Lucy By the Sea

Elizabeth Strout

Lucy By the Sea by Elizabeth Strout is another novel in Strout’s “Lucy Barton” series. In this novel, Lucy Barton contends with the Covid pandemic and the subsequent lockdown. The novel unfolds in Lucy’s first-person voice as she struggles to make sense of events. It gradually dawns on her that life will never be quite the same, again.

When Covid hits, Lucy’s former husband, William, whisks her out of New York to a small town in Maine. His goal, as he reveals to Lucy, is to save her life. The two live in virtual isolation, with the occasional visit from William’s friend and neighbor.

Lucy’s voice is authentic and intimate; her tone, conversational. She peppers her interiority by occasionally addressing the reader directly with “you”—as if chatting with us over a cup of tea. She shares flashbacks of her poverty-stricken childhood, her relationship with her mother and siblings, her marriage to William and his infidelities, her second marriage to her now-deceased husband, and her daughters’ struggles in their marriages. Weaving in and out of her personal details are the political upheavals of the period—the death of George Floyd, the Black Lives Matter movement, the general election, and the events of January 6.

Very little happens in the novel. The language is sparse, direct, and unadorned. The focus is on Lucy’s interiority—her thoughts, self-doubts, observations, conversations with friends and family, the people she meets, concern for her daughters, and her writing. She is non-confrontational, somewhat flakey, but likeable. The strength of the novel lies in her intimate tone and authenticity as she struggles to find a foothold in unfamiliar surroundings in unfamiliar times.

A quick and easy read but with minimal substance or depth. The novel will appeal to readers who enjoy following Lucy’s meanderings as she contemplates the past, present, and future.

Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague

Geraldine Brooks

Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague by Geraldine Brooks is set in a village in seventeenth-century England. The story unfolds in the first-person voice of Anna Frith, a young married woman and mother of two children. Anna works as a maid in the village manor and at the local vicarage. She loses her husband in a mining accident, and when the village is infested with the bubonic plague, she loses her two young children.

The plague ignites like wild fire in the village, taking an increasing number of villagers in its wake. Under the advice of the rector, Michael Mompellion, the village self-quarantines to avoid spreading the plague to neighboring areas. Anna and Elinor, the rector’s wife, then begin to educate themselves on natural medicinal herbs and traditional cures to minister to the sick and ease the pain of those in the throes of death.

The physical, emotional, and psychological impact of the plague is described in immersive detail. Some of the villagers become increasingly superstitious, resorting to talismans, self-flagellation, mob violence, and accusations of witchcraft in an eagerness to assign blame. Brooks contrasts those behaviors with the selfless acts of Anna and the Mompelllions. Through all her hardships, Anna perseveres. She grows in confidence as the novel progresses, becoming adept as a midwife and at identifying which herbs and plants remedy specific ailments.

Geraldine Brooks skillfully immerses the reader in detailed descriptions of the landscape, village customs, and the plague’s impact as villagers struggle to cope with an infestation they can neither understand nor obliterate. They look to their rector for guidance. Mompellion serves as the moral beacon for the community. His sermons are spoken with eloquence and passion. He eschews concern for his personal safety by rushing to the bedside of those dying from the plague to provide them with spiritual comfort. Anna sees him as an ideal, selfless individual whose concern is to provide spiritual edification and ensure the well-being of his parishioners. She admires both him and his wife, at times experiencing pangs of jealousy for the love and tenderness they express toward one another. And therein lies one of the major problems with the novel’s ending.

Brooks powerfully evokes a village in the grips of a fatal disease. With a rigorous eye for historic detail and in elegant prose, she depicts the deterioration of a community in despair. The novel works well until its unfortunate ending when it stretches plausibility beyond limits. We are surprised to learn that far from being the unselfish, compassionate human being portrayed throughout, Michael Mompellion reveals himself to be selfish, unforgiving, and cruel in his treatment of his wife. For her part, Anna escapes from the village to end up in—of all places—a harem where she learns Arabic and develops her skills as a healer.

This highly improbable ending with the vicar’s out-of-character revelation in the closing pages of the novel, an ill-conceived romance, a breath-taking escape, and Anna’s final destination all detract from what would otherwise have been a good historical novel.  

I am, I am, I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death

Maggie O’Farrell

In I am, I am, I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death, Maggie O’Farrell chronicles seventeen, self-contained episodes in which she comes close to death. Each chapter heading specifies the body part that was in the most danger. Although not chronologically sequenced, the chapters span O’Farrell’s life as a child, a teenager, an adult, a wife, and a mother.

O’Farrell’s brushes with death vary in intensity. Some are more harrowing than others. These include childhood encephalitis and its lingering effects, near fatal bouts with amoebic dysentery, an almost fatal hemorrhage during childbirth, as a passenger on an airplane that temporarily plummets out of control, a narrow escape from a rapist/murderer, a potential drowning, and a mugging by a machete-wielding thief. The final chapter describes her constant vigilance and the treatment required to keep alive her daughter who suffers from life-threateningly severe immunological and dermatological disorders.  

In spite of her multiple brushes with death, O’Farrell does not wallow in self-pity. But the experiences impact her by altering her perceptions permanently. She concedes that near death experiences make one wiser and sadder and more fully cognizant of the thin membrane that separates life from death.

O’Farrell communicates the intensity and fear of each experience in detailed, evocative diction. Her fear and anxiety are palpable. This is particularly evident in the final chapter in which she describes her daughter’s condition in detail and the many precautions she undertakes as a mother to preserve her daughter’s life. In minute detail, she lists the otherwise mundane things that can trigger a potentially life-threatening attack. She conveys the tension simmering underneath as she smiles at her daughter’s care-givers and explains her condition. She expresses her gratitude to friends and family who include her daughter in their invitations and sweep clean their homes of anything that might trigger an attack. She hides her frustration and anger at the insensitivity of others.

What emerges from this unconventional memoir is Maggie O’Farrell’s resilience and ability to pick herself up and forge ahead. Her diction is compelling and visceral. The physical and mental impact of what might have happened is given equal weight as to what actually does happen. She articulates the impact of these brushes with death with eloquence, clarity, and dignity. Although her experiences are unique, O’Farrell’s gripping vignettes remind us that life-threatening incidents—some of which may be self-induced while others are a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—can materialize in a split second and alter the trajectory of lives forever.

A compelling and thoughtful memoir. Highly recommended.

Winter in Sokcho

Elisa Shua Dusapin; trans. Aneesa Abbas Higgins

Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin, translated from the French by Aneesa Abbas Higgins, unfolds in the first-person voice of a nameless twenty-four-year-old woman who works at a run-down sea-side resort close to the demilitarized zone between north and south Korea. The narrator is of mixed race with a French father who disappeared before she was born and a Korean mother.

The narrator goes through the motions of cleaning guest rooms, cooking, and checking guests in and out. She has a boyfriend although she shows little interest in him. She has a binge and purge eating disorder which kicks in every time she has a meal with her mother. She resists her mother’s pressures to eat, to marry, and to consider cosmetic surgery, not necessarily in that order. Although she had an opportunity to continue her education after obtaining her degree from Seoul University, she opted to return to Sokcho. She leads a routine, humdrum existence and shows no ambition to move forward in her life. She is a loner and feels isolated. And then Kerrand, a French graphic artist, checks into the hotel and asks her to show him around the area.

Very little happens in the novel since most of the action occurs beneath the surface. Immersive descriptions of Sokcho, the surrounding area, and the bitterly cold temperatures serve as the backdrop. Descriptions of the chopping and gutting of fish, as well as elaborate preparations and consumption of meals pepper the narrative. Most of the novel consists of the narrator’s conversations and interactions with Kerrand. At times their conversations are comfortable; at other times, they are fraught with tension. Her interiority reflects the complexity of her emotions. She rummages through his belongings when cleaning his room to satisfy her curiosity about him and his art. She alternates between wanting to be with him and pushing him away. She weighs her words when speaking to him, but leaves a lot unsaid. The relationship doesn’t develop, and, eventually, Kerrand announces his departure.

The novel captures the young woman’s internal life as she explores her mixed heritage, resists her mother’s ongoing demands, bundles up to keep warm in freezing temperatures, observes a female hotel guest who has had cosmetic surgery, disengages from her boyfriend, and obsesses about Kerrand. The diction is economic and spare but packs an emotional punch. At one point, the narrator describes Koreans as living in limbo since the potential for war is omnipresent. The description is applicable to the narrator. She seems to be on the edge of a precipice, living in limbo, waiting, biding her time until something happens. Her voice, laced with melancholy and resignation, gives the novel its strength.

George Orwell: A Collection of Essays

George Orwell

George Orwell’s A Collection of Essays continues to inspire. Included in this collection is “Such, Such Were the Joys,” describing Orwell’s traumatic early school years in an English boarding school; “Shooting an Elephant,” narrating an experience he had in Burma which shed light on the nature of colonialism; “Marrakech,” illustrating colonialism’s marginalization of people of color; “Looking Back on the Spanish Civil War,” summarizing Orwell’s view on the war; “Politics and the English Language,” decrying slovenly, abstract language, and showing its relationship with slovenly thinking; and “Why I Write,” articulating Orwell’s motivation for writing. Many of his essays continue to resonate.

Orwell’s prose is clear, precise, and to the point. He refrains from using pretentious jargon, doesn’t dance around with his words, or camouflage his meaning. He relishes in the details of daily life and displays an uncanny ability to locate significance in an otherwise trivial event. His themes are political with a focus on systemic, institutionalized oppression and racism. Orwell’s discussion of how language can be used as a tool to foster totalitarianism through its distortion of reality, intentional obfuscation of meaning, and proliferation of lies acts as a cautionary warning. His words are particularly relevant today as we struggle with fake news and incendiary language.

Orwell was well ahead of his time in his thinking and in warning of the dangers of sloppy language and sloppy thinking; the deleterious impact of institutionalized racism; and the need for a prose that is succinct, specific, and conveys meaning. He argues we are bombarded with messages in our everyday lives seeping into our minds and influencing our thinking. His essays are prescient; his prose intimate, honest, and lucid. His ideas, thoughts, and style are as relevant today as they were when they first appeared decades ago.

Orwell was a man on a mission to raise awareness of the injustices he encountered. His advocacy for a truly democratic and socially equitable society speaks to us across the decades.

Highly recommended.

Walking on the Ceiling

Aysegul Savas

Walking on the Ceiling by Aysegul Savas unfolds in the first-person point of view of Nunu. The narrative consists of two, intertwining threads. In the first thread, Nunu recalls her past: growing up in Istanbul, living in London with her then boyfriend, and her complex relationship with her mother. The second thread consists of Nunu as a student in Paris and her attachment to the author M. She describes their long walks together through the streets of Paris, their conversations, and the stories they share. The novel takes the form of flashbacks and short vignettes. It has little to no plot.

Nunu’s interior is rich, complex, and mesmerizing. Her voice is intimate, allowing brief glimpses of her troubled childhood, the mind-games she plays with her mother, and their failed attempts at connection. She is intentionally evasive about her past, dropping hints here and there but never elaborating. Her critical observations and analyses are reserved for those around her and for the city streets she frequents in the alternating cities. The short, non-linear chapters, sometimes no longer than one or two lines, replicate the snippets of memory she conjures.

By her own admission, Nunu lies. She creates fictionalized versions of herself to enchant the people around her. She fabricates a version of her home life to her boyfriend in England, a different version to her university roommate, and yet another version to M. She lies to her mother and aunts about her life in Paris. She appropriates and embellishes her mother’s stories, claiming them as her own. She lies to M by claiming to write a novel about her mother’s former neighbor. Her identity is fluid. She determines what her audience needs to see in her, and she obliges by projecting the required persona. As a result, she remains an enigma both to her audience and to her readers.

The writing is elegant and spare; the tone is intimate, muted, and permeated with a profound sense of loneliness. Nunu is never boring. We watch as she gets close to an individual and then retreats if she feels she is revealing too much of herself or her life. Her vivid imagination enables her to describe scenes and characters with the eyes of a poet. Her uncanny ability to focus on seemingly inconsequential details enables her to speak volumes about a character by, for example, simply focusing on his hand gestures. Her voice is hypnotic.

This is a stunning novel in which the action—if it can even be called action—consists of a fascinating exploration of a character’s interiority and the role memory and story-telling play in creating fictionalized versions of herself.

Highly recommended.

The Gift of Rain

Tan Twan Eng

The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng is set in the Malayan Island of Penang. It unfolds in the first-person voice of Philip Hutton, a man in his seventies and of mixed heritage. Michiko, an aging Japanese woman, visits him to learn about his past friendship with Hayato Endo-san, the Japanese Aikido master. At first, Philip is reluctant to dredge up painful memories of the past, but Michiko encourages and coaxes him.

The narrative then takes the form of an extended flashback, beginning in the late 1930s, with Philip recalling how, at sixteen-years-old, he became Endo-san’s student. His enduring bond with his Japanese sensei lasted through the Japanese occupation of Malay until Endo-san’s death with Japan’s defeat in World War II. Peppered throughout the extended flashback are Philip’s and Michiko’s comments on the unfolding narrative with Michiko coaxing Philip to reveal more of his story.

Philip, the son of a highly prominent English business man and a Chinese mother who died when he was young, struggles with his identity. He meets Endo-san who offers to teach him Aikido. As Endo-san’s student, Philip gains confidence in himself, learns self-discipline, and becomes increasingly adept at Aikido. He hero-worships Endo-san and clings to him as he would to a life-saving device.

Philip complies with Endo-san’s request to show him around the island and provide him with maps, all the while suppressing his suspicions of Endo-san’s motives. He remains loyal to his sensei even when he discovers Endo-san has been spying for the Japanese and has used him to provide information for its invasion of Malay. After Japan’s invasion of the island, Philip agrees to work for the Japanese occupiers in exchange for commitments to protect his family. The increasing brutality of the Japanese spurs him to take on the dual role of collaborator and freedom-fighter. On the one hand, he works as a translator and liaison for the Japanese, witnessing torture, atrocities, and executions; on the other hand, he saves lives by warning resistance fighters of impending Japanese raids. He is viewed by one side as a traitor and is ostracized by his family for working with the Japanese. He is viewed with suspicion by the other side, his Japanese overlords.

Philip is an unreliable and naïve narrator who sees only what he wants to see and rejects warnings about Endo-san’s motives. His allegiance to Endo-san and his alliance with the Japanese infuriates his family, but he persists. Tan Twan Eng captures the complexity of Philip’s divided loyalties as he waffles between loyalty to his sensei, horror at Japanese actions, and a desire to protect his family.

The novel is epic in scope and immersive in nature. Using lyrical diction, Tan Twan Eng immerses the reader in the lush and verdant island of Malay with its colorful architecture, multi-ethnic foods, multi-cultural traditions, and diverse population. The atrocities perpetrated by the Japanese are described in graphic detail. And in spite of some unnecessarily detailed description of martial arts and an irritating, waffling narrator with a penchant for childish introspection, the novel accomplishes a great deal in its depiction of divided loyalties, familial love, friendship, betrayal, and the desperate acts of survival of a population under occupation.

Augustus

John Williams

John Williams did it, again. His last novel, Augustus, is another brilliant novel that attests to his remarkable, wide-ranging talent as an author. The novel earned him the 1973 U.S. National Book Award for Fiction.

The novel is a compelling re-telling of the life of Octavius Caesar Augustus, Rome’s first emperor. When his uncle, Julius Caesar, is murdered, eighteen-year-old Octavius finds himself the ruler of the Roman Republic. The next sixty years of his life consists of consolidating his rule, fighting enemies, establishing and stabilizing the Roman empire.

The novel unfolds through a series of letters, journal entries, excerpts from memoirs, dispatches, and senate dictates. These are presented in non-chronological order and delivered in the first-person voices of a multitude of historical and fictional figures vividly brought to life through their own words. They provide nuanced perspectives on the same event by describing it through different sets of lenses. Included in the voices are Caesar’s loyal friends, those who betrayed him, his enemies, his wives, his daughter, his nephews, his nieces, his step-children, his military leaders, and the prominent poets and philosophers of his court.

Woven throughout are stories of betrayal, lust, greed, intrigue, murder, suicide, and political jockeying for power. The Octavius Caesar who emerges through the voices of others is a complex individual. On the one hand, he is a gentle loving father who values the loyalty and friendship of others. On the other hand, he is a ruthless politician desperately trying to hold the empire together at whatever cost while fighting civil wars and fending off political challenges.

It is not until the final section of the book, with Octavius Caesar Augustus now in his seventies and close to death, that we hear his voice for the first time. In a poignant letter to his old friend Nicolaus, Caesar recalls his life, assesses his successes and failures, remembers his friends and enemies, evaluates his legacy, and muses on the qualities that give life meaning. In this, the most compelling section of the book, an aging Octavius Caesar speaks with wisdom, insight, and pathos. The man, addressed as a god during his lifetime, emerges as a conflicted, flawed, ambitious, disciplined, and devastating real human being. In his last days, he confronts himself. He lists his accomplishments and acknowledges their temporary nature. The only force that can endure the onslaught of time, he argues, is love. And his love for his daughter and his love for Rome was never in short supply. It guided his every move.

Although he conducted extensive research on his subject, John Williams acknowledges this is primarily a work of fiction with invented characters and invented records. But the historical inaccuracies don’t matter. What does matter is Williams has given us a work of historical fiction, epic in scope, with a nuanced, humanized, and compelling portrait of the first Roman emperor. And he has done it in a prose style recognizably his—subtle, understated, unsentimental, attentive to detail, quiet, effortless, immersive. And magical.

Very highly recommended.

Orwell's Roses

Rebecca Solnit

Orwell’s Roses by Rebecca Solnit is proof—although proof is hardly necessary—that Solnit is a great thinker whose prose is articulate, insightful, and thought-provoking. In this book, she takes as her starting point an invitation to view the roses George Orwell planted in the Hertfordshire garden of his rented cottage in Wallington. Solnit explores George Orwell’s life, politics, writing, and passion for gardening and for all things of the earth. Solnit begins most of the seven sections in the book with variations of the words, “In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses.” From these very simple words, she introduces us to the brilliant mind of George Orwell.

Solnit Traces Orwell’s career, includes biographical details of his life and political convictions, cites copiously from his essays and novels, and probes his ideas. She explains why Orwell changed his name from Eric Blair to George Orwell. She explores the impact his slave-owning ancestors in Jamaica had on his political views. She argues convincingly that his passion for social justice was intertwined with his passion for gardening, for connecting with nature, and for the ordinary and mundane that endowed his life with meaning. She highlights Orwell’s discerning eye for detail and for list-making. She commends him for having the courage of his convictions and for putting his life on the line for his political beliefs. Through his writing Orwell, exposed the brutal working conditions of coal miners by experiencing first-hand what work in a coal mine was like. He joined the fight against fascism in Spain during the Spanish Civil War. He argued vociferously about the crucial role language plays in determining the nature of society—whether it is totalitarian or one premised on liberty and individual freedoms.  

Orwell’s words and thoughts are catalysts for Solnit’s own journey. She explores the symbolism of roses. She takes the reader to Colombia to expose the horrendous working conditions of those employed in the assembly line production of roses. She looks into the origins of the political slogan “Bread and Roses” and analyzes its symbolism. She draws connections with Tina Modotti’s roses and Stalin’s lemons. She echoes Orwell’s concern for the distance between a product—whether it is coal or roses—and the back-breaking labor it took to produce it. Like Orwell, she sings the praises of art as an act of resistance and as a means of replenishing the soul. And she concludes with a discussion of Orwell’s 1984.

Solnit’s elegant meanderings and far-reaching connections cover a wide range of topics. At its core, this is a collection of interlinked essays, political in nature, about the struggle for justice and freedom; the goals of totalitarian governments and the means by which they achieve them; the exploitation of labor; human suffering; and the devastations caused by climate change. It is also about the beauty and joy to be found in nature, in art, and in the mundane activities of everyday life. And, finally, it is a celebration of the sensitive, grounded, socially conscious, progressive, and brilliant mind of George Orwell.

Very highly recommended for the revelations about George Orwell and for the lucidity of Solnit’s insights and the elegance of her prose.

Hotel Iris

Yoko Igawo; trans. Stephen Snyder

Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa, translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder, unfolds in the first-person point of view of seventeen-year-old Mari who works in a seaside hotel.

Mari, whose father died when she was young, helps her mother run their hotel. She sits behind the reception desk, cleans, cooks, and performs a multitude of tasks. Although her mother is cruel and abusive, Mari offers no resistance. She is docile and complies with her mother’s incessant demands. But when a middle-aged man and his prostitute are thrown out of the hotel for screaming at each other, we learn Mari is not all she appears to be.

Mari is intrigued by the middle-aged man and follows him around town. When he confronts her, they strike up a conversation. He reveals he is a translator and lives alone on a nearby island. He seems polite, reserved, and treats Mari like a delicate flower. But when they go to his home, his persona undergoes a radical shift and he launches into a variety of sadistic sexual practices. In diction that is clinical and unemotional, Mari describes a series of horrifying, sexual activities she is forced to endure, including bondage, beatings, rape, groveling on all fours, torture, humiliation, and submission. The descriptions are graphic and disturbing. Not only does docile, timid Mari enjoy these sexual encounters, she keeps coming back for more.

This unusual novel is populated with unusual characters and social misfits. In addition to the translator with a penchant for sadistic sexual activity, Mari contends with her domineering mother, a kleptomaniac cleaning lady, and the translator’s tongueless, mute nephew.

Yoko Ogawa also wrote the tender and beautiful love story, The Housekeeper and the Professor. Yet the two novels cannot be more different. Hotel Iris is strange and baffling in so many ways. Is it about a young girl’s sexual awakening? Is it about a young girl’s rebellion against the restrictions imposed by her mother? Is it about a young girl seeking a substitute for her deceased father? Is it about sadomasochism and why some derive pleasure from it? Is it about a twisted love affair? Is it about how pain and suffering can mingle with pleasure? Is it about two people, full of self-loathing, who feel neglected by the world around them, and who turn that anger towards themselves and each other? Is it all of the above?

I wish I knew the answer. But, to be honest, I am totally flummoxed by the novel and cannot explain the why or the what or the wherefore. This novel was not for me. Definitely not for me.

Ithaca

Claire North

Ithaca by Claire North is the first book in a trilogy about Penelope’s Ithaca as she struggles to hold the kingdom together during Odysseus’ absence. The narrative is replete with intrigue, spies, trickery, subterfuge, power plays, and betrayal. North takes the unusual step of telling the story through the first-person voice of Hera, the queen of the gods.

Hera is a formidable narrator. She is snarky, funny, sarcastic, and with a sharp tongue quick to spout contemporary idioms. She is fiercely determined to help Penelope without attracting the attention of the other gods. She observes the action from the vantage point of a goddess with a bird’s-eye view of Ithaca, zooms in to its more intimate spaces, and gives access to men only conversations and gatherings denied to women. She steers events unobtrusively, ridicules men, critiques male heroes and the poets who honor their exploits while completely overlooking the role of women in their successes, bemoans her position as a sister/wife of convenience to the king of the gods, and reserves her most scathing commentary for her relatives in the Greek pantheon.

North focuses her lens unremittingly on the world of women as they work in the shadows. They plot and scheme in secret, unobserved and underestimated by men who see them merely as objects for sexual gratification. Penelope is intelligent and skillful in navigating the labyrinth of obstacles and hordes of suitors plaguing her home. Clytemnestra is fiercely unrepentant. And Elektra is intelligent, clear-sighted, and articulate—in contrast to her brother who is portrayed as a dithery weakling. North also includes appearances by Artemis and Athena, as well as a wide array of female servants, priestesses, and a fearless Amazon warrior.

This imaginative and fascinating take on Penelope’s Ithaca is broad in scope, populated by resourceful females, and decidedly feminist in its orientation. A familiarity with the Greek pantheon and many of the stories in Greek mythology is essential to understanding Hera’s quips and barbs and references—the source of much of the humor in the narrative. The occasional shifts in point of view from first-person to third may be disconcerting for some. But the writing is fast-paced and engaging. The lens on women and their intelligent, behind-the-scenes activities under the very noses of men is intriguing. Although the focus is ostensibly on Penelope, it is actually Hera who commands the spotlight with her narrative voice, irreverent attitude, sharp tongue, and brutal honesty.

Highly recommended for its fresh and delightful take on a classical Greek myth.

Walk the Blue Fields

Claire Keegan

Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan is a collection of seven short stories in Keegan’s recognizably subtle and unassuming style. The short stories capture pivotal moments in time in her characters’ lives. Set in a changing Ireland, Keegan’s stories transcend time and place and speak to loneliness and pain, as well as to the universal need for human connection.

The stories explore human relationships and behaviors in all their complexity. A young girl leaves home after decades of abuse. A priest performs a marriage ceremony for his former lover. A woman’s disappointment in her marriage exacts revenge on her selfish husband. A man loses the love of his life for his thoughtless behavior. A police sergeant decides to surrender to marriage when he receives the woman’s ultimatum threatening to end their relationship. A writer uses an unwelcome interruption as material for her writing. A superstitious woman finds love in a temporary relationship with her neighbor, a loner who lives with his goat.

A tone of melancholy permeates these stories. Keegan’s ability to convey the fragility, pain, and loneliness of her characters in sparse diction and evocative imagery is nothing short of masterful. She writes with eloquence and delicacy. Her flawed characters are real, relatable, and depicted with tender strokes. Her diction, especially when conveying dialogue, authentically captures the cadence, rhythm, and beauty of the Irish tongue.

A wonderful collection of short stories set in Ireland and peopled by characters who transcend time and place in their losses, regrets, loneliness, and longings for connection.

Very highly recommended.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles

Thomas Hardy

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy is the story of a young woman brought down by circumstances beyond her control. The setting is Hardy’s fictional Wessex.

Tess Durbeyfield is the eldest of several children. She has assumed the role of parenting her siblings since both parents have abdicated their responsibilities. Tess blames herself for causing an unfortunate accident resulting in the death of their only horse. This begins a series of unfortunate circumstances and coincidences, catapulting Tess from one disaster to another.

Her parents exploit her feelings of guilt and send her out into the world to claim kin from their ostensible relatives, the wealthy D’Urbervilles. The beautiful young Tess is hounded by the son, Alec.

Tess is in her element in nature. She is associated with nature, the rustic outdoors, and natural purity. Most of the novel takes place on country roads, in woods or fields in a Wessex bustling with agricultural activity. Hardy’s strength lies in his depiction of the pastoral environment. The language describing animals and landscape is lush with natural abundance. He draws the reader in with diction that is detailed, immersive, visual, and stunningly beautiful. He laments the changing world of labor, setting up a contrast between traditional rural labor and the introduction of threshing machines that dehumanize the laborer.

Tess is seen to be glaringly out of place against the incursions of modernity. Hardy portrays her as a pure, innocent young girl, more comfortable in nature than in society. Her beauty and innocence work against her, making her prey to an unscrupulous predator. Her parents fail her; men who claim to love her abuse and abandon her; and a society riddled with injustice and a gendered double standard is quick to condemn her. Hardy evokes sympathy and compassion for his heroine while critiquing the society that gives rise to her tragic circumstances.

This timeless classic is a plea for social justice. Tess is victimized by socially constructed laws that conspire to discriminate against women—laws that privilege men over women, laws that blame women when they are victimized by the men who exert power over them. Hardy is unabashedly on the side of women. He uses as his vehicle a young, innocent girl betrayed by everyone around her and condemned unfairly by society. In Tess he has created one of the most memorable protagonists in literature. She garners sympathy, compassion, and pity in her pleas for understanding and in her attempts to overcome the myriad of obstacles thrust in her way.

In this his second to last novel, Hardy makes an eloquent plea for social justice and equality.

Highly recommended.

Butcher's Crossing

John Williams

Butcher’s Crossing by John Williams is not so much a novel about the wild west as it is a novel set in the west—in Kansas and Colorado of the 1870s, to be precise. It is a bildungsroman and so much more.

A young Will Andrews leaves Harvard in search of adventure and in search of himself. He heads to Butcher’s Crossing in Kansas lured by the wildness of the wide, open spaces of the west. After a meeting with Miller, an experienced buffalo hunter, Will agrees to finance an expedition to Colorado to hunt for buffalo. Accompanying them on the hunt are Charley Hoge and Fred Schneider. The tasks are assigned: Miller kills the buffalo; Charley cooks; Schneider skins the buffalo with Will as his apprentice. After a long, arduous journey across Kansas and the mountains of Colorado, the hunting party encounters a herd of nearly 5,000 buffalo. A veritable frenzy of killing and skinning ensues.

The narrative unfolds in third person limited omniscient point of view with a focus on Will. He is a novice at the beginning of the killing spree, overcome with the stench, the blood, and the sheer numbers of dead buffalo piling up. Under Schneider’s tutelage, he learns to skin buffalo and soon grows accustomed to the stench of buffalo hide and rotting buffalo meat. The buffalo hides pile up until Miller has wiped out nearly the whole herd. Even though winter is looming on the horizon, Miller refuses to head home until he has killed every last buffalo. He becomes a man obsessed. And then it is too late. The snows set in and the hunting party is forced to spend several months sheltering until Spring. The survivors make it back to Butcher’s Crossing only to discover the town and so much more has changed.

In diction that is unsentimental and attentive to detail, Williams has produced a timeless masterpiece. The pace is slow and steady. The characters are vividly portrayed, from the whiskey-drinking, bible-thumping Charley; to the cantankerous Schneider; to the inexperienced Will. Miller, the skilled buffalo hunter, looms larger than life with his knowledge of the terrain and impressive survival skills. But he assumes the guise of an Ahab in his obsession to kill more and more buffalo.

Williams sets his characters in a landscape rich in immersive detail. The stench, the heat, the snow, the dust, the blood, the aching bodies, the mosquitoes, the beans, the coffee, and above all, the buffalo all mingle together in a vivid backdrop. Against this backdrop, the men are exposed to extreme situations and reduced to their most fundamental elements.

The novel is about the human need to find purpose. It is about man pitted against nature. It is about resilience and survival against overwhelming odds. It is about a man’s coming of age. It is about man’s insatiable appetite for more and the greed that reduces men to butchers ravaging pillaging the environment in the name of profit and littering the land with evidence of their carnage.

The novel is set in the west. But it is not just about the west. It is about more than that. It is so much more than the sum of its parts.

My Name is Lucy Barton

Elizabeth Strout

My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout unfolds in the first-person point of view of a writer desperate to reconcile with her estranged mother and struggling to make sense of her upbringing in a dysfunctional and abusive family. The novel is framed as an extended flashback.

Lucy Barton spends several weeks in hospital after experiencing complications from a routine surgery. She wakes up one morning only to find her estranged mother sitting in her hospital room. Her mother’s unexpected presence conjures up childhood memories. The mother-daughter dialogue is tentative at first. But eventually they get into the swing of gossiping about Lucy’s friends from school, who is married, who is divorced, and whatever happened to so-and so. Peppered throughout are descriptions of Lucy’s poverty-ridden childhood, a childhood riddled with deprivation and suggesting cruelty and abuse. Lucy skirts around these issues, never confronting her mother for fear of upsetting her.

The novel consists of a series of vignettes from Lucy’s childhood interspersed with conversations with her mother. Lucy values the change she hears in her mother’s voice when she adopts a story-telling voice in speaking of the people they knew. It makes no difference what her mother says as long as she continues to talk. Lucy is eager to garner whatever information she can about her father’s time in the war and about her mother’s struggles with raising children. But her mother is never forthcoming with details. She prefers to engage in gossipy babble.

Lucy flashes back to her childhood, her marriage, her two children, and her struggles to become a writer. She flashes forward, briefly mentioning the death of her mother, her divorce years after her hospital stay, and her re-marriage. But the information is fragmentary, so the reader never gets a complete picture.

Very little happens in the novel. But in the character of Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout has created a complex woman desperate to connect with her mother while trying to come to terms with her past. She reverts to her childlike self when hearing her mother’s story-telling voice. But as an adult, she craves more. She wants recognition and acknowledgement of her accomplishments from a woman who is incapable of giving it openly.

This is a story of a woman who loves her mother and a mother who loves her daughter but is incapable of showing it. What emerges is the complex nature of this mother-daughter relationship, a relationship fraught with tension. Simmering underneath their love for one another is a layer of unexpressed emotions, unasked questions, repressed recriminations, and buried pain. Elizabeth Strout captures the tension in straightforward diction and a detached tone devoid of sentimentality.

Foster

Claire Keegan

Foster by Claire Keegan is a quiet, tender story about a young Irish girl’s stay with foster parents during a summer.

The story unfolds in the first-person point of view of the young girl. Her father unceremoniously drops her off at a farm to live with her mother’s relatives while her mother prepares to have yet another child. Initially, the girl takes tremulous steps in her unfamiliar surroundings. She is fearful of doing the wrong thing and anticipates a verbal reprimand—or worse—at every turn. Instead, the foster couple shower her with love, and a kindness and respect she has never known. She compares the cramped atmosphere in her home with the expansive atmosphere in her foster parents’ home. Astute and observant, she is attuned to subtle changes in those around her. Slowly but surely, the girl blossoms, becoming more confident and secure in the routine of their daily lives.

There is little to no plot in the story. The movement is slow; the diction lyrical. Keegan’s prose is subtle, leaving the reader to fill in the gaps and draw conclusions. She hints at the girl’s challenging home life in a poverty-stricken family with more children than her parents can handle. The story builds up slowly to the final, heart-breaking scene when the girl has to return home to her parents.

A touching, beautiful story that unfolds in subtle diction and subdued tone.

Dead Souls

Nikolai Gogol; translated by Andrew MacAndrew

 First published in 1842, Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls tells the story of Chichikov, a middle-aged man, as he arrives in a small town and begins to purchase “dead souls” from their landowners. At that time, landowners were taxed according to the number of serfs they owned. They were required to pay taxes for all of them until the next census even for those serfs who had died in the interim. Chichikov purchases the deceased serfs in name only, claiming them as his possession and relieving the landlord of paying their tax. His reason for doing so is not revealed until the end of the novel. He encounters corrupt officials and various landlords, all of whom are willing to support him until rumors circulate, accusing him of nefarious activities.

Chichikov’s exploits form the backdrop of what is essentially a satire. Gogol satirizes Russian society with its rampant hypocrisy, corruption, unethical behaviors, and bureaucratic quagmire. He exposes its warts to rouse the reader into implementing change. His satire is threaded with humor. His characters are caricatures but each is assigned with a unique set of quirks.

The most enjoyable aspect of the novel is not the story of Chichikov, or of why he purchases dead souls, or the parade of caricatures. It is the narrative voice with its whimsy, humor, sarcasm, asides, digressions, and satirical commentary on Russian society. The narrator frequently interrupts the narrative to address the reader directly. His discerning critique of society, eye for human foibles, gentle humor, and ability to engage his readers make this a charming and delightful read.

Highly recommended.

The Sense of an Ending

Julian Barnes

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes unfolds in the first-person point of view of Tony Webster, a grandfather and retired divorcee. In two parts, the novel explores how memory can be manipulated to uphold our self-image.

Part 1 of the novel takes us back to Webster’s school days and early university years. He recalls his friendship with three boys, the most memorable of whom is his brilliant but enigmatic friend, Adrian Finn. Webster has a brief romance with the mysterious Veronica. After he breaks up with her, he receives a letter from Adrian asking his permission to go out with Veronica. Webster responds with a scathing letter, the details of which he glosses over until Veronica sends him a copy of his letter decades later. Shortly after sending the letter, he receives news of Adrian’s suicide.

Part 2 takes place around 40 years later. In the interim Webster reveals he has led a very ordinary life, been married and is now divorced, has a grown daughter, and is a grandfather. Having led a very humdrum existence by his own admission, he is surprised when he receives a letter from an attorney informing him of his inheritance of five hundred pounds from Veronica’s recently deceased mother, a woman he had met very briefly when he spent a weekend at Veronica’s home decades ago. She also left him Adrian’s diary. Webster receives the money, but Veronica, who has taken possession of Adrian’s diary, refuses to release it. There follows a cat and mouse game between Veronica and Webster about Adrian’s diary and about the events of the past. The situation is shrouded in a mystery which is partially resolved in the end. Although there is an ending, it is only the “sense” of an ending since much is left unanswered.

John Webster emerges as an unreliable, somewhat obtuse narrator. He seems to drift aimlessly through life, avoiding deep emotions and strong commitments. News of the death of Veronica’s mother and of Adrian’s diary, as well as his later interactions with Veronica, set him on a quest to re-evaluate his life and the veracity of his memories. He scrutinizes his past and acknowledges that he missed clues, probably mis-remembered much, and had refused to take responsibility for past mistakes.

This short novel explores the role of memory in reinforcing self-image—what we choose to remember, how we choose to remember it, and what we choose to forget. The ending denouement solves some of the mystery and triggers Webster’s epiphany, but since questions are left unanswered, the ending is not fully satisfying.

Small Things Like These

Claire Keegan

Claire Keegan’s novella, Small Things Like These, is a quiet read that packs a powerful punch.

The setting is a small Irish town in 1985, just before Christmas. Bill Furlong, the local coal merchant, is happily married and a loving and gentle father to his five daughters. The son of an unwed mother who worked as a live-in maid, he was raised in the home of his mother’s employer, a kind, generous woman who helped him gain access to middle-class status. Bill is hard-working and compassionate. He makes his coal deliveries to homes in the community and is appreciated and respected by the residents.

Just before Christmas, Bill makes a delivery to the local convent that functions as a Magdalen Laundry. Although the towns’ people suspect horrific abuses lurking in the convent, they choose to ignore them. The ostensible purpose of Magdalen Laundries, the last one of which closed down in 1996, was to rehabilitate young girls who were pregnant and/or fallen on hard times. Instead of a charitable haven, these institutions functioned as prisons, forcing girls into virtual slavery. Exploited and abused, the girls’ labor generated income for the convent’s laundry business. It is not known how many girls and infants died in these facilities as few records have been kept.

Bill encounters one of these young girls locked in the coal house when he delivers coal to the convent. She is shivering and barefoot. She reveals her baby was taken away from her and she has no knowledge of his whereabouts. Bill returns her to the convent but feels distinctly uneasy about doing so. Thoughts of the young girl and her dire predicament continue to haunt him. He decides to take matters into his own hands even though he is cautioned his decision might have negative repercussions on his family, especially his daughters’ ability to attend the Catholic school.

The novella does not elaborate on the horrors of the Magdalen Laundries. Instead, the focus is on Bill as he goes through the motions of the day, all the while haunted by the image of the young girl. He draws comparisons between the young girl and his own mother had her employer thrown her out for her illegitimate pregnancy. The tension slowly but powerfully builds up as Bill struggles with an unsettling situation he cannot ignore.

Bill’s response to injustice unfolds in powerful, lyrical diction. The details of small things and meaningful gestures accumulate as he struggles with his decision. The dialogue captures the beauty, pulse, and rhythm of the Irish spoken words. This gem of a novel, with its sensitive and courageous protagonist and its quiet, powerful diction will leave a lingering and profound impression.

Highly recommended.

The Lost Art of Scripture: Rescuing the Sacred Texts

Karen Armstrong

The depth and scope of Karen Armstrong’s expertise in scripture and the history of religion is on full display in The Lost Art of Scripture: Rescuing the Sacred Texts.

Armstrong argues there has been a gradual narrowing of focus in the major religious traditions, a narrowing that has accelerated over the last hundred years. Religious texts, which were once considered open-ended and a path to spiritual awareness and transcendence, have been distorted to promote a narrow set of beliefs and political agenda. She claims this impoverishment of scripture leads to arrogance, intolerance, religious bigotry, and violence. Instead of reading scripture to achieve transformation, Armstrong claims we now read it to confirm our views and to prove our enemies wrong. Alternatively, we dismiss it entirely. She advocates for a restoration of the original intent of all religious texts.

To support her argument, Armstrong traces the beginnings and historical developments of the major religious traditions, including Judaism, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, as well as some of their offshoots. She discusses the major figures who have influenced the tradition and traces the trajectories of each tradition. She claims the diverse traditions have in common denial of the ego and insistence on the alleviation of the suffering of others, including those outside of one’s own group.

Armstrong distinguishes between the methodology and goals of science and those of Scripture. Unlike science, scripture is not morally neutral. Its goal is to facilitate our moral and spiritual transformation; to enhance our spiritualty; to enrich our humanity; to connect us with all of creation; and to evoke a sense of wonder, respect, and reverence for the cosmos, for the natural world, and for all that reside within it. Its methodology is non-scientific. Using ritual, music, and recitation to achieve its goals, scripture was never meant to be interpreted literally. It is intended to be evolving, flexible, and contextual.

Armstrong’s knowledge of the religious texts and traditions is extensive. She places each in its historical context and draws out parallels and similarities between the various traditions. Her scope is wide. But she drowns the reader with such an excess of detailed information that the material becomes unwieldy. She contextualizes a scripture in a historical era, then shifts to the development of a second, third, and fourth scripture during the same historical era. She then returns to the first scripture and moves it forward to the next phase in its historical development. The same format is repeated throughout. This discussion of alternating scriptures has the benefit of broadening scope and showing general global trends throughout various historical periods. But the excessive detail and shifting of traditions is confusing.

The panoramic scope of this work is impressive. The stated mission to rescue sacred texts from narrow, literal interpretations is highly commendable. But by assigning blame of the narrow reading of scripture to excessive reliance on left-brain thinking, Armstrong reduces a complex issue to a simplistic formula. However, if this extensive study spurs a re-reading of scripture that enhances compassion and understanding for the weak and marginalized, Karen Armstrong deserves our gratitude and praise.