Reading Well: The Illness Lesson by Clare Beams

Posted on September 3, 2021 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Illness Lesson (2020) is Clare Beams‘ debut novel. It is set in the final quarter of the nineteenth century in small-town New England.

It’s a complex novel to summarize in typical Reading Well terms: at the most abstract, The Illness Lesson is about the role of women in early America. But that’s not a topic explicit in the plot or the characters themselves: instead, it is about a private school for women started by a free-thinker of the time. His daughter is a teacher at the school, and is ostensibly the protagonist of the tale.

There is also a bit of mystic symbolism at play: a flock of scarlet birds appear throughout the novel, and play a key role in several plot movements. The birds are–at least thematically–tied to a mysterious illness that afflicts the students, placing the entire enterprise in jeopardy, and pulling together a prior failed experiment along much the same lines.

It’s a very engaging book, and Beams’ descriptions are often stunning in their detail and impact. An aura of mystery surrounds the book at many levels, from the history of the characters to the manifestation and resolution of the illness, to the writing project itself: Beams is clearly saying something about feminism, about the constraints placed upon women by seemingly (somewhat?) well-intentioned men, and about the nature of agency itself.

The fact she offers no clear declaration on these question is, in my mind, a strength of her writing. Recommended.

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Reading Well: The City of Brass by S.A. Chakraborty

Posted on June 17, 2021 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I stumbled across a list–I believe in The Washington Post–of fantasy novels written by women with an Arabic / Middle Eastern / Indian influence (and shame on the Post for lumping all of that together in a single Orientalist vision, but at the same time, there are so few candidates that perhaps it was through necessity).

In any case, The City of Brass (2017) by S.A. Chakraborty is by far the most successful of the ones I’ve read so far–I even purchased the rest of the trilogy to read at some point. This is traditional high fantasy: magical items and smoldering glances and a deadly threat to the very existence of the world and all that. It is set in an alternate, Earth-like universe, with the cultures of Arabia, Persia, and India dominant, with a layer of magical beings, both good and evil, locked in a timeless struggle.

It works. I mean, the smoldering glances are a bit much from time to time (romance and sex tend to be the Achilles’ heel of fantasy writing–perhaps, all writing), but the rest is a rollicking good read, full of memorable set-pieces, interesting takes on things like the nature of Djinns and the source of true magic.

Recommended as a different setting for a page-turning escape.

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Reading Well: Memorial by Bryan Washington

Posted on June 1, 2021 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Bryan Washington‘s second novel, Memorial (2020) is set in the same Houston as his debut, Lot (parts of Memorial are set in Tokyo as well). Less an ensemble piece than Lot, Memorial focuses on a single relationship between two young men, one Japanese, one African-American.

Their immediate families are central to the narrative as well, but the novel is really about the formation, unraveling, and re-emergence of their relationship. Like Lot, Memorial is focused on life at the margins, and the struggles of those who inhabit them. One of the men is a chef, the other works at an after-school care center. Their relationship is told lovingly, with details that are impactful.

Memorial is a book about absence: the first thing one of the men does is leave, heading back to Japan to see his dying father; his mother comes the other way, and her relationship with her son’s lover is gently and warmly–if a little predictably–presented. Both men are searching for family that is not present, and the central question of the narrative seems to be if they will be able to find something that passes for that in each other.

It’s a stirring and evocative story, and whereas Lot was attractive partially through its Houstonian setting, Memorial is far more universal in its appeal.

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Reading Well: The Shadow King by Maaza Mengiste

Posted on May 13, 2021 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Maaza Mengiste‘s second novel, The Shadow King (2019), illuminates an oft-overlooked period in Ethiopian history, the occupation by Italian forces under Mussolini as part of fascist military activity in Africa in World War II. Mengiste tells this story through an even more hidden voice, exploring the role of women in Ethiopia’s military resistance.

It’s quite a success, managing to navigate moments of tenderness and moments of violence and abuse with equal grace. There is a ton of doubling in The Shadow King, both in items and people, and the narrative focus is on two women, separated by class but united by their involvement and dedication to the freedom of their country. They are also united in the challenges of navigating an occasionally brutal patriarchy, a constant threat to their survival, but also their ability to contribute to the defense of their country.

There is a much else here: the relationship of photography to history is a primary theme, there is a Greek chorus of sorts that offers oblique commentary on the unfolding narrative, and there are the intelligently considered musings of Ethiopia’s emperor, Haile Selassie, as he considers how to regain the country he has lost.

Mengiste’s prose reads like a novelist emerging into her full voice–there is creativity in the language and the structure both, and a quiet, powerful beauty in many of her descriptions. I found the ending problematic, feeling one of the colonial protagonists “got off too easy,” but that is a relatively minor quibble in an immersive and impactful reading experience.

If your taste runs to the strict genre of “historical fiction” (whatever that is), this may be too fictional for you; but if you like your history tightly wound around “literary fiction” (whatever that is), it is very strongly recommended.

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Reading Well: The Day the Sun Died by Yan Lianke

Posted on May 6, 2021 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Published in 2015 and translated into English in 2018, The Day the Sun Died is the story of what happens to village in China that is plunged into everlasting night and widespread, violent insomnia.

Those afflicted initially wander aimlessly, with several wandering into irrigation ditches and drowning. As the night goes on, their behavior becomes more violent, leading them to maraud through the town, breaking into and ransacking stores, starting fights, and attacking others at the slightest imagined or real provocation. The story is told through the eyes of a young teenage boy whose family runs a store selling funerary accessories on the main thoroughfare.

The family sits at a series of complex intersections: the insomnia is initially a boon for business; they have historically been at least remotely involved in a scam whereby villagers were cremated instead of properly buried; and his father has been illegally saving the oil from the cremated corpses.

Considerations of life, of death, and of what in-between states may exist (sleep, somnambulism, insomnia, insanity) are paramount in the novel, but the story is really that of the teenage boy navigating a night full of unknown circumstances, threat, a brief romantic encounter, and not a little terror.

The author also makes an appearance–or, at least, a character who is a writer named Yan Lianke does. (According to the translator’s note, this is relatively common in Lianke’s fiction.)

The Day the Sun Died is an intellectually intriguing novel, and the question of what–if anything–it says about contemporary China persists long after reading, as do many of the individual scenes.

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Reading Well: Barracoon by Zora Neale Hurston

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

Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo” was written by Zora Neale Hurston in the early 1930s, based on fieldwork done in the late 1920s. While parts of it appeared in different formats, it was never published a complete manuscript until 2018.

It’s a remarkable book, telling the story of Kossula, a man taken from his home in West Africa as a young teen, brought to America as a slave, and now living as a free man in a small town. Kossula, re-named Cudjoe Lewis in America, was part of the final known slave shipment to reach American shores.

His story is tragic and compelling: he was sold to slave traders by another African tribe, lived under the brutal oppression of slavery, and then saw his beloved wife and children all die once he was a “free man.” Hurston tells all of this in Kossula’s own words as much as she can, adding to it only light touches of her own style of anthropological observation.

It’s really simple, I think: if this interests you, you’ll find Barracoon remarkable and thought-provoking; if it doesn’t, you won’t pick it up in the first place.

There is one matter that should also be mentioned: there is a bit of controversy around the text. It looks very much like Hurston borrowed heavily–to the point of probably qualifying as plagiarizing, although this is a matter of dispute–earlier writing in the manuscripts that turned into Barracoon. It’s complicated, and unclear as to Hurston’s motivations or rationale. Equally unclear–and quite relevant–is the fact that it’s not know if Hurston’s original draft was intended for publication before it was converted into a magazine article.

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Reading Well: The Bloodprint by Ausma Zehanat Khan

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

{ A Washington Post story from way back in July led to my buying a few titles it mentioned–fantasy/sci fi by female Muslim authors. As always with such, it’s a bit of a crap shoot as to quality. }

Ausma Zehanat Khan‘s The Bloodprint (2017) is most interesting when read as a fantasy allegory. The tag line on the cover claims the only defense against the ignorance of men is the brilliance of powerful women.

In this light, the book becomes as much a narrative about authoritarian regimes and strategies of resistance as a fantasy epic with a romantic overlay. And, as such, it remains intriguing and compelling, even as the more traditional genre elements remain a bit underdeveloped. The Bloodprint is set in an alternate Middle East, perhaps around the 11th century CE, and the title refers to a scrap of writing, which functions symbolically to represent all education and literate knowledge.

Access to reading and writing is tightly controlled and, indeed, reading holy scripture is by its very nature a powerful, magical act with great consequences. There are various patriarchal and regional forces arrayed on one side, each with a different take on how to control that knowledge, and there is the protagonist, a powerful magician, on the other.

Throw in some love interests and some dedicated companions for the protagonist, and give her an unfolding quest that forces her to question who her true allies are, and you have a pleasant enough diversion.

Mostly recommended if the phrase Muslim feminist swords & sorcery makes you go yes, I want to go to there.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Use actual history/geography as a setting. It’s really appealing, both because of the historical research it would require, and the deep grounding it could give. Thinking …

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Reading Well: The Overstory by Richard Powers

Posted on October 9, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

This is the 2nd book by Richard Powers I’ve read–a small number for such an acclaimed author, for sure. In hindsight his 2017 novel The Overstory is similar in some ways to the one I read and wrote about a few years ago, The Time of Our Singing.

Most importantly, the focus of the novel–in the earlier book, song, here, trees–is dealt with in an overwhelmingly incredible way. Powers’ descriptions of different trees, from the massive, lost forests of a few centuries ago in North America to the dwindling remaining old growth stands of the Pacific Northwest, from isolated trees found far from their native home to carefully curated displays of biodiversity, are fantastically informative, rich, and compelling.

They even form the structure of the narrative, as the history of each of the main characters is interwoven with a specific arboreal species. That he manages that without the device feeling forced or cliché is quite an accomplishment.

The primary characters (this is a sprawling novel, with many, um, branches to follow) are nicely diverse, and Powers is at his best when dealing with individuals whose perspectives are slightly askew to the expected, whether through natural aptitude, mental illness, or circumstances, and some of the smaller moments will stay with you for quite some time. There is an explicit environmental bent to the story, something I found appealing, but others may not.

And, while–and this is a weakness The Overstory shares with The Time of Our Singing–the final act of the story may not fully satisfy, the novel has the capacity to transform how you think about whatever trees you encounter in your daily life. That’s impressive, and pretty neat.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

The act of embracing this kind of thematic fiction is an immense undertaking, and one that seems overly daunting to me. I can imagine the research side of it, for sure, it’s the shaping of the narrative so everything from start to end touches on the arboreal theme that amazes me.

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Reading Well: The Ten Loves of Nishino by Hiromi Kawakami

Posted on September 20, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Originally published in 2003, Hiromi Kawakami‘s The Ten Loves of Nishino was translated into English for the first time in 2019. There is something very sweet about the novel, which follows the protagonist–Nishino of the title–through his life and, yes, his relationships with ten different women.

Kawakami’s ability to articulate the variety of views of the ten loves is impressive, and the motivations for their engagements remain varied throughout the novel. As implied by the title, none of the relationships are particularly permanent, although many overlap and impact each other.

There are a lot of cross-cultural issues to unpack in thinking about Kawakami’s novel. First, there is plain old Orientalism, and the Western tendency to exoticize, sexualize, and fetishize the East. Second, there is the narrative’s repetition of a trope where a man who is repeatedly described as fairly nondescript and only moderately successful moves from attractive lover to attractive lover with such ease. Women pursue Nishino far more often than he pursues them, and, overall, it’s not terribly clear why, although several of the relationships are far more grounded in character motivation than others. Finally, something that may not be obvious to Western readers, Kawakami is female, which–at least for me–further complicates the first two points.

I would strongly recommend the novel if the paragraph above seems interesting: that is, if these are issues that you enjoy thinking about, it’s a very strong novel. The other potential in-road is how smooth and easy of a narrative it is–much like Nishino himself, the novel flows fairly easily through Nishino’s life, with scenes that are both memorable and endearing.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Create such a compelling and simple structure for a novel: the plot, in many ways, is embodied in the title. The details of each of the relationships are uniquely presented, but the novel really is the story of Nishino and his ten loves. Elegant and simple.

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Reading Well: To the Break of Dawn by William Jelani Cobb

Posted on September 8, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

William Jelani Cobb‘s To the Break of Dawn (2007) joins the ranks of hip hop memoirs–narratives that are both a personal declaration of the impact of the art form on someone’s life and an academic and/or political examination of the impacts, meaning, and role of hip hop.

If you are new to the genre, it’s hard to argue with To the Break of Dawn as an entry point, although I would urge reading it alongside the work of Tricia Rose, for example.

If you are well familiar with the genre, there are still some nuggets here to make it worth your while. Specifically, I thought Cobb’s reflections on the relationship between the narratives of “gangster rap” and the narratives of the American West was interesting, especially in his explorations of the role of film and filmic storytelling. Equally skilled was his total dismissal of Eminem. (The usual narrative about the most successful white rapper of all time is to balance discussions of his whiteness and cultural appropriation with admiration for his flow and his ability to capture a particular cultural moment. Instead, Cobb interrogates both sides, finding virtually nothing to recommend.)

The 2007 date of To the Break of Dawn matters: I would imaging Cobb has some compelling thoughts on Kendrick Lamar and the slight resurgence of “conscious hip hop” seen over the last decade or so.

Recommended.

#MoreCobb

Cobb represents his day job as a scholar of African-American history as one of the “talking heads” in the amazing 13th by Ava DuVernay. You will know him by his deep and resonant speaking voice. If you have any curiosity about the history of American prisons–hell, if you aren’t curious but need to learn important truths about America–go watch it.

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