Normal People

Review: 4 stars

It’s certainly been a while since I last had a chance to post! Life with two kids and return to work (albeit remote), has been more than a handful. But I feel lucky that we have so far emerged unscathed from the pandemic - that in itself is a blessing!

I was looking for a new show to watch on weekends to unwind a bit, and came across ‘Normal People’ - the BBC and Hulu adaptation of Sally Rooney’s sophomore novel. It inspired me to share my reflections on the source material, which I had read earlier in 2020.

Many find the book “compulsive” and “difficult to put down” - certainly, I echo these sentiments, particularly when Marianne and Connell, our star-crossed protagonists, are in the thralls of their adolescent, tormented romance. What I found most striking though, was the brutally honest, yet somehow misunderstood dialogue between the two of them, and more importantly, the dialogue each had internally with their own self. Connell’s hidden anxieties and fear of conspicuousness drive him to create a divided universe. One of his high school hallways, where he passively watches as Marianne is harshly bullied, and another of his bedroom, where he is mentally and physically entranced by Marianne. He deludes himself in his level of self-importance, believing he has the power to upend the social hierarchy of high school if he admits to his secret affair with Marianne. Connell’s need for self-preservation leads to a painful betrayal, and the first of many scars inflicted upon the fragile, rare bond he shares with Marianne.

I followed the unfolding saga avidly - cursing their ability to completely speak past one another, and amazed by their ability to share absolute truths in an entirely disarming way. They become two magnets that are inexorably drawn together, but monetary woes, controlling boyfriends and their own self-doubt continue to cast polarizing forcefields around them, drawing them apart time and again. Rooney is so skillful in her ability to reflect real relationships - the wounds pile up, are momentarily salved, but the scars and memory of the pain layer upon one another. I found myself yearning for a return to wholeness, perfection and innocence - they way they once were. This does not transpire - Rooney takes each character further into flawed darkness - Connell with depression, Marianne with abusive relationships. The two people who return to one another by the end of the novel are like well-worn puzzle pieces - frayed and bent at the edges, but with an interlocking centre that enables a perfect fit.

The restorative power of relationships - especially the ones that transform and heal your core - is another beautiful theme that Rooney explores. Connell’s steadfast love for Marianne, from affirmation of her beauty to his refusal to hurt her during their most intimate moments, is the kernel of confidence that Marianne uses to grow her self-worth. By the end, his love for her is fact, not to be debated - something that simply will always be true. His love redeems her from the precipice of being unloveable.

I loved the tone of the novel - sensitive, aloof, free of artifice. It is full of joy and heartbreak, and is a fascinating examination into the lives of two complex, intelligent characters. I hope you have the chance to try this as a more cerebral summer romance read!

Conversations with Friends | modern, ironic, millennial

Review: 4 stars

‘Conversations with Friends’ was the September 2019 selection for the ‘Now Read This’ bookclub. I had been on a bit of a reading hiatus given how busy work was, and was looking for a lighter, romantic read. I found this and more upon diving into Sally Rooney’s witty novel about two friends - Frances and Bobbi - and the love affairs that entangle them.

Frances and Bobbi are ex-lovers and co-workers. They perform spoken-word poetry together in clubs, with Frances harnessing the power of words to write, and Bobbi captivating audiences with her beauty and star power. Their relentless banter reveals how highly they regard one another and themselves, forming a fierce twosome that gleefully view the world through ironic, anti-establishment lenses. This unified front begins to crumble with the introduction of a married couple - Melissa and Nick - into their lives. Frances, known for her steely facade and general dislike of people, finds herself falling tumultuously into lust and love with Nick, a handsome, seemingly bland actor who she delightfully discovers can rival Bobbi in conversational ability. As the two make bad decision after bad decision to continue their affair, it is this masterful conversation that inhibits their ability to emotionally come clean to one another. It is as though the articulation of real feeling is the only topic that cannot be broached, and so begins the unravelling of the romance.

I found it difficult to be wholly sympathetic to any of the characters. Rooney presents each of the four-some in full - charms, shortcomings, messy back stories and all - which is what a life truly is. Her three-dimensional rendering of the key characters inflicts on the reader the same realization as growing up inflicts on everyone. There are no clean lines that love nor friendship can be boxed in - no fully right or wrong way to feel or act. This was what I found most appealing about the book, and what I think elevated it from being a simple romantic narrative. I’m looking forward to tackling Rooney’s sophomore release - ‘Normal People’ soon…just a few more books on my nightstand to get through first!

Three Women | revealing, fragile, yearning

Review: 3 stars

‘Three Women’ was featured as one of Indigo’s top 10 books of the year, and I picked it up, intrigued by Taddeo’s journalistic angle on female sexuality. This bestselling non-fiction book follows three women - Maggie, Sloan and Lina - and their complicated relationship with intimacy and physicality through nearly a decade.

We meet Maggie at the tender age of 17, who is rapidly exploring her sexuality. After a prior relationship with an older man while vacationing in Hawaii, she begins falling into a tangled romantic relationship with Aaron Knodel, her high school English teacher. This marks the beginning of Maggie’s unravelling - of her future, her reputation, and her confidence in love. Knodel is portrayed as a charismatic trapper of Maggie’s heart, initiating texts, hours-long midnight conversations and a transgressive encounter at his family’s home. Taddeo deftly surfaces Maggie’s anguish when Knodel abruptly ends the relationship. Maggie is devastated to her core that her lover has spurned her, an emotion that overwhelms a more rational epiphany that her youth and caprice has been marred by an older, more powerful, advantaged man.

Lina and Sloan similarly lead lives of deception, torment and ecstasy, bringing sex lives that are indecent in the eyes of society, into the bright of day for examination, but even more for empathy. A key message of Taddeo’s is that how we choose to experience sexuality is wholly our own. That when women feel heartbreak, lust and adoration, that we are making ourselves vulnerable to pain, and should not be judged, especially by other women, each living their own truth.

I did find myself fighting impulsive questions of ‘Is she at fault for this?’ and ‘How could she do this to another woman?’. Yet this is the deftness of Taddeo’s journalistic magic - she brings the full perspective of each protagonist, such that I was forced to delay reaction, and instead pursue contemplation. This is a highly readable and pulsating piece of journalism. I did however find that it was not as impactful to my outlook on life, despite its candour and unique subject matter. I was asked by my sister-in-law over the break whether I had read anything great lately, and this novel simply slipped by mind. However, this is a solid pick for any man or woman who is looking for an engaging non-fiction read.

The Song of Achilles | mythical, original, poetic

Review: 4 stars

‘Circe’, Madeline Miller’s sophomore novel, has been atop my to-read list forever. When I saw ‘The Song of Achilles’ on sale, I decided to give it a spin first. I’ve completely forgotten my Greek mythology, aside from a brief re-watching of Troy several years ago, so I came to the character of Patroclus afresh.

‘The Song of Achilles’ is a re-telling of Achilles’ journey from brash golden child to tragic hero, etched in the canons of Greek history. It is an original perspective, told through the observations and emotions of Patroclus, Achilles’ sworn companion and secret lover. Patroclus is the perfect foil to Achilles - his dark, weak frame and penchant for failure, versus Achilles’ bronze, demi-god physique and battle prowess. Yet against all odds (and the efforts of Achilles’s sea-nymph mother, Thetis), the two fall passionately in love and embark on an entwined journey to manhood.

The well-known tale of the siege of Troy is enriched greatly by Miller’s willingness to place Patroclus’ and Achilles’ love affair at the centre of the saga. With this novel lens draped over the fated sequence of events, we learn that it is actually this love that drives the unfolding drama and tragedy. From Pactroclus’ fatally successful pantomime to Achilles’ grief-consumed death at the hands of Paris - each pivotal event is spun from their inseverable bond to one another. As Achilles forages into the iron-scented, blood-soaked realm of the warrior, Patroclus strays deeper into morality - becoming a healer and offering a hearth for Trojan refugees. Patroclus remains Achilles’ most sage confidant, the only true knower of his heart.

Miller also offers a well-researched take on the politics of warfare - from where the Greek encampments could be placed depending on positions of honour, to the sequence in claiming the spoils of war. This account of Troy is dramatic, deeply personal and engrossing. I recommend this to aficionados of Greek literature as equally as I do to those who have forgotten their grade school lessons in Greek mythology.

Where the Crawdads Sing | enchanting, romantic, effervescent

Review: 3 stars

‘Where the Crawdads Sing’ has been so widely promoted that I actively avoided reading it because I assumed it would be a bit of a throwaway novel. A much-vaulted pick as part of Reese Witherspoon’s Hello Sunshine Book Club, this novel by Delia Owens was marketed as a romance-whodunit-ode to nature. Finally, intrigued by the unbelievably positive reviews, I decided to purchase a copy from Indigo.ca.

I am glad I didn’t let my initial judgement get the better of me, because I found ‘Where the Crawdads Sing’ to truly be an incredibly meditative homage to America’s swamplands, Geography that is typically thought of as dank, dark and bereft of elegance is recast by Owens as mystical, temperamental and bewitching. Owen’s training as a wildlife scientist shines through unabashedly in how she paints the unrelenting afternoon sun and dazzling dusk skies of the North Carolina coastal marshlands.

Kya, our heroine, is known by the townsfolk as ‘The Swamp Girl’, reviled for her wayward barefoot lifestyle and completely misunderstood. As she is abandoned by her family one by one, she learns to rely only on herself - catching bait to trade for goods at Jumpin’s general store, cooking grits day in and day out for each meal, learning how to maintain the house. The story blossoms into a beautiful adolescent romance when Kya finally allows herself to depend on Tate. First to learn how to read, then to make sense of the natural world around her by naming species, and ultimately to care for her wary, scarred heart. The simplicity and honesty of their love is one element of the novel that makes the book such a compulsive read, and its subsequent unravelling is truly heartbreaking.

From there, the plot evolves into a murder mystery - Chase Andrews, the town alpha male, and Kya’s secret suitor, is found dead below a water tower. Suspicion swings to focus on Kya despite a paucity of evidence, and so begins a trial pitting town against marsh, law against nature and prejudice against girl. Owens is most successful when she is in her own comfort zone - evoking the unassuming charm of the woodlands she is so familiar with. In contrast, passages that elucidate the town’s hunt for justice and the court proceedings feel more mechanical and plot driven.

‘Where the Crawdads Sing’ is an easy, worthwhile read that helps impart a greater appreciation for America’s diverse natural geography and for those who choose to live a noble life amongst creatures not humans.

The Queen of Hearts | breezy, predictable, forgettable

Review: 2 stars

In February, I attended a company training in Scottsdale, Arizona. After a heart-pounding, lactic-acid inducing sprint to my gate, I ended up missing the connection, leaving me stranded in O’Hare for six hours. I found Barbara’s Bookshop in my terminal, and after thumbing through several titles, settled for “The Queen of Hearts”.

At the outset, we are introduced to two equally impressive protagonists, Zadie and Emma, who trade leading the narrative throughout the novel. Both are beautiful, wealthy, successful physicians, who have found their soulmates in one another. With bonds forged through the all-consuming world of medical residency, the two are inseparable, until we learn of a “Dr. X”, who could lead to the unravelling of their sisterhood.

Martin crafts Zadie and Emma as foils of one another - Zadie is the relatable mother, bathed in warm sunshine and sensuality, whereas Emma is the meticulous, over-achieving ice queen. This set of contrasts heightens the mystery surrounding Dr. X, who we quickly learn is Zadie’s former lover and the object of Emma’s contempt.

Without giving away the details, I will say that the novel is entirely predictable, and it is clear why outlets such as Southern Living ad Elite Daily heralded this as one of 2018’s most anticipated reads. It is a perfect antidote for an eventless summer day - incredibly plot-driven with excessive use of foreshadowing. The novel reads like a soap opera with its unfinished conversations, multiple attempts at revelations, and convenient misunderstandings. “The Queen of Hearts” is an absorbing, casual read, but not one that is memorable or distinctive.

Asymmetry | inventive, intelligent, metafiction

Review: 3 stars

I returned to work in November of last year, and while I’ve kept up with my reading, I haven’t with my blogging! Catching up now, I’ll start with Asymmetry, which had been on my radar for the past few months. I was very taken by the beautiful cover design, and it also helped that it was on the NYT 10 Best Books of 2018 list.

Asymmetry is the debut novel by Lisa Halliday, and upon initial examination, appears to be two completely disparate stories bound together only by the printing process. The novel opens with “Folly”, a chapter that outlines the whimsical, entirely charming encounter between Alice, an impressionable young writer, and Ezra Blazer, an acclaimed author in his sunset years. Their romance unfurls with the lovely nostalgia of knowing that the golden years are here and soon to fade. Little traditions like baseball games and blackout cookies bring their relationship startlingly to life. However, as much as you want Ezra and Alice to succeed, there is something that nags at you and forces you to probe beneath their quirky affection for one another.

This is where asymmetry as a theme first emerges. Ezra’s “education” of Alice begins gradually, but soon overwhelms. His age, wealth, worldliness and renown make themselves conspicuous. He gives her money with specific spending guidelines, instructs her to buy clothing from S-E-A-R-L-E, annoyingly spells out words for her, dials her at will from a “CALLER ID BLOCKED” number, gives her a list of canonical literature to read, so on and so forth. Although Alice is our protagonist, we are always one step removed from her emotions. She effaces herself from the reader similar to how she dissolves herself into Ezra’s preferred, haute ways of living. An event as traumatic as an abortion earns little less than a passing mention, which is both how Alice and the reader experience the act. When Ezra asks “Do you ever think this isn’t good for you?”, Alice answers immediately that “it’s very good” for her. The richness of Alice’s youth, talent and character are exploited and under-appreciated, and we wonder whether she will ever emerge from Ezra’s shadow to explore her full potential.

This question seemingly goes unanswered through the next two segments of the novel. The first, titled “Madness”, is a story of identity and brotherhood narrated by Amar, an Iraqi-American. The latter is an interview conducted between a BBC host and Ezra, where he relays the soundtrack to his life. “Madness” is a sophisticated exploration of Amar’s connections to Iraq and the experiences of being a man of his heritage, amidst today’s backdrop of ethic suspicion. Halliday’s odd choice of narrator and country are what make this chapter the most astounding. The vividness of Amar’s memories, his culture and his loyalties are truly authentic. Even as I found myself disengaging from this chapter due to lack of common ground, I realized this was the savvy of Halliday’s writing. She had created a narrative so real, in a tone so utterly different from the preceding chapter, that I found the transition jarring and difficult to continue reading with the same mindset.

While the metafiction aspects of the novel and semi-autobiographical details are what have been hailed as a “literary phenomenon” by critics, the connection truly is easy to miss. I won’t reveal it here, but while I found the concept certainly clever, I was simultaneously unconvinced by the true merit of the novel’s structure. It does create a more cerebral read, but the thread between the various segments were so tenuous, that I could not appreciate it during the reading itself.

Less | self-deprecating, light, human

Review: 2 stars

I could’ve done with less of Less. I decided to read it as part of the Now Read This bookclub, and also because it won a Pulitzer. It also came recommended by Kevin, from the BMVQ store, and he recommended ‘A Little Life’ also, which I adored. Given all this, my expectations were pretty sky high, and they quickly plummeted as I kept reading.

Less follows the whirlwind travels of 50-year-old Arthur Less, a faded novelist who is escaping his ex’s nuptials. As we go from Mexico to Germany to Japan, Less encounters new paramours, all the while reminiscing about his old ones. Our protagonist is highly self-deprecating, at times over-confident (as when he believes he can speak German), and above all, unmoored. Where the novel succeeds is in the charm Less brings to embarrassing situations, juxtaposed with his comically critical self-regard.

Perhaps this novel was difficult for me to relate to given the stage of life Less is in, but I felt that too much effort was exerted to create the whimsical atmosphere that permeates the novel. I also didn’t personally like Less’ character, as much as I may have found it to be a very round and well-developed persona. Flirtatious and awkward exchanges between Less and lesser characters are drawn-out and not in line with my sense of humour. Even the mysterious first-person narrator who tells us of Less’ trials and tribulations is who we expected it to be all along, making for a anticlimactic ending.

For those who have read Greer before, or are interested in a fairly light LGBTQ comedy, this might be a good fit for you. However, personally, I felt my time could’ve been better spent on another read.