I don’t know what my preferred genre of fiction is, but I do know when looking at a book if it’s something I’d usually pass by. Modern horror novels fall into that category. However, sometimes it’s nice to branch out and try something new, so when a friend recommended Bone White by Ronald Malfi I decided to give it a go.
When Paul Gallo hears the news report about the arrest of a mass murderer in a remote town in Alaska, he travels there immediately. It was from this town that his twin brother Danny went missing one year ago. When he gets to Dread’s Hand though, instead of finally uncovering the truth of what happened to Danny, he finds only suspicious locals, a town that wants him to leave, and tales of the devil lurking in the woods.
Bone White starts out reading like a simple crime book, but as Paul starts to uncover the secrets of this town the ghostly elements weave their way in. Unfortunately, I didn’t find it creepy at all. There was no urgency in the writing, no creeping unease to make my skin crawl. This may be an issue with me as a reader (other than a couple of pages in The Shining, I have never felt scared whilst reading a book), but it does rather feel like a pointless endeavour when a book’s main purpose is not being accomplished. I knew that I wouldn’t feel terrified when reading it, but I would have liked to have felt apprehensive at least some of the time.
Simply put, this book was not for me. I didn’t dislike reading it, but I could have put it down at any point and not cared one way or the other if I finished it. Perhaps if there had been other elements to draw me in then I would have fared better. But there was little character development, no interesting relationships to explore, and the prose was just fine. If you enjoy horror novels, you may well like this book (there are certainly many glowing reviews over on Goodreads), but it hasn’t convinced me to read more from this author.
If you know of any books out there that are genuinely scary, please do let me know. I love horror films and easily scare whilst watching them, so I’d love to experience that in a book!
Lydia, I hear you say, not everything is about the Iliad. An interesting point, but consider this: the Iliad is the most important tale of all time and, perhaps, the only thing in this world that really matters.
I first read Alice Oswald’s Memorial in 2018 and after reading Country it called to me again. The concept of this poem is best summed up by its full title: Memorial: An Excavation of the Iliad. Oswald has cut to the heart of one of the most important aspects of the Iliad: the stories and lives behind the characters we meet whose lives are cut short by the brutality of war. It is not quite a re-telling, not quite a translation, but a wonderful combination of the two – and so much more.
The book starts with a list of every named character who is killed in Homer’s Iliad. Seven and a half pages of death. Oswald then constructs a memorial to these characters, as she leans into the Homeric and writes about the lives that they led before they died on the battlefield. Extended metaphors of the natural world are interspersed, helping the reader to visualise the ways that these people had their lives ripped from them, how they spent their final moments, how the world moved around them.
Like the shine of a sea swell
Lifting and flattening silently
When the water makes way for the wind
And dreams of its storms
Huge waves hang in a hush
Uncertain which way to fall
Until a breeze breaks them
Oswald’s writing is gut-wrenching and this poem will forever be one of my favourite interpretations of the Iliad. Though the poem is focused on death, the tales of these characters’ families, their loved ones, their childhoods, ensures that the richness of life shines through its pages. This makes the scale of the trauma that beats throughout the Iliad, and this poem, all the more affective. Oswald captures the complexities of life and death and grief and memory in this fitting tribute to a classic epic.
Grief is black it is made of earth
It gets into the cracks in the eyes
It lodges its lump in the throat
When a man sees his brother on the ground
He goes mad he comes running out of nowhere
Lashing without looking and that was how COON died
In Country, Michael Hughes transports the story of the Iliad and places it in Ireland in 1996 to tell a story about the Troubles. Simply put, it’s genius.
Despite its different setting to Homer’s tale, it is an incredibly literal re-telling. At one point I was actually concerned that Hughes was going to attempt to do the catalogue of ships, but thankfully he spared us that. Sorry, Homer, but Book 2 of the Iliad will always be a struggle. As well as keeping some of the names close to their originals (Achilles/Achill, Patroclus/Pat, Helen/Nellie, Hector/Henry) there were other delightful nods to the myth. The pub where the IRA congregate is called The Ships, the SAS base is called Illiam. Those little references brought a smile to my face.
The narration of this novel stands out as one of its strongest features. Hughes plays into the oral tradition and as I was reading I felt like our nameless narrator was telling me the tale in person. This aspect meant that it felt similar to how it feels to read the Iliad, albeit with a different tone. From the first page, you can tell that this re-telling is going to work:
Fury. Pure fury. The blood was up. Lost the head completely.
What was the start of it? The whole wrecking match, that sent so many strong souls roaring down to hell, dogs chewing up the guts ground into the road, birds pecking at the splattered bits of their brains. The way London wanted it to go. The way it always is.
Here’s what. Pig and Achill fell out. The OC and the trigger man. Bad, bad news.
My first introduction to Abby Geni was The Lightkeepers, a book that I enjoyed mainly because of the atmosphere that Geni created with her writing. When I was reading it I knew that her voice would lend itself to short stories, so I was delighted that she had already written a collection. The stories in The Last Animal all deal with grief in some form, whether that be losing a loved one, a relationship, one’s health, one’s family. Grief seeps through the pages and the characters often turn to nature to understand or to heal. This theme was also a main feature of The Lightkeepers, but it felt more polished in these stories. The form lends itself to intimacy and small moments, making the impact of the emotions far greater.
Like most collections, there were some stories that stood out and some that appealed less to me. My particular favourites were Terror Birds and Captivity. The former is set on an ostrich farm where a young boy discovers that his father is having an affair. His attempts to save his parents’ marriage and his family have devastating consequences. The latter focuses on Mara, an aquarium worker who has moved back in with her mother after a break-up. Their relationship is fraught with tension, and living in close proximity forces them to confront the disappearance of Mara’s brother seven years ago. Their different approaches to grief collide in a tragic and very real way.
Sadly the title story of this collection was one of my least favourites. A shame considering it was the story that the collection ended on. Whether this is because by the end of the book my brain was tired of the overarching themes of loss and love, or because it simply was not as enticing, I don’t quite know.
Overall though, I enjoyed it immensely. The descriptions and explorations of the natural world were beautiful and Geni’s understanding of the complex ways that loss affects us is insightful. I hope she publishes another collection because it is where her writing shines.
If I was to sum up Piranesi in one word it would be: fine.
This first half of this novel is taken up with building the world in which our narrator exists. He lives in a world that is comprised only of rooms, corridors and statues. The world is immersed in a body of water, with waves crashing through the halls and floods being a regular occurrence. Piranesi knows that there is one other person who lives in the world with him and they meet twice a week to discuss The Other’s scientific research. This universe is beautifully constructed and I didn’t mind that about 50% of this (quite short) book was taken up by exploring the world and beginning to understand it.
This book is not exactly plot-driven, but is instead a slow meander through the creation that Clarke has built. As my main desire when reading this book was for something that did not require much brain power, this was well-suited to my state of mind at that time. It was a gentle exploration of a different universe and a nice break.
One aspect that troubled me was a character whom we meet later in the novel. This character felt like he fitted the stereotype of the “older, predatory gay man” just a little too well. I don’t object to gay characters who are cruel or who do terrible things or who have questionable motives, but there were some scenes that struck me the wrong way. His sexuality was occasionally linked to his actions in a way that left me uncomfortable, even if I could not quite put my finger on why. This was not by any means pervasive though, so did not greatly affect my reading experience.
Was I captivated by this novel? No. Did it have a great impact on me? No. Was it a short read that was quietly enjoyable and intriguing? Yes. And sometimes that’s all I need.
Sometimes a book comes into your life that knocks you sideways and reminds you why you read in the first place. An Arrow’s Flight by Mark Merlis is one of those books. Rachel posted about it on Twitter and I knew I had to read it. A Trojan War re-telling where Pyrrhus is a go-go dancer and Odysseus is a lawyer? Sign me up.
What I could never have predicted is the searing journey that this novel would take me on.
An Arrow’s Flight is ostensibly a re-telling of Sophocle’s Philoctetes. So when we meet Pyrrhus as a go-go dancer and sex worker in the city, we think we know where the tale will go. Whilst the setting is one that is new to the reader, once you have gained your footing in this unusual world, you are prepared for the upcoming plot: Odysseus will arrive, persuade Phyrrus to fight in the Trojan War, and, with the magical bow of Philoctetes, the Greeks will win. That’s the story. A tale as old as time.
Mark Merlis has a different plan for you.
Instead we read about gay identity, fate, and the destructive expectations of families. The tapestry that Merlis weaves highlights the pressures that Greek heroes were forced to confront and draws a parallel with the pressure to be straight and the fear of being queer in a heterosexual world: Continue reading
An Imaginary Life by David Malouf takes its setting from the exile of the Roman poet Ovid. He is banished to Tomis, a remote town on the outskirts of the empire where no one speaks his language. Ovid has been truly silenced by Augustus. The exile of Ovid is an event which is enshrined mystery. We know the name of the town that he was sent to, but we do not know why; some scholars have gone so far as to suggest that the exile itself was a fiction. This lack of information gives Malouf the space to explore the story that he wants to tell.
We meet Ovid after his exile as he struggles to understand (quite literally) Tomis and the people with whom he now lives. Within this cold and desolate landscape, Malouf invents a character known only as the Child, a feral boy who has been raised in the wilderness by deer. Ovid feels an instant connection to this child and it is this relationship that creates the foundation of the book. Continue reading
In the films, The Two Towers is my favourite of the trilogy. I’m not sure the same can be said for the books. The first half of The Two Towers is excellent and I pretty much loved every bit of it. In comparison, the second half falls rather flat.
The first half of this instalment focuses on a couple of action-packed plots that weave their way together. Merry and Pippin are captured by orcs and their characters are given the chance to develop and mature. We learn more about their personalities and how determined and strong they can be. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli are in pursuit as they try to rescue their friends, despite feeling certain they will not be able to succeed in this mission. It’s a touching example of how much this group have come to love and respect each other. It’s a gripping plot and we also get to meet the Ents, the tree guardians of the forest, whom I utterly adore.
What does Evening Primrose by Kopano Matlwa have to do with Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare? Absolutely nothing, except for the fact that I don’t have enough thoughts on either of them works to justify a full post.
Evening Primrose by Matlwa tells the story of Masechaba who has fulfilled her ambition of becoming a doctor, something she has wanted since experiencing traumatising and debiliating issues with her periods as a child. Whilst working at the hospital she experiences more of the systematic misogyny that pervades the healthcare system and she struggles with the xenophobic tensions that are heightening in the shadow of apartheid. Whilst I appreciated this book and was drawn in by Matlwa’s writing, I felt that perhaps it covered too much in too little space. Misogyny, religion, xenophobia, racism, medical trauma, mental health, suicide, and sexual assault. For a book that was less than 200 pages, I could never quite figure out what it was about. I usually want books to be shorter, but this was a rare occasion where I wish it had been twice as long. It made many important points and the prose was gripping, but I needed more space to live with the themes with which Matlwa grappled.
I am no Shakespeare aficionado, having only read a handful of his works. I thoroughly enjoyed Much Ado About Nothing though. It was delightful, funny and heartwarming. Beatrice and Benedick both hate each other, until their friends decide to trick them into thinking the other loves them. Lo and behold, they discover they have been in love all along. A classic tale that was charming to read. That is only one of the main plots, but it was the plot I enjoyed the most. Much Ado is genuinely funny and the characters were people whom I wanted to read more about. Beatrice in particular is wonderful and invective and I wish we could read more of her rants:
O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.