Recitatif by Toni Morrison

A skilful and incisive short story by the masterful Toni Morrison Recitatif is the type of short story that seems made to be studied at school/college or discussed in a book club. The ambiguous nature of the central characters’ racial identities will lead readers to analyze every passage, trying to ‘find out’ the answers to a puzzle Morrison leaves intentionally unsolved. Our eagerness to understand this short story plays into Morrison’s social commentary. The reading experience of Recitatif is almost a prelude to the real story, the one that occurs outside of its borders, in which we study, examine, and argue, with others or with ourselves about the characters’ identities and the meaning behind Morrison’s choice not to reveal them to us. Long rambling short, this is the type of story that delivers more substance and depth once it’s actually over. Whereas I found the two full-length works that I have read by Morrison to be riveting and all-consuming, I found myself less immersed in Recitatif. I was more interested in the conception and execution of this idea than in the actual story. The story and characters, curiously enough, felt secondary to the literary device employed by Morrison. The alleged fraught friendship between these two women, one of them Black, the other white, pales in comparison to the fiercely complicated bond between Sula and Nel in Morrison’s Sula. We are given a glimpse into their childhood, where we learn they both have experienced some form of hardship and we later see them encountering one another as adults, except that they now find themselves on opposing sides.
Their complicity in the violence that other girls at the orphanage where they first met perpetrated against an older woman binds them together. While they both harbour guilt over this they disagree on whether the woman in question was Black or white. This will lead readers to wonder why that is. Which of them is right? And does that change anything? As I said, this is the type of story that is the ideal vehicle for generating discussions on race and racism in America. While I admired Morrison’s skill, I found that I was too aware of her presence in this story. That is, while with her novels her voice reeled me into her stories, here I felt more keenly her ‘hand’. As I was reading I knew that she was the architect behind the words on those pages.

Nevertheless, I’m glad that I read this as I did find this to be a thought-provoking short story. Zadie Smith’s introduction adds another dimension to the story and I highly recommend you do not give it a miss.

my rating: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh

Compared to My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Eileen just ain’t it.

“I was like Joan of Arc, or Hamlet, but born into the wrong life—the life of a nobody, a waif, invisible. There’s no better way to say it: I was not myself back then. I was someone else. I was Eileen.”

Vile, vulgar, grotesque, sensationalistic, morbid, dismal, gratuitous, self-indulgent. These are some of the words that come to mind when I think of Eileen. The first I read it was back in 2018 I wasn’t particularly impressed by it, and in my original review I wrote that I found many elements within its story ‘excessive’ and that overall I found the narrative ‘flat’. I picked Eileen up again hoping that, as was the case with other novels that I originally ‘didn’t really get’ (an example would be hangsaman, a book i consider to be an all-time fave now), a re-read would improve my opinion of it. Alas, in this instance, a re-read failed to make me a fan of Eileen. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but compare this unfavourably to Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest of Relaxation. Now that one slaps. Eileen, does not. Here Moshfegh is much too heavy-handed when it comes to the ‘gross’ stuff, and every paragraph, or so it seemed, tried to be as repulsive and ‘shocking’ as possible. But I did not find Eileen’s obsession with bodily fluids, her abject view of her body (and those around her), her stalking and OTT creepiness to be that disturbing. Sure, her abhorrent behaviour and thoughts are ‘subversive’ because she’s a woman. How very refreshing. I’m sure gross girls are feeling very seen by this novel. While I found the dark humor in My Year of Rest and Relaxation to be funny, here, it seems non-existent. Is Eileen’s insanity supposed to amuse me? Her narration, compared to that of the nameless protagonist of MYORAR, drags. She’s so bloody repetitive and her various speculations, which quite clearly point to her solipsistic view of the world and paranoia, seemed not only predictable and uninteresting but very derivative of the ones had by Shirley Jackson’s heroines (they usually begin describing a what-if scenario that is wholly ridiculous in minute detail, seem to believe that the people around them are very interested in them, perform puzzling ‘little’ every-day rituals, equate normalcy with dullness, and have a hard time interacting with others). The novel’s inciting incident, Eileen’s meeting of Rebecca, happens far too late in the narrative, around the 35% mark. Before that it’s just Eileen being her gross-ass self, peeping on underage boy encroached at the prison where she works, perving on a prison guard, and enabling her alcoholic father who is as repulsive as she is. Most of the narrative is dedicated to Eileen’s navel-gazing. Her dysmorphic view of her body has led her to severe food restriction and the use of laxatives. While the story is set in winter in 1964 Massachusetts, the setting feels more often than not generically historical. The use of certain old-fashioned words seemed to be the author’s greatest attempt at rendering her setting That and the way the prison is run. Eileen begins her tale a week before her last Christmas in her hometown, before she ‘disappeared’. Now, as she often likes to remind us, she’s an ‘old’ woman. ‘Back then’ she repeats time and again, things were different. Anyway, the narrative is all about how gross and disgusting and alienated Eileen is. Her house is dank too and her father is a mean alcoholic. Is it nurture or nature that has made Eileen into such a myopic & maladaptive individual? I for one, do not care. As I said, Eileen struck me as a far less compelling character than MYORAR or, for that matter, Jackson’s anti-heroine. She eventually meets Rebecca who is, of course, beautiful but a cypher. The two supposedly feel a connection, or Eileen is made to feel as if they are connected, and then the event that finally pushes Eileen into driving off from her life & hometown happens. And boy did it lack oomph. It seemed as if Moshfegh had thought of this ‘incident’ on the spot. Which made it rather anticlimactic and not at all convincing.

Other than the occasionally effective line (that is just the right amount of fucked up), I found Eileen a chore to re-read. Eileen was a simplistic character whose horrid inner-monologue wasn’t particularly captivating or ultimately subversive, the language was often repetitive (“back then”/”old woman”/”you see”), side characters were one-note caricatures (the portrayal of eileen’s “drunken” father left a lot to be desired…), and the relationship between Eileen & Rebecca was a flop.
If you are interested in reading something by Moshfegh I recommend you bypass Eileen in favour of MYORAR.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

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Ponti by Sharlene Teo

Ponti, Ponti, Ponti…what a vexing read. This is one of those books that was ceaselessly frustrating and, dare I say, ultimately pointless. What was this book even about? There is no story, not really. We don’t even get satisfying character studies to make up for the plotlessness of Ponti. The characters are thinly-rendered and unfunny caricatures that for 99.99% of the novel remain unchanged in their behaviours & attitudes. Given the comparison to authors such as Elena Ferrante and Emma Cline, I went into this hoping for a story about fraught and complex female friendships and found myself bitterly disappointed as the one friendship we get is not really a friendship, not at all.
I will try to give an impression of what this novel is about but you will have to bear with me as, as I stated above, this novel doesn’t really have a plot. The narrative is set in Singapore and the chapters alternate between Szu, Circe, and Amisa. Szu’s chapters take place in 2003 when she’s sixteen, Circe’s in 2020, and Amisa’s take us from the late 60s to the 80s. Amisa once starred in an indie horror trilogy called Ponti. After that, her acting career never took off and she goes on to live a rather miserable life. Her daughter, Szu, both reveres and is discomfited by her. Because of her ‘horror’ past, Szu becomes obsessed with the genre and the Ponti trilogy in particular. Szu is alienated from other girls and spends most of her school days creeping her classmates out. She eventually falls in with Circe, who is from a wealthy and fairly stable family. The two allegedly become friends but in adulthood, they no longer are in touch. I guess the reason for their falling out is what is meant to propel the storyline but my god did it drag. I felt no interest in seeing how their falling out would unfold as I never bought into their friendship. The two are horrible people. Szu’s personality revolves around her supposedly ‘macabre’ love for horror and gory stuff. That’s it. If you were to strip off that, she would have no discernible traits. Circe is an acerbic bitch who spends most of the time being a selfish little brat. As an adult, she manages to be even more grating. Amisa’s chapters, which are told in the 3rd person, do not give us much insight into her or her past. What we learn about her life there, well, we’d already learnt about it in Szu’s chapters. The ‘humor’ involves a lot of girls being catty about other girls, more often than not Szu thinking mean things about Circe & Circe saying bitchy things to Szu. The way they describe other women/girls is fairly vile.
This kind of toxic dynamic does work when say done by authors such as Ottessa…but here, it just fell flat. The characters were so one-note and often sounded very much like the same person. The dark humor promised by the summary doesn’t really come through. The narrative tries to be edgy and gritty by having passages dedicated to Circe talking about her tapeworm or our various characters taking shits. Wow, how s u b v e r s i v e. I’m shook. Most of the chapters came across as repetitive as they give us time and again the same glimpses into these women’s lives. Their inner-monologues added no depth to them, if anything, they made all the more unbelievable and indistinguishable from each other. Everything is abject: one’s body, other people and their bodies, Singapore, womanhood. Every character has greasy hair and oily skin, which is fair enough, but these are often regarded with repulsion by our mcs. Again, if the author had managed to pull off’s Ottessa’s biting humor, maybe this could have worked but as things stand it just felt forced.
I kept on reading hoping that at some point the story would take off but it never does. Nothing major happens nor do we gain more insight into the characters and their various dynamics. This was a waste of my time. The only thing this book succeed in was in establishing the setting of Singapore. That’s about it.

The characters are 1 dimensional & vile, the non-existent story goes nowhere, and the prose tries & fails to be edgy/gritty.
If you are interested in this novel and not put off by its overall low rating here on gr I recommend you check out more positive reviews.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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The Houseguest: And Other Stories by Amparo Dávila

Whenever an author is compared to Shirley Jackson, I feel compelled to check their work out. More often than not, upon reading their stuff, I end up rather perplexed by the comparisons to Jackson. In the case of Amparo Dávila, well, this comparison isn’t wholly unearned. Jackson and Dávila’s approach to the horror genre certainly share similarities. Their stories are imbued by a surreal, almost fantastical, quality that seems to blur the line between reality and fantasy. Their characters are paranoid to the point of being delusional, but there are times when their fears are not wholly unfounded and that the people, places, and situations that cause them to feel such anxiety and terror are not wholly normal. I appreciated that Dávila sets many of her stories within a household or building, rarely venturing beyond their thresholds. This ‘restricted’ setting augments the oppressive atmosphere of her stories and often worsens her characters’ paranoia. Dávila upsets normal family dynamics and every day activities by introducing sinister guests and entities within her characters’ homes. Alienation, loneliness, madness, and despair are running motifs throughout this collection. Sadly, the stories ended up blurring together somewhat. The characters are thinly rendered and often interchangeable with one another. The writing was at times repetitive and there were instances in which certain descriptions & dialogues came across as stilted (i read the eng. translation so that may be why). There was also an overuse of ellipsis which made many scenes rather dramatic. I found myself wishing for Jackson’s humor as I found myself completely unamused by Dávila’s stories. Compared to contemporary horror authors such as Samanta Schweblin, well The Houseguest doesn’t quite come on top.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

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Manifesto: On Never Giving Up by Bernardine Evaristo

“I am first and foremost a writer, the written word is how I process everything—myself, life, society, history, politics. It’s not just a job or a passion, but it is at the very heart of how I exist in the world, and I am addicted to the adventure of storytelling as my most powerful means of communication.”



In Manifesto Bernardine Evaristo presents us with a retrospective of her life: from her childhood and family dynamics to discussing her love life and career. Her candid, often humorous, voice grabbed me from the get-go and I found myself speeding through Manifesto. Not only does Evaristo have a knack for bringing various episodes and periods from her past to life but she always pairs these with a piercing and thought-provoking social commentary.

“You feel hated, even though you have done nothing to deserve it, and so you think there is something wrong with you, rather than something wrong with them.”

Manifesto is divided into several sections, each one exploring a different aspect of Evaristo’s life. In the first one, ‘heritage, childhood, family, origins’, Evaristo recounts her experiences of growing up in England in the 60s with a white mother and a Nigerian father. She describes her early encounters with racism, from witnessing the discrimination aimed at her father to the racism she herself experienced at school and in her neighbourhood. Her mother’s side of the family was openly against Evaristo’s parents’ union, some of them refusing to speak to any of them or treating them with open disdain. While Evaristo is critical of their behaviour she does take into account the social mores that people like her grandmother grew up with, and while she doesn’t condone or minimise their behaviour and actions she does acknowledge how hard it is to free oneself of such a deeply ingrained mindset.

“It was an early lesson for me as a child, witnessing how people who are victims of oppression can turn into oppressors themselves.”

In addition to discussing race and racism Evaristo looks at her relationship with her father, and once again demonstrates admirable self-awareness as she considers how when growing up she saw her father as a strict tyrant, whereas now she recognises that his parenting was simply reflective of a different culture. Additionally, she realises how alienating his life in England was (being more or less out-of-touch with his family, to being deemed a second-class citizen, an ‘undesirable’). Evaristo’s account of her father’s experiences in England highlights the racism and discrimination endured by the Windrush generation. I found her exploration of her relationship with her father to be deeply moving and this section, despite its subject matter, was easily my favourite in Manifesto.
In the following section, ‘houses, flats, rooms, homes’, Evaristo looks back to the various spaces she’s lived in since leaving her home. Many of the episodes she recounts are rather humorous, as they feature eccentric housemates & landlords as well as some bizarre living arrangements. This section reminded me of the tales my mother (who is a few years younger than evaristo) used to tell me about her odd living situations in London and Berlin when she was in her 20s. In describing the various rooms she’s lived in Evaristo considers the meaning of ‘home’.

“Writing became a room of my own; writing became my permanent home.”

In ‘the women and men who came and went’ Evaristo gives us a glimpse into her romantic and sexual exploits. In detailing her various partners she speaks about her own sexuality and power dynamics within a relationship. Once again Evaristo demonstrates a great understanding of human behaviour and is unafraid of challenging her old views/ideas. While I loved how open Evaristo is in examining her sexuality and her past and present relationship, I was frustrated by her binary view of sexuality. On the one hand, she says that sexuality is a spectrum and yet she also compares her sexuality to a sandwich (my lesbian identity was the stuffing in a heterosexual sandwich) and speaks of having had a ‘lesbian period’. The thing is, saying that one had a ‘lesbian era’ carries certain implications ( that this period is over, that it was a phase). After a particularly toxic relationship with an older woman Evaristo only actively seeks relationships with men, ‘rediscovering’ them, so to speak. Which, fair enough…but that does negate her previous interest in women? Why only use labels such as straight and lesbian rather than queer, pan, bi (etc etc)? That Evaristo couples her lesbian era with her discovery of feminism and politics is even more…sus (as if it was simply an accessory in her counterculture outfit). FYI, I’m a lesbian and I’m not a fan of people saying that they have had lesbian periods or phases (or people assuming that my own sexuality is a phase and that i will inevitably ‘revert’ to heterosexuality). And given that Evaristo did initially speak of sexuality as a spectrum, well, it makes it even all the more disappointing that she would go on at length to talk about her queerness as an ‘era’. Still, even when discussing her sexuality Evaristo incorporates other issues & factors into the conversation (class, gender, race, politics, age) so that even this section (in spite of its somewhat dated view of sexuality) has an element of intersectionality.
In ‘drama, community, performance, politics’ writes about theatre. While her love for theatre is apparent she’s once again able to be critical, in this case, she highlights how racist and sexist this particular sphere of the art was and still is (from the roles made available to poc to the few opportunities that woc have in comparison to their white, and often male, peers). Evaristo goes on to discuss performativity and rejection. In the fifth chapter, ‘poetry, fiction, verse fiction, fusion fiction’, Evaristo continues to consider her ever-evolving relationship with her creativity, this time focusing on her writing. She gives us a glimpse into the early stages of her writing and provides us with some insight into her creative process. The way Evaristo talks about her work made me want to read it, a great sign I believe. While she now and again expresses some criticism towards her earlier ideas and stories, you can tell how proud she is of what these have achieved. While her experimental style is not something I usually would go for, the way she discusses her ‘fusion’ style is certainly inspiring and interesting. In ‘influences, sources, language, education’ Evaristo talks about the books and authors that influenced her as a writer. She speaks about the importance of representation, of finding one’s voice, and of resilience (in face of rejection etc.). In the final chapter, ‘the self, ambition, transformation, activism’ Evaristo discusses politics, the publishing industry and the academic world (both of which still are very white) and the various prizes and schemes she created or had a hand in creating that seek to elevate Black and Asian writers. There was one paragraph here that was a bit jarring as it starts with “The impact of Geroge Floyd’s murder in May 2020” and ends with “Many plans are afoot to open up. These are exciting times”.
We then have a concussion in which Evaristo gives us a quick recap of what we’ve so far read and briefly writes of the impact of having won the Booker Prize.
All in all, this was a solid piece of nonfiction. My favourite sections were the first one, which focuses on her childhood and family, and the second one. While I did appreciate the other chapters they at times had a textbook-like quality. I also got tired of frequent ‘back in those days’ refrain (we get it, “there was no internet” back then) and at times she explained things that didn’t really necessitate an explanation (again, just because some of your readers are younger than you does not mean that they are ignorant of what came before them). But apart from her occasionally patronising asides, I did find her voice equal parts compelling and incisive. Her wry wit added a layer of enjoyment to my reading experience. This is a work I would certainly recommend to my fellow book lovers, especially those who loved Evaristo’s fiction. I liked Manifesto so much that I have decided to give her Girl, Woman, Other another go (fingers crossed).

ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

my rating: ★★★★☆

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Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket: Stories by Hilma Wolitzer

Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket is a fairly amusing collection of short stories. While many of the stories were written and initially published during the 1960s and 1970s, Hilma Wolitzer’s style and humour struck me as modern. The issues she touches up also felt surprisingly relevant. The stories read like vignettes and have an almost sitcomesque quality that makes for some diverting reading material.

The scenarios these stories present us with are domestic, and many hone in on the dynamic between husband and wife, highlighting the societal pressures mothers are subjected to. In the title story, a woman witnesses a mother’s breakdown in the supermarket. Later on, we have a story highlighting how traumatic giving birth is that is both humorous and clever.
While I appreciated the author’s wit and her savvy social commentary, I did find that many of these stories, especially the linked ones following the same married couple, to be samey. And, even if I did find them to be relatively entertaining they were not particularly memorable (hence the short review).
Still, if you are in the mood for some funny stories depicting suburban American married life in the 60s and 70s, well, this might be the collection for you.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

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The Archer by Shruti Swamy

Throughout the course of reading The Archer, I was painfully aware that I was in fact reading a novel. That is to say, I did not think this was a particularly ‘immersive coming-of-age’ story, quite the contrary. Almost every line I read struck me as contrived and as attempting (and failing) to be eloquent and adroit. This novel reads like something that should have stayed in drafts or that would have been okay if it had been some sort of MFA project. The verbose and trying-too-hard-to-be literary language was distracting and unimaginative. The main character and her environment felt inconsequential, the narrative more intent on showing off its supposedly ‘lyrical’ prose (which, you guessed it, in my eyes, was anything but). Banal, shallow, and repetitive ​​ The Archer was not for me. If you enjoyed this novel please refrain from commenting on things along the lines ‘you are wrong’. If you want to read this novel…eh, I guess I should remind you to check out more positive reviews.

The Archer begins with a 3rd pov that gives us an overview of the childhood of our protagonist. The narrative year tries to make it so that we are seeing things from the pov of a child, but it doesn’t quite pull it off. Vidya lives in Bombay during a generically historical period. There is Father Sir, Brother, The Mother, and briefly Room-Not-Mother. Vidya has to look after Brother and has to be obedient and respectful towards her elders. Nothing much happens other than some lengthy descriptions about objects or feelings that amount to absolutely nothing. Vidya is devoid of personality because we all know children don’t have those…anyway, one day she sees a Kathak class and wants to learn this type of dance. The Mother eventually dies (i think?) and Vidya is given even more responsibilities. Father Sir plays almost no role, his presence relegated to two or three scenes. The narrative begins switching from a 3rd to a 1st pov, in a painfully artificial attempt at mirroring Vidya becoming aware, through dancing, of ‘the self’.
There is a time skip and the story is narrated by Vidya herself, who is now at university. Once again the narrative is very much all telling, no showing. The author will dedicate a paragraph to describe the flesh of a fruit or the shape of a shoe but spend almost no time fleshing out the secondary characters who soon enough end blurring together. Vidya has a predictable half-hearted relationship with another girl, but because neither of these characters struck me as real I could not bring myself that they would care for each other.
Another time skip and Vidya is married to this generic guy. We learn nothing about him, nothing substantial that is but the author will inform us of the smell of his sweat and his cologne. K. Then we get the predictable pregnancy where Vidya learns that the body is abject.
I just found the language so profoundly irritating. As I said, there are very few scenes actually happening in ‘real time’ on the page. Vidya mostly recounts to us stuff that happens, taking away the immediacy of that moment/scene. There is also very little dialogue so that we spend most of our time just listening to Vidya’s voice. Yet, in spite of the pages and pages she spends navel-gazing, I did not feel as if she was a fleshed-out character. She was an impression, a generic girl who grows up to become a generic young woman. She’s often painted as the victim, but I felt no sympathy towards her.
The prose was full of cliched descriptions and platitudes (“ the scars on her skin making her legs more beautiful instead of less”). There were so many unnecessary words. Time and time again Vidya felt the need to say something backwards (on the lines of ‘it was not that I was sad’). Or we get passages like this: “Something else had been lost, many things had been lost, perhaps everything had been lost, the girl I had been felt far away, though I had come to school to be rid of her—the sad, motherless girl with dry ugly knees and a dark ugly face: that girl, I could not remember her as me, I could only remember her as though I watched her from somewhere outside her body;”. Rather than just saying things as they are, the author will refer to things such as Vidya’s ‘true voice’, or lazy descriptors such as ‘tomorrow-feeling’ and later ‘girl feeling’. Time and again Vidya will not say what she thinks or feels directly. She will preface whatever by saying ‘and so’, ‘perhaps’, ‘it seemed to me’, and then go to say ‘it wasn’t y nor was it x but it was z’. All these words end up amounting to nothing. They did not make Vidya into a more credible character nor did they bring to life her surroundings/experiences. Yet the author will sacrifice character development to these prolonged acts of introspection that actually don’t reveal anything about this character.
This was a bland affair. The best thing about this novel is the cover/title combo. Its contents left much to be desired. I’ve read far more compelling novels about fraught mother/daughter relationships (You Exist Too Much and The Far Field) and I wish that Vidya’s Kathak practices and her relationship with her teacher could have been the focus of the narrative.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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Indian Horse by Richard Wagamese

Gut-wrenching and haunting Indian Horse depicts the horrific realities of residential schools, as well as racism and discrimination in 1960s Ontario. This is the third novel that I’ve read by Richard Wagamese and, while Medicine Walk and Ragged Company were no walks in the parks, Indian Horse’s unsparing bleakness and distressing content make those two seem like light reading material. In spite of how upsetting and chilling this story was, Wagamese never sensationalises his characters’ suffering nor does he include graphic and or painful scenes as a cheap way to ‘shock’ his readers. He writes with such empathy and compassion that I found myself unable to tear myself away from Saul’s story.

Indian Horse opens with Saul Indian Horse, who is Ojibwe, being in a treatment centre for his alcoholism. He then begins recounting his childhood, of the early years he spent with his family ‘on the lam’ back in the early 1960s in the wilderness of Northern Ontario after his siblings were taken, kidnapped really, by the so-called ‘authorities’. His parents are heartbroken and survival is difficult, but, compared to what is to come this part of his life seems like a vacation almost. Eventually, Saul is also stolen and taken to a residential school. Wagamese is unflinching in his depiction of the horrors that occur in residential schools such as the one ‘attended’ by Sault. Words like horrifying or brutal do not succeed in conveying the monstrous actions and behaviours of the people in charge of these schools (mostly nuns and priests). The corporal and psychological violence they inflict on their ‘charges’ are abhorrent, stomach-churning, horrific. Their anti-indigenous teachings see them ‘punishing’ (read: abusing) children for speaking in their native tongue, or for expressing non-Christian beliefs or for merely acknowledging their reality (that of having been forcibly taken from their families and communities).

Saul finds solace in hockey. When Father Leboutilier notices how skilled Saul is on the ice he encourages him to keep on playing, tutoring him along the way. Saul temporarily plays with a ‘midget hockey team’ but resentful white parents and their children are unwilling to see him ‘take’ the spotlight and soon enough he’s out of the team.
Eventually, Saul leaves the residential school and goes to live with the Kellys, an Ojibway foster family who wants him to join their community’s junior hockey team. Over the following years, Saul and the rest of his teammates are subjected to many forms of discrimination, from the racist slurs other teams and their fans throw their way to the everyday discriminations and ‘roughing’ up they are subjected to. Saul initially refuses to retaliate when opposing players pull dirty tricks which actually earns him the contempt of his own teammates, who view his decision not to respond to violence with violence as passive, cowardly even. Later on, Saul is scouted by the Toronto Marlboros where he’s yet again a victim of discrimination. As time passes Saul decides to abandon hockey and develops a taste for drinking.

Whereas Medicine Walk and Ragged Company were very dialogue-heavy and in many ways read like long conversations (between the characters, between humans and the natural world, between past and present), Indian Horse is a more quiet work that is far more introspective in nature. Saul’s recollection of his childhood and teenage years is permeated by a sense of sorrow and loss. From the traumatic experience of being separated from his family to the horrifying realities of residential school and the later abuse he was subjected to once he began playing hockey professionally….this is not a fun or nostalgic foray into the good olden days. Wagamese captures in painful clarity how much Saul struggled with the abuse, violence, and racism he experienced growing up. He conveys these experiences through his younger eyes, so that we too, feel as confused, hurt, and lost as he did. The loneliness he feels is truly heart-breaking and there were times that I struggled to keep on reading. But, as I said earlier on, Wagamese never makes a spectacle of his characters’ suffering. He’s matter-of-fact when it comes to recounting Saul’s difficult life, making his experiences seem all the more real.

As with Wagamese’s other novels, the narrative incorporates various Ojibway teachings, and here we see just how powerful they are in that they tether Saul to the culture he was so violently ripped away from. Much about the tone of the novel brought to mind one of my all-time-favourite novels, Last Night I Sang to the Monster by Benjamin Alire Sáenz. While they do portray very different realities, prose and tone-wise the two share a similar quality. Self-forgiveness is a crucial part of both of these novels, and both authors demonstrate extreme empathy in the way they handle trauma, loss, and addiction.
If you are a fan of Wagamese, or Sáenz, and you are prepared to have your heart broken (and possibly stitched back together), you should seriously consider reading Indian Horse.

my rating: ★★★★☆

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The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea by Yukio Mishima

This is the second work that I’ve read by Yukio Mishima and I’m afraid to say that, unlike Star, I found an unappealing read. I was expecting the story to focus on Noboru Kuroda and the gang of boys he hangs out with but most of the narrative is dedicated to the romantic & sexual relationship between Fusako, Noboru’s mother, and Ryuji, a sailor who has so far lead a rather untethered lifestyle (happiest at sea, keeping his fellow crew members at arms’ length, not settling down, etc.). Noboru meets Ryuji and seems to instantly dislike him, he also spies him and his mother having sex through a peephole. His animosity melts somewhat when Ryuji returns to the sea. Noboru, like the rest of his ‘clique’, seems to appreciate apathy, lack of feeling, a refusal to sentimentally, so, Ryuji leaving his mother behind seems to resonate with Noboru’s ‘feelings=being weak’ mentality. Alas, Ryuji returns and after one unintentionally hilarious encounter between him and Noboru involving a wet shirt, well, Noboru decides Ryuji is persona non grata and seems to view him as the embodiment of everything that is wrong with his contemporary Japanese society (just because this man was being nice to him…). When Ryuji decides to change his lifestyle and settle down with Fusako, Noboru and his gang decide to take matters into their own hands
First things first: there is an explicit scene depicting the killing of an animal that could have been made shorter and seem to exist only in order to shock. Shock it did not but annoy it did. These kinds of gratuitous descriptions do nothing for this particular reader. Second: the ideology of this boy gang. It seems on the same level as the ‘we live in a society’. They are as angsty and self-righteous as Light Yagami. Which, I might have found compelling had I been aged 14 or so but I’m not. Joker stans maybe into their brand of ‘fuck society’ but I was not. Their detachment and contempt of social norms are exaggerated to the point of ridiculousness. Like, the whole Ryuji thing? I did not really believe that Noboru admired him in the first place so I couldn’t get behind his feeling betrayed by being ‘confronted’ with what he perceives to be ‘moral’ weakness (being friendly towards him and lying about how he got his shirt wet? wtf). Also, if he and the boy were truly apathetic they wouldn’t have cared about Ryuji in the first place, let alone be so angered by him not fitting into their ideal of ‘man’.
The elements of eroticism within this narrative were incredibly yucky and made me want to scratch my eyes out.

In short, I did not get this but not in a good-way that would inspire me to reread it in order to better understand it. Quite the opposite in fact. If I could unread it, I probably would.

I’m almost disappointed in myself for not liking or appreciating this novel as I do find the author to be an interesting figure (i mean, cosplaying Saint Sebastian? now that’s something) and I did find Star to be a thought-provoking and surprisingly relevant read. While I probably will read more of his work, I can only hope that I will find it more absorbing than this.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

Boy, Snow, Bird by Helen Oyeyemi

In the last few weeks I’ve read two works by Oyeyemi (Peaces and What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours) and what I liked most about them was how funny, inventive, and unapologetically queer they were. So, naturally, I was somewhat surprised and saddened to discover that Boy, Snow, Bird lacks any of those qualities. I can’t honestly say that Boy, Snow, Bird has any real strengths. There are far more superior books out there examining race in the 1950s and 1960s America, such as ReginaPorter’s The Travelers, and to call this novel a Snow White retelling seems overarching. While Oyeyemi does incorporate within her narrative certain recognizable fairy tale motifs—mean stepmothers who hate their angelic stepdaughters, magical mirrors and or reflections—the story she recounts struck me as painfully prosaic. We have a vague, and unconvincing, historical setting, cardboard characters, and an uneventful storyline that drags on too long.

The novel is divided into three parts. Part one and three are narrated by Boy. She’s white and the daughter of a pest exterminator who she often refers to as ‘the rat catcher’. In a manner reminiscent of Dickens and She Who Shall Not Be Named, Oyeyemi gives her characters names, or nicknames, that convey their personality or profession. I may sound overly critical here but why do characters whose professions are often openly looked down upon—janitors, cleaners, pest exterminators, etc.—are so frequently cast in the role of sinister and/or obsessive creeps? I mean, just because someone whose job requires them to kill rats doesn’t mean they have to be ‘unstable’ and rat-obsessed (this guy makes rat noises and is apt to go off on anti-rat rants). Anyhow, this rat catcher is horrible through-and-through. He treats Boy in a rather appalling way and understandably she decides to run off once she’s done with high school. She ends up finding a job (what that was i cannot recall) and eventually becomes involved with a man named Arturo who is entirely void of a personality. This man has a daughter called Snow who is biracial, and Boy decides to exile her. Why? I can’t say for sure. It seemed that Boy found Snow’s ‘goodness’ grating or felt threatened by her.
Boy and Arturo have a child together, Bird. Part two is narrated by her and it mostly consists of a series of boring episodes. She exchanged letters with Snow, who she has never met. Whether they got on or not, I have no idea. Their responses to each other’s letters were almost jarring. There is an attempt at exploring doubleness but the story never has anything interesting on this matter.
We then return to Boy who has nothing really interesting to say.

Up to this point, it was safe to say that I did not care for this novel. The characters were dull, poorly developed. Our mains were very one-note and their voices failed to elicit any strong emotions in me. The secondary characters are barely there, and most of the male characters—regardless of their age—blurred together. We also have that one Italian character who just has to say ‘cara’ this and ‘cara’ that. Ffs. Still, I would not have discouraged others from attempting to read it as this could have easily been one of those ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ cases but then Oyeyemi drops a rather unpleasant surprise near the end.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Turns out that the ‘rat catcher’, turns out his name is Frank, who up to now has been portrayed as this abusive possibly ‘deranged’ villain, is a trans man. Frank is Boy’s mother. Frank used to be a gay woman who was raped and became pregnant with Boy. After this traumatic experience Frank ‘became’ trans: “You know how Frank says he became Frank? He says he looked in the mirror one morning when he was still Frances, and this man she’d never seen before was just standing there, looking back. ”
Leaving aside the fact that Frank’s ‘story’ is recounted by someone who keeps misgendering and deadnaming them (this story is set in the 50s and 60s after all), I find this whole ‘reveal’ to be a poor choice indeed. Not only does the story imply that victims of sexual abuse cannot ever recover (which, unfortunately, sometimes happens to be true but here it struck me as intentionally sensational) but they will inevitably become abusers themselves. Which, yikes. Can we not? And don’t get me started on the whole ‘woman wanting to escape womanhood by becoming a man + lesbians becoming men because of trauma and the patriarchy’ terfy combo. Fuck sake. And to make your one trans character into an unhinged abuser is decidedly questionable.

To prospective readers of this book: I would like to dissuade you. Give this one a wide berth. Oyeyemi has written far better, and certainly a lot less dubious, things, so I recommend you check those out instead.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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