Machines Like Me by Ian McEwan
A few unconnected thoughts: Why is Ian McEwan obsessed with false rape accusations? Why does he write so many clueless, un-self-aware, privileged straight white men whom he seems to hold in some level of contempt? (Self-hatred?) Why has he gone so far over from starting with people to starting with concepts, hypotheticals, constructed moral dilemmas? It’s almost like he’s becoming a science fiction writer, although not really writing about the future. And with this book, it’s an odd only-slightly-alternate universe. Most things are the same, but things just unfold a tiny bit differently. It has both ideas and feelings — but it’s unpleasantly dominated by the former. Being me, I think ultimately I would’ve found the book much more interesting without the android. It forces thoughts, instead of coaxing them from readers presented with a careful rendering of instantly recognizable human experience.
Don’t Skip Out on Me by Willy Vlautin
A sad, lonely story about Horace Hopper (half Irish, half Paiute) — abandoned by his father, then his mother, then his grandmother, to live and work on the aging Mr. and Mrs. Reese’s ranch in Nevada–until his early 20’s when he leaves all on his own for Tucson to become a boxer. And not just a boxer, but a Mexican boxer, known as Hector Hidalgo. It’s a quiet book, with clean, spare prose, full of loneliness, people on the run, and implicit and explicit questions of identity. (At one point Horace laments to Mr. Reese that he’s just a drunk Indian, and Mr. Reese gently points out that he’s also a drunk Irishman).
I wouldn’t say that nothing happens, but I would say it doesn’t really end up anywhere in particular. You just get the feeling of peering into one of millions of sad, quiet lives marked by disappointment and glimmers of real kindness. And there’s something a little off about Horace–something oddly childlike, especially when juxtaposed with the violence of his fights and his solitary life working in a tire shop and training. He reveres a self-help book he brought with him about becoming a champion almost the way people hold the Bible, and he trusts people easily when he has no real reason to. But I bought every sad minute of it.
Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson
I picked this up because Hobson was on a panel at the Tucson Festival of Books for National Book Award finalists with another writer I really wanted to see. On that panel he talked about sometimes being asked if he thought his book might be appropriate for younger readers–and I can totally see why.
Narrated by a teenager (well, technically, by an adult recalling his teenage experience, but with almost no adult filter at all), it really does have that young adult feel even where the subject matter gets perhaps too dark for that audience.
There is racial identity (the teen, Sequoyah, is Native American), gender identity (although it is pretty pale–he wears eyeliner and at one point tenderly holds a pair of stockings), violent impulses, and suicide–but it all just felt kind of stagnant to me. It was more portrait than story. Yes, his foster sister Rosemary dies at the end (as we learn on page 1), but the book never really explores why, or what that does to Sequoyah. He ostensibly narrates from adulthood, but we don’t see any real part of that to understand what this experience did to him.
I’m struck by a structural comparison to Milkman, where the literal fact of the end of the period being described is related in the opening–but, in my view, to much greater effect.
The prose itself is very strong. It’s straightforward and simple and sometimes surprisingly direct. But ultimately I like a novel with more movement. (Not necessarily lots of events happening, but discernible development).
The Golden State by Lydia Kiesling
This is a great example of a book that probably accomplished exactly what it set out to do–it just isn’t a goal that holds much interest for me personally. The premise: Daphne, whose husband is stuck in Turkey due to Islamophobic immigration practices, impulsively decides to take her 16-month-old daughter Honey and drive north to the barely-still-there far-nothern-California town of Altavista, where she has inherited the mobile home once occupied by her grandparents.
The vast majority of the text is consumed by long, frantic sentences describing everything she does to care for this baby (with her worries about money, her missing husband, and her semi-abandoned job). While I recognize that this is a voice that is grossly under-represented in literary fiction (perhaps because it’s nearly impossible for someone in that place to get any writing done, and then there’s the filtering done by the publishing world that still doesn’t take the experiences of women seriously). It just doesn’t interest me very much. It is a widely shared human experience, perhaps, but not one that stands any chance of being universal. A word cloud for this book would prominently feature “diaper” and “string cheese” and it’s just not an existence I wanted to inhabit.
That being said, I have to give her credit for capturing the experience of frantic anxiety (whatever the source) and the dread of ignoring something you know you have to face at some point; the psychology is intense.
My main issue on the craft level is to do with the only thing that happens that you could really call a plot: Daphne’s chance meeting with a very old woman named Alice who has driven a long distance to Altavista by herself on a kind of pilgrimage to a camp in Oregon where her long-dead husband once worked. She rescues Daphne from a breakdown/panic, and Daphne takes her where she’s going–but it all feels a little deux-ex-macchina to me. Oh, the book needs a plot? Let’s put a woman–one who happens to understand Daphne’s speaking Turkish on the phone, in this tiny, white town–improbably in her path. And launch them on a little road trip together. It’s a little convenient for my taste. It sort of reminds me of my first-ever attempt at novel-writing (I was about 13).
In the end I think she nailed the task of psychic portraiture but didn’t quite make it all the way to fully realized novel. This being her first, I’m generally optimistic that she could develop.
Side note: I learned while creating this post that a book titled Golden State (note the absence of definite article), by Ben Winters, was published in January (Kiesling’s book having come out in September). The Winters book seems to be most prevalently described as post-apocalyptic detective fiction (?) but is also set in a politically disturbed California. Lydia, if you’re reading this (ha), you win.
Less by Andrew Sean Greer
I knew going in that this was billed as a comedic novel–and indeed, I laughed out loud more than once. That’s no small feat; my sense of humor, especially in books, is quite particular. But I always like my laughter to come amid sadness and poignancy, and although the tone here stayed lighter and closer to satire than my usual preference, it packed a punch in, too, around love, and aging, and the shape of a life as seen from the middle as you start down the slope. (What do you end up with if you have a series of relationships rather than a life-long commitment? What is it, really, to be alone? To be wanted? Remembered? Accomplished?)
So we have Arthur Less, a writer whose success was never great but is now on the decline, cobbling together a trip around the world to avoid his ex’s wedding and his own 50th birthday–and we get wacky, slightly humiliating episodes piled on one another, interspersed with memory and reflection in a way that mostly worked. (In one scene, a conceited competitor tells him his problem is that he is a bad gay; in another, he recalls specific activities his father arranged for him as a boy, which he enjoyed, and still enjoyed in memory even after learning years later that his father had taken them directly from a book about how to take your sissy son and make him into more of a real man).
The episodes themselves are often rather farcical. It’s entertaining, but also sad. If I’m going to read a book about a struggling male writer in middle age, this blows the pants off Who Is Rich.
(Also flagging without discussing: meta-fiction (Less is revising a novel where a middle aged gay guy wanders around the city, taking it from a drama to more of a farce); sneaky late revelation that there is actually a narrator, not just floating omniscience).
The Witch Elm by Tana French
For most of this book I thought I was reading a sort of awkwardly paced but pleasantly Irish murder mystery and then when I got toward the end I realized it was something else entirely.
It took a long time to get there; in fact, I almost gave up on it at one point. The hardback edition runs just over 500 pages, and the event that forms the jacket-copy premise happens 160 pages in. There’s definitely a slow period even after that where dynamics are brewing, but it doesn’t move the way I would’ve expected from a real mystery. And then, after the main mystery is solved, there’s this whole additional event that goes by disorientingly fast. But I went with it, through these complaints, because this book turned out to be a vicious attack on straight white male privilege.
I realized when I got to the end that the entire book had been set up that way, from the first sentence, to the work snafu that sets the chain of events in motion. In creating Toby, the narrator, French pulled off the thing I’ve always thought was nearly impossible: a character who embodies a trait she wants to criticize, depicted utterly believably, in the first person, without detectable authorial contempt. Toby is deeply oblivious to the desperation sometimes faced by people who don’t share his privilege, and indignant about the fact that he gets excluded from things that he would never stand a chance of understanding. When less privileged people tell him of troubles they faced, he simply can’t grasp why they couldn’t just call the police and everything would be fine. Powerlessness is incomprehensible to him. And it’s utterly believable. In narrating his voice, French never lets her colors bleed through; we only see what she’s done by watching Toby react authentically to the things that happen to him. It would have been so easy for her to make him into a caricature, but she never did. And that’s what was so chilling about it.
I had my minor quibbles. I’m on the fence about a narrator in a mystery who has memory problems and thus doesn’t know whether he himself might be the killer. Gimmick aside, I’m not sure I fully bought those logistics. And there was an incident toward the very end I didn’t quite buy either–but because the overall effect was so powerful, I’ll go along with it.
This book kind of made me want to give it to some privilege-blind types I know and see if they even recognized it. I could see it slipping right by them. And that’s an enormous accomplishment, isn’t it?
Milkman by Anna Burns
This book was strange and spellbinding and tense and illuminating in ways unlike anything I’ve read recently. Its most prominent features are its stream-of-consciousness-adjacent style and its intense obliqueness (although this is really the characters being oblique, not the novel itself). A plot summary would tell you it’s the story of an 18-year-old woman in Belfast in the 70s who is pursued by a powerful paramilitary figure in ways the culture makes it impossible to resist or escape. And that is essential to the book, but does nothing to identify what’s so incredible about it.
We are so deeply inside the psychology of both the young woman and the local culture that I never once had the urge to shake her and tell her to just stand up for herself–it would obviously have been impossible for her, and the book made that extremely clear through its language and incisive descriptions, without ever explaining anything. A central feature of the novel its its refusal to name things, perhaps out of utter fear of the power of words or an inability to carry on while explicitly acknowledging what’s actually happening. There is no mention of Britain or Ireland, theIRA, protestants or catholics; only “the wrong religion,” and people from “over the road” or “over the water.” Nobody is known by a name; the narrator is simply middle sister, her stalked The Milkman (not an actual milkman; the book has another character known as Real Milkman). There is longest friend, maybe-boyfriend, tablets, girl, first brother-in-law, wee sisters, and so on. A cemetery is “the usual place,” a treacherous neighborhood “the ten minute area” (how long it takes to walk across it”. There is a group of early feminists, “the issue women.”
Nobody goes to the hospital because it would brand you as an informer; you only call the police if you intend to shoot them. There are two men in charge of what you are and are not allowed to name your children–any name too “over the water” is forbidden. You must not eat the wrong kind of butter, or drink “the tea of betrayal.” It never feels contrived or difficult to follow. It all makes sense, so much sense, against all odds.
Postscript: I couldn’t tell you what it is, but I often detect a specific sensibility in works by Irish writers. I’ve sometimes wondered what you’d get from someone with James Joyce’s talent and aesthetic sense who was a woman. And I’ve also detected it in the work of Eimar McBride. In my work as an editor I recently selected a story by an Irish writer that had a distinctly Irish feel to it. Maybe one day I’ll manage to articulate what it is. In the mean time, I will continue to enjoy it.