Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell)

The Argentine writer and journalist Mariana Enriquez grew up during the country’s Dirty War. From 1976 to 1983, when Argentina was in the grip of the military dictatorship, several thousands of citizens were murdered or disappeared, many of whom were not formally documented due to the terrorist regime in place. While the primary targets were communist activists and sympathisers, others were also singled out, from artists, writers and journalists to students, militants and trade unionists – in short, anyone suspected of being a left-wing activist. Things We Lost in the Fire – a superb collection of twelve short stories, first published in Spanish in 2016 – alludes to this history, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid, highly compelling ways. I hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights.

In these macabre, deeply disturbing stories, elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery are intertwined with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Time and time again, the country’s dark underbelly bursts through the surface, making its presence felt in the characters’ anxieties and fears. Importantly, the shocks come not only from the violence and traumas we are exposed to directly but also from a growing immunity to these horrors once they become embedded within the fabric of society.

Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. In some instances, Enriquez’s protagonists are left questioning whether what they are experiencing is real or imaginary, like a manifestation of past or present horrors resurfacing to haunt them.

In ‘The Dirty Kid’, a middle-class woman who prides herself on being savvy enough to survive in a rough neighbourhood becomes fixated on a homeless kid sleeping on the street corner. When a boy is murdered and his body dumped nearby, the woman becomes convinced it’s the same child, chastising herself for not having helped him more. This excellent story exposes the latent guilt bubbling under the surface of our untroubled lives until it confronts us directly.

Enriquez is terrific at building tension, and this can be seen in ‘Adela’s House’, one of the creepiest, most atmospheric stories in the collection. Siblings Pablo and Carla befriend Adela, a confident, one-armed girl who is mocked by the other kids at school. After developing a taste for horror stories, Pablo and Adela set off to explore an abandoned, bricked-up house, taking Carla with them. What follows is deeply unnerving, tapping into our fears of the unknown and unresolved.

He needed to know what had happened in that house, what was inside. He wanted it with a fervor that was strange to see in an eleven-year-old boy. I don’t understand, I could never understand what the house did to him, how it drew him in like that. Because it drew him to it, first. And then he infected Adela. (p. 74)

Enriquez also excels in using imagery to unnerve both her protagonists and her readers. In ‘Spiderweb’, a woman sees a house engulfed in flames with no firefighters in sight. Ten minutes later, the blaze has disappeared leaving only a patch of scorched earth visible on the ground. How could the fire have been extinguished so quickly? Was it real or just an illusion? It’s hard to tell. The story is narrated by a woman trapped in a loveless marriage who, on visiting her family in the north, becomes increasingly convinced that she should dump her arrogant husband. Other unsettling incidents come to light as the trip unfolds, blurring the margins between the real and the imaginary. It’s another excellent, enigmatic story laced with notes of ambiguity, especially towards the end.

It’s harder to breathe in the humid north, up there so close to Brazil and Paraguay, the rushing river guarded by mosquito sentinels and a sky that can turn from limpid blue to stormy black in minutes. You start to struggle right away when you arrive, as if a brutal arm were wound around your waist and squeezing. (p. 94)

Imagery also plays a key role in ‘No Flesh over Our Bones’, in which a young woman becomes obsessed with a jawless skull she finds by a tree, naming it Vera, short for ‘Calavera’, the Spanish word for skull. Her boyfriend is freaked out by this, especially when she makes a kind of shrine out of the object, complete with candles, jewellery, and a wig. As her obsession with human bones deepens, we wonder where this fixation will end.

We all walk over bones in this city, it’s just a question of making holes deep enough to reach the buried dead. (p. 131)

This creepy, unsettling story is one of many that reflect the dark shadow of Argentina’s past atrocities; and, like others in this striking collection, it leaves the reader worrying about what might happen next.

In ‘Under the Black Water’, another atmospheric, vividly realised piece, a drowned boy appears to come back from the dead, emerging from a heavily polluted river which has been used as a dumping ground for everything from toxic waste to children murdered in the slums. Enriquez shines a light on police corruption here, weaving some coruscating social commentary into her picture of the neighbourhood. 

…that was what the cops did in the southern slums, much more than protect people: they killed teenagers, sometimes out of cruelty, other times because the kids refused to “work” for them—to steal for them or sell the drugs the police seized. Or for betraying them. The reasons for killing poor kids were many and despicable. (p. 157)

Most of Enriquez’s protagonists are women or girls, highlighting the horrors of life in Argentina from the female perspective, ranging from arrogant, unsympathetic partners and violence at the hands of men to mental illness and self-harm.

In ‘The Neighbor’s Courtyard’, one of the most unnerving pieces here, Paula and her partner, Miguel, move into a spacious new home in an up-and-coming part of the city. Paula is studying to complete her sociology degree after being fired from her previous role in charge of a children’s shelter – an isolated incident of negligence she has been trying to come to terms with ever since. Unsurprisingly, she is also recovering from depression – a situation not helped by Miguel, who has no time for specialists or anti-depressants.

When Paula decided to consult a psychiatrist, Miguel flew into a rage and told her not to even think of going to one of those charlatans. Why did she have to talk to someone else, he asked. Didn’t she trust him? He’d even said they probably needed to have a baby. (p. 136)

When Paula catches glimpses of a boy chained by the ankle in her neighbour’s courtyard, an opportunity for atonement beckons; but when she tries to show Miguel, the boy is nowhere to be seen. Is he real or imaginary? A manifestation of Paula’s traumas, from her guilt over the incident at the shelter to the destructive impact of Miguel’s behaviour? Again, it’s not entirely clear – initially at least. This brilliant story ends on a chilling note, neatly suggesting there is no easy escape from the horrors of life.

Other stories, particularly ‘End of Term’, in which a teenage girl hears a man’s voice telling her to self-harm, reinforce the belief that no woman is safe or immune from the effects of trauma.

The collection ends with the titular story, another blistering view from the female perspective. In this piece, women become compelled to participate in burnings, deliberating disfiguring themselves as a response to male violence. In the past, several women have been set alight by men, either in incidents of domestic abuse or in ritualistic burnings stretching back over several years. Now is the time for women to take control as a spate of ‘underground’ burnings sweeps across the city.

“Burnings are the work of men. They have always burned us. Now we are burning ourselves. But we’re not going to die; we’re going to flaunt our scars.” (p. 193)

In summary then, these brilliant, intoxicating stories explore the horrors of Argentine society, encompassing the military, police corruption and brutality, violence, especially towards women and adolescents, poverty, drug addiction, pollution, marginalisation, depression, misogyny and the ghosts of the murdered or disappeared. Elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery add texture to these tales, dialling up the tension and evocative atmosphere while enhancing the social criticism. I was knocked out by this collection, which I highly recommend, especially to readers of women in translation.   

Things We Lost in the Fire is published by Granta; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.

This Train is For by Bernie McGill

Regular readers of this blog will be aware of my fondness for Irish writing from both sides of the border, the kind of quiet, understated fiction that William Trevor, Claire Keegan, Lucy Caldwell and Maeve Brennan have produced. Now I can add Derry’s Bernie McGill to my list of favourites, courtesy of this excellent collection of short stories, which scooped the Edge Hill Short Story Prize earlier this year.

Here we have stories infused with loss, where the past disrupts the present, foregrounding the fallout from longstanding trauma, disagreements and secrets we try to conceal. Interestingly, virtually all the standout stories here involve travel, reconnecting the protagonists with their families and troubling events from the past. Nevertheless, it’s the emotional journeys McGill’s characters undertake that give these pieces their humanity and depth. 

In the titular story, one of my favourites from the collection, an elderly man travels by train to see his estranged sister, who is nearing the end of her life. As the landscape slips by outside – a sequence of urban and rural scenes, each with a vivid sense of place – we learn the source of their longstanding estrangement, a bitter disagreement rooted in prejudice and political divides. 

This is what we do here: move forward while facing back, keeping a sharp eye on what has been, in case it gets a run on us, overtakes on our blind side. (p. 1)

A sibling reunion of sorts also features in ‘There is More Than One Word’ as a middle-aged woman, Jaynie, returns to Belfast to deal with the discovery of the remains of a man – possibly her brother, Paul, who went missing aged seventeen.

She has told the principal at her current school that her brother has died, that she needed leave to come home for the funeral. She hasn’t told him that between these two events is a gap of forty-seven years; that she isn’t certain there will be a burial; that she hopes there will, but that she couldn’t say for sure. It was too complicated to get into. (p. 24)

In this powerful story, Jaynie is haunted by the fear of the unknown, which manifests itself in a recurring, looping vision – the sense of a body being bundled into a car, a kidnapping or ambush, perhaps? Shadowy images that refuse to sharpen into focus before the sequence begins again.

Language plays a crucial part in both of these pieces. What did Paul do back then? What did he say (or not say) to antagonise his aggressors? What unspoken rules or codes were broken? With piercing insight, McGill suggests there can be no easy release from past traumas; instead, they continue to reverberate, taunting and unnerving us till the end of our days.

The fallout from traumatic incidents can be felt in several of the best stories here – not least in ‘A Fuss’, my favourite in the collection. As Rosa waits at Dublin’s Connolly Station, her thoughts turn to the days ahead and the time-honoured rituals the family will conduct to mark her father’s death.

They’ll sit side-by-side on borrowed chairs and sip tea out of china cups that haven’t seen daylight for years, not since her mother’s mother was waked. They’ll nibble at sandwiches that have arrived ready-made, packed into loaf bags, ferried in by neighbours; they’ll nod and shake hands and thank people for coming and agree that it’s a shock; they’ll search long-unseen faces for some clue to recognition and sit silent and bleary-eyed by the coffin during the lulls. (p. 98)

No one in Rosa’s family shows much emotion; they’re not the kind to make a fuss. But as this achingly sad story unfolds, we discover the devastating consequences of these character traits, how denial and suppression – largely to avoid a potential scandal – have scarred Rosa’s life indelibly. At first, Rosa is unsettled by a chance encounter with an eccentric lady at the station, an incident that ultimately highlights the joys of a more demonstrative family. Later in the journey, this chatty woman is openly embraced by her nephew on leaving the train; and as Rosa watches from her carriage, this simple reunion, full of warmth and affection, throws her painful, suppressed emotions into sharp relief.   

She [Rosa] doesn’t know if she’s crying for the little woman with the carpet bag heavy with condiments, or for her father who went out in the morning, not knowing he wouldn’t come back that day, or for her mother who will never get over this, no matter how attentive her relatives are, or for herself, for the lack of love in her life, because she hasn’t allowed it in. (p. 103)

It’s a brilliant story in the style of William Trevor, especially in its depiction of a life blighted for the sake of respectability.

Death also haunts ‘A Loss’, in which the tragic horrors of an elderly woman’s early life are revealed when her nephew clears out her home. A note, an old mattress and an anxious dog all come together to trigger long-buried childhood memories in this haunting, unsettling story of secrets and concealment.

I think of my aunt often, and wonder about her, and about the words that she wrote on that scrap of paper, words that must have been long in her head. And I marvel, not for the first time, at the secrets people keep, for themselves, and for others, at the sadnesses that betray them, and at the small quiet lives that they continue to live out until the end of their days. (p. 43)

Like many masters of the short-story form, McGill can see into her characters’ hearts and minds with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations for the reader to see. Her stories are quiet, subtle and poetic, often conveying the hidden sadness of life. She bears witness to the small rituals and moments of solitude when everyday life must continue, despite the grief, suffering and loneliness we all experience from time to time.

Some of these stories seem deceptively simple on the surface, but as they unfurl, other, more poignant layers are revealed. ‘The House of the Quartered Door’ and ‘Glass Girl’ are excellent examples of this, both hinging on feelings of guilt and notes of ambiguity.

Despite the melancholy tone, there are moments of brightness here, too. ‘The Snagging List’ is rife with humour, unfolding through a series of text messages between two thirty-something women, close friends since childhood. As the messages fly back and forth, a note of poignancy is ultimately revealed, putting a different slant on each character’s situation. It’s a clever story showing a different string to McGill’s bow, a welcome addition to this accomplished collection.

Others are flecked with a different brand of humour – the wry or dry kind that works so well. In ‘The Cure for Too Much Feeling’, a menopausal woman develops a susceptibility to other people’s sorrows, which she tries to manage by avoiding likely triggers. News reports are a major hazard, not to mention bus journeys, open fires and pubs!

She tuned in to Classical FM, though she had to be careful around a violin solo. (p. 121)

The collection ends with an intriguing story, ‘In the Interests of Wonder’, in which a schoolteacher provides tuition for an illusionist’s daughter when a travelling fair comes to town. It’s another story where fear of outsiders or ‘others’ breeds suspicion, mistrust and misguided accusations, scuppering potential relationships for those concerned. An excellent finish to a lyrical collection I’m pleased to recommend.

This Train is For is published by No Alibis Press; personal copy.

Neighbors and Other Stories by Diane Oliver

The black American writer Diane Oliver had a promising career ahead of her when she died in a motorcycle accident in 1966 at the age of twenty-two. A graduate student at the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Oliver had published four short stories during her lifetime, with another two following posthumously. These six stories and eight previously unpublished pieces make up Neighbors and Other Stories, a remarkably striking collection recently issued as part of the uber-reliable Faber Editions series.

Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, Diane Oliver was writing at a time when racial segregation in America was being challenged through the civil rights movement, but longstanding prejudices remained entrenched. Much of her work portrays life for black women – frequently young black women – in 1960s America, complete with the abuse and microaggressions that characterised these people’s days. Nevertheless, despite the undeniably powerful nature of these themes, Oliver’s fiction is subtle, taking in a range of experiences that feel authentic and true. Here we see racial discrimination, both explicit and less overt, social exclusion, abandonment, exoticisation, activism, interracial relationships and much, much more, giving a rich insight into black lives in this crucial period of history.

Several stories depict the fear and anxiety present within the black community at the time. In the titular piece – one of my favourites in the collection – Oliver portrays a family’s conflicted emotions the night before the youngest son is due to start at a new school. But what makes this situation so unusual is that Tommy will be the first black child to attend a previously all-white facility. Unsurprisingly, opinions within the community are divided, with strong views being expressed on both sides. In fact, the family has already received threatening letters and abuse, and as the night unfolds, their home comes under attack.

No one heard her speak, and no one came over to see if they could help; she knew why and did not really blame them. They were afraid their house could be next. (p. 20)

Central to the story is the family’s moral dilemma. Should they send young Tommy to the newly integrated school, knowing that he will be bullied and ostracised for months, or do they relent and put his emotional well-being first? Someone must be the first for progress to be made, but does it have to be Tommy?

This theme is developed further in The Closet on the Top Floor, when Winifred – who is fed up of being ‘the Experiment’ – is sent by her civil rights activist father to a prestigious girls’ college where all the other pupils are white. Oliver is adept at illustrating the different forms of racial prejudice at play here, from social exclusion (in the first passage below) to more explicit slurs (in the second). For clarification, Norma is Winifred’s roommate, while Ellen is Norma’s friend.     

Everybody was in a sorority but Winifred. She didn’t mind. Somehow she had become used to not being invited and when she received an invitation to a sorority tea—by mistake, of course—she very casually threw the envelope into the wastepaper basket. (p. 31)

“Norma?” Ellen asked, her voice sounded puzzled. “Do you think all of them are like this, or just her?”

“I don’t know,” Norma answered. “Our maid takes food, but she never really tries to hide anything.” (p. 36)

As the weeks pass, Winifred withdraws from college society, hibernating in her room and stockpiling food before Norma moves out. This sad, unsettling story highlights the devastating impact of racism – both casual and more deliberate – on a young woman’s mental health.

The detrimental effect on health – both physical and mental – is a recurring theme in several of these stories, perhaps most overtly in Health Service, where an impoverished woman, Libby, and her four children must walk for hours to see a doctor. White authority figures, such as nurses, managers, employers and police officers, are particularly aggressive in their treatment of black women, as illustrated in the following scene. In short, the clinic nurse shows no appreciation of Libby’s personal circumstances and the challenges of caring for young kids.  

“Your kid’s in here raising sand,” the nurse said. “We ask you people not to deposit your children in the waiting room. When only one’s sick, why don’t you leave the rest at home?” (p. 71)

After a tiring journey and a long, frustrating wait (the children are tired and fidgety), Libby is told to come back another day as the doctors will be finishing early. But Libby will be working the rest of the week, and with no husband on the scene, it’ll be hard for her to return.

These heavy-handed authoritarian attitudes also come into play in Before Twilight, when Jenny and her three friends enter a whites-only tea room determined to be served. It’s one of several stories where Oliver subtly drops hints about her characters’ backstories, fleshing out the broader context in coolly nuanced ways.

Jenny looked down at her mother’s hands, seeing the knuckles swollen in the middle of each finger. She knew what she was thinking about. The father of one of her friends had found the charred body last spring. Since then she guessed everybody had just stopped talking about voting. (p. 43)

Jenny’s mother doesn’t want her girl getting mixed up in any trouble, fearful of what might happen, but Jenny is swayed by her friend Hank, a civil rights activist intent on making a stand. A thoroughly unsettling story laced with a sense of dread.

When the Apples are Ripe also features a character eager to take an active role in the civil rights movement, dividing opinion within his family. In contrast to some of these other pieces here, this is a hopeful, touching story with an unexpected ending.

In Mint Juleps Not Served Here, Oliver shows us just how far one family, the Macks, will go to protect their child from bullying and racial abuse.

The town with all of the pale faces that ruined her baby frightened and angered her. But she and Mr Mack knew better than to become angry in their town. (p. 79)

However, their off-the-grid existence in the depths of a large forest is threatened when an inquisitive young social worker comes looking for their house. This darkly unnerving story has the power to shock…

“No Brown Sugar in Anybody’s Milk” is a fascinating story that starts in familiar territory – a black maid being bossed about by her privileged white employer – only to end up somewhere different with a rug-pull at the end.

I’d also like to mention four stories as important illustrations of Oliver’s breadth. In Banago Kalt, three American friends from college, Millie, Rita and Karen, stay with a Swiss family for the summer as part of an educational trip. While Rita and Karen (both white) are warmly welcomed, it is Millie (black) who generates the most curiosity amongst the locals. Everyone wants a piece of Millie, and she is exoticised wherever she goes. While all this attention is well-intentioned, it doesn’t always feel that way for Millie, who often finds it funny and unnerving. There are shades of Nella Larsen’s excellent novella 1928 Quicksand here, highlighting the damaging fetishisation of black culture and individuals – an issue that remains in some segments of society today.

In The Visitor, Oliver focuses on the tensions between Alice, a well-to-do stepmother of high social standing, and her disdainful stepdaughter, Katie, when the latter comes to stay. This excellent story explores class conflicts, differences in aspirations, and the damaging effects of making assumptions about someone based on one’s own views.

Alice thought she detected a slight smirk on her face. The child was unnerving, she reminded her of a wizened old lady in a child’s body. (p. 118)

Spiders Cry Without Tears – one of the standout pieces here – explores an interracial relationship from a white woman’s perspective. When Meg, a divorced white woman with a teenage son, starts seeing a black doctor named Walt, she finds herself excluded from social events, even when she tries to keep the relationship under wraps. This beautifully developed story is far more layered than this brief description suggests.

While short story collections can often be mixed, all of Oliver’s stories hits their marks for me, which is quite a feat. Even the experimental Frozen Voices – a startling tale of the messy, entangled lives of four young friends – is wonderfully raw and evocative. It’s a dazzling example of Oliver’s potential as a writer.

Come on, Jenny, wanna dance? Soft as April rain, smooth as a quiet mountain lake, as mysterious as an ocean, as dangerous as white water in deep rivers, she drops from a white cloud and falls to a green, a raindrop on a leaf. Dark, bloody drops of beer and wafer chips of flesh, a communion of human love. (p. 218)

So, to summarise then, these excellent stories skilfully portray various aspects of life for the black community in 1960s America, just as the Civil Rights movement was gaining momentum. There is a richness of experience here, taking in a wide range of scenarios and moral questions, many of which remain relevant today. Oliver’s style – strong on the grinding horrors and microaggressions of daily life – has drawn comparisons with Shirley Jackson, Nella Larsen and Toni Morrison, highlighting her literary promise and skills. It’s always tragic when a talented writer dies young, but it seems especially cruel in this instance. Bravo to Faber for publishing this terrific collection, which I strongly urge you to read.

(My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.)

After the Funeral by Tessa Hadley

Tessa Hadley is fast becoming one of my favourite short story writers. She writes beautifully and perceptively about relationships, particularly those between mothers and daughters, siblings, lovers and other complex, inescapable bonds. The middle classes are her focus, replete with their affectations, aspirations and frustrations. It’s a world that Hadley knows well, and she unpicks it with insight, elegance and intelligence, laying bare the vagaries of human nature for her readers to see.

Seven of the twelve stories in this collection were first published in the New Yorker and are still available to read online. Nevertheless, by experiencing them together in this volume, certain patterns begin to appear – common threads and themes, similar structural patterns or motifs, adding texture and depth.

In Dido’s Lament, my favourite story in the collection, Hadley uses a chance encounter to excellent effect when Lynnette, a woman in her late thirties, is literally knocked off her feet by a man hurrying towards the Underground on a busy London street. Determined to chastise the man for his reckless behaviour, Lynnette chases after him, only to discover that he is in fact her former partner, Toby, whom she hasn’t seen for nine years. A reconciliation of sorts follows, with Lynnette accepting Toby’s invitation to go back to his place for a drink.

As this excellent story unfolds, we see how Toby has changed since the split with Lynnette. Now married with two children, he seems more comfortable in his own skin – no longer the puppyish man who suffocated Lynnette with his eagerness to please.

In the old days, he was always searching anxiously in her face to see whether she liked things or didn’t like them; his subordination to her will had dragged at her, making her resentful. Now she couldn’t see past some new barrier in his eyes, as if behind it he were placid and settled… (p. 38)

It’s a fabulous scenario with a range of potential outcomes – Toby’s wife and children are away for the night, opening up a multitude of possibilities for how the evening might progress. Nevertheless, there’s a wonderful sense of ambiguity here, which Hadley leverages to wrong-foot us towards the end, introducing a twist that I simply didn’t see coming. It’s a masterclass in exploring the complexities of human nature, wrapped in an atmosphere that feels relatable and true. 

How could they be strangers now, when they’d been so intimate once? They had belonged to each other in their youth. Her eyes filled with tears unexpectedly, at the idea of it. The wine was very cold, delicious; her body was relaxing in the thickening warmth of the room, while the clarifying alcohol flashed through her blood like ice. (p. 40)

In Funny Little Snake, another standout story, Valerie must look after Robyn – her husband’s young daughter from a previous marriage – just for a few days while the girl is visiting her father. Robyn, however, seems unwilling to engage in any activity Valerie proposes. Not out of resentment or annoyance, as such; instead she seems blank, almost as though she doesn’t know how to reciprocate or behave. The story really gets going when Valerie travels down to Chelsea to return Robyn to her mother, Marise, a chaotic free spirit straight out of the ‘60s. With her mind preoccupied elsewhere – most likely on her current lover, Jamie – Marise has forgotten that Robyn is due back that day. So, when Valerie arrives, Jamie comes to the door with a distinctly dishevelled look, dressed in a skimpy T-shirt and satin hipster trousers.

Hadley excels at conveying the sense of a character – their aura, personality and physical appearance – through a brief but telling description, enabling the reader to visualise them instantly, both clearly and distinctly. Marise’s entrance into the story is an excellent example, but there are many more across the body of Hadley’s work. Her character details and dialogue are always impeccably judged.

A woman [Marise] came clattering downstairs behind him, loomed across his [Jamie’s] shoulder; she was taller than he was, statuesque, tremendous in the shadows, glittering eyes black with make-up and diamonds glinting in the piled-up mass of her dark hair, in the middle of the afternoon. […] Marise was spectacular in a long low-cut white dress and white patent leather boots; she had an exaggerated coarse beauty, like a film star blurred from being too much seen. –Oh Christ, is it today? Shit! Is that the kid? Marise wailed, pushing past the young man, her devouring eyes seeming to snatch an impression of Valerie in one scouring instant and then dismiss it. –I forgot all about it. It can’t be Wednesday already! Welcome home, honeypot. Give Mummy a million, million kisses. Give Jamie kisses. This is Jamie. Say hello. Isn’t he sweet? Don’t you remember him? He’s in a band. (pp. 95-96)

Like Dido’s Lament, this is another story that upends the reader’s expectations, eschewing the obvious resolution for something more interesting and complex. It also finishes at the ideal point, allowing us the space to imagine what the future might hold for Robyn – and for Valerie as well.

As signalled by its title, Cecilia Awakens features a coming-of-age of sorts – an unsettling awakening for a teenage girl during a family holiday in Florence – a city they have all visited before. Disturbed by a troubling response to what should be familiar surroundings, fifteen-year-old Cecilia begins to see herself – and her parents – anew. In short, the sight of Italian girls with their fashionable clothes and poised self-assurance throws Cecilia’s dowdy appearance into sharp relief, highlighting the family’s awkwardness and fastidious habits. 

The Italian girls at the next table, about her own age or younger, looked right: with their Lycra shorts and white crop-tops, their dancing bare midriffs so flat and brown, veils of shining hair flying behind them as they turned. Cecilia had liked her own clothes when she packed them, but overnight they had transformed into a torment, their wrongness burning against her skin – which wasn’t flawlessly golden. (p. 138)

Until now, Cecilia has shown little interest in clothes and the like, preferring reading and visiting galleries to parties or meeting boys. But here in the sophisticated city of Florence, she realises how others look down on her slightly fusty, bookish family, viewing their behaviour with a whiff of disdain. It’s a rude awakening of sorts, as is so often the case in adolescence when even the smallest issue can feel like a catastrophe. Once again, Hadley finishes this story at just the right point, carefully inviting us to consider what might happen as the trip draws to a close.

Mother-daughter relationships feature in several of these stories. In the titular piece, nine-year-old Charlotte must keep an eye on her vulnerable mother, Marlene, and playful younger sister, Lulu, when her father dies unexpectedly. While Charlotte and Lulu are largely unperturbed by their father’s death – he was away a lot for work and not much liked by the girls when at home – Marlene is shattered, ultimately relying on her brother-in-law for practical and emotional support. It’s another subtle story that doesn’t take the obvious route, charting the family’s progress as the years pass by. 

A mother’s dependency on her daughter is also the focus of Coda, the final piece in the collection, in which a sixty-year-old woman, Diane, is staying with her elderly widowed mother during the COVID lockdown. One day, while gazing from the window, Diane becomes intrigued by a woman she sees smoking in the adjacent garden. As it turns out, this stocky, coarse-looking woman is a professional carer tasked with looking after the elderly next-door neighbour.

There are so many layers to this nuanced story, from the exploration of the mother’s relationship with her third husband, Dickie (now deceased), to Diane’s fascination with the carer next door, to the challenges of looking after an aged relative, especially during lockdown. Moreover, there are subtle references to Madame Bovary, the novel Diane is reading while staying with her mother.

As ever with Hadley, there is some gorgeous descriptive writing here, from settings, locations and interiors to hair, clothes and food. These stories are full of distinctive details, perfectly executed and judged. I love this image of Marise’s sofa, its worn, dishevelled image mirroring the chaotic nature of her life and neglectful approach to parenting.

A sagging leather sofa, cushions cracked and pale with wear, spilled its horsehair innards in front of the fire. (p. 98)

In summary then, these are excellent, perceptive stories, beautifully executed in Hadley’s trademark elegant prose. She has an innate ability to catch her characters in their most private moments, revealing hidden truths to the reader – and in some instances to the characters themselves – while also creating space for ambiguity and interpretation. Highly recommended, especially for fans of well-crafted short stories – she’s probably the closest contemporary writer I’ve found to Elizabeth Taylor in subject matter and style. 

After the Funeral is published by Jonathan Cape; personal copy.

Stories for Christmas and the Festive Season – Muriel Spark, Beryl Bainbridge and many more

The British Library do a marvellous job with their themed anthologies, regularly issuing selections of mysteries or ghost stories by various authors. Last year, they extended this concept to their very popular Women Writers series, publishing a seasonal anthology of tales by the likes of Stella Gibbons, Muriel Spark and Elizabeth von Arnim. It’s a beautifully produced collection, the literary equivalent of a Christmas selection box, featuring perennial favourites, new discoveries and the occasional left-field choice.

There are seventeen stories here, spanning a diverse array of styles from the literary to the commercial, from the traditional to the surreal. Inevitably, different stories will resonate with different readers depending on their personal tastes, but there really seems to be something for every reader here!

As in my reviews of other anthologies and short story collections, I’m going to focus on the strongest entries – in other words, the ones I enjoyed the most. Hopefully this will give you a flavour of what to expect! Unsurprisingly, families feature heavily here, sometimes encompassing reconciliations, reunions, or the forging of new connections. Moreover, the stories are arranged to mirror the order of events across the holidays, from pre-Christmas preparations to the Big Day itself, with a New Year’s Eve story towards the end. It’s a lovely way to construct a collection, walking the reader through the festive season as it unfolds.

In The Little Christmas Tree by Stella Gibbons, a young spinster begins to regret her decision to spend Christmas alone in her country cottage, having rejected an invitation from Kensington friends. Luckily, Rhoda’s Christmas Day is brightened by a surprise visit when three lively children turn up on her doorstep, as if from a fairy tale. Much merriment ensues in this lovely, magical story with a hint of romance.

Maeve Binchy’s This Year It Will Be Different focuses on Ethel, a married woman with a husband and three grown-up children living at home. Despite having a job herself, Ethel is expected to manage all the shopping, cooking and housework for her family. That’s how it’s been for the last twenty-three years, so why should the routine change in the future? Ethel, however, has other plans. This Christmas, things will be different – she simply cannot face the thought of doing it all over again.

She didn’t do anything dramatic. She didn’t do anything at all. She bought no tree, she mended no fairy lights, she sent six cards to people who really needed cards. There was no excited talking about weights of turkey and length of time cooking the ham as in other years. There were no lists, no excursions for late-night shopping. She came home after work, made the supper, cleared it away, washed up and sat down and looked at the television. Eventually they noticed. (p. 25)

This lovely, unshowy story highlights just how easy it is for women to be taken for granted by their families…and what happens when they take a stand!

In Beryl Bainbridge’s excellent tale, Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie, Charles Henderson is somewhat disappointed when his wife, a domestic cleaner, receives six theatre tickets for a pantomime from her employer as a Christmas gift. Still, Mrs Henderson is determined to make the best of it – her two grandchildren will enjoy Peter Pan, even if no one else is very enthusiastic.

Bainbridge uses humour to great effect here, crafting a wonderfully vivid story with a sting in its tail. On the day itself, Charles is all out of sorts, unsettled by his son Alec’s wild driving, his daughter Moira’s preoccupations, and a nasty bout of indigestion that worsens as the pantomime unfolds.

“…I can’t see the point of it, can you, Moira?” Moira said nothing, but her mouth drooped at the corners. She was probably thinking about her husband who had run off and left her with two kiddies and a gas bill for twenty-seven quid. (p. 188)

The story ends with a shock – an unexpected turn of events that feels typical of Bainbridge’s style. Easily one of my favourites in the collection.

Christmas Fugue by Muriel Spark is another highly memorable one, the wild card in the pack! In this story, Cynthia, a young Englishwoman, is flying home from Australia on Christmas Day. An early encounter between some of her fellow passengers marks out the tone as surreal…

A thin, tall man with glasses passed the couple on the way to the lavatories. On his emergence he stopped, pointed at the paperback and said, “Agatha Christie! You’re reading Agatha Christie. She’s a serial killer. On your dark side you yourself are a serial killer. The man beamed triumphantly and made his way to a seat behind the couple. (p. 87)

This story blurs the margins between the real and the imaginary, leaving the reader to tease out the truth. There are shades of Spark’s novella The Driver’s Seat here, the kind of scenario where everything feels somewhat skewed or off-kilter.

Gentler fare comes in the shape of Audrey Burton’s Ticket for a Carol Concert, in which Mrs Lorimer is trying to sell the last tranche of tickets for the carol concert with mixed success. Everyone seems to have an excuse not to come, but they buy a ticket anyway just to be charitable.

Miss Sweeting was a singer, a professional singer. She got engagements sometimes with the BBC and at Masonic dinners. “A carol concert! She gave a delicate, artistic shudder. No, she really couldn’t listen to amateurs, couldn’t hear all that music being murdered by people who hadn’t been trained how to produce their voices properly. (pp. 54-55)

A very enjoyable story with a lovely conclusion, full of gentle humour. Other nostalgic, heartwarming tales include Kate Nivison’s ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas (featuring a very likeable mouse!) and Pantomime by Stella Margetson, in which a young boy is thrilled to be given the chance to act as assistant stage manager for the festive pantomime production. This is a really beautiful story, tinged with the poignancy of a childhood crush. 

Fans of lighter, romantic fiction will likely enjoy Olive Wadsley’s Snow (a frothy, melodramatic love triangle) and Nancy Morrison’s Freedom (an enjoyable confection), while lovers of Elizabeth von Arnim’s fiction will be pleased to find one of her pieces here. Christmas in a Bavarian Village is short but very evocative, a vivid sketch with hints of more depth beneath the surface. A couple of the other stories, e.g. Alice Munro’s The Turkey Season and Kathleen Norris’s Christmas Bread, didn’t quite land for me, but that’s only to be expected in an anthology such as this.

So, in summary then, a delightful anthology of festive stories to suit various tastes – an ideal gift for the right reader. (My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)

Women Writers in Translation – some of my favourites from the past year

As many of you will know, August is #WITMonth, an annual celebration of books by women writers, initially written in languages other than English and then translated for English-speaking readers to enjoy. It’s an annual event hosted by Meytal at Biblibio, aiming to raise the profile of translated literature by women writers across the globe.

For the last 18 months or so, I’ve been trying to make #WIT a more regular thing by reading and reviewing at least one book by a woman in translation each month (rather than just thinking about them for August). So, if you’re still looking for ideas on what to read for this year’s WIT Month and beyond, here’s a round-up of my recent faves.

Space Invaders by Nona Fernández (tr. Natasha Wimmer)

First published in Chile in 2013, this memorable, shapeshifting novella paints a haunting portrait of a generation of children exposed to the horrors of Pinochet’s dictatorship in the 1980s – a time of deep oppression and unease. The book focuses on a close-knit group of young adults who were at school together during the ‘80s and are now haunted by a jumble of disturbing dreams interspersed with shards of unsettling memories – suppressed during childhood but crying out to be dealt with now. Collectively, these striking fragments form a kind of literary collage, a powerful collective memory of the group’s absent classmate, Estrella, whose father was a leading figure in the State Police. Fernandez adopts a fascinating combination of form and structure for her book, using the Space Invaders game as both a framework and a metaphor for conveying the story. A stunning achievement by a talented writer – and her recent non-fiction book, Voyager, is just as good!

The Pachinko Parlour by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr. Aneesa Abbas Higgins)

A couple of years ago, I read and loved Winter in Sokcho, a beautiful, dreamlike novella that touched on themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to societal norms. Now Elisa Shua Dusapin is back with her second book, The Pachinko Parlour, another wonderfully enigmatic novella that shares many qualities with its predecessor. As in her previous work, Dusapin draws on her French-Korean heritage for Pachinko, crafting an elegantly expressed story of family, displacement, fractured identity and the search for belonging. Here we see people caught in the hinterland between different countries, complete with their respective cultures and preferred languages. It’s a novel that exists in the liminal spaces between states, the borders or crossover points from one community to the next and from one family unit to another. A wonderfully layered exploration of displacement, belonging and unspoken tragedies from times past.

The Trouble with Happiness by Tove Ditlevsen (tr. Michael Favala Goldman)

These short stories – many of which are superb – explore the suffocating nature of family life predominantly from the female perspective, the overwhelming sense of loneliness and anxiety that many women (and children) feel due to various constraints. Here we see petty jealousies, unfulfilled desires, deliberate cruelties and the sudden realisation of deceit – all brilliantly conveyed with insight and sensitivity. What Ditlevsen does so well in this collection is to convey the sadness and pain many women and children experience at the hands of their families. Her characters have rich inner lives, irrespective of the restrictions placed on them by society and those closer to home. The writing is superb throughout, demonstrating the author’s skills with language and a flair for striking one-liners with a melancholy note.

Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux (tr. Tanya Leslie)

I’ve read a few of Ernaux’s books over the past 18 months, and Simple Passion is one of the best. In just under forty pages, Ernaux reflects on the emotional impact of her two-year affair with an attractive married man in the late 1980s. Rewinding to that time, we find Ernaux approaching fifty, while her lover — a smart, well-dressed Eastern European with a resemblance to Alain Delon — is thirteen years younger. Ernaux’s passion for this man is all-consuming, to the extent that virtually everything she does revolves around their liaison. As ever with this writer, the approach is deeply introspective, moving seamlessly between recollections of the ‘feel’ of the affair and the process of writing about it. The writing is clear, precise and emotionally truthful throughout. Moreover, there is a beauty to Ernaux’s prose – a degree of elegance that belies its simplicity. This is an exquisite book by a very accomplished writer – so honest, insightful and true. Best read in one sitting to maximise the impact.

Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro (tr. Frances Riddle)

Shortlisted for last year’s International Booker Prize, Elena Knows is an excellent example of how the investigation into a potential crime can be used as a vehicle in fiction to explore pressing societal issues. In short, the book is a powerful exploration of various aspects of control over women’s bodies. More specifically, the extent to which women are in control (or not) of their own bodies in a predominantly Catholic society; how religious dogma and doctrines exert pressure on women to relinquish that control to others; and what happens when the body fails us due to illness and/or disability. While that description might make it sound rather heavy, Piñeiro’s novel is anything but; it’s a hugely compelling read, full of depth and complexity. When Elena’s daughter, Rita, is found dead, the official investigations deliver a verdict of suicide, and the case is promptly closed by the police. Elena, however, refuses to believe the authorities’ ruling based on her knowledge of Rita’s beliefs, so she embarks on an investigation of her own with shocking results…

Iza’s Ballad by Magda Szabó (tr. George Szirtes)

Set in Hungary in the early 1960s, Iza’s Ballad is a heartbreaking portrayal of the emotional gulf between a mother and her daughter, two women with radically different outlooks on life. When her father dies, Iza decides to bring her elderly mother, Ettie, to live with her in Budapest. While Ettie is grateful to her daughter for this gesture, she struggles to adapt to modern life in the city, especially without her familiar possessions and the memories they represent. This is a novel of many contrasts; the chasm between the different generations; the traditional vs the new; the rural vs the urban; and the generous vs the self-centred. Szabó digs deep into the damage we inflict on those closest to us – often unintentionally but inhumanely nonetheless.

The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg (tr. Dick Davis)

A luminous collection of essays by one of my favourite women in translation – erudite, perceptive and full of the wisdom of life. In her characteristically lucid prose, Ginzburg writes of families and friendships, of virtues and parenthood, and of writing and relationships. For instance, in ‘My Vocation’ (1949), Ginzburg traces her approach to writing over the arc of her creative life, from composing juvenile poems and stories in childhood to her maturity as a writer of the female experience in adulthood. It’s a fascinating piece detailing how her relationship with writing has changed through adolescence, marriage and motherhood. There is so much wisdom and intelligence to be found in these essays. Or, if you prefer fiction, Ginzburg’s All Our Yesterdays and The Dry Heart are well worth considering.   

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Cespedes (tr. Ann Goldstein)

This is a remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature – a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria Cossati, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a confessional of sorts, an outlet for her frustrations with the family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele.

I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands. (Fans of this book might also appreciate Anna Maria Ortese’s stories and reportage, Evening Descends Upon the Hills, another superb #WITMonth read from Pushkin Press.)

Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck (tr. Michael Hofmann)

East Germany in the late 1980s is the setting for Jenny Erpenbeck’s novel, Kairos, in which the rhythms of a corrosive love affair are reflected in the fate of this country in the years leading up to its demise. The relationship in question begins in the summer of 1986 when nineteen-year-old Katharina meets Hans – a married writer, thirty-four years her senior – by chance on a bus. The attraction is instant, and an intense affair swiftly follows, cemented by a shared love of classical music. Erpenbeck is excellent on the messiness of an illicit liaison; the secrets and lies; the uncertainties surrounding the future; how quickly the present slips into the past with each passing moment. As we follow the couple over the next three years, we see how their story is entwined with that of East Germany in the run-up to the fall of the Wall, complete with all the crumbled hopes and dashed dreams the failure of this idealistic state represents. In many ways, this is a novel of beginnings and endings, a concept equally applicable to intimate relationships and countries/states. In short, Erpenbeck has given us a highly compelling combination of the personal and political here, a must-read for anyone interested in this era of German history and culture.

Cold Nights of Childhood by Tezer Özlü (tr. Maureen Freely)

First published in Turkish in 1980 and now available in English for the first time, this highly evocative novella comprises a series of impressionistic fragments of a young woman’s life – a life that bears many similarities to Tezer Özlü’s own. By sifting and rearranging these fragments in the mind, we gain early glimpses of the narrator in her homeland. A childhood spent in a restrictive, patriarchal family presided over by a tyrannical father; her mother trapped in a loveless marriage lacking any sense of warmth and affection. Özlü is particularly strong on how fear, loneliness and depression can grind a person down, reducing them to nothing. In adulthood, there are unfulfilling, loveless marriages, periods of despair, and horrific incarcerations in psychiatric hospitals where the narrator is mentally and physically abused. Nevertheless, the novella ends on a wonderfully optimistic note as this young woman emerges from the darkness, ready to embrace life and a renewed sense of wonder in the everyday. This is a remarkably powerful portrait of a young Turkish woman trying to carve out a space for herself in an oppressive but rapidly transforming society. Özlü’s ability to immerse the reader in the protagonist’s fractured inner world, and her vivid depictions of female desire in the face of a brutal, patriarchal society, are truly impressive.

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Let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re considering reading any in the future. Maybe you have a favourite book by a woman in translation? If so, please feel free to mention it below.

You can also find some of my other favourites in my WIT Month recommendations posts from July 2020, 2021 and 2022, including books by Olga Tokarczuk, Françoise Sagan, Irmgard Keun, Ana Maria Matute and many more. Hopefully, there’s something for everyone here!

Introducing Pushkin Press Classics – plus a giveaway!

Something a little different from me today. Those lovely people at Pushkin Press – an independent publisher with a long history of reissuing timeless classics from some of the most revered writers across the globe – have sent me a few books from their freshly redesigned Pushkin Press Classics range. Aren’t they beautiful?

They’ve also very generously offered to send one of my UK-based followers a complimentary copy of one Classic of their choice from those listed below. To enter the giveaway draw, just leave a comment on this blog post, including a note of your chosen Classic, by the end of Wednesday 9^th August. This giveaway is open to UK-based participants only. However, to ensure my international followers don’t miss out on a chance to win something, I will send a copy to another reader anywhere in the world. So, there are two prizes up for grabs, including one for worldwide entries!

The first tranche of books in this very stylish Classics range will be published today, Thursday 3^rd August, with more additions planned throughout the remainder of this year. So, to whet your appetite for these marvellous books – and to help you choose a Classic for the giveaway – there’s some more info about each title below.

I’ve already read five of these beauties – The Evenings, Journey by Moonlight, The Spectre of Alexander Wolf, Binocular Vision and Beware of Pity – and I thoroughly enjoyed them all. In each case, there’s a link to my own review of the book (where available) or one from a trusted fellow reviewer. Just click on the links to access the more detailed posts.

The Evenings by Gerard Reve (tr. Sam Garrett)

“Twenty-three-year-old Frits – office worker, daydreamer, teller of inappropriate jokes – finds life absurd and inexplicable. He lives with his parents, who drive him mad. He has terrible, disturbing dreams of death and destruction. Sometimes he talks to a toy rabbit.

This is the story of ten evenings in Frits’s life at the end of December, as he drinks, smokes, sees friends, aimlessly wanders the gloomy city streets and tries to make sense of the minutes, hours and days that stretch before him.” Publisher’s description.

The Evenings is an excellent novel, by turns savage, hilarious, poignant and biting. Who knew that a narrative about the mundanities of everyday life, the interminable passing of time, and our endeavours to idle away the hours could be so darkly comic and oddly touching? (My full review is here.)

Journey by Moonlight by Antal Szerb (tr. Len Rix)

“Mihály and Erzsi are on honeymoon in Italy. Mihály has recently joined the respectable family firm in Budapest, but as his gaze passes over the mysterious back alleys of Venice, memories of his bohemian past reawaken his old desire to wander. When bride and groom become separated at a provincial train station, Mihály embarks on a chaotic and bizarre journey that leads him finally to Rome, where he must reckon with both his past and his future. In this intoxicating and satirical masterpiece, Szerb takes us deep into the conflicting desires of marriage and shows how adulthood can reverberate endlessly with the ache of youth.” Publisher’s description.

I read this novel pre-blog and adored it — a wonderfully nostalgic, romantic read with enough wit and intelligence to keep the reader engaged! (Max’s review is here.)

The Spectre of Alexander Wolf by Gaito Gazdanov (tr. Bryan Karetnyk)

“A man comes across a short story which recounts in minute detail his killing of a soldier, long ago – from the victim’s point of view. It’s a story that should not exist, and whose author can only be a dead man. So begins the strange quest for its elusive writer: ‘Alexander Wolf’. A singular classic, The Spectre of Alexander Wolf is a psychological thriller and existential inquiry into guilt and redemption, coincidence and fate, love and death.” Publisher’s description.

Another pre-blog read for me, this is a very clever exploration of mortality, war and human existence. Highly recommended! (Grant’s review is here.)

Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman

“The collected stories of an award-winning, modern classic American writer who has been compared to Alice Munro, John Updike – and even Anton Chekhov. Tenderly, incisively, Edith Pearlman captured life on the page like no one else. Across a stunning array of scenes – an unforeseen love affair between adolescent cousins, an elderly couple’s decision to shoplift, an old woman’s deathbed confession of her mother’s affair – Edith Pearlman crafts a timeless and unique sensibility, shot through with wit, lucidity and compassion.” Publisher’s description.

Pearlman’s prose is superb; she writes with great insight into the human condition, and her work feels rich with meaning. (My full review is here.)

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse (tr. Hilda Rosner)

“An inspirational classic from Nobel Prize-winner Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha is a beautiful tale of self-discovery. Dissatisfied with the ways of life he has experienced, Siddhartha, the handsome son of a Brahmin, leaves his family and his friend, Govinda, in search of a higher state of being. Having experienced the myriad forms of existence, from immense wealth and luxury to the pleasures of sensual and paternal love, Siddhartha finally settles down beside a river, where a humble ferryman teaches him his most valuable lesson yet.” Publisher’s description. (Kaggsy’s review is here.)

Coin Locker Babies by Ryu Murakami (tr. Stephen Snyder)

“Two babies are left in a Tokyo station coin locker and survive against the odds, but their lives are forever tainted by this inauspicious start. Raised amidst the outcasts and misfits of Toxitown, they carve out vastly different paths: one as a bisexual rock star on a desperate search for his mother, the other as an athlete consumed by revenge against the woman who left him behind. When their twisted journeys start to intertwine, this savage and stunning story plunges headlong into a surrealistic whirl of violence.” Publisher’s description. (Tony’s review is here.)

Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig (tr. Anthea Bell)

“In 1913, young second lieutenant Hofmiller discovers the terrible danger of pity. He had no idea the girl was lame when he asked her to dance – so begins a series of visits, motivated by pity, which relieve his guilt but give her a dangerous glimmer of hope. Zweig’s unforgettable novel is a devastating depiction of the betrayal of both honour and love, amid the disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.” Publisher’s description.

A rich, thoroughly absorbing novel about moral and ethical choices, the consequences of our actions, and the trouble that sheer weakness can cause – perhaps even more than brutality or wickedness. (My full review is here.)

The Unhappiness of Being a Single Man by Franz Kafka (tr. Alexander Starritt)

“No one has captured the modern experience, its wild dreams, strange joys, its neuroses and boredom, better than Franz Kafka. His vision, with its absurdity and twisted humour, has lost none of its force or relevance today. This essential collection, translated and selected by Alexander Starritt, casts fresh light on Kafka’s genius. These unforgettable pieces reflect the brilliance at the core of Franz Kafka, arguably most fully expressed within his short stories. Together they showcase a writer of unmatched imaginative depth, capable of expressing the most profound reality with a wry smile.” Publisher’s description. (Guy’s review is here.)

So, a little reminder…to enter the giveaway draw, just leave a comment on this blog post, including a note of your chosen Classic, by the end of Wednesday 9^th August. (Please state whether you live inside or outside the UK, as there are two prizes up for grabs!)

Good luck!

A Different Sound: Stories by Mid-Century Women Writers

Compiled and introduced by the editor and literary critic Lucy Scholes, A Different Sound showcases a range of short stories by mid-20^th century women writers – an anthology so far up my street that it practically knocked on my door and invited itself in for tea…

Scholes’ choice of writers ranges from the familiar (Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor and Daphne du Maurier) to the lesser known (Attia Hosain, Frances Bellerby and Inez Holden). While others, such as Elizabeth Jane Howard, Penelope Mortimer and Stella Gibbons, are probably better known for novels than short fiction, their stories are excellent and do not disappoint. This is a terrific collection of pieces, enabling readers to reacquaint themselves with familiar favourites while also making some new discoveries. (As ever with these anthologies, I won’t try to cover every story included here; instead, my aim is to give you a flavour of the collection and a few overarching themes.)

Unsurprisingly, given the time period, war features in several of these stories, from Diana Gardner’s striking tale of The Land Girl, who cruelly takes her revenge on the family she is billeted with, to Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Scorched Earth Policy, in which an elderly couple push wartime measures to an extreme. But the most chilling example alludes to war in a metaphorical way, echoing aerial attacks during the Blitz and hinting at potential threats on the horizon, particularly from the Cold War brewing in the East…

In Daphne du Maurier’s terrifying story The Birds, farm worker Nat Hocken (still feeling the effects of an old injury from the war) must protect his family when the natural world hits back. After a long, mild autumn, the weather in Britain suddenly changes in early December when a bitter wind sweeps in from the East – a development Nat notices from his home on the south coast. For some reason, the dramatic change in weather unsettles all the birds, prompting thousands of different species – from blue tits and wrens to gulls and gannets – to flock together, patrolling the skies and attacking individuals on sight.

The birds were circling still, above the fields. Mostly herring gull, but the black-headed gull amongst them. Usually they kept apart. Now they were united. Some bond had brought them together.

It was the black-backed gull that attacked the smaller birds, and even new-born lambs, so he’d heard […] They were coming in towards the farm. They were circling lower in the sky, and the black-backed gulls were to the front, the black-backed gulls were leading. The farm, then, was their target. They were making for the farm. (p. 99)

As Nat struggles to seal up the house to protect his wife and children, the birds attack from every direction, pecking at windows, tearing at the door, trying to access the chimney, terrifying the family as they shelter in the kitchen. At first, the Hockens hope for help from the authorities, especially once a National Emergency is declared. However, it soon becomes clear that the general public are largely on their own, forced to take whatever measures they can to safeguard their loved ones. As Scholes rightly states in her perceptive introduction to the collection, The Birds ‘takes on a grim new relevance’ today in the age of environmental disasters linked to climate change. It’s an utterly chilling story in more ways than one.

There are wartime anxieties of a different kind in Stella Gibbons’ excellent story Listen to the Magnolias as a mature widow, Mrs Bestwick, fears the arrival of five American soldiers billeted to live in her house with its three spare bedrooms. Lying awake at night, Mrs B is assailed by a stream of worries. What will they eat? What could she talk to them about? Will she ever be able to use the bathroom again? And who will clean their boots? This is a lovely story with a hopeful end, one of several that challenges traditional clichés and stereotypes to surprising effect.  

In Elizabeth Jane Howard’s Three Miles Up, one of the standout pieces in this collection, a fractious holiday literally veers into unchartered territory when a mysterious but seemingly innocent young woman joins two men on their canal trip. The less said about this deliciously creepy story the better; it really is an unnerving treat!

The canal wound and wound, and the reeds grew not only thick on each bank, but in clumps across the canal. The light drained out of the sky into the water and slowly drowned there; the trees and the banks became heavy and black. (p. 199)

The tension also mounts in Penelope Mortimer’s masterful story The Skylight, in which much of the horror comes from the imagination – our visions (and those of the central character) as events unfold beyond our field of vision. I’ve already written about this one in my earlier review of Mortimer’s brilliant collection of short fiction, Saturday Lunch with the Brownings, but it’s lovely to revisit it here.

Similarly, you can find my thoughts on Elizabeth Taylor’s quietly devastating story The Thames Spread Out in my piece on her collection A Dedicated Man. When a middle-aged single woman, Rose, is marooned in her house by a flood, her lover unable to call due to the weather, she sees the emptiness of her life anew, prompting a reassessment and a new sense of purpose. Another excellent story, fully deserving of its inclusion here.

Perhaps the most interesting discovery for me is Attia Hosain’s The First Party, in which a shy Indian wife – newly married to a Western man – feels desperately uneasy in the company of her husband’s sophisticated friends. Surrounded by these liberated, scantily-clad creatures, all drinking heavily and dancing suggestively, the wife shrinks into her chair, ‘lonely in her strangeness yet dreading approach’.

The woman held a wineglass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She [the young wife] wondered how it felt to hold a cigarette with such self-confidence; to flick the ash with such assurance. The woman had long nails, pointed, and scarlet. She looked at her own—unpainted, cut carefully short—wondering how anyone could eat, work, wash with those claws dipped in blood. She drew her sari over her hands, covering her rings and bracelets, noticing the other’s bare wrists, like a widow’s (p. 180)

At first, the young wife is unnerved and bewildered by this alien behaviour. But as the party unfolds, these emotions are swiftly replaced by anger, disgust and defiance – a situation made all the worse by her husband’s insensitive response. As Scholes notes in her introduction, Hosain’s story is perhaps the most unexpectedly violent entry in this anthology, a warning of the damage that can be done when Western attitudes and behaviour are imposed on other cultures and traditions.

In summary, then, A Different Sound is an excellent, surprisingly varied collection of stories from familiar and lesser-known mid-century women writers. There is so much for readers to enjoy here, with many stories still feeling relevant today, echoing anxieties from the past, present and future in an increasingly uncertain world.  

A Different Sound is published by Pushkin Press; my thanks to the publishers / Independent Alliance for a review copy.

The Rose Garden by Maeve Brennan – the Herbert’s Retreat stories

The Irish writer and journalist Maeve Brennan has been enjoying something of a mini-renaissance in recent years with the republication of her brilliant collection of Dublin stories, The Springs of Affection, by Peninsula Press in February and a Backlisted Podcast discussion on the book last November. Many of Brennan’s short stories first appeared in The New Yorker magazine, where she worked as a columnist and reviewer, only to be collected posthumously following her death in 1993. The Rose Garden is the second of these volumes, another excellent collection of pieces originally published in the 1950s and ‘60s.

The Rose Garden comprises twenty stories, divided into four sections, the first (and longest) of which I’ll cover in this review. These seven pieces are all set in Herbert’s Retreat, a private, exclusive community of desirable houses situated on the east bank of the Hudson River, thirty miles from the heart of New York. It’s the kind of place where only ‘the right people’ are permitted to live, ‘solemn, exclusive, and shaped by restrictions that are as steely as they are vague’.

During her time in New York, Brennan lived in the East Hamptons for several years, an experience that almost certainly inspired these stories of bitchy, social-climbing wives, ineffectual, unfaithful husbands and gossipy, put-upon maids.

But in every house the residents have contrived and plotted and schemed and paid to bring the river as intimately as possible into their lives. (p. 3)

While the Herbert’s Retreat pieces are generally thought of as secondary to Brennan’s Irish fiction (her editor, William Maxwell dismissed them as ‘heavy-handed’ and lacking the ‘breath of life’), I thoroughly enjoyed them. These are sharply perceptive stories, beautifully written and observed – think John O’Hara or Richard Yates, maybe with a dash of Mavis Gallant for good measure.

Four of the seven tales revolve around the Harkey household, featuring the impressionable housewife, Leona Harkey, her boring second husband, George, and their cutting Irish maid, Bridie. Also pivotal to these pieces is Leona’s style guru, Charles Runyon, a culturally sophisticated theatre critic who stays with the Harkeys every weekend, travelling there and back from his faded New York hotel.

Brennan wastes little time showing us the lay of the land in the Harkey household, painting Leona as a determined but shallow woman in thrall to Charles, whom she values more highly than George. In fact, the main reason Leona married George in the first place was to gain control of his riverside cottage, which had been blocking her view of the river. Naturally, the offending property was swiftly demolished following the couple’s marriage, much to Leona’s delight.

When Leona first meets Charles, her appearance is somewhat dowdy and old-fashioned. But with his help, she is transformed; out go her country tweeds and simple chignon, swiftly replaced by chic fireside skirts and a stylish hair-do. Compared to Charles, George is dull and embarrassing, making it easy for Leona to ignore him whenever possible.

Naturally, the sharp-eyed Bridie observes all this with self-satisfied pleasure. Moreover, the weekly bus rides to Sunday Mass give her the opportunity to share gossip with the other ‘help’ from Herbert’s Retreat – each maid trading anecdotes about their own employers, all of whom seem just as badly behaved.  

[Bridie:] “That crowd takes care of their own drinks. Out of shame, if nothing else, so we won’t see how much they put down. As if I didn’t have to carry the empty bottles out. It’s a scandal. He [Charles] makes the drinks. He stands up in front of the bar in there like a priest saying Mass, God forgive me, and mixes a martini for himself, and one for her [Leona], and maybe an odd one for the husband [George]…” (p. 8)

What Brennan does so well here is to lay bare these residents’ motivations for everyone to observe: the social climbers’ desire for approval; the value they put on appearance over ideals and principles; the importance they place on social standing at the expense of grace and sincerity. In short, we see these characters as they really are – the dissemblers behind the curtains, complete with all their imperfections and fears.

She [Leona] was afraid of offending or disappointing him [Charles], having many times been obliterated by his scathing and horribly accurate tongue. She was also afraid of losing his favor, because his presence in the house every weekend gave her an unquestioned position among the women who lived at the Retreat, and their admiration, or envy, was the foundation on which Leona built up her importance. (p. 73)

The caustic power dynamics also extend to other members of these status-driven families, typically the householders’ mothers and ex-wives. In The Anachronism, we meet Liza and Tom Frye, who share their home with Liza’s mother, Mrs Conroy. Mother and daughter clearly loathe one another, with Liza bullying Mrs Conroy at every opportunity, denying her the small courtesies and pleasures her position should afford.

Liza and Mrs. Conroy detested each other, but it suited them to live together—Liza because she enjoyed showing her power, and Mrs. Conroy because she was waiting for her day of vengeance. They were alike in their admiration for Tom’s money, but Mrs. Conroy felt she should have more say in the spending of it. (p. 18)

Also on display here is Brennan’s keen ear for dialogue, particularly the barbed conversations between neighbours as they vie for social status – superficially polite on the surface but dripping with malice underneath.

Liza made a strong impression. Right off, her modern furniture outraged all the other women, who had been concentrating on Early American. Liza called the furniture at the Retreat “country.” “Country furniture is sweet,” she said, “but it’s so sheeplike.” In the same way, she refused to share the other women’s enthusiasm for gardening (p. 17)

Several of the stories, The Anachronism included, end with a kind of twist or unexpected outcome as the social climbers are unmasked or outmanoeuvred by those around them. For instance, when Liza plots to get the better of Clara, the Retreat’s resident Queen Bee, her plan backfires, strengthening Mrs Conroy’s position in the process. There is some wonderfully wicked humour threaded through these stories, largely powered by Brennan’s scathing portrayals of the vagaries of human nature.

As in The Springs of Affection, Brennan writes beautifully about interiors, conjuring up her settings in simple, quietly evocative prose. In The Joker, thirty-something Isobel Bailey, who likes to think of herself as a generous, charitable woman, invites a small group of life’s outsiders (or ‘waifs’ as she likes to call them) to lunch on Christmas Day. The Baileys’ dining room is gorgeously evoked, rich with the pleasures of a luxurious Christmas for all her guests to acknowledge.

The warm pink dining room smelled of spice, of roasting turkey, and of roses. The tablecloth was of stiff, icy white damask, and the centrepiece—of holly and ivy and full-blown blood red roses—bloomed and flamed and cast a hundred small shadows trembling among the crystal and the silver. In the fireplace a great log, not so exuberant as the one in the living room, glowed a powerful dark red. (p. 60)

Nevertheless, Isobel’s hopes of the perfect day are dashed when a beggar comes to the back door looking for a dollar. Instead of offering money, Isobel insists that the man is given a full Christmas dinner in the servants’ kitchen, a gesture she comes to regret as the afternoon plays out…

In several instances, the stories pivot on a significant household object: a precious stone hotel water bottle lent to a prestigious guest; a concealed fireplace that exposures the fault lines in a marriage; two matching pink-and-white striped shirts designed to symbolise friendship but trigger a chain of calamities instead. It’s a feature that chimes with many of Brennan’s Irish stories from Springs with their focus on domestic interiors, painting the house as a battleground ahead of a breeding ground for love. 

These are biting stories of flawed individuals and their quests for social advancement – beautifully crafted and observed. I’m planning to read the rest of these stories quite slowly, hopefully with another post to follow later this year.

The Rose Garden is published by Counterpoint; personal copy.

Nights at the Alexandra by William Trevor

The esteemed Irish writer William Trevor is frequently cited as a master of the short story, and rightly so. His stories are spellbinding – humane, compassionate and beautifully written. He has a way of getting into the hearts and minds of his characters with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations for the reader to see. These skills are very much in evidence in Nights at the Alexandra, a slim collection comprising the titular novella and two short stories, The Ballroom of Romance and The Hill Bachelors. I simply adored these achingly melancholy pieces, exquisitely expressed in Trevor’s deceptively simple, understated prose. As in Clare Keegan’s novellas Foster and Small Things Like These, there’s a luminosity or purity to Trevor’s stories, an emotional truthfulness that’s hard to capture in a review.

The collection opens with the titular novella in which fifty-eight-year-old Harry looks back on the days of his youth during WW2 – commonly known as the ‘Emergency’ in Ireland. At fifteen, Harry forms an unlikely but deeply touching friendship with Frau Messinger, a young Englishwoman who has come to Ireland with her much older German husband. The Messingers, who are comfortably off, have moved to Cloverhill to escape the war, Ireland being neutral and a place of relative safety.

Harry’s traditional Protestant parents are suspicious of the Messingers, viewing them as Jewish or amoral in some way (neither of which is actually true). Meanwhile, Harry runs errands for Frau Messinger, marvelling at the time he spends in her intoxicating company, listening to tales of her youth and other such pleasures. Herr Messinger seems equally fond of Harry, sharing his plans to build a beautiful cinema in the town – it will be called the Alexandra, a wedding gift for his wife.

As one might expect with Trevor, the burgeoning friendship between Frau Messinger and Harry is beautifully portrayed. Harry is enchanted by this sophisticated woman with her fine clothes and cigarettes, but their relationship is an innocent one – a motherly peck on the cheek at Christmas, a touch of the hand here and there, but nothing more sensual.

Frau Messenger had claimed me from the moment she stepped from her husband’s car that day in Laffan Street: and she had held me to her with the story of her life. Details that were lost in the enchantment of her voice return with time. (p. 57)

On finishing school, Harry joins the staff of the Alexandra, selling tickets in the box office, standing in for the projectionist in times of need and generally mucking in, much to his family’s disgust. At first, the picture house is a great success, attracting visitors from the surrounding area, especially once the Emergency is over.

As the story unfolds retrospectively, we learn what happens to the Messingers, the Alexandra and Harry himself in the intervening years. In some respects, this is a sad, melancholy story; but as Harry looks back at his life, he feels no regret. His memories of Frau Messinger and the cinema are enough, shot through with happiness despite the spectre of loss.

People loved the Alexandra. They loved the things I loved myself – the scarlet seats, the lights that made the curtains change colour, the usherettes in uniform. People stood smoking in the foyer when they’d bought their tickets, not in a hurry because smoking and talking gave them pleasure also. They loved the luxury of the Alexandra, they loved the place it was. Urney bars tasted better in its rosy gloom; embraces were romantic there. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers shared their sophisticated dreams, Deanna Durbin sang. Heroes fell from horses, the sagas of great families yielded the riches of their secrets. Night after night in the Alexandra I stood at the back, aware of the pleasure I dealt in, feeling it all around me. (p. 55)

The Ballroom of Romance and The Hill Bachelors touch on broadly similar themes – quietly devastating stories of everyday country folk caught between the pull of their own desires and the familial duties that bind them to home.

Ballroom focuses on Bridie, a thirty-six-year-old spinster who cares for her elderly father on the family’s remote farm. With only one functioning leg, the father relies heavily on Bridie for help with the livestock, effectively tying the girl to home. Trevor paints him as a gentle, understanding man – someone who feels bad about the restrictions his conditions impose, especially on Bridie.

Every Saturday evening, Bridie cycles seven miles to the nearest dance hall, where she hopes to catch the eye of Dano Ryan, the middle-aged bachelor who plays the drums with the amateur band. As the story plays out, we learn more about Bridie and the other singles hoping for a touch of romance. Back in the days of her youth, Bridie only had eyes for Patrick Grady, a local boy who captured her heart. But some other girl ended up with Patrick, spiriting him away, leaving Bridie broken-hearted. With tonight’s dance in full swing, Bridie yearns for the other lives she could have lived – marriage to Patrick, for instance, raising a family together in England, maybe a job of her own.

The great tragedy of this story lies in the closing pages as Bridie realises what lies ahead of her. Even Dano Ryan, a man she doesn’t love, seems destined to marry another, crushing Bridie’s dreams of companionship and some help with the farm. The only remaining option is Bowser Egan, an unreliable chancer who likes to drink, frittering away his money on a regular basis.  It’s a quiet, heartbreaking story, perfectly captured in Trevor’s luminous prose.

The Hill Bachelors taps into similar themes with young Paulie returning home to help his mother with the family farm following his father’s death. The opening is quintessential Trevor, portraying Paulie’s mother with grace and humanity.

She was a small woman, spare and wiry, her morning clothes, becoming her. At sixty-eight, she had ailments: arthritis in her knuckles, and her ankles, though only slightly a nuisance to her; a cataract, she was not yet aware of. She had given birth without much difficulty to five children, and was a grandmother to nine. Born herself far from the hills that were her home now, she had come to this house, forty-nine years ago, had shared its kitchen and the rearing of geese and hens with her husband’s mother, until the kitchen and rearing became entirely her own. She hadn’t thought she would be left. She hadn’t wanted it. She didn’t now. (p. 87)

As the only bachelor in the family, Paulie is best placed to give up his current job and move back home after the funeral. All the other siblings are all married with busy lives and young children of their own, so Paulie knows he must do his duty on the farm. His one regret is that Patsy Finucane will not join him there. Sadly, Patsy prefers the buzz of town life to the prospect of life on an isolated country farm, so she ditches Paulie for a post office clerk before his notice period is out.

These are beautiful, deeply moving stories, exquisitely told. A gem of a collection from one of my all-time favourite writers.

Nights at the Alexandra is published by Penguin Books; personal copy. My second review for Cathy’s Reading Ireland Month, more details here.