger’s confessions. The narrator is increasingly aware of Agnes’ emotional crisis but continues to display a cool detachment toward her. Her observations are objective and devoid of empathy. She listens but does not offer support or compassion. Her favorable impression of Agnes’ appearance and demeanor diminish with time. She tolerates her monologues but begins to see Agnes as an unwelcome distraction from her work. Her dispassionate observations of Agnes parallel her dispassionate observations of the nudes she studies.

The narrator acts as the white canvas on which an artist projects his/her imprint. She is presumably the blank slate to Agnes’ story. But in an ironic twist at the end of the novel, the tables are turned. The narrator describes Agnes as having “. . .  the face of an animal . . . a creature without human expression, though all the more alive with a meaning I could not decipher.” Agnes’ face mirrors the narrator’s inscrutability and absence of humanity. And in the ultimate twist, the narrator recognizes grotesque images of herself in Agnes’ painting. The recognition shocks her.

“Does it offend you?” Agnes asked. “Because from all our months of living together, I got the impression that you weren’t one to be easily moved.”

The roles have been reversed; the observer has become the observed. All the while the narrator had assumed she had the upper hand, objectively observing Agnes from the side lines—the blank screen to Agnes’ monologues. Instead, Agnes was observing her, projecting the narrator’s image on the blank screen, and holding a mirror up to her face. The reader is left wondering if Agnes’ self-revelations, her “nakedness,” was a veil—merely a ploy to unmask the narrator.

Unfolding slowly in layer upon layer; in language that is subtle, haunting, and perceptive; this intriguing novel explores the creative process and the role empathy plays in human relationships.

Very highly recommended.

The Island of Missing Trees

Elif Shafak

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak alternates between three timelines: London in the late 2010s, Cyprus in 1974 on the brink of a civil war between Turkish Cypriots and Greek Cypriots, and Cyprus in the 2000s with the islanders picking up the pieces after the end of civil war.

The novel opens with a description of a divided Cyprus. It slowly zeros in on two men at the bottom of a well. They had been kidnapped, murdered, chained to each other, and thrown into the well at the height of the conflict. The timeline then shifts to London in the late 2010s where we meet sixteen-year-old Ada and her father. Through alternating timelines and changing locations, we learn the story of Ada’s parents—her Greek father, Kostas, and her Turkish mother, Defne. Theirs is a story of forbidden love.

Kostas and Defne’s clandestine meetings take place in a tavern known as The Happy Fig. When violence in Cyprus escalates, Kostas is sent to England by his widowed mother. The two lovers are separated for several years. Kostas re-connects with Defne on his return to Cyprus. The two marry and start a life together in England. When the novel opens in 2010, Defne has died, and Ada and her father struggle to deal with their loss.

In addition to the shifting timelines and locations, there is a shift in point of view. The novel alternates between third person and first-person narrative. Oddly enough, the first-person point of view is spoken by the fig tree that was once housed in the Cyprus tavern. Kostas smuggles a cutting of the tree on his visit to Cyprus and transplants it in London where he nurtures it and helps it survive the new eco-system.

The fig tree narrative serves two main purposes. Firstly, it provides backstories: the looming civil war, the fate of the missing tavern owners, Defne’s predicament after Kostas’ disappearance, and the re-location of the Kostas family to England. Adopting a human voice and human emotions, the fig tree compares tree behavior with human behavior, with the latter understandably coming up short.

Secondly, the fig tree narrative also includes extensive scientific information about trees—how they communicate with one another, share resources, warn each other of impending danger, the differences between species, etc. This information would be familiar to anyone who has read any of the recent spate of non-fiction books about trees, including Peter Wohlleben’s The Hidden Life of Trees. But herein lies the problem. This extensive exploration of the tree world is jarringly out of place in a novel with a Romeo and Juliet story of forbidden love set against the backdrop of civil unrest. Much of this information would have been more suitable in a scientific journal.

A transplanted fig tree may well serve as a metaphor for displaced lives. But it is stretching the metaphor a little too far when a fig tree interrupts the narrative to share historical information; to disclose updates it has garnered from an ant, mosquito, or bird; to tout the superiority of trees; to declare its love for Kostas; and to pontificate on the devastating impact of civil war. Filling in the details of the island’s history and its inhabitants by relying on the intrusive narrative of an anthropomorphized fig tree, even with its concluding twist, borders on mawkishness. The human characters and their stories in this novel are compelling enough to stand on their own without the aid of a chattering fig tree.

Recommended with reservations.

A Strange Woman

Layla Erbil; translated by Amy Marie Spangler and Nermin Menemencioglu

Published in 1970 and translated into English by Amy Marie Spangler and Nermin Menemencioglu, A Strange Woman is by Leyla Erbil, the first Turkish woman to be nominated for the Nobel Prize. The novel presents a challenge for a reader not steeped in the history and culture of 20th Century Turkey.

The novel is divided into four consecutive sections: The Girl, The Father, The Mother, and The Woman. “The Girl” is presented in the first-person voice of Nermin, a seventeen-year-old Turkish girl trying to navigate her way as a poet and a radical thinker in a patriarchal climate with its institutionalized sexist disdain for women. Nermin contends with being objectified by her society and her family. She struggles to free herself from their restrictive shackles.

Section 2, “The Father,” shifts to Nermin’s father. This section is particularly challenging because of its unconventional format and stream of consciousness technique which fluctuates between the father on his death bed and his recollection of the history and political turmoil of early 20th century Turkey. The father rambles about his life as a sailor; his foggy recollection about the death of Mustafa Suphi, the leader of Turkey’s communist party; the death of his brother; and his anger at his daughter’s determination to make all the wrong choices. These disparate threads intertwine and unravel in his narrative as he takes his last breaths.

Section 3, “The Mother,” begins with the father’s memorial service and alternates between Nermin and her mother in a confusing ramble. It is difficult to decipher exactly what is happening.

Section 4, The Woman, takes us back to Nermin as a middle-aged woman. Still espousing leftist ideals, she relocates with her husband to a poor village to live among the people, educate them on their oppression, and incite them to rise against the government. Her passion for the people and her zeal for revolutionary change fall on deaf ears. She is viewed as an anomaly, a strange woman; her message misunderstood. The gap between her leftist ideals and her ability to implement them becomes readily apparent.

The four sections present a multi-faceted perspective of the political climate of 20th century Turkey. Nermin is the left-leaning feminist whose effort to bring about transformational change in society is thwarted at every turn by the patriarchy. Her father is alienated from his wife and daughter and struggles to steer the latter toward a stable lifestyle. And her mother, steeped in tradition, verbally and physically abuses her daughter to beat her into conformity.

The novel is a complex patchwork depicting a culture in transition as seen from different perspectives. The content and unconventional use of punctuation capture a culture in turmoil. Riddled with contradictions and entangled in the quagmire of a changing Turkey, Erdil’s characters fail to understand one another, fail to communicate, and fail to find solid ground amid the shifting sands. The novel provides a window into a turbulent time in modern Turkey, but it is a challenging read for those unfamiliar with Turkish historical references, poems, and songs.

The Hidden Life of Trees: What they Feel, How they Communicate

Peter Wohlleben; translated by Jane Billinghurst

The Hidden Life of Trees: What they Feel, How they Communicate by Peter Wohlleben; translated from the German by Jane Billinghurst, contains some fascinating insights about trees.

Peter Wohlleben spent two decades working for the forestry commission in Germany. He is passionate about trees and shares an intimate knowledge about the different species, their behaviors, idiosyncrasies, habitat, social networks and support structures, and methods for self-preservation. If all this sounds as if Wohlleben anthropomorphizes trees, it is because that is exactly what he does.

Wohlleben speaks of trees in very human terms. Mother trees nurture and protect their offspring. Trees have a strong sense of community and come to the aid of a tree in failing health. They exude a scent that warns other trees of approaching danger from an infestation of hostile insects. They share a robust underground network consisting of roots and fungi through which they communicate and share resources. Trees connect with other life forms and play a vital role in sustaining a healthy environment. Solitary trees, referred to as “street kids,” die early because they are denied the benefits of a community of support.

Wohlleben basis his discussion on groundbreaking research and new discoveries on the life of trees and the vital role they play in the environment. He advocates eco-friendly practices in preserving our forests. His mantra is a happy forest is a healthy forest. He trusts in nature to do a fine job of promoting a healthy planet and advocates a hands-off approach. He provides a litany of examples where human intervention caused damaged to the eco-system.

Wohlleben’s passion for trees is evident and contagious. His vast knowledge on the subject is impressive. Some readers may feel he crosses a bridge too far when he attributes human emotions to trees—claiming trees experience pain; they scream in agony when cut down in the prime of life; babies experience abandonment when separated from their mommies, etc. etc. But if one moves beyond that and accepts his premise that trees are sentient beings intricately linked with all sentient beings in this vast web of life, one can garner many valuable insights about the life and activities of trees. And who knows? One might even begin to “read” trees now that Wohlleben has shown us how.