A Passage North

Anuk Arudpragasam

A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam deals with the aftermath of a bloody civil war in Sri Lanka which began in the 1980s and raged for nearly three decades. The central character, Krishan, is a young man who escaped the horrors of the war by studying in India. He returns home to work at an NGO. The novel opens with Krishan receiving news that his grandmother’s caregiver has died unexpectedly while visiting her daughter. The news catapults Krishan on an existential odyssey in which he questions his purpose in life while simultaneously exploring the impact of the civil war on survivors who lost loved ones. The novel covers a two-day span in which very little happens.

Krishan lost his father during the civil war and lives with his mother and aging grandmother. When his grandmother’s condition requires full-time care, Krishan hires Rani, a woman severely traumatized by losing both her young sons during the civil war. Rani and Krishan’s grandmother form a strong bond and for a while it seems as if they are both able to lift each other’s spirits. So it comes as a shock to learn of Rani’s sudden, possibly suicidal, death. Krishan decides to attend Rani’s funeral in her village. He embarks on a two-pronged journey: the external one north to attend Rani’s funeral and the internal one into his own past and into an exploration of the enduring impact of civil war.

From the time he first receives the phone call from Rani’s daughter until he attends Rani’s funeral and witnesses her cremation, Krishan engages in a series of lengthy flashbacks and digressions. He measures his worth against the dedicated activism of his former girlfriend and feels he comes up short. He scrutinizes even the most insignificant movements, gestures, emotions, and expressions in minute detail. His sentences stretch with excessive subordinate clauses and phrases; his paragraphs extend for several pages. Dialogue is indirect to slow the pace and diminish the sense of immediacy.

The novel inhabits Krishan’s interiority, which, unfortunately, is immature, uninteresting, and passive. Plagued with guilt at having escaped the horrors of civil war, Krishan indulges in philosophical pronouncements and excessive navel-gazing. Many of his lengthy digressions and interjections of stories based on myth lack a unifying thread, so one wonders why they were included in the first place. They detract from the main theme—the ongoing trauma experienced by survivors of a civil war.

The novel has potential and would have benefited from a greater exploration of some of the more interesting characters, for example, the two suicide bombers and Krishan’s charismatic former girlfriend, Anjum. Rani, in particular, merited far greater consideration. Instead, the focus is on Krishan and his memories, his immature musings, his intimate relations with Anjum, his exhausting self-analysis, and his tedious inability to shift his lens outside of himself.

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.

Optic Nerve

Maria Gainza; translated by Thomas Bunstead

Optic Nerve by Maria Gainza, translated from the Spanish by Thomas Bunstead, is in the first-person voice of an Argentinian woman who peppers stories of her past and present with reflections on paintings that hold significance for her.

The novel has no plot, per se. It unfolds in a series of vignettes or snapshots about the narrator’s life and family. These are punctuated with her recollections of a specific painting. The reverse is true since specific paintings conjure up scenes from her past. The scaffolding of a half-built house reminds her of Hubert Robert’s paintings of ruins. A flashback of a visit to the seaside triggers her recollection of seeing Gustave Corbet’s “The Stormy Sea.” The poster of a Rothko painting in a doctor’s waiting room prompts her to remember her husband’s hospital stay.

Pivotal moments in the narrator’s life are intricately bound with the paintings she describes. In each case, she delves briefly into the artist’s biography and includes some intriguing anecdotes about his life which have the effect of demystifying the artist. But where she excels is in her analysis of each painting and in demonstrating the impact it has had on her perceptions and her life. Her allusions are quirky and fascinating. She braids art works seamlessly into her life: a painting triggers a flashback; a flashback or an image triggers her reflections on a painting. We gain insight into the narrator through snippets of her life, through how she perceives the painting, and through her evolving perceptions.

The narrator’s experience of art is unfiltered, genuine, and deeply felt. She integrates the aesthetic experience into her life. Her observations of each painting are astute and original; her engagement is immersive. She sustains reader interest through her conversational style and her fresh discussion of paintings and their artists.

The novel’s structure is unique; the format, meandering. The whole is thoughtfully executed with a discerning eye for detail. And in case we need reminding, the narrator demonstrates the transformative power works of art can have on our perceptions and our lives.

A compelling and engaging read. Highly recommended.

Approaching the Qur'an: The Early Revelations

Michael Sells

In Approaching the Qur’an: The Early Revelations, Michael Sells translates and comments on several short, hymnic Suras (chapters) that were among the first revelations to the Prophet Muhammad. Appearing at the end of the Qur’an, they are frequently the most often memorized, quoted, and recited. Since they don’t address the legal, political, and historical details of the later Suras, they are more easily accessible to those unfamiliar with the historical context. Their focus is on the Islamic fundamentals of belief in the one God, faith, prayer, and social justice.

Sells approaches these Suras by analyzing their distinctive tone and unique literary character. His translation and commentary highlight the ambiguities and subtle nuances of meaning frequently missing in other translations. He draws attention to the position of words in a verse, word endings, word sounds, and how certain sounds and words echo other Suras. His analysis is detailed and exhaustive.

Evidence of the complexity of gendered language in the Suras is teased out in Sells’ chapter, “Sound, Spirit, and Gender.” He argues much of gendered diction is, unfortunately, lost in many translations, adding to the erroneous characterization of Islam as a male-focused religion. Selected Resources for Further Reading and a CD Recording of the Islamic Call to Prayer and Six Suras as recited by several men and women are included with the book. Sells explains the different recitation styles and provides a transliteration of some of the Suras so non-native speakers can follow the recitation.

Sells’ approach to understanding the early revelations is scholarly, exhaustive, and accessible. He accentuates the complexity, hymnic quality, poetic diction, and calm and meditative aural resonance of the early Suras. This is a valuable and compelling approach to the Qur’an for those interested in exploring the aural qualities and interpretative ambiguities of the early revelations while getting a background on major concepts in Islam.

Very highly recommended.

The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity

David Graeber and David Wengrow

The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity by David Graeber and David Wengrow is the product of a decade’s worth of extensive research on how new evidence in anthropology and archaeology inform our understanding of humanity’s past. The authors debunk many of the conventional narratives and the assumptions on which they are based.

Graeber and Wengrow dismantle previous theories, including the concept of the child-like, noble savage of popular imagination; the origins of private property; the inexorable force of agriculture in shaping a society; the egalitarian nature of hunter-gatherers; the definition of a city; the existence of hierarchies in large communities; the inevitability of a centralized administration in large cities; the late emergence of symbolic behavior; the beginnings of democratic institutions in Athens; and the linear and uniform progression from “primitive” to “civilized.”

Through a wealth of examples from ancient sites around the world, the authors demonstrate repeatedly that human beings were not passive recipients of forces beyond their control. They engaged in political debate and made collective decisions. They made conscious and deliberate choices, rejecting one mode of social organization and adopting another. Movement was never “linear” in that sense. People frequently shifted between different forms of social organization depending on their values, on the season, or because they wanted to distinguish themselves from their neighbors. The situation was fluid.

The Dawn of Everything fundamentally challenges our understanding of humanity’s past. It exposes the cultural bias of historians of the past and critiques previous narratives of the progress of human history. It is wide-ranging and expansive, provides a wealth of information, and is impressive in scope and scholarship. The Notes and Bibliography together amount to 150 pages. The style is conversational. But the sheer volume of the work, the digressions, the repetitions, and the extensive number of examples it provides make it a challenging read. It would have benefited from some serious editing.

The work is a formidable tome, intellectually fascinating for its challenge of our fundamental assumptions about our history. Its critique of previous narratives, assumptions, and methodology; its impressive and exhaustive evidence; the questions it poses; and the implications it raises for what it means to be a free, civilized, and cultured society are groundbreaking and profoundly thought-provoking.

The Women of Troy

Pat Barker

In The Women of Troy, Pat Barker picks up from where The Silence of the Girls ends. Here Barker focuses on the plight of women after the fall of Troy while the Greeks await favorable weather to return home. She fashions new elements into the story, including the story of Priam’s burial and the urgency of hiding the birth of a new-born Trojan male from the Greek captors.

The novel opens with the prelude to the fall of Troy. Greek warriors cram together in the wooden horse waiting to be dragged inside the city. The description is masterful, evoking the stench, sweat, and fear of the Greeks as they sit in the dark, terrified to make a sound while listening to the muffled voices of the Trojans debating what to do with the horse. We see the scene through the eyes of Pyrrhus, Achilles’ sixteen-year-old son. This is followed with the bloody raid on Troy and Pyrrhus’ savage murder of Priam. The Greeks plunder the city; kill all the males, including infants; enslave or marry the women; and wait for favorable weather.

The narrative unfolds through the first-person voice of Briseis, now the wife of Alcimus and pregnant with Achilles’ baby. Her status as the wife of a Greek gives her freedom of movement, allowing her to observe and comment on characters and events. She shuttles from her home to the enslaved women’s quarters, visits Hecuba, Cassandra, and Andromache. Interspersed throughout are occasional chapters depicting the perspective and internal thoughts of Pyrrhus and Calchas, the seer.

Barker immerses the reader in the atmosphere of the Greek camp. The men are bawdy, crude, violent, and one step away from taking their frustrations out on each other. They drink themselves into a stupor each night. They participate in the games and races Alcimus organizes to distract them during the day. The Greeks are clearly delineated and depicted as well-rounded individuals, the most prominent being Pyrrhus. He is a child in a man’s body; a blundering fool who fears being ridiculed, especially by women; riddled with insecurities; and desperate to garner the respect worthy of the son of Achilles. He falls short at every turn. Calchas emerges as a distraught seer, worried about his tenuous position in the Greek camp.

The perspective, however, is primarily and solidly female. Barker portrays the women as unique individuals with complex responses to their captivity. She captures the trauma of women who have witnessed the brutal deaths of their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons. They live in fear, subject to the sexual and physical abuse of their Greek victors. Some are described as hollow shells, performing their daily tasks with vacant stares. But among them are defiant women, like Amina, Cassandra, and Hecuba—women who refuse to succumb to fear or intimidation. Briseis emerges as intelligent, practical, and shrewd. She facilitates the bonding of women and promotes their resilience, strength, and survival.

Barker’s pacing is solid. Her characters are well-developed and authentic. The setting is saturated with the dirt, grime, and blood of a fallen Troy; its wind-swept beaches; its smoke and dust-filled air; its exposed, decaying bodies; and its shores littered with dead sea creatures. Her blunt diction captures an atmosphere fraught with tension.

Barker’s lens is unswerving and unflinchingly honest as she directs it at the women left to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of war.

Songbirds

Christy Lefteri

Christy Lefteri’s Songbirds is based on a real-life tragedy in which five female migrant domestic workers and two of their children disappeared in Cyprus and were later found murdered. Lefteri incorporates the tragedy into her story of Nisha, a migrant worker from Sri Lanka. Nisha’s mysterious disappearance sets Yiannis, her lover; and Petra, her employer; on a quest to discover her whereabouts. The novel alternates between the first-person voices of Yiannis and Petra.

Nisha has been employed by Petra for nine years as a housekeeper and nanny to Petra’s daughter. Petra had taken Nisha for granted. Although she never abused her, she never made a serious attempt to know her. Only later does she recognize the sacrifice Nisha made by leaving her own daughter with relatives in Sri Lanka to earn enough money to support her daughter’s education. Through her search for Nisha and through learning of the experiences of other migrant domestic workers, Petra comes to recognize the injustice and insidious racism of a system which treats these women as disposable commodities.

Yiannis earns an income by poaching precious songbirds and selling them on the black market. Lefteri describes in graphic and disturbing detail the indiscriminate capture and killing of thousands of birds. In love with Nisha, Yiannis proposes marriage to her the day before her disappearance. He thinks his marriage proposal or his confession to Nisha about his illegal activities may have caused her to run away. But when he teams up with Petra to search for Nisha, he realizes something terrible has happened to her.

In the Author’s Note at the end of the novel, Lefteri describes learning about the plight of migrant domestic workers in Cyprus. They have few friends and many enemies. Police indifference to the disappearance of these women and their failure to investigate their complaints of abuse exacerbates their desperate plight.

 Lefteri is to be commended for using her novel as a vehicle to highlight the abuse, exploitation, and physical and sexual violence these women experience. But the novel’s execution is awkward, its message too blatantly obvious and heavy-handed. Yiannis and Nisha are flat, dull characters who fail to generate sympathy or interest. They serve merely as vehicles to expose the inhumane treatment of migrant workers. Their backstories feel like unnecessary fillers and do little to advance the plot. Because Nisha is seen through their remorse-filled eyes, she is depicted as faultless and not fully human.

The novel is very slow to start and only begins to pick up pace as the mystery of Nisha’s disappearance unravels. Between some of the chapters are baffling, italicized interludes about the mangled, decomposing corpse of a hare ravaged by insects and birds. Although the purpose of these inserts becomes somewhat evident at the end, their intermittent presence throughout the narrative is jarring and bewildering.

Lefteri’s heart is in the right place, but this is not up to the same standard as her very compelling novel, The Beekeeper of Aleppo.

The Yield

Tara June Winch

Winner of the 2020 Miles Franklin Literary Award, The Yield by Tara June Winch is a compelling narrative unfolding through three related threads. The threads combine to expose the racism, abuse, exploitation, government-sanctioned violence, and attempts to eradicate the culture of the indigenous peoples of Australia by their British colonizers.

The primary thread is of August Gondiwindi, an Australian Wiradjuri, who has been adrift in England for several years. She returns to the rural Australian town of Massacre Plains to attend her grandfather’s funeral. The second thread goes back in time with August’s grandfather, Albert ‘Poppy’ Gondiwindi. Diagnosed with a terminal illness, Poppy decides to compose a dictionary of his people’s language to preserve it for future generations. The final thread is in the epistolary form and goes even further back in time. Beginning in 1915, Reverend Ferdinand Greenleaf, a missionary sent to Massacre Plains, addresses a series of letters to Dr. George Cross of the British Society of Ethnography.

August’s return to her home generates difficult memories of her childhood and of her sister’s disappearance. Her interaction with her grandmother, aunts, cousins, and childhood friends also triggers some positive memories, especially of her grandfather’s love and devotion. Learning that her Poppy was writing a dictionary, August determines to locate the book. Her search immerses her deeper into her cultural heritage until she determines to stay in Australia to fight the mining company wanting to repossess their land.

Poppy’s Wiradjuri dictionary begins with the letter ‘y’ and moves backward through the western alphabet. The complete dictionary is available at the end of the novel. In the process of defining words of his native language, Poppy includes elements of his culture’s mythology and belief systems, his conversations with deceased ancestors, animal fables, his personal history, and his attempts to instill in the young pride in their cultural heritage. His language is lyrical when speaking of his ancestors and recalling their stories. He also chronicles the abuse he experienced as a child forcibly removed from his parents and thrust into a boarding school where he was forbidden to speak his language or practice his traditions.

Reverend Greenleaf’s letters reveal his recognition of the abuse and discrimination mounted against the indigenous population of Massacre Plains. His respect for them grows with time as does his anxiety to preserve their culture, their language, and their lives. His letters amount to a plea for justice and greater compassion for the people, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Tara June Winch, an Australian Wiradjuri, has written a complex, compelling novel chronicling the abuse, discrimination, and atrocities perpetrated on Australia’s indigenous peoples. Her language is powerful and unflinchingly honest. The three seemingly disparate threads coalesce to depict cultural genocide from different angles layered at different time frames. Her novel is a moving testament to the suffering of the indigenous population, their resilience, and their determination to retain ownership of their land and to keep their cultural traditions alive through language and action. She is well-deserving of the awards and accolades she has received.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Annie Dillard

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, which won the 1975 Pulitzer for non-fiction, is a veritable feast for the visual and auditory senses. Dillard’s exhilaration at the profusion, complexity, and diversity in nature is impressive.

Immersing herself in the flora and fauna of Tinker Creek, Dillard charts its seasonal changes. Her observations are intense. Her prose is dense, adding detail upon detail, so much so that it occasionally feels labored and bogged down in minutiae. Taking nothing for granted, Dillard questions, probes, and draws connections. When describing the beauty, bounty, wonder, and diversity of nature, her words tumble out in language that soars, echoing Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty.” Her technique veers toward stream of consciousness as she makes associations and frequently launches into some wild and often perplexing mental leaps.

Threaded throughout her observations are anecdotes about nature; the words of philosophers and theologians; citations from sacred texts; and insights from botanists, zoologists, and entomologists. Her intense observations in nature trigger spiritual musings and meditations on life and creation. She communes with nature, but her proclivity to insert herself and her reactions into nearly every scene can be intrusive, blocking the view instead of letting nature sing for itself.

Despite its sometimes overly embellished language and its forays into self-absorbed meanderings, Dillard’s book is recommended for its observation of and exuberance at the diversity and beauty of the natural world. As Dillard shows us, natural wonders are at our fingertips if only we have the patience to pause, see, listen, touch, and smell.