Reading Well: John Crow’s Devil by Marlon James

Posted on July 26, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

As a big fan of A Brief History of Seven Killings and Black Leopard Red Wolf, I decided to look at the rest of Marlon James‘ output, starting with his debut novel, John Crow’s Devil (2005).

The novel traces the conflict between two preachers in a small Jamaican town, one a drunk and the other an authoritarian, as they vie for control of the souls of the congregation. But it’s also a novel about two women, rivals since their youth, who align themselves as allies to the preachers. And of the town itself, and it’s willingness to isolate from the rest of the island, its dependence on wealth that sits outside its boundaries, and an ugly history of violence and abuse that continues to infect its present-day.

That’s a lot. Especially for a short novel–while both Brief History and Black Leopard Red Wolf are fantastic, they are also long journeys–that’s pretty impressive.

And James is more than up to the challenge, evoking characters and moments in a combination of dialect and description that is immersive and compelling, leaving the reader’s affections and loyalty shifting as more layers of the story emerge. There are light touches of fantasy here and there, moments that capture the impact of practices both inside and outside the church that are quite effective, and reinforce the atmosphere quite effectively.

All of this plays out against a structure where the opening of the novel is actually a chapter from the denouement–that is, you know where everything is heading all along. The fact that John Crow’s Devil holds attention and interest given that is quite an achievement. Strongly recommended.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

It’s hard to pick between the structural twist and the moments of not-quite-magical-realism, but I’ll go with the latter. At the end of the day, I would classify John Crow’s Devil is a “realistic” or “historical” novel, doing that while also having these moments where the linear narrative is interrupted by explosions of magical force or foresight is really impressive.

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Reading Well: Ginger Bread by Helen Oyeyemi

Posted on July 14, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I’ve been a fan of Helen Oyeyemi since her debut novel, 2005’s Icarus Girl, which I thought was one of the best ghost stories I had read in a long, long time.

I read Ginger Bread (2019) having skipped many (but not all–The Opposite House (2007) is also excellent) of her intervening works, and it only served to remind me of what I was missing, so look for a healthy dose of Oyeyemi throughout the rest of the year.

Ginger Bread starts incredibly strong, with Oyeyemi’s brand of magical realism in full view. There is a family recipe for gingerbread with magical powers; a country that appears on no maps, but has extensive Wikipedia entries; and two families with intertwined histories unfolding simultaneously. Even Gretel–yes, that Gretel, the one famous in association with Hansel–makes an appearance.

The novel goes a little awry in the final third or so, but it was compelling throughout, and the intelligence–and occasional creepiness–will stick with you for quite some time. Oyeyemi is one of the compelling voices of our generation, perhaps along the lines of M. Night Shyamalan in that, when she nails the landing, it’s is truly spectacular, and when her work falls short, it’s still an intriguing and often successful journey.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

There is such vivid imagery in Oyeyemi’s writing, and it often is startling, unexpected, and brilliant. Her voice is her own, a location any writer hopes to reach.

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Reading Well: Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse

Posted on June 30, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Trail of Lightning (2018) is the opening novel of a YA duology set in, well, I guess technically it’s a dystopia, but it really is focused on the world after the dystopian events. I think it is Rebecca Roanhorse‘s debut novel, but it’s not clear–she has published quite a few short stories, and a novel that is part of the Star Wars canon.

In Trail of Lightning, climate change has flooded most of North America, and earthquakes have ravaged the rest. The novel is explicitly steeped in the traditions of the native peoples of the American Southwest, whose lands have been isolated from the rest of the devastation by the appearance of massive walls that encircle the area.

The heroine is a young woman who is inhabited by spirits, giving her powers that can be used to help fight against demons that pose a threat, as well as, more often than she would hope, against other people.

It’s a very, very good YA story: solid characters, nice world-depth, and a protagonist that is heavily conflicted in ways that make sense. It also incorporates native traditions in an end-to-end way, from the subtle to the overwhelming. This makes it potentially unique: this isn’t a Rick Riordan style novel that adapts the trappings of a foreign mythology into a traditional narrative. Instead, it’s a different narrative.

This is expressed in many ways–how characters relate and bond, how comfortable with violence the heroine is at times, and perhaps most obviously in how Coyote is presented as a trickster figure in the novel.

Overall, Trail of Lightning is a highly recommended YA entry, especially if you are looking for something with fantasy/magical elements outside of the typical European traditions. I will certainly read the sequel, as I do want to know what happens next to the core characters.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Roanhorse’s characters are, for the most part, nicely inconsistent. That is, they contain contradictions, they contain flaws, they contain motivations that are not always perfectly aligned. I love that, as it’s wonderfully human. Doing that in fantasy novels is especially daunting–the temptation to fall into “pure characters” once magic is introduced is awfully strong, and she resists it in a way I admire.

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Reading Well: The Minotaur Takes His Own Sweet Time by Steven Sherrill

Posted on June 19, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I didn’t even know that Steven Sherrill‘s The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break (2000) had a sequel until quite recently. The initial emergence of the ancient Minotaur into modern times was one of my favorite novels of the early 21st century, so I picked up the sequel, The Minotaur Takes His Own Sweet Time (2016), with some anticipation.

It delivers.

Sherrill’s voice is lyric and surprising, and his characterization of the Minotaur remains striking in its insight and consistency. The Minotaur is tired. Century after century of existence has worn him down, with the foibles of human nature about the only thing remaining that holds his interest. He is deeply and profoundly aware of existing in a world that has no place for him–his horns are continually awkward in public places, he is a constant object of unwanted attention, and his innate goodness remains hidden to the general public.

He spends his time trading handyman skills for lodging at a motor inn run by a first generation family from the Indian subcontinent and acting as part of a local Civil War re-enactment show, and the plot is driven by the arrival of a young woman and her brother, who is suffering from a serious brain injury and is, at least temporarily, under her care (there are some parallels to the plot of Cigarette Break here).

There is a rival for her attention, and a mis-step puts his war re-enactment duties at risk, and the novel moves from there.

Overall, it’s pretty entertaining stuff, and occasionally even engrossing. It’s not as good as the original, but it’s worth reading after you read Cigarette Break for sure.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Nail a consistent voice for a character with this much sophistication and nuance. The Minotaur is thoroughly complicated and his speech and descriptions all just work, from casual interactions to the rare moments he reaches back into his well of ancient power. It’s quite an accomplishment.

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Reading Well: Half Brother by Kenneth Oppel

Posted on June 11, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Reading Half Brother (2010) was somewhat surreal. I kept having this memory of reading not this book, but another book, quite similar to this book, but somehow darker, but maybe the same book?

Turns out I was remembering Karen Joy Fowler‘s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves (2013), which I read way back when before Reading Well started. The two novels share a core structure of a family raising a chimpanzee as if it were a human child, and both are told from the perspective of an older human “sibling” (in We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, it’s a sister; in Half Brother, it’s a brother). There’s more–issues of animal cruelty are, predictably and understandably, central to both; some of the settings and observations of human/ chimpanzee interaction are strikingly similar, etc.

I have no idea if they had any effect on each other’s development or not, nor do I know how or why Half Brother crossed my path.

Fowler’s book has some darker moments, so I had this feeling of dread reading Kenneth Oppel‘s novel, which is actually much, much lighter–it falls squarely in the YA realm, tracing both the relationship with the chimp as well as the protagonist’s social development in his early teens.

It’s lightweight and enjoyable, and the chimpanzee angle adds depth to the usual tropes of parental struggles and early romantic attractions and the like. If that sounds too YA for your taste, pick up Fowler’s book, which is quite a bit more demanding.

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Reading Well: House of Names by Colm Tóibín

Posted on June 2, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Sitting in a long tradition of revisiting the Greek classics, Colm Tóibín‘s House of Names (2017) tells of the House of Agamemnon. Agamemnon fought in the Trojan War and, when things weren’t going so well, agreed to sacrifice one of his daughters to the Gods in favor of the Greek cause.

Tóibín begins in the voice of Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, who has been summoned to battlefield along with their daughter Iphigenia under the pretense of celebrating the imminent Greek victory. Instead, Clytemnestra is imprisoned and then, after Iphigenia’s murder, is sent back home, where she, along with her son Orestes and surviving daughter, Electra, plots her vengeance.

The novel shifts between these characters’ points of view, and the degree their perspectives resonate with the reader is the most likely key to whether you enjoy the novel. For me, the Orestes chapters are the most successful, especially in their description of his exile and return. Tóibín’s brilliance shines through in Orestes’ interiority, and in his gentle longing for the consummation of a relationship with his erstwhile best friend.

The other voices are well-rendered, especially as they drift towards madness at different points, but the palace-intrigue was, for me, less successful than the psychological insights. Still, Tóibín is a master of language, and the confident, steadfast writing carries the book along at a quick pace.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I’ve often wondered about retelling a well known story. It would seem to address some of my endless struggles with plot, allowing me to focus on some technical components where I think I’m more successful.

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Reading Well: The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I had never read Carson McCullers‘ The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter (1940), which is sort of a shameful admission, right?

Now, I have; and if you haven’t read it yet, you should, too.

There are a few things to recommend it. First, the characters are drawn with a loving kindness that permeates the reading. There is a warmth to their portrayal–from young adults to community leaders to those struggling in poverty to an introverted mute who serves both as a primary character and a screen for projection for others in the novel–that is rarely seen.

And this is what, I think, enables the second point. I think The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter would struggle to get published today. There isn’t really a plot, per se: there are interconnected scenes, there are things that happen, there are characters to care about. But there is really nothing that drive sit all forward in anything like a coordinated way.

So, the attractiveness of the characters becomes a pre-requisite for the novel’s success, and our empathy and care for them is what makes the novel such a beloved work.

I was surprised by how explicitly political the book was as well: one of the central characters spends, over the course of the story, several pages railing against capitalism and how its internal logic is rigged forever against the working class. The fact that that critique, along with quite a bit of both the implicit and explicit racial observations, remains cogent 70 years on is sobering.

Highly recommended.

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Reading Well: Educated by Tara Westover

Posted on May 13, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Educated (2018) is in the same broad genre as Hillbilly Elegy, a tale of an individual’s struggle to move beyond the context and control of their family of origin. It shares many of the same strengths and weaknesses.

On the one hand, the books are very compelling: Tara Westover‘s recognition of the issues in her family of origin, and her increasingly desperate efforts to escape from those impacts, make for good reading, especially given how strong her writing is.

On the other hand, these narratives also function as cultural tourism: part of their success is embedded in the ways in which their protagonist exists in a foreign land, one that is hard for “us” to conceive of, and the general arc is one of escape from that locale into “where we are.” That’s … problematic.

The point here is that, beyond their being hardcore Mormon isolationists in rural Utah, the contours of Westover’s struggles are not all that unusual: a domineering and controlling parent and rampant emotional, mental, and physical abuse resulting in very limited options being available to her and her siblings. This happens everywhere–even if it is often independent of a narrative tied to the End of Days–and by seeing it as happening “out there,” it becomes far too easy to ignore the noises next door.

That, of course, is an argument about reception not about Educated itself. I don’t begrudge Westover an ounce of her very hard-earned success. I just wish narratives like this led to more discussions of universality, and less of a sense of individuals/groups being exotic.

It is notably unfortunate that her violently abusive sibling, who is described as having committed many felonies in his treatment of his family and romantic partners, remains untouched at the end of the book. I hope that has changed since its publication.

All that said, the book is a good read, and is especially fascinating in the evolving role of Westover’s mother, and the way she navigates her agency through the interactions between her husband and their offspring, cast against an increasingly successful, increasingly dubious New Age health practice.

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Reading Well: The Raven Tower by Ann Leckie

Posted on May 1, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I’ve written about Ann Leckie‘s science fiction before on Reading Well. Her initial trilogy was a lovely surprise, and a fresh take on the space opera genre, and her follow-up was quite strong, hinting at her staying power as an author and a creator of worlds. So, I was excited by Leckie’s venture into fantasy marked by The Raven Tower (2019).

The novel is hard to write about in summary mode … suffice to say there is a lot going on here. At its core, it is a story of the relationships and interactions between humans and their Gods. The most creatively worked notion is that Gods cannot lie. That is, what is uttered by a God is necessarily made true … but at the cost of effort and energy on the Gods’ part. So Gods have to be very careful about what they say.

The other key notion–which is far less original, but still great fodder for fiction–is that Gods are able to build and replenish their energy through offerings and sacrifice dedicated to them.

The story itself concerns two related threads. The first is that of one of the aforementioned Gods, and their observations of and interactions with the world since long before humans existed. The other is a struggle for political control in a city ruled by a religious structure that fits nicely within this system (there is a God–the Raven, who inhabits an actual raven–and a human who serves them and who then, at the end of the lifespan of an individual bird, sacrifices themselves and passes their service on to their next generation).

This role is termed the Raven’s Lease, which is a decent summary of the arrangement.

The problem is that the current Lease has vanished, and it seems the Raven itself–who has, for centuries, protected the city and its inhabitants–may be no more as well. The protagonists in the story are the Lease’s son and, increasingly, one of his trusted advisers.

But the real hero is probably the God and, as the book evolves, the question of their motivation and their reactions to what is happening dominate the narrative.

Leckie insists the book is a standalone, despite it feeling an awful lot like it is setting up a sequel. However, much like Provenance is in the same universe as her earlier trilogy, she has teased some more writing within the same world.

I’d certainly read it–The Raven Tower is an entertaining read, even if it doesn’t reach quite the heights of her science fiction work.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

There are books that are driven along by a core idea, a notion so creative and compelling that it creates, almost by itself, the wider context needed for world-building. Leckie stumbled on such an idea here, and it’s a joy watching her extend and play with it.

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Reading Well: Lot by Bryan Washington

Posted on April 18, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I first read a chapter of Lot (2019) in the New Yorker, and was struck by the way it portrayed dimensions of Houston that are neither commonly represented nor part of the emergent picture of Houston as a 21st century exemplar of diversity and progress, funded by the 20th century energy boom.

Instead, Bryan Washington lays out, in a series of 13 short stories with somewhat overlapping storylines and characters, a view of Houston from the perspectives of those being forced out of historically underserved neighborhoods by waves of gentrification, of those disowned by their families for their sexual orientation, of those struggling in the wake of the city’s growth.

The characters are compelling, and presented with enough depth to generate empathy in the reader as they work to navigate the challenges in their lives.

It’s a good collection, and if you have any affection for Houston, recognizing landmarks and events will add to your enjoyment. I’m certainly intrigued by what Washington does next.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I love the way the characters continue across many of the stories, but without a need to be explicitly recognized. Each story–or almost each story–can be seen as a standalone segment, or they can be read together to form a broader fabric. It’s an impressive handling of a common situation.

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