Forbidden Notebook

Review: 5 stars

During a recent business trip to London, I took a detour to the airport to visit Foyles, one of the largest and most impressive local bookstores. I was in heaven - imagine five stories of neatly stacked books, with feature tables and end-caps tiled with intriguing (not only bestselling) titles! I was specifically looking for ‘Forbidden Notebook’, which I have been wanting to read for a while.

The novel is set in 1950s Rome, and follows the inner narrative of Valeria Cossati, a committed mother to two, dedicated wife and office worker. On impulse in a tobacco shop, Valeria purchases a black notebook, in which she secretly chronicles all the things she does not say to those around her. This simple act of subterfuge - writing her thoughts in a diary - is a rare selfish indulgence for Valeria, and it sparks a re-education and re-examination of her entire life. It also unleashes a pandora’s box of deceit that infiltrates the household. Valeria’s daughter Mirella becomes ensnared in a scandalous romance with the much older Cantoni; her son Riccardo goes to the point of no return with his girlfriend Marina, and her husband Michele pursues a fraught partnership with her filmmaker friend Clara. These tribulations are tirelessly archived by Valeria in the midnight shadows. As she enters into evidence the thousand ways that her family transgresses against society, she realizes as well that they transgress against her rights to individualism. As she sheds her titles of ‘mamma’, ‘daughter’, ‘wife’, ‘friend’, ‘breadwinner’, ‘employee’, ‘paramour’, she simultaneously begins the process of reclaiming ‘Valeria’ for herself.

Elena Ferrante (of ‘My Brilliant Friend’ fame), listed Alba de Cespedes as an inspiration ina , single-handedly reviving recent interest in works that are over seventy years old. But the ideas are as fresh as ever. I would dub De Cespedes to be the 1950s predecessor to Esther Perel, a globally recognized couples therapist and love expert. The incisiveness of de Cespedes’ insights into motherhood and marriage, and how these come to define and unravel one another, was astonishing.

Throughout my reading, I found myself shaking my head in admiration for how perfectly crafted and revelatory her writing is. For example, as Valeria finds herself struggling to connect with her husband of over twenty years, she writes “I felt an uncontrollable sadness rising in me. I’m afraid that because my way of being seems so natural to him it no longer has any value in his eyes”. Then later, she attributes lack of intimacy in marriage to the following: “It’s because we feel that husband and wife who unite in an obscure, silent relationship, after talking all day about domestic matters, about money, after frying the eggs, washing the dirty plates, are no longer obeying a happy, joyful desire for love but a gross instinct like thirst, or hunger, an instinct that is satisfied inherent dark, rapidly, eyes closed. How monstrous.” Or even more poignantly, when forcing her daughter to admit a painful fault: “She spoke concisely, as if to consume as quickly as possible the need to wound herself and to wound”.

Even more interesting are the artificial narratives that Valeria constructs, even as she writes in the notebook - the one place she can be freely honest. Her reluctance and inability to piece together her husband’s infidelity, and how she conjures up a nemesis in her future daughter-in-law, become fictions that are logged as truths. The notebook in the end becomes a version of herself that Valeria vehemently denies, burning it to ashes to return to a skin she wants to wear again - that of the weary, saintly matriarch that gives everything and receives nothing.

One review of the book simply said it was “incendiary” and I cannot agree more wholeheartedly. I am in awe of how deftly de Cespedes took simple moments of everyday life and wove them into an intricate meditation on womanhood. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is a lover of fiction at its finest, and to every mother who feels even the slightest bit unmoored.

Wolf Hall Trilogy | magnificent, vivid, audacious

Review: 5 stars

Wolf Hall has been on my list for a long while, but I had never been able to get past the first chapter. With the quarantine ongoing and the March release of the final novel in the trilogy - ‘The Mirror and the Light’, I decided to attempt it again. Suffice it to say, I was richly rewarded for my efforts!

Mantel is a maestro, firmly in her element in the historical fiction genre. This fictional biography of Thomas Cromwell, trusted councillor to the infamous Henry VIII, is meticulously researched and beautifully rendered. Her prose is steeped with Old English syntax, verses and aphorisms, yet it is easily digestible for the modern reader. Mantel deftly fills the chronological gaps in Cromwell’s life, improvising seamlessly on his transformation from wayward blacksmith’s son to initially become the king’s Master of Rolls. Her use of characters both fictional and factual molds the frame for her Cromwell - a maverick politician who is ambitious, vengeful, loyal and resourceful. Cromwell is a controversial character in English history; Mantel’s trilogy has served to revive interest in his legacy and serves as one of the most flattering portrayals of a key leader in the English Reformation.

While Mantel is unable to alter history itself, her interpretation of the inevitable procession of events preserves a crucial element of surprise. From the rise and demise of Anne Boleyn, the death of critical figures like St. Thomas More, and even Cromwell’s own descent from glory, the reader is kept guessing as to when the tide of king’s favour will turn. Moreover, the novels offer a convincing and novel perspective on what the court of King Henry VIII must have been like. The jockeying of gentleman and ladies for privy chamber positions, the granting of lyrical verses as tokens of affection, and the intense alliances and betrayals amongst the king’s councillors, are all fresh takes on a well known period in English history. Throughout the trilogy, Mantel offers thought provoking exposition on religion, the identity of England, the role of law, inheritance and legacy, and on the nature of being and serving a prince:

“Can you make a new England? You can write a new story. You can write new texts and destroy the old ones…and place gospels in every church. You can write on England, but what was written before keeps showing through, inscribed on the rocks and carrier on the floodwater, surfacing from deep cold wells.”

“He has lived by the laws he has made and out be content to die by them. But the law is not an instrument to find out truth. It is there to create a fiction that will help us move past atrocious acts and face our future.”

“Conquer your awe then, grab your chance. If you know how to talk to a giant it works like a spell. The monster becomes your creature. He thinks you serve him, but in fact you serve yourself.”

Despite being set between 1527-1540, I also found a number of parallels that can be drawn from the novel with politics today. For example, the tenuous relations between England, France and the Holy Roman Empire bear stark similarities with the politics between U.S., China and Russia today. King Henry’s capriciousness, vices, grandstanding and penchant for fractious leadership are resemblant of the current U.S. President. Henry VIII’s ruthlessness and willingness to depart from convention forever altered the fabric of English society and law, and it appears that the America is currently evolving in a similarly dramatic way. It was fascinating to me how timeless history can be.

Each novel in the trilogy stands on its own, helped in part by Mantel’s repetition of key Cromwell touchstones (e.g., his relationship with Cardinal Wolsey, his violent upbringing in Putney, his Antwerp intrigue with Anselma). It is a remarkable feat of fiction and recounting of history. My sole (and light) critique of the novel is Mantel’s dialogue style, which can make it challenging at times to differentiate the speaker given sparse attributions. This, in addition to the unavoidable scores of Thomases, Annes and Henrys that abound in the novel, create complexity and demand a focused reading to fully enjoy the novel. Overall, I highly, highly recommend the Wolf Hall trilogy - it is both a page turner and an emotionally absorbing experience.

Exhalation | visionary, brilliant, inquiring

Review: 5 stars

‘Exhalation’ was named one of New York Times’ 10 Best Books of 2019, and was also a top recommendation from President Obama, so it naturally was very high on my to-read list for 2020. It is an anthology for 9 short stories, written by Ted Chiang, who is best known for ‘Stories of Your Life and Others’, which was the inspiration for the film ‘Arrival’.

This collection of vignettes was incredibly provocative, original and multi-layered. Every story gave me pause at the end, and left me feeling incomplete - hungry for debate and conversation. The depth of the theses and the seamless blend of humanity and science fiction imbued me with curiosity and wonderment.

The questions Chiang raises are not for the faint of heart:

• What rights and protections do artificial intelligence creations deserve, and should they be given legal representation and free will?

• If simultaneous infinite worlds do exist - does each represent a separate unique permutation of our character, or is our character anchored in something deeper, thereby limiting the possibilities for how our lives are lived, and who we become?

• If technology becomes available to replay every instant of your life from multiple people’s perspectives - how would that influence our relationships and our self perceptions?

‘The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate’ was one of my favourites, exploring the limits of free will and how far the past can bend without truly changing. ‘The Lifecycle of Software Objects’ was an incredibly ambitious and successful exploration of truly next-order moral questions surrounding AIs, and how the ebb and flow of digital worlds (i.e., software products) have existentialist impacts on their digital citizens. ‘Omphalos’ was eye-opening in its depiction of a human-centric universe founded on young-earth creationism, and what this universe would rely on to craft is founding story (e.g., humans without navels, trees without age rings). The idea that evolution did not exist, but that there were primordial humans, trees, and animals - mature from the split second of divine creation, felt incredibly modern to explore.

I mentioned to my husband that Exhalation reads like the best episodes of ‘Black Mirror’, written simply, gracefully and bound to be fodder for endless dinner conversations. I enjoyed it immensely, and cannot wait to recommend it to others.

The Remains of the Day | nostalgic, unhurried, exquisite

Review: 5 stars

I first discovered Kazuo Ishiguro in my 9th grade English class, when we read ‘Never Let Me Go’. Since then, I’ve been in an Ishiguro drought, and it wasn’t until he won the Nobel Prize for Literature that he popped back on my radar. I took this book on holiday to Italy with my extended family, and found a quiet afternoon in La Spezia to sip rose and to finish this book on a little balcony overlooking a busy side street.

Few books actually make me laugh out loud, but this one accomplished just that. ‘The Remains of the Day’ follows Stevens, an English butler steeped in the times and traditions of a 1920s and 1930s way of life that has long since faded from vogue. He embarks on a delightful and startling journey which takes him from his place of service at Darlington Hall through the English countryside, to visit Miss Kenton, the former housekeeper he worked alongside decades ago. His travels are far beyond physical in nature - rather, each gently rolling hill and forested vista unlock memories he has neglected in favour of pure concentration on his butler duties.

The humour and magic of the book is created through Stevens’ inability to fully process his past and his feelings. His musings are at times self-deprecating, backwardly self-congratulatory and often lacking in self-awareness. At turns, you find yourself in admiration of his spotless record of selfless service, and then quickly again, you are chuckling to yourself as he convinces himself that perhaps he is one of the most dignified butlers in English history. The prolonged disposition on what dignity means, in addition to Stevens growing understanding of the role Lord Darlington played in managing German-English relations in World War II, are all story arcs that unfold leisurely, without haste. Steven’s eventual admission of former romantic feelings for Miss Kenton (now Mrs. Benn) establishes itself as a pivotal moment of character development. Stevens is able to forgo the airs and pretences of being a butler to allow himself emotion.

While this novel may be too slow for some readers, I was enamoured by the nostalgic depictions of English life - a time when propriety, tradition, service and excellence were the aims of the day. I thought it was a simply delightful read, and probably one of Ishiguro’s most notable, masterful works.

Pachinko | bracing, hopeful, absorbing

Review: 5 stars

‘Pachinko’ had been on my ‘to-read’ list for quite a while. I am finding that most National Book Award finalists are turning out to be some choice picks for my style of reading. This dynastic, sweeping sophomore novel from Min Jin Lee captivated me from start to finish. It follows several generations of Koreans, struggling to make sense of their self-identity in their homeland and in a highly stratified Japanese society.

At its heart, it is an immigrant story - one of unwanted pregnancy, of discrimination, of cherished yen earned through toil and desperation, and of the eventual reckoning of one’s self with parentage and parenthood. The story follows various characters, but Sunja’s voice rings throughout. Her actions as a teenager set off an inexorable series of events that culminates in hope for future generations, and a devastating blow to one branch of the family tree. Her secret affair with wealthy Koh Hansu on the shores of her fishing village is the genesis of how Hansu covertly becomes the puppet master of her clan. This includes protecting her family from certain death during the war, providing her with reputable employ to keep her family afloat, and funding their son Noa’s education to help him transcend the class he was born into. Despite Hansu’s behind-the-scene machinations, it is Sunja and Kyunghee’s powerful roles as breadwinners and family binders that make this a female-forward story.

The prose is delicate, honest and incredibly compelling. I was completely pulled into the narratives of each character, and invested in an internal debate between what qualifies as honourable and dishonourable. As a Chinese-Canadian, while I haven’t experienced anywhere close to the degree of ostracism that Noa and his brother Mozasu suffer in Japan as Koreans, I empathize with the impulsive desire to assimilate completely at times. Noa’s journey to mask his ethnicity through education and later through adoption of a Japanese name and personage proves futile in the end - his Korean heritage and struggle to come to terms with it becomes his eventual undoing.

This was an incredible read - and one of my most recommended books to friends. I also increasingly appreciate tragic, bittersweet endings, which ‘Pachinko’ successfully delivers upon. Hope you have a chance to delve into ‘Pachinko’ - it is well worth your while.

The Sympathizer | satirical, open-ended, funny

Review: 5 stars

I follow Pulitzer Prize winners carefully, and picked up ‘The Sympathizer’ a year ago during a midnight Amazon binge. After a couple of false starts with the book, I finally got past the first chapter, and thank goodness, because it is now one of my favourite books.

‘The Sympathizer’ follows an anonymous narrator, ‘The Captain’, who is being held in North Vietnamese custody against his will. The narration of his confession sets in motion the novel, detailing his actions, thoughts and decisions before and during the war, through his evacuation from Saigon to America, and to his varied experiences abroad as a movie consultant and sleeper spy.

At face value, the Captain is a communist spy, working undercover in the confidences of the South Vietnamese and American police force. However, both his genetic identity and his experiences have lent him a deeply sympathetic nature. To those in Vietnam, he was seen as a half-breed outsider (his father was a French missionary), whereas to those in America, he is just another ‘yellow face’. Furthermore, his loyalties are hotly contested amidst the denouement of the Vietnam War. When Bon, his South Vietnamese friend, loses his wife and son during the evacuation of Saigon, the Captain’s whole body aches in sympathy. In direct contradiction, the Captain also comes off as a meek follower of Man, his co-communist conspirator. In one moment, the Captain effortlessly implicates and innocent as the true mole, whereas in another, he is haunted by the ghost of the innocent he helped kill. Born of divided affection, sympathy is the Captain’s Achilles heel - by feeling for all, he becomes traitor to all.

The protagonist is architected in such a way to reflect the moral debate around the Vietnam War, and to complicate the oversimplification of the conflict from the American perspective. By never aligning fully with one side, the protagonist leaves the reader in no-man’s land, with the impetus to learn more before forming judgement. There are stinging rebukes of America’s one-dimensional treatment of the Vietnam War, most clearly depicted in the Captain’s experience as a Vietnamese ambassador for the film, ‘The Hamlet’, an intentionally ill-disguised reference to ‘Apocalypse Now’. Also peppered throughout are the Captain’s truly laugh-out-loud observations of Vietnamese assimilation into America, human nature, and his own shortcomings. These not only serve up bite-sized witty realities, but lighten the mood of a largely sombre novel.

Nguyen, the author, has said in many interviews that he intended to write this novel mainly for a Vietnamese audience. He does not euphemise anything, and instead manipulates the Captain’s story to cast shadows and reflections on common beliefs about the Vietnam War. The novel’s conclusion is similarly open-ended, which was quite perplexing to me. In an allusion to Ho Chi Minh’s quote “Nothing is more important than Independence and Freedom”, the Captain finally has his epiphany that the answer to “What is more important than Independence and Freedom?” is in fact, “Nothing”. There many ways to read into this, but Nguyen deliberately leaves this thread untied for the reader to knot.

I highly recommend this novel - it is intelligent, thrilling and at many times, fun to read. For me, ‘The Sympathizer’ was reminiscent of ‘Catch-22’, another one of my favourite books. Nguyen has crafted a very successful novel, and I look forward to more from this original voice.

A Little Life | tortured, unforgettable, compulsive

Review: 5 stars

I recently discovered the Queen Street BMV store in Toronto, where you can buy new (and recently released) books for 10-50% off list price. As usual, I was taking my baby out for an afternoon stroll and decided to pop in to find my next read. 

I thumbed through the stacks of popular reads on display, hesitating on "Americanah", before my eyes wandered to "A Little Life" on the staff picks shelf. The novel is often described as a portrait of the friendship between four men, and it piqued my interest since I thought I could gain insight into the mysterious world of male relationships. 

I was forewarned by Kevin, the staff recommender, that this would be a heavy read - one that I would need to mete out over days, if not weeks. I had felt the same way about "A Fine Balance" by Rohinton Misry, one of my favourite books, so readily jumped at the challenge. 

How can I appropriately synthesize this book?

Intensely, compulsively readable and plot-driven. Emotionally draining and replenishing. I found myself rushing through sentences, and then abruptly closing my eyes to abate the inevitable tragedy I knew would transpire several lines down. My heart chilled and physically ached as Jude tentatively unfurled his past and as he reviled and hacked at his own body. I blinked back tears during the small domestic moments and effortless gestures of affection between Willem and Jude. I raged against Caleb and his monstrosity. I reflected on my own friendships and how at a loss I was when dear friends have questioned their self-worth or will to live. I had to steel myself constantly for the next paragraph, the next page, the next chapter, for the onslaught of pain, misfortune and sorrow that I knew might obliterate the pockets of warmth that enveloped the characters just short pages ago (especially during "The Happy Years" period). 

It is an emotionally difficult read. Yanagihara distils the essence of being a friend, a parent, an enemy to yourself, and reveals it through small thoughts, small feelings, small actions. It speaks truths and assaults your lack of creativity - for there are so many different lives, so many different kinds of pain, that we cannot begin to imagine. She gets it so right, and stumbles so infrequently that it is difficult for me to understand how she conceived of this tale and its details. The addictive cycle of hurt, intervention, half-hearted appeasement and willful pretending is likely one that rings true for many friendships who have endured through pain. 

This book is a gift - a story that I thought about before I went to sleep and as I was on vacation in Vancouver (and cursing myself for leaving it behind in Toronto). It will stay with me for a long time, and will be a book that I consistently recommend to all serious readers. 

The God of Small Things | whimsical, profound, heartwrenching

Review: 5 stars

Along with many of my friends, I am turning 30 this year! To commemorate the occasion, I am gifting each of my dearest girlfriends one of my most memorable reads to date. To my friend Charlene, I shared "The God of Small Things". When I first read this over five years ago, I remember being so taken by the style of writing and the story, that I knew it would be an all-time favourite...however, I had forgotten much of the story in the years since! I decided to re-read it, and was treated to the piercingly original and charming narrative of Ms. Roy. 

Her most obvious talent is her ability to mould and shape words to tickle the reader's imagination, and to capture the effervescent innocence of youth. Phrases like "Orangedrink Lemondrink Man", "fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo", "Loved from the Beginning", "Esthappychachen Kuttappen Peter Mon" are clever mantras repeated throughout the novel, ways to ground you in what has passed, and prime you for what is to come. At first blush, these are mischievous descriptions, but later, the waves of nostalgia that accompany these catchphrases remind you of when life was simpler, brighter.

The novel is centred around Estha and Rahel - a pair of brother-sister twins living in Kerala, India, and the fateful summer when their cousin Sophie Mol visits from abroad. What follows is an unspeakable tragedy, "the Terror", that is heavily foreshadowed and revealed piece by piece through the eyes of each main character. Caste, political ambition, childhood recklessness and stubborn pride, all conspire to tear apart the beautiful, magical youth that Estha and Rahel have crafted with their powerful imaginations. 

Roy is such a clever writer, that I found myself smiling and laughing to myself throughout, interspersed with pauses of genuine sadness. I've never found an author as confident and as willing to break the rules as her, and this is what makes the novel so successful. Her ability to conjure up emotions in the reader is astonishing. When Ammu warns Rahel that "When you hurt people, they begin to love you less", I feel like a child admonished myself. Near the end, when Estha cries out from the accelerating train: "Ammu! Feeling vomity!", I began to cry, intimately grasping the despair of being unable to comfort my child in need. 

I also loved her ability to immortalize small truths about life that I've always felt, but never succeeded in articulating. For example, when she describes how Velutha, an Untouchable that works for Ammu's family, plays with Rahel, Estha and Sophie Mol:

"It is only now, these years later, that Rahel with adult hindsight recognized the sweetness of that gesture. A grown man entertaining three racoons, treating them like real ladies. Instinctively colluding in the conspiracy of their fiction, taking care not to decimate it with adult carelessness. Or affection. It is after all so easy to shatter a story...To let it be, to travel with it, as Velutha did, is much the harder thing to do." 

Re-reading "The God of Small Things" cemented the novel in my canon of most treasured books. I turned the final page with tremendous regret and with deep satisfaction. I highly recommend this to anyone looking for a refreshing, original read.