Tampa by Alissa Nutting

Tampa is a novel that is shocking and provocative. The cover and the opening line make that clear, just in case the reader was in any doubt.

"I spent the night before my first day of teaching in an excited loop of hushed masturbation on my side of the mattress, never falling asleep."

Twenty-six year old Celeste Price is extremely beautiful, married to a police officer called Ford who has plenty of family money to lavish on her, and is about to embark on her first teaching job. A job she has trained for simply to enable her to have access to the male students. Celeste is sexually insatiable, and her predilection is for fourteen year old boys. Fourteen because by fifteen they are already aging.

She is in a fevered state of arousal at school. She masturbates alone in her classroom. From the outside she appears to be in control of her students and ostensibly teaches them English, but all the while she is selecting an appropriate victim. He has to have disengaged parents, be quiet enough not to boast about having sex with his hot teacher, and look appropriately young. She picks Jack Patrick.

Nutting's writing is crisp and clear. She has a good eye for detail, describing one woman as having a "caffeinated ponytail, which was perched in the top center of her skull like a plume on the hat of a Napoleonic infantryman." but the many graphic sex scenes are written in a blankly detailed way. When Celeste is not having sex with Jack she is fantasising about him and masturbating, or maybe enduring sex with Ford. I won't spoiler any plot developments, but we read many of these unemotional and ultimately rather dull scenes. 

The characters don't have depth - we don't ever learn much about Jack or Ford - we see them only through Celeste's eyes. Celeste is a vain woman with a one track mind. Nutting does not make her in any way a sympathetic character, but she is darkly humourous. A fellow teacher, Janet, serves as her counterpoint. Where Celeste is young and attractive, Janet is jaded and unattractive. The staff don't like her, the kids don't like her. Celeste attracts colleagues and students alike with her beauty and is able to continue her predatory behaviour, whilst Janet repels them.

This is Nutting's point, I think. She wants us to look at how society treats beautiful women differently to plainer ones, and female paedophiles differently to male paedophiles. The title Tampa refers us to the Debra LaFave case, where LaFave, a stunning 26 year old teacher, pleaded guilty to "Lewd or Lascivious Battery" after having sex several times with a fourteen year old student. Her lawyer argued that she was too attractive to go to prison. On seeing pictures of her, many thought the boy had been lucky. (Nutting went to the same school as LaFave.) I've been googling, and sadly LaFave is far from alone. Sex with a child is a terrible criminal act, no matter who commits it. Consent from a child is no consent at all. 

Society is often dazzled by shiny, pretty youth. This novel boldly shines a light on some big, messy contradictions. 

Sisterland by Curtis Sittenfeld

A new Sittenfeld novel is always a treat, and Sisterland is a beautifully absorbing read. It's one of those books that you can't wait to get back to when you have to put it down, and then feel bereft when it's finished. In fact, I haven't yet been able to get on with the next book in my tbr pile, it's too soon.

Kate wants a quiet, normal life. She's a stay at home mum to Owen and Rosie, is happily married to Jeremy, and spends her days on playdates with friend and neighbour, Hank, and his daughter. Hank is married to Courtney, a professor of geophysics, who works with Jeremy. The two couples socialise together, pop in and out of each others houses, and have a good relationship. When Vi, Kate's identical twin sister, appears on TV predicting a catastrophic earthquake, it's Courtney who appears opposite her, ridiculing her claim and offering a coolly scientific point of view. Fissures appear in all of their lives.

Where Kate is anxious, controlling and rigid, Vi is expansive, spontaneous and impulsive. Sittenfeld manages to make the reader empathise with both of them. Vi looks like she's having more fun maybe, but I identified with the mummy angsting of Kate. Both twins have always had "senses" although having been ostracised in high school because if her ability to tell the future, Kate has long since attempted to ignore any feelings she has. She's furious with Vi for the publicity which surrounds her announcement, and fears that she will be identified as Vi's twin, and therefore be seen as creepy and different, once again. Loathe as she is to play any part in the prediction a date suddenly fixes itself in her mind, and she feels she has to tell Vi.

Sittenfeld is a classy writer and a great observer of people. The psychic parts are underplayed and seem nothing much more than the general feelings we all get from time to time - this is no schlocky paranormal story. Instead, we are treated to many telling details and conversations.

"Are you embarrassed to be married to me?" I'd thought I was making a joke, but aloud it didn't sound like one.

Sittenfeld expertly sweeps us back and forth in time, creating entire lives. We learn about the twin's parents, their depressed mother and apparently somewhat clueless dad, we learn about school, first boyfriends, friendships, jobs, partners. It's the same skillful layering that was employed so well in American Wife. And all the while tension builds as we approach the dreaded date of the predicted earthquake. It's another pageturner, and Sittenfeld has proven once again that she's one of the very best storytellers around.

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell has just been published by Tinder Press and is simply wonderful. As I read I had that delicious feeling of sinking into the novel, trusting the story to unfold beautifully, knowing I was in the hands of an expert. The huge difference between short stories and novels is how one can relax with a novel and savour it over a period of time. It becomes something to look forward to in a day, a treat, whereas a short story has to be read in one go - there's an urgency to it, an immediacy.

Set in July 1976 when the UK was in the midst of a heatwave this tells the story of the Riordans, a family who reunite when Robert Riordan, a retired banker, goes out for his morning paper and doesn't return. 

Festering bad feelings between sisters Aoife and Monica come to a head, their mother, Gretta, a familiar Irish matriarchal type (who reminds me of some of my aunts) reveals long held secrets, son Michael Francis and his wife have a relationship at breaking point, and Aoife has carried a secret of her own all her life. O'Farrell reveals their truths with perfect timing. And oh, the pictures she paints are glorious. Her writing is gorgeous, the words slip by, effortlessly creating images and racking up the tension as if in a thriller.

"The beach and water shimmer and refract in the heat; seaweed dries to rocks; sand cracks and powders in the sun."

And aren't you seeing that beach now?

Highly recommended.

Born Weird by Andrew Kaufman

The latest fiction from Andrew Kaufman is substantially longer than his much loved "All My Friends Are Superheroes", but Born Weird thankfully shares a lot of the charm and quirky goodness that made his debut such a bookshop favourite (and a genuine word-of-mouth hit). 

The five Weird siblings, Richard, Lucy, Abba, Kent and Angie, don't know they were "blursed" (blessed and cursed) at birth by their grandmother, Annie - "The Shark". The special powers she bestowed haven't enhanced their lives in the way she intended, and as adults each of them struggles. 

Predicting her own demise, Annie instructs Angie to gather her brothers and sisters in Annie's hospital room at the moment of her death, when she will remove the powers. What follows is a very filmic romp as Angie attempts to round 'em up in time. I can see this as one of those cool indie movies; it's very Little Miss Sunshine.

Along the way there's the mystery of their father's disappearance to solve, dodgy haircuts courtesy of the mother who fails to recognise them, a car chase, a pregnancy, a couple of love stories and a fake town. It's a big hearted, entertaining and charming read, which is just as we'd expect.

Snapper by Brian Kimberling

Tinder Press is a new literary imprint from the Headline group. They will publish 10-12 books a year, starting this spring, and according to its associate publisher, Leah Woodburn, their books will be “... books to treasure, books you will want to keep—and our production values will reflect this. We will produce beautiful hardbacks and innovative e-books for first format, followed by paperbacks with strong mass-market appeal.”

The list looks interesting and includes Maggie O’Farrell’s next novel. 

They sent me a proof of Snapper by Brain Kimberling which bears the tagline “Birdwatching’s no line of work for a man…”

Kimberling was “a research assistant for a major study of Indiana songbirds” as is his narrator, Nathan Lochmueller, and Snapper is really a collection of Nathan’s stories in which he tells us anecdotes from his adolescence and life as a young man, closing with a story in which he is about to become a father, and thus, presumably, an adult.

Weaving throughout the stories is the character of Lola, a gorgeous young woman whom Nathan idolises and occasionally gets to be with before she floats away with yet another unsuitable suitor. 

In my time reading for PANK magazine I’ve come across hundreds of submissions by American males which involve guns, hunting, drugs, beer and women. They are staples of American short stories, and I suppose that’s my main problem with this collection, it felt very familiar. However, thinking on, if you don’t read for an American literary journal then it’s unlikely you will have read umpteen similar tales. Crucially these stories are well-written with a powerful sense of place. The author seems to have a love/hate relationship with his home and conveys well both the beauty and the ugliness. Kimberling’s knowledge of birds can be fascinating, but, I confess, at times I felt a little bored. 

The stand out story for me was “Box County” which opens with the line, “Uncle Dart and Aunt Loretta didn’t just come from Texas, they brought it with them.”

It’s an exploration of the difference between the Texan racism of Uncle Dart and the burning hatred of the Southern Klansmen he finds himself entangled with. It has much to say about home and belonging, family, and nature. 

I think this is one of those books that didn’t quite chime with me but will hold magic for others. 

Laura Lamont's Life In Pictures by Emma Straub

This is a thoroughly enjoyable read; a book one can sink into and enjoy. We join Elsa Emerson as she lives through the years 1929 - 1980.  Brought up in a theatrical family, we witness as she transforms from little Elsa from the country, to Laura Lamont, Hollywood movie star. The heart of the story is Elsa’s attempt to reconcile both parts of herself, Elsa and Laura, and come to peace with the losses and loves of her childhood. All this takes place against a back drop of film sets, glamour, silk dresses, leading men, money, opulence and fame. The story attempts to also dig beneath the glitz to show the seedier side of life in pictures; characters develop drink and drug problems, actors fall in and out of favour with their all powerful bosses, sex is traded, lives are ruined.

Straub writes well, though she overdoes the references to the two sides of Elsa/Laura. It became a distraction to me to note how many times we were told this was an issue.

The trouble with a book spanning over fifty years is that huge chunks of time must be skipped over. Laura’s love affair with studio boss Irving Green is sweetly told, and her family relationships are interesting. She forms a friendship with kooky actress Ginger, and a close bond with Harriet, the nanny, but there’s no depth. Neither is there weight in her relationships with her mother, sister or children. The novel doesn’t stand up to scrutiny but sometimes it’s best to just enjoy, and so I did. It is a delicious read.

Alys, Always by Harriet Lane

I've just finished reading Harriet Lane's debut novel, Alys, Always. There have been many positive reviews and this is a book with a buzz and a big promotional push behind it. Lane was, maybe still is, a journalist, and I suspect she is rather well connected. She writes beautifully. By which I mean she describes things excellently. Looking through the cooly appraising eyes of her first person narrator, Frances, we see, as she does, the objects and decor, the books and foods, the lives of her family, colleagues, friends, and the Kytes, and they are brought to life for us in this way. 

"My parents have set up a picnic table in the garden. 'Isn't this glorious?' my mother says, unpopping foldable chairs and disregarding the rather stiff breeze that is sending the paper napkins fluttering like giant yellow butterflies into the euphorbias." 

It reveals so much about the mother it's really wonderful. Yet at other times the prose  seems overdone.

“Just for a moment, as I stand by the sink peeling a long rosy spiral from the yellow flesh of an apple, I think about all of this and what it means to me.” 

Do we really need both the "rosy spiral" and the "yellow flesh"? Perhaps we do. I'm a far plainer writer, more likely to write "…peeling an apple…"

The story opens interestingly enough, with Frances driving home from her parents and coming across a car accident. She keeps the dying driver company whilst she awaits an ambulance, and becomes the last person to speak to Alys Kyte, wife of famous author Laurence. From this moment on Frances becomes involved in the Kyte's lives. 

I'm baffled by the praise heaped on what seems to be a rather shallow novel. Touted as a psychological thriller it's really not. I was waiting for a twist or reveal to force me to rethink the whole thing, but it never came. It's a not terribly exciting story about a woman who aspires to be more, and have more, but she's not exactly awful about it. It's more a case of worming her way into people's affections with flattery and faux interest. Hardly thrilling. There's a weird bit where she becomes a reader for the same woman that Alys was a reader for, and the whole part feels entirely bolted on as if an editor advised there should be some additional stalky creepiness. 

The prose is delicious but is steeped in the kind of ultra middle-classness that made me think of those times a Daily Mail columnist bemoans the high price of cashmere or something and the whole of twitter mocks mercilessly. As for Frances, well, she's so chilly it's impossible to warm to her. It's ultimately a novel that I found difficult to care about.

By the way, I have no idea why some of this post is double spaced and one quote is highlighted white. I've tried to look at the html but can't make head nor tail!

How The Trouble Started by Robert Williams

Robert Williams is the author of Luke and Jon, a young adult/crossover novel which I loved. How The Trouble Started is his second novel and can be found in adult fiction, however, there is a definite continuation of theme and style in this story of guilt, isolated children and single parenting.

Donald, the first person narrator, is 16. He lives with his mother in Raithswaite, a place they moved to after “the trouble”. We immediately learn that at 8 Donald was involved in an incident in which a 2 year old died. We don’t know how it happened, or how culpable Donald was. He returns to school afterwards but the harassment he and his mother consequently receive results in their move. Donald’s mother is resentful, veering from silent admonishments to loud, angry outbursts in which she rages at Donald for everything and anything. She demands he doesn’t discuss what happened with anyone for fear of reprisals. The incident is the silent burn between them, and the barrier between Donald and the rest of the world.

Inescapable guilt overwhelms Donald to the extent he learns to perfect “vanishings”; imaginary lives in which he is a whole other person, not the boy who killed a toddler. He attempts friendships but feels too awkward and different. In a wonderfully achy part of the story Donald describes his one and only visit to his two schoolmate’s houses. His sense of wrongness is reinforced by the luxury of their homes, the warmth of their parents. 

“Even their mums made me feel out of place. They were bright and friendly, coming back from the shops with bags full of expensive things, handing out treats like it was Christmas.”

After that he distances himself from them and, apart from Fiona, (the only sympathetic female character) a neighbour who he occasionally walks and talks with, is a loner.

When he sees 8 year old Jake in a playground, not fitting in, not dressed in the right clothes, he talks to him and they form a friendship of sorts - Donald making up scary stories, taking him to a spooky deserted house, buying him a can and sweets - and we worry about his intent. 

The fragility of life is never far from Donald’s mind, or ours. The story is short (I pretty much finished it in one go) and as I read on I couldn’t predict how it would conclude, I only knew that I had a worried feeling throughout and I wanted to know how it would end. Taken at face value Donald is extremely naive and his actions become increasingly hard to justify. 

When we learn the truth of the “trouble” it’s satisfyingly murky and neither Donald or the reader is sure which of two memories is the real one.

Williams is excellent at capturing kids that don’t fit; the alienated, the sad, the guilty. His mothers are absent even if they are physically present (in L&J the mum is dead) and neglect their sons. Boys are left to deal with the cruelty of the world, of school and other kids, alone. Occasionally an older man (teacher, neighbour) will show some much needed kindness. With his clear prose and easy voice Williams is able to touch on huge subjects like mortality, memory, guilt and intent without it ever feeling laboured or difficult. 

“… every second I was alive he wasn’t. That every time I looked at the sky, stroked a dog, ate a cake, ran a race, drank a drink, read a book, went to sleep, cleaned my teeth, combed my hair, woke up, sat down, stood up, he couldn’t. And all the things he couldn’t do, his mum and dad were there to see him not doing them.”

Wonderful.

James Meek - The Heart Broke In

I've just finished Meek's "The Heart Broke In" and enjoyed it far more than I expected to. It's curious how one makes snap judgements about authors based on nothing at all. I thought I'd dislike this for no reason I can think of. It's a page-turner of a read; I was always engaged enough to want to know what happened and how it would resolve.  It's one of those sprawling (550 pages) family stories where years pass and we watch the characters evolve. Some of them felt a little sketchy and obvious, mouthpieces for the author to say something about morals, time, mortality, parenting or love. The scientists, the rockstars, the newspaper editor, the postman, the TV presenter - each of these was a clear type.

 Bec and Ritchie's soldier father was killed for not betraying a snitch, the repercussions of this heroic act resonate through the years and provide a core for the novel. Ritchie the rockstar is unscrupulous and utterly delusional about his own goodness. Bec the scientist works selflessly to cure malaria and yet behaves badly to Val, a newspaper editor who sets himself up as moral policeman. Alex (once a hobby musician) is a scientist, as is his dying Uncle Harry. Harry's own son is rather a cartoon Christian, bringing his family up under Bible rules. Meek attempts big things with this book - it doesn't get bigger than Science VS God does it? So it's a commentary on power, media, sleazy old men and young girls - who is exploiting who? And it succeeds in having enough of a story to tie all these huge issues together. Enjoyable but not dazzling.

Hawthorn and Child by Keith Ridgway

I picked up a copy of “Hawthorn and Child” a while back, when I hadn’t heard of Keith Ridgway. Blurbs on the back mentioned Eggers, Nicholson, Murakami, Eugenides, and it’s published by Granta, so seemed well worth a go. Now I can barely recall a time when the name Ridgway was unknown to me. There’ve been a lot of online mentions of this novel-in-stories. John Self championed it, people I think are super smart have raved about it (@seventydys I’m looking at you), and there are a fair few reviews around (I try not to read reviews when I’m planning to write one of my own). I’ve looked Ridgway up online and come across some scorchingly good blogs of his, including this:

‘Writing is running full tilt at a closed door with your shoulder down. And each time you write it’s another hit. And you hope each time that this time you will break though, into that part of yourself where all the skill is, where everything will be within reach, where it will all be easy. And you just keep on rushing the door. And you just end up with the skin gone purple and a shard of bone slicing a muscle, and you’re fucked. You are fucked by a collar bone trauma and the door is so solid that you are looking at the wall and you are starting to think that you might have been better a little to the right or the left, or that the thing that you think is a door is not a door at all and you are not supposed to go through it, it is a cliff and you are supposed to climb it. And you think, at your age, why don’t I try the handle? But it’s locked. Of course it’s locked. You’re sure you must have checked. At the start. At the beginning. Of all this.  And you think, over your grey tea and your cold toast, maybe I should ask for a key.

Writing is running full tilt at a closed door with your shoulder down. And each time you write it’s another hit. And you hope each time that this time you will break though, into that part of yourself where all the skill is, where everything will be within reach, where it will all be easy. And you just keep on rushing the door. And you just end up with the skin gone purple and a shard of bone slicing a muscle, and you’re fucked. You are fucked by a collar bone trauma and the door is so solid that you are looking at the wall and you are starting to think that you might have been better a little to the right or the left, or that the thing that you think is a door is not a door at all and you are not supposed to go through it, it is a cliff and you are supposed to climb it. And you think, at your age, why don’t I try the handle? But it’s locked. Of course it’s locked. You’re sure you must have checked. At the start. At the beginning. Of all this.  And you think, over your grey tea and your cold toast, maybe I should ask for a key.”

It’s not taken long for me to become a fan. His words resonate and sing with truth. 

“Hawthorn and Child” are “mid-ranking detectives” introduced to us in the first story while they investigate the shooting of a young man who recalls only, “A car. Shot me.” 

The ensuing investigation sets the tone for the rest of the book. The detectives question witnesses, talk together, wait in the hospital. A witness says the victim told him the car was “ochre” although Hawthorn and Child think he may have said, “old car.” As is often the case in life, there is no neat wrapping up of the mystery, no resolution. 

It’s a slippery read. The prose is so clear and natural, it flows beautifully, and yet there are gaps, missing information. Each story is linked, sometimes just by a glimpse of one of the recurrent characters. (As well as Hawthorn and Child, the criminal, Mishazzo recurs. He weaves in and out of the narrative; a shadowy danger.)

It’s a contradictory text, at once engaging and puzzling. There’s confusion and precision as  what is unsaid, the silences, the gaps, the missing pieces of information, add together to form a whole. And that whole becomes a curiously realistic portrayal of London, crime, and daily realities. There’s a mash up of sex and policing, there’s violence, and death. Yet it’s the quiet moments, the spaces between, that count most.

Something mentioned in one story reappears as the centre of another, Hawthorn and Child are not the focus. It’s a tough book to review - I find the idea of it being a detective novel quite misleading, and yet, it is ostensibly about police work. It’s an easy read because the quality of the story telling is so good, and yet it is not simple.

For me the stand out story is “Rothko Eggs”. It’s a pitch-perfect tale of a young girl and her relationships. From the misfire of the title (you’ll have to read to find out) to the gaps between her and her boyfriend, it’s skilfully done and I was left wondering how the fuck Ridgway was able to convey so much.

“He said nothing. She looked at him.

He was quiet. He had drifted off somewhere.”

It’s an excellent book. 

The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan

A novel that leaves me ignoring everything I'm meant to be doing, in favour of compulsively reading on, is a rare treat; The Panopticon is one of those novels. I became utterly absorbed in the world of feisty and smart Anais Hendricks. She's 15, has never known her parents, and assumes she's been created by the shadowy "Experiment" who she feels watching her at all times. The book opens with her arrival at the titular Panopticon - a young offenders institute, one step away from prison. Anais is accused of assaulting a police officer who is now in a coma. She doesn't think she's guilty - despite the blood on her school uniform and the memory loss caused by her drugs binge. Shown to be more than capable of violence and cruelty, nonetheless Anais is a character with her own moral code, and someone we root for. Trapped in a care system that has proved to be anything but, her reliance on alcohol, sex, and drugs to help blur reality makes absolute sense. Fagan's prose, somewhat inevitably, reminds me of Irvine Welsh with its depiction of Scottish youth painted in vital, realistic language. Various story strands emerge as Anais forges intense friendships with her fellow inmates, texts her jailed boyfriend, ponders her birth mother's identity whilst mourning her adopted mother's murder, as well as outwitting authority. She has a lot to contend with (I'm barely scratching the surface here) and we get to see her many complex layers and understand and empathise with her.

The heart of the novel is a depiction of a society that not only demonises children in care but dehumanises them as well. It's a thought provoking debut by an exciting writer. 

Available to buy here, and of course, elsewhere.

We The Animals by Justin Torres

We The Animals by Justin Torres

There are expectations when one reads a book published by Granta and endorsed by literary luminaries such as Michael Cunningham and Marilynne Robinson, especially when one of those endorsements suggests, as Cunningham’s does, “It resembles no other book I’ve read.” My manager recommended it to me. She reads a gazillion books a year and thought it was pitch perfect. So, the hype is high.

It’s a slender novel, only 125 pages, and yes, it is different.

The novel begins “We wanted more. We knocked the butt ends of our forks against the table, tapped our spoons against our empty bowls; we were hungry. We wanted more volume, more riots. We turned up the knob on the TV until our ears ached with the shouts of angry men. We wanted more music on the radio; we wanted beats, we wanted rock. We wanted muscles on our skinny arms. We had bird bones, hollow and light, and we wanted more density, more weight. We were six snatching hands, six stomping feet; we were brothers, boys, three little kings locked in a feud for more.”

The voice is the “we” of the title, a trio of brothers, and the use of “we” is impeccably done. We, the reader, are drawn into the “we” of the brothers. Theirs is a life of poverty and deprivation. Dad, Paps, is a bully; a menacing presence capable of unpredictable tenderness and plentiful beatings. Ma is victim and hope, receptacle for anger and frustration. She endures at the hands of the males in her life, she tries to fight back, but loses. “We” are three wild kids, rampaging, flipping the finger, smashing things, fighting, scrapping and eating like animals, (erm, yeah, “We The Animals”). Torres writes violence and poverty in a darkly poetic, compelling way. 

The narrator is the youngest brother and he is identified as different by his mother from the beginning. In the end his difference causes, inevitably, the “we” to become “I.”

That's where the novel lost some of its power for me. I think perhaps the division felt too sudden, too fast. The vignettes had led me to think he was very young, and then a little older. The conclusion seemed abrupt, the narrater much older. It’s a shocking ending. One which perhaps didn’t feel entirely organic. Then yesterday, after I had written this review, I read an article in The Guardian by the author, and the reason the ending didn’t feel as pat as storybook endings often do is because it is a version of his truth. This happened to him. (I try to avoid spoilers on this blog and if you’d rather read the book with fresh eyes maybe avoid the article, however, had I read it in advance it’d undoubtedly have changed my understanding.) 

Review of "Household Worms" by Stanley Donwood

My review of "Household Worms" by Stanley Donwood is up at The Short Review (where you can find many reviews of short story collections. TSR is a fabulous resource which you should jolly well check out.)

Somewhere Else, Or Even Here by A.J Ashworth

A.J Ashworth won Salt’s Scott Prize to have her debut collection published. “Somewhere Else, or Even Here” contains 14 of her stories. I’ve taken my time reading this as I found it best to read just one tale at a time and savour.

This is a good collection. Ashworth does very well with conjuring place and people. Her stories are full of evocative details even when describing mundane tasks such as putting tools in the back of a van and starting it up: 

“…he laid his tools down in the back like they were offerings to the gods of work; stained and dirty offerings which had never yielded any blessings. Then he got behind the wheel, started up the engine and watched as the windscreen heaters blew air onto the tracing paper frost, making a glassy stain build and grow there.”

Astronomy is a recurring motif with characters studying the subject, having star tattoos, sending Chinese lanterns into the sky, having moon faces, gazing upwards, talking about the universe. It’s not merely the repetition of stars/planets/sky that unifies the stories, some of them feel related by character or theme despite the diversity of subjects. “Bone Fire” has a first person narrator who recalls Jeremy from the opening story, “Sometimes Gulls Kill Other Gulls.” I wondered if the woman from “Offerings” was another perspective on the story “The Future Husband.” “Paper Lanterns” has a zanier counterpart in “Bananas.” 

“Paper Lanterns” was a story I found  a little obvious, although if one were to look for a textbook “good” story it ticks all the boxes.  It describes the aftermath of a child’s death, but does so in an expected way. “Bananas” took an entirely unexpected approach to a similar event and was all the stronger for it. 

Occasionally I knew I was being expertly manipulated. Ashworth has excellent storytelling craft and knows how to mine an emotional seam. Loss, death, grief, illness, fear, are all here. I favoured the stories that caught me unawares. Despite how solid “Eggshells” and “The Prophecy” were, I had an understanding of them from the outset. Of course, one can still admire a familiar journey, and I did.

I didn’t understand what was happening in "The Future Husband", or how it could resolve. It worked superbly; it was tender, note perfect, impossible. “Coconut Shy” was wonderful in its dealing with burgeoning sexuality and a disappointing beau contrasting with the older, experienced fairground worker “...who strolls from around the back of the counter, smooth and slow. Jimmy shifts to one side, looking thin and unsteady as a daddy-long-legs beside him.”

I think Ashworth is a writer who has much to offer and I thoroughly recommend her collection. I look forward to reading more of her in the future. 

Nightjar press - 4 chapbooks

Nightjar Press is an independent publisher of limited edition individual short story chapbooks. It’s delightful to see single short stories published with such care. Each of the four stories I was sent have rather ace cover illustrations and cost £3.

It’s difficult to review short stories without being spoilerific, but I’ll give it a go:

Lexicon by Christopher Burns

My knowledge of Greek mythology is minimal and it is with a smidge of shame that I admit I wasn’t familiar with Asterius before reading this tale. I searched Wikipedia afterwards and it seems that Burns may be riffing off Jorge Luis Borges 1947 short story “The House of Asterion.” Whilst knowledge of that may enhance the reading pleasure I don’t feel it marred my own enjoyment.

The narrator is an amusing man, a self-important academic who has invited a woman to dinner. He speaks enthusiastically about the Greeks, keen to “illuminate” her on the subject. He knowingly tells the reader “I like to begin my social evenings with a little minor irritation.” Passages on Asterius are interspersed with Harry and Heather’s evening in this neat story with a dark heart.

                                        

Field by Tom Fletcher

This is a horror story in which you can almost hear a film score ratcheting up the tension as the protagonist, Tom, a forestry Commission warden, sets off to deal with a group of youths camping illegally at the edge of the lake. Irritated by his junior colleague, Sarah, yet perfectly at ease with the idea of confronting the youngsters, they set off in his Land Rover. They find the tents and sleeping bags, but where are the people? 

Sullom Hill by Christopher Kenworthy

The first line immediately had me wanting to know more: “When Neil Kingsley came around, I’d hide under the window-sill and pretend not to be in.” 

Three young lads, one with special needs and a mental age much younger than his years, form a type of friendship; one of those uneasy alliances that schoolboys find themselves in sometimes. Tony is a bully who loses friends with worrying regularity. Neil is a young man with difficulties who thinks of the narrator as his pal. I read with wariness, worrying about what would happen. It’s a story full of evocative descriptions, of the boys, the hill, the weather, and it ends in a particularly unsettling way.

Remains by Ga Pickin

There is an immediate and effective sense of place and I could almost feel the cold, shivery weather. 

“A head wind was getting up, and it sighed against his ears like Chinese whispers. Disdaining his choice of warm clothing, its chilled breath slid down his collar and up his sleeve, between buttons and past his T-shirt, touching his bare skin.”

Brr.

This is a marvelously atmospheric and creepy story. The narrator, an experienced walker, has set out to meet friends in a holiday cottage. The light is fading and the batteries of his torch stop working. It’s beautifully written, the landscape becoming eerier as the story progresses. I raced to the end, anxious to know what would happen. 

I can genuinely say that each of the stories is of a high quality and I really love what Nicholas Royle is doing for the short story here. Bravo.

"Being Dead" - Jim Crace

"Being Dead" Jim Crace 

Celice and Joseph, a fifty plus couple, are the “dead” of the title. We witness their deaths and watch as they lay undiscovered for a few days, while being told their story. The omniscient voice here has the same kind of chilly detachment I equate with some other male literary “names.” (McEwan for one.)  

There are beautiful descriptions throughout with Crace employing a scientific eye to zoom in on the decomposing bodies, and smoothly taking us to the past to watch the developing relationship between Celice and Joseph. 

“She could reach high corner cobwebs with a dusting stick and spin grey candyfloss.”

“…his hand on hers, their faces rhyming…”

and many more such descriptions are evocative and vivid. The forensic detailing of decaying corpses is suitably gross. However the marriage of Celice and Joseph doesn’t convince any more than the other aspects of their lives. They are in their fifties but seem much older. Even in youth Joseph was dull but Celice was not, I don’t think. When Syl, their daughter, is introduced I hoped she would inject some energy into the novel but alas, she is just another female described in such a way that we understand that although she, like her mother before her, has desires, her sexual encounters are joyless. She has “use” of a man. Crace’s men want sex and are stupid because of it, his women want sex with men sometimes but are mostly reluctant, desperate (Celice), or do so to gain something, (a lift in Syl’s case). All the characters seem so dry and it is hard to care for people described so coldly, even when they are dead.

Despite the murders, the tragic death in their past, and the search for them by Syl, there seems precious little story. There’s no hope in the end, no resolution. They are dead, Syl lives on. Blah blah blah. I like the idea of examining a life backwards and forwards by focussing on a few key events but although Crace clearly writes well these people never came alive for me and I remained utterly unmoved throughout.

✰✰✰

The only book to be reviewed twice on my blog: Luke and Jon by Robert Williams

My son Dylan has been reading Luke and Jon and discussing it with me. I asked him if he'd like to write a review for my blog. He said yes, but that he was going to say exactly what he thought and hoped he didn't upset the author. 


"I think Luke and Jon was very beautifully written. It had a really good mixture of chapters that go from death to new beginnings. I like the fact that Luke and his dad were in a way outsiders in a little creepy village which they had never heard of and only had enough money to buy a cheap crumbling and depressing house. Then Luke meets probably one of the strangest but loving and intelligent people: Jon. I think it’s absolutely touching when Luke and Jon become best friends. My favourite bit was when Luke and his dad adopted Jon, it really made me emotional. My only dislike about the book was the ending even though it was a lovely ending about his mum in the sea I would of liked to read more about how Luke his dad and Jon lived together but it wasn’t a let down because everything else made up for it in this wonderful book."


Review by Dylan Crowley

Ayiti by Roxane Gay

Ayiti, published by Artistically Declined Press, is the debut story collection from Roxane Gay, each story concerning Haiti and its people.

The first story you arrive at announces itself with the block capitals of MOTHERFUCKERS. And wow can this small story carry a great weight. Wonderful opener.

In "Things I Know About Fairytales" the narrator says "At a dinner party once, with some of my colleagues and some of Michael's and lots of wine and music and excellent food and pretentious but engaging conversation, talk turned to Haiti. Everyone leaned forwards in their seats, earnest in their desire to be genuine in their understanding of the world. One of my colleagues mentioned a magazine article he read about how Haiti had surpassed Colombia as the kidnapping capital of the world. Another colleague told us about a recent feature in a national magazine. Soon everyone was offering up their own desperate piece of information, conjuring a place that does not exist."

I wonder if this is non-fiction as it reads so true, and I suppose I recognise that earnest desire to be genuine, and the failure of real understanding that so often accompanies it.

In "In the Manner of Water or Light" the narrator says "We are the keepers of secrets. We are secrets ourselves."

Roxane Gay may well have secrets, but she is also a fearless truth teller. Her stories work beautifully in showing us truths without screaming them. Sometimes it is that which remains unsaid that resonates strongest. Her writing is beautifully empathetic, powerful, and often painful.

In "Cheap, Fast, Filling" she makes me sympathise, despise, and then care about her character in just 3 pages. Yeah, that skilled.

And she's funny too (see "Voodoo Child" and the Primer in "There is No "E" in Zombi Which Means There Can Be No You or We" - in which she slides from amusing to disturbing ever so smoothly.)

She has an utterly distinctive voice of her own. There are many examples of her words online as she blogs, writes articles, and fictions (you can find her at I Have Become Accustomed To Rejection) and whatever she writes carries that assured, intelligent, calm, witty voice.

Two jolly good books

I recently read a couple of damn fine books and made a mental note to blog about them. The problem with mental notes is that they end up muddled and mixed in with all sorts of gubbins from my mind so I am unable to offer much in the way of constructive thinking. Ho hum, no reason not to say that I really liked them is there?

The first book is Luke and Jon by Robert Williams. It's now available in paperback for only £6.99 which is a bargain. It's one of those books that was originally marketed as Young Adult and is now Adult Fiction. (It's fairly meaningless but when I read it I certainly didn't feel I was reading a children's book, equally I thought that my 13 year old boys may enjoy it. Dylan has just begun it though he's a little wary in case it's too sad as I told him it was about a boy whose mum died.)

Anyway, the story is about a 13 year old boy and his relationships with his father, in the wake of his mother's death, and his friend Jon. It's not a showy book but it's full of calm, quiet truths. I'm not over keen on the phrase deceptively simple but, erm, yeah, this is. Williams creates a wonderful voice and a story with proper depth. He's good at capturing the difficulties of being a lad at school, and he's written a novel with real heart. Oh, and it totally sucked me in and toyed with my emotions. Yes, I may have shed a tear or two. 

"Eventually I got surer on my feet and looked up to see what was overhead. It was a trick I learned from my mum. She said that every now and again, walking your usual route through town or to school, you should look up as you travelled instead of straight ahead, that you would see things you hadn't seen before. And she was right. The first time I walked through our old town and lifted my head up I saw things I'd never noticed in a town I'd lived in all my life. In the forest the trees stretched high and higher into the sky, disappearing out of sight and there was only the odd glimpse of sky poking through the canopy. It felt like we were indoors; it reminded me of the church on the day of mum's funeral: ancient and powerful."

The second book is Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower Oh my goodness, if you're a short story fan and haven't yet read this collection then I envy you, for you must, you shall, and it will be fabulous. 

Wells Tower describes things in a gorgeously fresh way. His stories are drenched in images and unique perfect phrases. I am deeply envious of his talent. (The worst story, oddly, is the title story. It's absolute tosh and a real let down that is the last thing one reads. How strange.) 

"He scrambled along the spit of rock. The wind cut the stagnant dampness of the day and dried the sweat on his face and chest. He took the salt into his lungs and savored the pure itch in his chest. He touched the long grasses waving in the water like women's hair. He crouched to observe the barnacles, their tiny feathery hands combing blindly for invisible prey."

So, there ya go - two good books (coincidentally both with brownish covers.)