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.

Macbeth | clever, bloodthirsty, corruptive

Review: 3 stars

My good friend Patrick, with whom I exchange books every Christmas, recently became a father! In advance of being sucked into the black hole of parenthood, he gifted me ‘Macbeth’, a very apt selection given I’m a fan of Nesbo’s “Harry Hole” series.

‘Macbeth’ is a modern day retelling of Shakespeare’s tragic classic - this time set in a drug-plagued 1970s small Norwegian town. The main players are all present, from Macbeth (a high-performing “SWAT” team leader), Banquo (his “trusty” sidekick), to Duncan (head of the police force). Nesbo makes clever reference to the original cast and circumstances, while ensuring his own story maintains its fidelity. For example, Hecate is now recast as the lord of a mysterious drug ring, selling “brew”, and his workforce is comprised of blind Chinese workers - an interpretation on the other blind witches who cast Macbeth’s fate. Lady Macbeth, assumes the mononym “Lady”, and as the fiery proprietor of a high-end casino in town, propels her lover Macbeth to maddening heights of power.

I last studied Macbeth in ninth-grade English class, so it was truly nostalgic to read Nesbo’s version. His elaboration on each character’s back stories created much rounder characters of the secondary cast - Duff, Lady and Banquo are each imbued with noble ambitions and self-destructive flaws. I found myself constantly shifting allegiances to the characters as I learned more about the regrets and motivations that defined each. This made it difficult sustain my sense of “true North”, which Nesbo offers to define as the betterment of the town and its people. The novel also poses the central question of what does “good” truly look like, when leaders trade one gang for another and claim victory for one population while sacrificing another. A question of democracy and transparency vs. efficient autocracy also arises - when is it rational for a leader who can truly effect change, to turn to mercenary means to achieve them? Does that in and of itself negate that leader’s progress towards good?

I thoroughly enjoyed this read. As always, Nesbo delivers high-octane plot development and careless bloodshed in this “game of thrones” thriller. HIs descriptive writing heightens the readers’ senses - placing us firmly in the rain-drenched chill of the Fife container yard, or in the backyard after a family’s massacre; the wet laundry still listing in the breeze, pockmarked with bullet holes. There are a few flaws - for example, the positioning of the various antagonists in the final battle scene is difficult to render, the interjections of the supernatural feel tangential, and the repeated missteps of a modern, well-equipped police force are not credible. However, by in large, ‘Macbeth’ gave me several days of engrossed, page turning escape, which was exactly what I was looking for.

A Separation | slow, melancholic, fading

Review: 2 stars

‘A Separation’ was the December pick for the ‘Now Read This’ bookclub, and also a well-highlighted book on a number of end of year lists. It also happened to be on sale at BMVQ for one-third the usual price, so I snapped it up. I had heard very mixed reviews about it, as it is “a slow burn of a novel”, but I was optimistic.

The novel follows an estranged wife of a man, Christopher, who has gone missing in Southern Greece. She narrates through a tone that feels emotionally-detached, spoken by someone viewing herself go through motions and reactions, versus experiencing them firsthand. Out of marital duty, she travels to Greece in search of her husband, all the while questioning whether she is the right person to search or to care.

Upon reaching Greece, she begins to pull back the veil on her husband’s public facade. The novel that he was 'almost finished’ has barely begun, the hotel concierge is yet another bedded mistress, his rented room is a slovenly mess. In the scorching sun of Gerolimenas, the small Greek fishing village where Christopher was last seen, her marriage appears desiccated, the could haves and should haves hollowed out. Upon finding her husband’s whereabouts, her reaction is muted, the shock dull and formless. In fact, our narrator appears to muster more empathy for a feuding couple - Stefano and Maria - than she can for Christopher or his parents. Christophers’s fate may come as a surprise to some, but it felt rather anti-climatic in its delivery.

My principal critique of ‘A Separation’ is the deliberate, slow pacing. It may have been selected to conjure the stifling nothingness of a small Greek village in blazing summer heat, or as a metaphor for how a failing marriage dismantles itself, action by action. However, it wore my patience thin, and I found myself flipping ahead constantly to see when the next major plot milestone would take place. I also found it incredibly difficult to connect with the main characters - each felt so cold and removed from one another, and had few redeeming qualities to elicit deep empathy.

I fully appreciate that many could see ‘A Separation’ as a study in careful observation. I also think Kitamura fundamentally achieved what she set out to create. Unfortunately, the story, and more importantly the style of narration, did not resonate well with me.

Washington Black | outlandish, questioning, expansive

Review: 4 stars

I always feel inspired by Indigo’s slogan - “The World Needs More Canada”. With that in mind, I picked up a copy of Esi Edugyan’s multi-award winning novel, ‘Washington Black’ to see if the hype around this Canadian author was deserved.

The novel opens on the Faith Sugar Plantation in Barbados, where our young, eleven-year-old protagonist, Washington Black, is a slave at the mercy of a cruel, new master. The adventure begins when Black is taken from the fields to serve as an assistant to Titch, the master’s brother. The two quickly defy the odds, developing a friendship founded upon scientific curiosity and mutual respect. Edugyan masterfully builds up the tenuous warmth of the bond, as Titch tends to Black’s wounds after an accident, praises Black for his artistic brilliance and saves Black from fatal punishment after an unexpected death occurs.

The pair escape Faith in a “Cloud-Cutter”, and as they wander further and further (Nova Scotia, Canadian Arctic), instead of relishing freedom, they become enslaved to their fear of recapture. The investment that Edugyan has made in the familial relationship between Titch and Black is ripped away without notice. Black is stranded, bereft of the sense of identity and worth that Titch had bestowed upon him. The remainder of the novel unravels through twists and turns, enriched by romance, tormented by the fear of being hunted, and encircled in unanswerable questions.

Edugyan’s central theme revolves around what it means to be free. Big Kit, Black’s closet caregiver on the plantation, asserts that freedom is “to [go] wherever it is you wanting”. Clearly, Black was beholden to the chains of slavery on the plantation, his very breath extinguishable on the whim of Master Erasmus. However, even after he escapes, Black is not truly liberated. He is monetarily and emotionally dependent on Titch, unable to imagine an independent path for himself. He has freedom from abuse, forced labour, brutality, but not freedom itself. After Titch’s disappearance, Black remains imprisoned in his own anxieties, as Willard, a brutish bounty hunter, draws nearer and nearer. In the final chapters, Black continues to be tethered to Titch, unable to extricate himself from perennial questions of “Why” and “How could you” as he scours the globe for his elusive friend. It is only in his final act of the novel that Black releases himself from all bondage, and goes where he is wanting, to the incredulity of the reader.

I thoroughly enjoyed this novel for its complexity, inventiveness and ability to approach the oft-visited theme of freedom across so many dimensions. Edugyan’s writing is meticulous in its fidelity to the novel’s temporal and geographic settings. Washington Black as a narrator is completely believable, and engenders deep reader sympathy as well. I would definitely recommend this book, and look forward to reading ‘Half Blood Blues’ - Edugyan’s prior work.

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.

The Immortalists | fatalist, enchanting, tender

Review: 3 stars

My office recently relocated close by BMVQ - what an amazing coincidence! On one of my walks home, I took a roundabout way and just happened to find myself grabbing a flat white and croissant at Praise Patisserie, which is the coffee shop at the back of BMVQ. I also took a gander at the staff picks bookshelf, and lingered on “The Immortalists”, before ultimately buying it.

The novel is segmented into four parts, each starring one of the Gold siblings. Preceding this quartet of life is a prologue, which sets up the alluring premise of the novel. The Golds visit a mystical forecaster of death, who provides each child with their expiration date. The central question is posed: how would you live your life, if you knew the date of your death? We explore this through the trials and tribulations of Simon, Klara, Daniel and Varya, and how a date shapes their destinies and longevity.

I found the novel immensely readable, and at points I had to pace myself from reading too quickly as each character hurtles towards their inexorable end. I inwardly pled with Simon and Klara to embrace safety and convention as their compounding decisions pushed each of them closer to fates that seemed fully avoidable. By the other hand, I found myself criticizing Varya’s chosen path - one that was awash in sterility and single-minded in its intent to avoid errors. At the conclusion - the reader is easily faced with a multitude of questions: Does the scale tip in favour of free will or predetermined destiny? What makes a life worth living? How does immortality express itself - through longevity, memory, legend, art, story?

Benjamin’s writing is most poignant when she employs the metaphor of the monkey longevity experiment - which tests the hypothesis of whether severe diet restriction can lengthen life exponentially. The scene where Varya experiences an epiphany with Frida, a monkey for which she has deep affection for, is one of the most searing, extracting heightened angst and reflection from the reader.

The sibling narrative also rang very true for me. As the middle sister in a family of three, I understand how time and distance can separate, but also how the bonds of childhood endure. I cannot shape my siblings’ decisions anymore than they can shape mine, as we are now each adults with separate daily orbits of people, dilemmas and opportunities. However, our shared stories and memories are what tie us inextricably to one another, and what compels us to help one another reach what we each perceive to be “success”, however conventional or unconventional our definitions are.

Overall, I would recommend this as a thought-provoking and relatively easy read, with a captivating, well-paced plot.

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.

Little Fires Everywhere | relatable, tender, detailed

Review: 3 stars

I loved Celeste Ng’s ‘Everything I Never Told You’, so I eagerly grabbed her sophomore novel, ‘Little Fires Everywhere’ when it came out. I’m also trying to read more from Asian authors, so this was a great fit for my booklist.

Ng sets her story in Shaker Heights, a meticulously designed neighbourhood in Ohio, her native state. It follows the collision of two families - the Richardsons and the Warrens - and the consequences that arise as each member pursues their selfish interests. The conflicts begin small and crescendo quickly - a hidden teenage affair, a regretful abortion, an adoption controversy, a stolen surrogate baby. The drama ignites and grows into a blazing conflagration by the end, forcing Mia and Pearl Warren to flee town in haste, to the devastation of the four Richardson children.

I found Ng’s writing to be particularly powerful when delving into the pasts of Mia Warren and Elena Richardson, the two matriarchs in the story. She deftly captures the faded could-have-beens for each woman, rendering them as more than mothers. Elena’s epiphany as to why she holds her daughter, Izzy, at such arm’s length also rings with brilliant truth. Sometimes when we are threatened with the loss of something, we try not to love it too much for fear of pain. Ng also is a capable juggler - using Bebe Chow and Linda McCullough’s custody battle for a Chinese baby to further increase antagonistic tensions between the primary families.

You can read Little Fires Everywhere and easily relate to something in it - either the Asian-American immigrant experience, teenage angst, or secrets in one’s past, Perhaps the most relatable element of all is Elena’s articulation of what so many of us feel and practice in daily life: “…passion, like fire, was a dangerous thing. It so easily went out of control…Sparks leapt like fleas and spread as rapidly…Better to control that spark and pass it carefully from one generation to the next…Carefully controlled. Domesticated. Happy in captivity.” As Elena nurses her single flame, her daughter Izzy defies all rules and sets the world ablaze. Perhaps the novel is an ode to how our lives of normalcy are just waiting to be set ablaze by something, or someone.

I enjoyed much of the novel, but felt that the adolescent storylines lapsed into well-tread territory, with little left to discover. I would’ve also liked Elena to have been a more redeeming character earlier on. Her foray into villainy flattens the great character development we have from learning about her past. Although the novel reads as a thriller at times, it lacked the surprise and originality of Ng’s debut novel, which I had so loved. In particular, Mia’s revelation, which the entire story builds up to, seemed to me a let-down once unveiled. I don’t doubt that this novel will have many admirers, but for me, it fell short of a spectacular read.

Bellevue Square | eery, otherworldly, unsettling

Review: 3 stars

My friend Patrick and I have a lovely Christmas tradition. We gift each other our most anticipated read, or our favourite read from the past year. Over the years, he’s sent me some great choices, and this year, he opted for ‘Bellevue Square’ by Michael Redhill.

Redhill has written a cerebral thriller in which the credibility of our narrator, Jean Mason, is questioned throughout the novel. Jean lives a fairly ordinary life in Toronto, until she discovers from chance acquaintances that she has a doppelgänger that frequents Bellevue Square, and that myth has it only one of the doppelgängers can exist in the physical world. This news ignites Jean’s all-consuming hunt for her look-a-like, Ingrid. Jean works with a band of haphazard characters that frequent the square to unravel this mystery. We soon learn that Jean suffers from mental illness, and that is when we begin to question the veracity of her commentary and whether we, the readers, are being duped ourselves. The novel pulses towards an inexorable face-off between the Jean and Ingrid, in which only one can survive.

The premise of the novel is original, but at times gimmicky, and Redhill takes many pains to elevate the suspense of the novel. He guides the reader unwittingly to invest deeply in Jean’s character, which I think is a wholly successful rendering. We empathize with her struggle to appear ‘normal’ to her sons and husband, and are impressed by the ease with which she slips into the patchwork fabric of Toronto’s underbelly. This outpour of support for Jean is what makes the twist in the end quite dramatic. The finale unravels our notion of who, or what, Jean really is and prompts us to shift our sympathies to Ingrid.

While the ending is intriguing and refreshing to me, I found that there were a few doldrums in the novel, when pace fell off and my interest waned. I would’ve appreciated more time allotted to the hasty ending to explore the questions of reality and existence that Redhill launches with pages left to go. Overall, this was a good read with a well-developed protagonist, but fell short for me on a few other dimensions.

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.

Exit West | imaginative, surreal, intimate

Review: 4 stars

‘Exit West’ was listed as a Top 10 book of 2017 by the New York Times, and so I ordered a copy off Amazon earlier this year. It piqued my interest because the novel seemed to be a contradiction - at once eerily realistic in its description of the refugee experience, all the while ignoring the laws of physics.

‘Exit West’ follows a pair of new, young lovers - Saeed and Nadia, who are" “subversives” in an anonymous Muslim country, teetering on the brink of civil war. The heady concoction of marijuana-tinged forbidden romance draws the two together, as curfews, bank runs and downed phone lines wreak havoc across their city. They catch wind of magical doors that are opening at random, bending distance to teleport willing travellers to unknown destinations. Thus begins Saeed and Nadia’s journey through this secretive network of doors, with each destination warping their relationship slightly more than the last.

Hamid has written a very clever story - one that adeptly blends ambiguity with the detailed emotional tapestry of the migrant experience. Saeed and Nadia could be fleeing Yemen, Syria or Somalia - their origin is of no import. By stripping this away and urging the reader to accept teleportation as reality, Hamid generalizes the refugee crisis so that it is the responsibility of the world. How would we act if a door were to spontaneously open in our bedrooms, shadowy, beleaguered figures emerging at all intervals throughout the day? What would we protect, what would we give? This surreal, yet genius interpretation of global diaspora insists upon activating the reader’s empathy.

I also thoroughly appreciated the deterioration of Saeed and Nadia’s romance, proving that circumstance and proximity are not enough to sustain love. Saeed is drawn more and more to the trappings of his home country, and shrouds himself in devout prayer. In contrast, Nadia finally feels as though she can shed her skin, and camouflage herself to be whoever she desires now. Their growing chasm is so honestly captured, and feels like a story repeated in every city in the world. Hamid writes this to illustrate their tenuous bond:

“Saeed wanted to feel for Nadia what he had always felt for Nadia, and the potential loss of this feeling left hm unmoored…Saeed made a point to smile with Nadia, at least sometimes, and he hoped she would feel something warm and caring when he smiled, but what she felt was sorrow and the sense that they were better than this, and that together they had to find a way out.”

This story feels old and clairvoyant at the same time. Refugees escaping certain persecution with uncertain promises awaiting at their destination. Upcroppings of peripheral migrant neighbourhoods, like outstretched tentacles from the world’s urban apexes. The right to electricity and connectivity wielded as new-age weapons by iinvaded authorities, against the invaders. New generations of ‘natives’, lighter in colour than those who previously donned the name.

This timeless novel successfully melds reality with fantasy, while providing a gentle, patient periscope into an unravelling relationship. I found it to be a thought-provoking read, and highly recommend it for those who would enjoy an inventive lens on today’s refugee crisis.

Home Fire | incendiary, daring, unexpected

Review: 4 stars

I walked into BMVQ over the summer, and was immediately taken by the stunning cover of ‘Home Fire’. I’m a fairly risk averse reader - I try not to judge a book by its cover, and I rely heavily on awards, reviews and ‘best of’ lists before affirming my choices. Luckily, Home Fire was a Top 100 pick of 2017 by the New York Times, so I happily bought it.

‘Home Fire’ is the story of three siblings - Isma, Aneeka and Parvaiz, who are ostracized from their Pakistani community in Britain because of their father’s legacy as a jihadi fighter. The novel is told in four voices - one for each sibling, with the final reserved for Karamat Lone - the father of Aneeka’s love interest, Eamonn, and Britain’s Home Secretary.

Isma fatefully meets Eamonn while studying abroad in America, igniting a collision course that leads to fatal consequences. Three parallel plot lines weave in and out, steadily ratcheting up the novel’s tension. The first - Isma’s blossoming friendship and affection for Eamonn, which is countered by Aneeka and Eamonn’s passionate love affair. The second - Aneeka and her family’s burning disdain for Karamat, born from his rejection of his Muslim community and refusal to help resolve their father’s death. The third - Parvaiz’s seduction by ISIS and his subsequent journey to Syria to honour his father.

Shamsie’s writing is poetic and heartbreaking. The novel reads as a thriller at times - so compelling are the plot and the protagonists’ struggles. She employs mixed media to evoke the realism of how public opinion is presented (tweets, hashtags, news headlines), how youth communicate across oceans (texts, skype messages), and also how ISIS guides their pilgrims to the frontline (poems, Quran verses).

The ending is one of the most moving and shocking conclusions to a novel that I’ve come across. It requires re-reading to fully absorb the enormity of each person’s actions, and to fully bear witness to all-consuming love. Shamsie wields the perspective of a removed onlooker in the final scene to create an immutable newsreel of horror and beauty, and to allow the reader to pass judgement and propose motives.

I recommend this book to those looking for a moving, ambitious exploration of the intersection of political and private agendas, and the wide spectrum of Muslim expression.