Blurb

A successful entrepreneur in the mushroom industry, Jaakko Kaunismaa is a man in his prime. At just 37 years of age, he is shocked when his doctor tells him that he’s dying. What is more, the cause is discovered to be prolonged exposure to toxins; in other words, someone has slowly but surely been poisoning him. Determined to find out who wants him dead, Jaakko embarks on a suspenseful rollercoaster journey full of unusual characters, bizarre situations and unexpected twists. 

With a nod to Fargo and the best elements of the Scandinavian noir tradition, The Man Who Died is a page-turning thriller brimming with the blackest comedy surrounding life and death, and love and betrayal, marking a stunning new departure for the King of Helsinki Noir.

Review

I was very lucky to win a fabulous giveaway from Orenda Books – thanks so much to Karen Sullivan and the author for my lovely prize of THREE of Antti Tuomainen’s books. Book Twitter loves Orenda, and I am delighted to have had the chance to see why. I’m converted to Orenda Books, and to Antti Tuomainen’s writing.

The Man Who Died is a crazily fun book. I loved it – I laughed so much while reading it, which is not what I was expecting from a book told from the perspective of a dying man. The premise is great – Jaakko investigating his own murder before it happens is an immediately gripping prospect, and from the opening pages, I was all in.

This is a hard book to review, because the twists and turns of the plot are what makes it so fun, so I need to be careful not to spoil anything here. My husband did not get such courtesy – I breathlessly recited the whole story to him with rising excitement after each instalment, in a tone of “and then, and then, guess what happens, oooh, you’ll never guess…” – so yeah, I’ve ruined it for him. But for anyone else who is yet to read this fabulous book, I shall keep my lips sealed on plot points. Suffice it to say, a lot happens, and almost all of it is totally unexpected.

Jaakko is a great character to follow as he tries to solve the crime-in-progress. He has a neat line in dry humour, and an acceptance of his increasingly bizarre situation that results in some wonderfully deadpan moments. And there is a quote about a hedgehog that had me snorting with glee. Look out for it.

The present tense narrative is thrilling and immersive, and as far as I can tell, the translation, by David Hackston, does an excellent job of bringing to life Jaakko’s idiosyncratic use of expressions and his joyous talent for understatement. The story is meticulous in the level of detail, and the mystery unravels in a satisfying way (there was one revelation that seemed to come out of nowhere, but it fits with the quirkiness of the plot). I liked the ending very much.

All in all, I had a brilliant time reading this book. For sheer entertainment value, The Man Who Died is right up there. I am really looking forward to reading more of Tuomainen’s work, and to exploring more translated delights from Orenda.

The Man Who Died by Antti Tuomainen translated by David Hackston is published by Orenda Books and is available to purchase here.

Blurb

When you’re left with nothing but your secrets, how do you start again?

Uganda 1972

A devastating decree is issued: all Ugandan Asians must leave the country in ninety days. They must take only what they can carry, give up their money and never return.

For Asha and Pran, married a matter of months, it means abandoning the family business that Pran has worked so hard to save. For his mother, Jaya, it means saying goodbye to the house that has been her home for decades. But violence is escalating in Kampala, and people are disappearing. Will they all make it to safety in Britain and will they be given refuge if they do?

And all the while, a terrible secret about the expulsion hangs over them, threatening to tear the family apart. 

From the green hilltops of Kampala, to the terraced houses of London, Neema Shah’s extraordinarily moving debut Kololo Hill explores what it means to leave your home behind, what it takes to start again, and the lengths some will go to protect their loved ones.

Review

Ever since I first heard about Kololo Hill, I have had a very strong feeling that I MUST read this book. I am a firm believer in the power of historical fiction to illuminate the stories we have a duty to remember, to explore the hurts of the past to help us better understand our present world. So I was utterly thrilled to get my hands on a pre-publication copy. Massive thanks to the author and to Katie Green at Picador for providing me with a beautiful copy of Kololo Hill in exchange for an honest review.

I devoured this book, reading most of it in one night. Right from the opening pages, the power of the story had me gripped. The shadow of Idi Amin looms large, his regime threatening the safety of the characters from the very beginning. And yet, despite the huge, terrifying political events that shake the country, it is one family that carries the heart of this story, and in this way, the book is a surprisingly intimate one. Asha, recently married to Pran, is concerned not only by the bodies piling up but also by her husband’s secretive behaviour, by the gap that has already opened up between them. Throughout the novel, Shah keeps the focus tightly on a core cast of characters, with chapters alternating between the points of view of Asha, her mother-in-law Jaya, and her brother-in-law Vijay. Our exclusion from Pran’s point of view is extremely effective – his motives and behaviour is often as much of a mystery to the reader as it is to the rest of his family.

One of the many aspects that struck me about Kololo Hill, and that really got me thinking, was the economy of the prose. I have to admit, I probably went in expecting lush, exotic, poetic descriptions of Uganda, of the landscapes and the cities, and instead, Shah’s writing is unadorned, piercingly focused, almost journalistic in its matter-of-factness. It works so well – not only did I start questioning my own assumptions, my expectations of poetic exoticism, but it emotionally cleaved me to the characters, whose actions and feelings and domestic realities are so relatable, so real – it was easy to forget that they were fictional creations and to become totally invested in their story.

And I was seriously invested. Reading about their escape from Uganda, my heart was pounding, and I was as tense as I can remember being with a book. It is a kind of writerly alchemy to make the reader care so much about their characters, and Neema Shah achieves this in spades. The fact that this happened, that the expulsion of Ugandan Asians was a real event, sent further chills down my spine, and once again made me think deeply about the power of historical fiction. I have read about these events, but here, in this novel, seeing it through the eyes of characters I had come to think of as friends, as people I cared about – it was a truly emotional reading experience.

The genius of Kololo Hill is that the story doesn’t stop there. Escape is not a happy ending. It is not an ending at all. In England, the family must start again, must try to rebuild their lives, while encountering prejudice and a sense of not being wanted. This section is necessarily less dramatic than what precedes it, but it is no less important – and by this stage, I never wanted to leave these characters. I won’t say too much here, but there is a striking symmetry to Asha’s story in particular that is so cleverly done. I loved her as a character – she provides some of the most nuanced commentary in the book, from her attempts to explain why the expulsion of Ugandan Asians came about, to her refusal to cling blindly to the notion of ‘home’ at any cost.

I could say so much more about this book. It is heart-breaking, devastating, emotional – all the more so for its portrayal of real events, albeit through fictionalised characters. It is one of the most powerful explorations of home and belonging, two themes that fascinate me, that I have ever read. There is a sharp intelligence behind the emotional heft of the story, and, I think, a deeply relevant, non-didactic push for empathy. This novel is both moving and thought-provoking, gripping and reflective, reaching the very pinnacle of what historical fiction can achieve. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Kololo Hill by Neema Shah is out on 18th February from Picador Books and is available to pre-order here.

Blurb

It was as if we’d reached the minimum critical point of a mathematical curve. Imagine a parabola. Zero point down, at the bottom of an abyss. That’s how low we sank.

The year is 1993. Cuba is at the height of the Special Period, a widespread economic crisis following the collapse of the Soviet bloc.

For Julia, a mathematics lecturer who hates teaching, Havana is at Year Zero: the lowest possible point, going nowhere. Desperate to seize control of her life, Julia teams up with her colleague and former lover, Euclid, to seek out a document that proves the telephone was invented by Antonio Meucci in Havana, convinced it is the answer to secure their reputations and give Cuba a purpose once more.

From this point zero, Julia sets out on an investigation to befriend two men who could help lead to the document’s whereabouts, and must pick apart a tangled mystery of sex, family legacies and the intricacies of how people find ways to survive in a country at its lowest ebb.

Review

I have been eyeing up the books from Charco Press for a while now, intrigued by their enticing collection of Latin American literature and – let’s be honest – their stunning covers. So I jumped at the chance to read and review my first Charco title. Huge thanks to Carolina for sending me a copy of Havana Year Zero in exchange for an honest review. I can officially declare myself a fan.

The central premise of the book reminded me of Vigdis Hjorth’s wonderful novel Long Live The Post Horn! (about the Norwegian postal service!) in that it sounds fairly mundane on paper. Searching for a missing document to prove that the telephone was invented in Cuba hardly seems like the stuff of gripping fiction; but, like Hjorth’s book, the plot is utterly transformed by the skill of the author, and I was surprised by how totally and utterly invested I became in unravelling the mystery of the Meucci document. The story twists and turns and grows more intricate by the page; it is impossible to know who is telling the truth, so layered are the motives of everyone involved, and I was practically giddy with excitement every time another screwball development knocked the story sideways.

The protagonist and narrator, who gives us the false name ‘Julia’, is brilliant. Rarely have I enjoyed following a character as much as I did the shrewd, calculating, self-interested and yet hilarious, honest, forthright narrator of Havana Year Zero. She is a genius creation – neither affable nor odious; she is intelligent, complicated, funny, and utterly engaging. Honestly, I am going to miss her. The other characters, too, are expertly drawn, and our perspective is so closely aligned with Julia’s that they are as slippery and hard to pin down to the reader as they are to the narrator. The shifting allegiances and changing dynamics among the central characters are an absolute joy to observe. This is really clever, fun storytelling.

And yet, as well as the delicious mix of mathematical precision and absurd narrative twists, there is also a poignant social and historical commentary in this novel. Havana in 1993 is a place of deprivation, of food and electricity shortages, of a lack of hope verging on despair. Against this backdrop, the fixation on the Meucci document becomes something more profound: a way of reclaiming an identity to be proud of, a way to start forging a new, better future. The significance of the characters’ actions in terms of where they are in history adds another layer to this already intricate book, and I was swept along by Suárez’s vivid descriptions of the city.

I loved this book: it has the perfect combination of humour and poignancy. Suárez takes a point in time and spins a damn good story around it, precise and intricate as a spiderweb. It is a beautifully crafted and hugely enjoyable novel, and I highly recommend it.

Havana Year Zero by Karla Suárez translated by Christina MacSweeney is published by Charco Press on 23rd February and is available to preorder here.

Blurb

THE MOTHERS is a dazzling debut about young love, a big secret in a small community and the moments that haunt us most.

All good secrets have a taste before you tell them, and if we’d taken a moment to swish this one around our mouths, we might have noticed the sourness of an unripe secret, plucked too soon, stolen and passed around before its season.

It’s the last season of high school life for Nadia Turner, a rebellious, grief-stricken, seventeen-year-old beauty. Mourning her own mother’s recent suicide, she takes up with the local pastor’s son. Luke Sheppard is twenty-one, a former football star whose injury has reduced him to waiting tables at a diner. They are young; it’s not serious. But the pregnancy that results from this teen romance – and the subsequent cover-up – will have an impact that goes far beyond their youth. As Nadia hides her secret from everyone, including Aubrey, her God-fearing best friend, the years move quickly. Soon, Nadia, Luke and Aubrey are full-fledged adults and still living in debt to the choices they made that one seaside summer, caught in a love triangle they must carefully manoeuvre and dogged by the constant, nagging question: what if they had chosen differently?

In entrancing, lyrical prose, THE MOTHERS asks whether a ‘what if’ can be more powerful than an experience itself.

Review

I have had The Mothers sitting on my shelf ever since I read The Vanishing Half last year, and loved that novel so much that I immediately ordered Brit Bennett’s previous book. I am so glad I finally got around to reading this book. It is just as wonderful as The Vanishing Half.

Bennett is so skilled at creating characters who feel absolutely real. Nadia, Aubrey and Luke are all beautifully drawn, their flaws and intricacies teased out by the author’s bold, confident prose. In some ways, I didn’t feel quite as strongly about them as I did about some of the characters in The Vanishing Half, but the storyline in The Mothers is somehow more intimate and profound, and it left more of an impression on me.

I loved the structure of the book. The choral ‘we’ of ‘the mothers’ contrasts so well with the focus on Nadia, then Luke, then Aubrey – a really clever representation of the conflict between individualism and community. Like The Vanishing Half, we follow the characters through the years, and build up a detailed picture of their lives in a way which feels natural and real. The writing is consistently beautiful; when Bennett zooms out for reflection, she utters the most painful, delicate truths.

The themes, of absent mothers, community, trauma, friendship, are woven throughout the text with dexterity. Aubrey is such an interesting example of how Bennett explores the effects of trauma in a way which is subtle, respectful, piercing and brave. There is so much I could say about Aubrey as a character – but I will leave it to you to meet her for yourselves.

Brit Bennett is such a talented writer. Her work is full and insightful, easy to read while also packed full of wisdom and intelligence. The pace is perfectly judged, and each element is carefully crafted to add up to an entirely satisfying reading experience. I adored this book, and highly recommend it to anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure yet.

The Mothers by Brit Bennett was first published in 2016, and was reissued in paperback in 2020 by Dialogue Books. It is available to purchase here.

I’ve had a really good start to the year reading-wise, and even though I’ve taken the pressure off in terms of setting a number goal, I still managed to get through 11 books this month, which is lovely. I’m doing alright on my intentions for 2021, too – mixing up the genres, reading some older stuff, getting some indies and translated fiction in there. I also read my first section of Ducks, Newburyport – I’ve broken it up into monthly sections as it’s such a chonkster – and I LOVE what I have read so far.

Here’s my round-up of what I have read this month, with links to my full reviews where relevant:

A Sparrow Alone by Mim Eichmann (2020)

I started the year off with a blog tour book for @The_WriteReads. For me, this historical fiction novel was a good, but not amazing, read. You can read my full review here.

Lost Girls by Ellen Birkett Morris (2020)

I loved this short story collection by Ellen Birkett Morris. The themes and characters overlap in an extraordinarily clever way, and it got under my skin in the way the best writing does. You can read my full review here.

The Mothers by Brit Bennett (2016)

I read and loved The Vanishing Half last year, and immediately bought Brit Bennett’s previous novel. Of course, it then languished on my shelf for too long, but I have finally got round to it, and it did not disappoint. My review will be up soon, but in a word: stunning.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie (1926)

I don’t even know if this counts as a reread, as I have definitely read a lot of Agatha Christies, but not for YEARS. I’m doing some Christie readalongs with my lovely @The_WriteReads crew, and we started with this. Loads of fun, so deliciously quick to read – I’m so glad I’m going to be spending more time with Poirot and his little grey cells this year!

Cockfight by María Fernanda Ampuero translated by Frances Riddle (2021)

This book is astounding. It is absolutely unapologetically fierce and brutal and really quite disturbing; I loved it. It won’t be for everyone, but if you like your fiction to push boundaries and take you far, far our of your comfort zone, do check out my full review here.

The Care of Strangers by Ellen Michaelson (2020)

This gentle, beautiful novella was a complete change of pace, and one that left me pondering the special set of qualities that those who dedicate their professional lives to the care of others possess. It was a quietly moving read, and one which I highly recommend. You can read my full thoughts here.

The Clearing by Samantha Clark (2020)

Samantha Clark’s memoir is a work of art in itself. Rarely have I encountered such intellectually rigorous and yet beautifully crafted writing. Do read my full review here: this book is a gem, and I hope many of you will be tempted to discover it.

The Man Who Died by Antti Tuomainen translated by David Hackston (2016)

This book had me snorting with laughter, which is not what you might expect from a novel narrated by a dying man. I absolutely adored it, and I’ll try and get a full review up soon. I can’t wait to read more of Tuomainen’s work – I’m so grateful to Orenda Books for introducing me to him.

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie (1934)

My second encounter with Poirot this month, and again, tons of fun. From a writing point of view, I think there are some useful basic reminders about how to build a plot in these books: Christie certainly knows a thing or three about keeping the reader on the edge of their seat! I’m really looking forward to more investigations with M. Poirot this year!

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson (2021)

This debut novel absolutely blew me away. It is devastatingly beautiful, and I’ve been thinking about it constantly since I read it. You can read my full review here – this really is one not to miss.

Havana Year Zero by Karla Suárez translated by Christina MacSweeney (2021)

I just finished this last night, and I loved it. It’s my first book from Charco Press, and it certainly won’t be my last. I’ll be getting a review up very soon, so watch out for it!

All in all, I’m really pleased to have read such a fab selection of books, brightening up a grey, rainy lockdown January. I have so many books I want to read in February – I’ve found myself longing for a uni-style ‘reading week’ – but I guess I’ll have to stick to those precious couple of hours once the day’s kiddie-wrangling is done!

I’d love to hear what books you’ve enjoyed this month, and what you’re looking forward to (book wise, there ain’t a lot else atm!) in February.

Happy reading!

Ellie x

Blurb

Two young people meet at a pub in South East London. Both are Black British, both won scholarships to private schools where they struggled to belong, both are now artists – he a photographer, she a dancer – trying to make their mark in a city that by turns celebrates and rejects them. Tentatively, tenderly, they fall in love. But two people who seem destined to be together can still be torn apart by fear and violence.

At once an achingly beautiful love story and a potent insight into race and masculinity, Open Water asks what it means to be a person in a world that sees you only as a Black body, to be vulnerable when you are only respected for strength, to find safety in love, only to lose it. With gorgeous, soulful intensity, Caleb Azumah Nelson has written the most essential British debut of recent years.

Review

I am extremely grateful to Alexia Thomaidis at Viking Books for sending me a proof copy of this debut novel in exchange for an honest review. I managed to wait all of about four hours after receiving the book before – excuse the pun – diving in.

Days later, I am still thinking about this novel on an hourly basis. I don’t think I am going to be able to find the words to do this book justice. Reading Open Water is such a powerful, exquisite pleasure. The prose is delicate, poetic, unfurling in gorgeous tendrils across the page, wrapping you up in its sheer beauty. The second person “you” invites empathy with the protagonist, as we see the world through his eyes, as if staring out through a camera. Indeed, there is a cinematic feel to the novel, and the beautiful trailer currently circulating captures the gentle light that seems to suffuse the pages detailing the young couple’s slow, tentative movement from friendship into love. It is a wonderfully tender (with all its meanings, both soft and raw) depiction of the complicated nature of falling in love, one of the best I’ve read in a long time.

And yet there is another thread that runs alongside the love story, a second narrative that casts a shadow, insidiously weaving trauma and conflict into the golden tapestry of two beautiful souls falling in love. I have read some (though not enough) nonfiction about systemic racism and societal racial stereotyping, but it is here in this fictional story that I felt that my understanding of the cold, hard, damaging truth of what it means to experience prejudice on a daily basis, to fear for your very survival, to know that you are seen as a body only, took a leap forward. The hardening of the protagonist’s psyche, the protective armour he is forced to coat himself with in order to somehow try and cope with the daily struggle of being profiled for “matching a description” – this book shows the absolutely traumatic, tragic effects of such survival tactics in a way that is utterly heartbreaking. The direct link between the exhausting, endless cycle of prejudice and the breakdown of a loving relationship is one that hits hard. I can’t stop thinking about it.

Open Water is an all-consuming experience. It is so clever in its exploration of artistry; the book somehow moves beyond the novel form to encompass all art, so that I could imagine the story as a musical score, or a perfectly choreographed dance, or a sculpture of two figures trying to reach out for each other, their fingertips almost touching. It is visual, balletic, sensory – and, like the best love stories, and the best art, it leaves a space for interpretation.

I feel like this is a novel that will affect people in different ways, that will resonate differently with each reader. It feels deeply important, timeless and yet so timely, as rich a tragedy as any I have read and yet it folds its drama in gently, with care and skill and absolutely staggering talent on the part of the author. I was mesmerised as I read, and I will be turning this story over in my mind for a long time to come. Caleb Azumah Nelson has created something very special indeed: Open Water is a true work of art.

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson is published by Viking Books on 4th February. It is available to preorder here.

Blurb

This house has been a regular presence in my life for as long as I can remember. My heart has sunk a little every time I walk in . . .

Samantha Clark enjoyed a busy career as an artist before returning home to Glasgow to take care of the house that her parents had left behind. Moving from room to room, sifting through the clutter of belongings, reflecting on her mother’s long, sedated years of mental illness and her father’s retreat to the world of amateur radio and model planes, Samantha began to contemplate her inheritance.

A need for creativity and a desire for solitude had sprung up from a childhood shaped by anxiety and confusion. Weaving in the works and lives of others, including celebrated painter Agnes Martin and scientist of dark matter Vera Rubin, The Clearing is a powerful account of what we must do with the things we cannot know.

Review

I am so grateful to the author for reaching out and offering me a copy of her book in exchange for an honest review. I read a lot more non-fiction than I used to, and I’m gradually realising that the books I learn the most from are those that draw upon the author’s personal experience.

It doesn’t get much more personal than the subject matter of The Clearing. After her parents’ death, the author and her brothers begin the long task of sorting out their cluttered, crumbling house. As she works, Clark reflects on the incredibly complex relationship she had with each of her parents, and, through her reflections, she generously invites the reader into her thoughts.

On the surface, this seems simple enough. But Clark’s many gifts include a burning intellect combined with a beautiful artistic sensibility, and it is the merging of these two elements that make this book something very special indeed. The prose is exquisite, artfully crafted, redolent with phrases that melt in the mouth when you say them out loud, and images that paint in vivid colours in the reader’s mind. Clark is clearly an artist with words as well as in other forms.

The delicate, pitch-perfect descriptions are matched by an intellectual rigor that swells out to include great thinkers and scientists, bringing in philosophical and scientific concepts to help illuminate her thought processes. The overall effect is stunning: it brings to mind the all-encompassing, multi-disciplinary nature of Renaissance Humanism, lead into the modern age by Clark’s comprehensive analysis of all the microscopic strands that feed into her family story. It is a story that shimmers with unseen light, that clears spaces not to fill them but to observe and respect them. The cover image, with its suggestion of both landscapes and galaxies, is a really apt visual representation of the journey I felt I was following Clark on – at once localised, personal, specific, and also universal, full of deep truths.

The agility of the author’s mind and the careful excavation of her own thoughts and feelings combine to make this an utterly unique reading experience, one that is hard for me to put into words. It feels like standing before a canvas, a huge and beautiful, intricate painting, but with the artist beside you, picking out meanings you may not have noticed, gently drawing your attention to the brushstrokes and the careful use of light. I am sure this is a book I will return to again and again – it has so much to say about art, about meaning, about how we can begin to understand not only the words of our own stories, but also the silence.

The Clearing by Samantha Clark is published by Little, Brown and is available to purchase here. The paperback will be released in March, but I personally would recommend the gorgeous, tactile hardback – it is a work of art in itself!

Blurb

Working as an orderly in a gritty Brooklyn public hospital, Sima is often reminded by her superiors that she’s the least important person there. An immigrant who, with her mother, escaped vicious anti-Semitism in Poland, she spends her shifts transporting patients, observing the doctors and residents … and quietly nurturing her aspirations to become a doctor herself by going to night school. Now just one credit short of graduating, she finds herself faltering in the face of pressure from her mother not to overreach, and to settle for the life she has now.

Everything changes when Sima encounters Mindy Kahn, an intern doctor struggling through her residency. Sensing a fellow outsider in need of support, Sima bonds with Mindy over their patients, and learns the power of truly letting yourself care for another person, helping to give her the courage to face her past, and take control of her future.

A moving story about vulnerability and friendship, The Care of Strangers is the story of one woman’s discovery that sometimes interactions with strangers are the best way to find yourself.

Review

There are lots of reasons why I was delighted to be contacted by the publisher, Melville House, and offered a digital copy in exchange for an honest review: firstly, they are the US publishers of the fantastic Leonard and Hungry Paul, by Rónán Hession, which I, like so many, adored; next: they were kind enough to say they had noticed and appreciated my support of indie publishers, and thirdly, having just finished Cath Barton’s lovely novella In The Sweep of the Bay (published by another fab indie, Louise Walters Books), I had just rediscovered the joy of this particular form (though it is described as a ‘novel’ on the cover, The Care of Strangers is definitely more novella in length, and has won prizes as such). My final reason was simply that there seems no better time to read about the ordinary, extraordinary people who work in hospitals.

Sima, the protagonist, emigrated from Poland as a child. She works as a hospital orderly and takes pre-med courses in the hope of one day becoming a doctor. What I found most striking about this curiously gentle, subtle story was how the author manages to convey, in a very delicate and unobtrusive way, how Sima has all the makings of a good doctor. With each description of her taking care of her patients and watching her co-workers, we build up a picture of someone for whom this setting, this life of looking after others and making quick but careful decisions, seems inevitable. It is really quite moving and humbling – I’ve always had enormous respect for health workers, and of course in recent times my admiration has gone through the roof, and I really liked the way this story shows that it is a kind of vocation, that there is something special about those whose professional lives revolve around caring for others, without resorting to drama and dazzling heroics. Sima is calm, controlled, thoughtful, empathetic without being sentimental, and it is a special kind of pleasure and privilege to watch her work, so to speak.

There is a lilting, gentle beauty to Ellen Michaelson’s writing. The repetition of daily routines, the medical terminology, and the level of observational detail all flow together to become quite lyrical and meditative. The work that Sima and her colleagues do forms a constant backdrop to her growing friendship with Mindy, and their relationship is as delicately nuanced as everything else in the book. Sima both pities and idolises the intern; she tries to protect her while also seeing her as a mentor. It is a very real, convincing portrait of how bonds come to be forged, and I really enjoyed watching the dynamics between the two characters ebb and flow.

This is a delicate, subtle, understated story that offers a realistic glimpse into hospital life without using melodrama or romance tropes or any of the other ‘hooks’ with which the lay person is often baited in order to find their way into this very specific world. I will always be in such awe of people whose life’s work is caring for others, and I’m grateful for this small insight into what it must be like to be such a person. Michaelson’s own medical background gives this book a depth and authenticity which makes it read like a fictional memoir, closer in some ways to non-fiction. It is another wonderful example of the possibilities of the novella form. I’m very glad to have spent time with Sima, and I highly recommend her story.

Author website: https://www.ellenmichaelson.com/

The Care of Strangers by Ellen Michaelson is published by Melville House and is available to purchase here.

Blurb

Named one of the ten best fiction books of 2018 by the New York Times en Español, Cockfight is the debut work by Ecuadorian writer and journalist María Fernanda Ampuero.

In lucid and compelling prose, Ampuero sheds light on the hidden aspects of the home: the grotesque realities of family, coming of age, religion, and class struggle. A family’s maids witness a horrible cycle of abuse, a girl is auctioned off by a gang of criminals, and two sisters find themselves at the mercy of their spiteful brother. With violence masquerading as love, characters spend their lives trapped re-enacting their past traumas.

Heralding a brutal and singular new voice, Cockfight explores the power of the home to both create and destroy those within it.

Review

Many thanks, as always, to Jordan Taylor-Jones at Influx Press for providing me with a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

You only have to glance at the blurb for Cockfight to know that this is a hard-hitting book. Violence, abuse, incest, the destruction of innocence, and the deadly cycle of trauma are the coiled springs that lie like traps within each of the thirteen stories. When it comes to fiction, as some of you know, I am not afraid of the dark, and I certainly do not regret plunging myself into the bloody, visceral, often grotesque world that Ampuero lays bare in these stories.

From the very first story, ‘Auction,’ in which a young girl is kidnapped by a gang, the author takes us on a terrifying, unflinching journey through some horrific experiences. But there is far more here than shocking spectacle: Ampuero is an incredibly skilled writer, her language restrained and unadorned in a way that is suggestive of her journalistic background, and her insights into human nature are profound and sometimes dazzling. ‘Nam,’ one of the most affecting stories for me, brings the horrors of war into the domestic space in an incredibly complex and brilliant way. There are so many levels at play in this story in particular, from the narrator’s confusing feelings towards her friend, to the spectre of her own father and the unspoken trauma she carries within herself. ‘Pups,’ while also a disturbing story, contains within it some aching truths about the difficulty of going home again, and there is a kind of weird beauty in among the deeply unsettling events.

Two of the stories, ‘Passion’ and ‘Mourning,’ stand apart as more apocryphal, taking biblical figures and carving a new narrative that places women firmly at the centre, pain, suffering, magic, and all. I liked this change of mode; it seems to offer a glimpse of just how staggeringly far-reaching the author’s vision and talent is. Then Ampuero returns us to a more modern domestic space: in ‘Ali,’ the cyclical, inescapable nature of trauma is tragically detailed, as we watch Miss Ali’s descent alongside her household. And ‘Coro’ is a flaying indictment of the ways in which women can tear each other down – it is probably the most powerful story on this theme I have ever read.

These stories are so fresh and yet so dark, somehow simultaneously rotten to the core and coruscating with bright truths. They are stunning in the most literal sense of the word: after reading each story, I felt as if I had been thumped around the head with cruel, twisted realities and, dazed and blinking, I had to take a break and recover before I was ready to read another. And yet these immensely powerful stories are completely worth the emotional pummelling: they are fiercely, brilliantly original, taking thought and language to places most writers would not dare to go. I would also be intrigued to read these in Spanish (which I speak, or at least used to!); I sense that Frances Riddle’s translation has absolutely captured the precise, unflinching, utterly compelling prose of the original. It reads flawlessly in English, and I could hear the echo of how it might have been expressed in Spanish.

I would definitely read more of Ampuero’s work. I have never read anything quite like it before.

Cockfight by María Fernanda Ampuero, translated from the Spanish by Frances Riddle, is published by Influx Press and is available to purchase directly from the publishers here.

Blurb

Lost Girls explores the experiences of women and girls as they grieve, find love, face uncertainty, take a stand, find their future, and say goodbye to the past. A young woman creates a ritual to celebrate the life of a kidnapped girl, an unmarried woman wanders into a breast feeder’s support group and stays, a grieving mother finds solace in an unlikely place, a young girl discovers more than she bargained for when she spies on her neighbors. Though they may seem lost, each finds their center as they confront the challenges and expectations of womanhood.

Review

I am so grateful to the author for reaching out and offering me a copy of her book in exchange for an honest review. I am a huge fan of short story collections, and Lost Girls sounded like just my thing.

This is a brilliant collection. Morris is an incredibly skilled writer, creating quietly devastating, insightful stories which mine the lives of women and girls to build up a profound, unflinching picture of all the quirks and hurts wrapped up in everyday experiences. These stories ring absolutely true: they are shockingly perceptive, deeply probing, intelligent, and above all, beautifully written. I have spoken before about the ‘short story pang’, when you recognise a truth you’d never seen expressed before – Lost Girls delivers this feeling in spades.

It’s hard to pick out individual stories as favourites, as one of the most exciting features of this collection is the way it subtly builds, circling back to characters and situations, each new story adding to what has come before while standing apart from it. However, if I had to highlight the stories I am most keen to revisit, they would certainly include ‘Religion’ (a stunning example of the deeply unsettling seam that runs through these stories), ‘Life After,’ in which a grieving mother is depicted with almost unbearable poignancy, ‘Helter Skelter,’ ‘Neverland,’ and ‘Emoticon.’ The latter is one of the shortest stories in the book, and the one that reminded me of Mary South’s debut collection, You Will Never Be Forgotten, which I read last year and loved.

Morris’ writing combines the sharp, modern tang of writers such as Mary South and Lauren Groff with a sensibility that reminds me of Alice Munro’s work: a depth rather than breadth of subject, repeating themes and situations (and the specific location of Slocum) to chisel away at the veneer of mundanity that covers over all of the deep, dark truths that these stories expose. Like Munro, Morris seems to be documenting rather than inventing, so close does her work seem to the truth of female experience. It is a remarkable, beautifully crafted achievement, like a sculpture carved from natural materials, revealing shapes hidden beneath the surface.

As you can tell, I am in awe of Morris’ skill as a short story writer. She is so assured and confident with this powerful form, and Lost Girls is really something very special. This is a collection to be savoured and revisited, and I can’t wait to read more from this talented author. I highly recommend this to anyone looking for vivid, profound, beautifully written short stories with an edge.

Lost Girls is published by TouchPoint Press and is available to purchase here.

Author website: https://ellenbirkettmorris.ink/index.html