Book Review: Brian Westby by Forrest Reid

It’s a good job Forrest Reid didn’t write to be famous. Almost seventy years after his death, his novels gather dust in libraries: unthumbed and unadmired. Highly thought of by friends like E.M. Forster and Walter de la Mare during his lifetime, the Ulster writer has since fallen into obscurity. Until now, that is.

Few of his works are more poignant than his 1934 novel, Brian Westby, which was republished by Valancourt Books at the end of last year. Despite Reid’s best protestations that “[a]ll the characters and incidents in this novel are imaginary”, it’s hard to avoid its semi-autobiographical resonances.

Modelled on the relationship Reid fostered with his young protégé Stephen Gilbert, Brian Westby records the chance encounter between novelist Martin Linton and the son his ex-wife has successfully hidden from him for the best part of two decades. So pervasive was Gilbert’s influence that Reid gave him the final say on what was ultimately included in the work: “Remember,” he goes so far as to write in a letter, “if you don’t like the thing I won’t go on with it.” Fortunately for us, he did.

Linton arrives at Ballycastle to recover from illness, and a creative malaise that has left him lacklustre and depressed. “Happiness is only made by affection”, he says, having realised only too late that “[n]othing else in the long run matters.” But on a seaside stroll, he runs into Brian, a teenager who happens to be reading the very first novel Linton wrote. The pair are involuntarily drawn to one another–Reid’s “technical trick” of alternating perspectives proves an ingenious way of exploring their shared fondness.

As strong and tender as their attachment may be, father and son remain tragically unaware of their true relationship. Meanwhile, Linton helps the youngster to hone his literary talents: “Art isn’t just life in the raw”, he tells the boy, expounding the virtues of imaginative integrity, “it is a selection from life: it is a vision:–life seen through a temperament, as Zola said.” The novelist’s inspiration is refreshed as Brian’s affection is cultivated.

Soon enough, though, reality bites. After Brian reveals that his real surname is Linton, not Westby, his mentor recognises a new obstacle: the boy’s mother, Stella, who considers her ex-husband to be a pernicious influence. When she discovers the identity of the stranger Brian has been seeing so frequently, she demands that Linton cut off all contact with the boy. In the novel’s touching final movements, Brian must take sides and learn to live with the consequences.

Youth is Forrest Reid’s particular concern, and his appeal is therefore limited–landscapes and dreamscapes feature regularly in his prose, and the natural world is one in which he thrives. Indeed, most of his sixteen novels wrestle with a single vision, a vision of “a country whose image was stamped upon our soul before we opened our eyes on earth.”

Early in Reid’s career, Forster correctly explained that his friend’s work concentrated on “a point which, when rightly focussed, may perhaps make all the surrounding landscape intelligible.” To strive after a vision such as his, is–as Reid wrote of W.B. Yeats–to throw one’s net among the stars. Brian Westby is one of the handfuls of stardust he was able to catch on the way down.

Woeful and Roses by M.K. Aston: A Review

Collections of short stories are a difficult thing to get right without coming across as pretentious and trying to bridge the gap between poetry and novels, but I’m happy to say that M. K. Aston has certainly cured my usual aversion to them. Each story offers a different take on the ‘twist’, which is a style that I have always loved although, once again, they are difficult to get right. As a reader it is like a form of abuse, eagerly awaiting the twist and knowing that it is going to shock and appall you, but wanting it anyway; Aston delivers this beautifully.

Each story is quite different and some even feel like they are written by a completely different author, but what they all have in common is that final twist and the subtle study of human nature. This is a subject that I could read an unlimited amount of books on, because it is so varied and so captivating and through the different styles of writing Aston really taps into this, offering a very realistic collection of stories.

Woeful and Roses opens with a story that sweeps you off your feet and into your imagination from the word go. Written through the eyes of an elderly man who we can all relate to – although we might not admit to it – End of the Line offers a realistic portrayal of the inner workings of the mind and the final, jaw-dropping twist at the end prepares readers for this style of writing. Simply put, don’t take the narrative for granted; all is not what it seems.

As with any short story collection there are always some I love and some I could take or leave. Portrait of an Angel is definitely the former and utterly heartbreaking. Although there were some seemingly unnecessary details that didn’t really add anything to the story, ultimately it all adds to the build-up and this is a very difficult thing to create. There were also some moments in other stories where the style didn’t match the rest of the story, but these were such small details that they don’t affect the overall telling of the story. I couldn’t pinpoint my absolute favourite story as they all offer so much, but Finders Weepers, Déjà Clue and Greetings from Saint Christopher were the three that truly resonated with me because they tapped into realistic fears and were told in such a personable manner.

The overall style of the book is difficult to pin down as some stories, such as Queasy Like Sunday Morning are quite different to the others, but this story in particular offered a nice break from the more serious or heartbreaking narratives and that is really needed in this type of collection. It is always difficult to review this type of book without giving away too much and ruining it for future readers. Suffice to say: it is well worth a read, but prepare for some wide-eyed-hand-over-mouth moments!

Book Review: The Year of the Food, by Margaret Atwood

You would think that having written so many post-apocalyptic novels over the years, Margaret Atwood’s offerings would have become stale, dull, or at the very least a little repetitive.

Not so.

At once a complex and simple tale of survival at the end of the world, her latest novel is The Year of the Flood, the sequel to the stunning Oryx and Crake.

Ren is an upmarket sex worker, trapped in her place of work.

Toby is a tired member of The Gardeners, a odd, underground, eco-warrior movement which predicted the man-made plague that has all but eradicated human life on the planet.

With peculiar animals created from gene-splicing and human meddling running amok, a growing concern over food, and the ever present question in each woman’s mind of whether they are, in fact, the only human alive on the planet, both tell their own tale of how they came to be where they were when the ‘waterless flood’ hit.

This is not a novel for easy reading, when you can’t really be bothered to pay too much attention to what is going on, and you don’t mind so much if there isn’t much of a plot, as long as it’s a fun read. This is the sort of novel you pick up and literally can’t put down until you know what happens. Atwood, as always, delivers perfect prose and gritty, yet sympathetic characters, who show us all too clearly how easy it would be to end up in a similar situation. From the Ren’s childhood memories of her best friend Amanda, to her more recent musings of life as a dancer in the fully-condoned sex trade, we see a vulnerable and somewhat tragic character, whose only real ambition in life has been to have a place where she belonged. Toby, on the other hand, has a hardness about her, a stubbornness, which allows her to survive as she has, and yet she also possesses – as we see from her earlier life – a similar vulnerability to Ren, and an unfulfilled craving for love.

These are two wonderfully drawn women, in a bizarre world that is falling apart, where morals and standards were turned upside down long before the plague wiped out most of the human population, and the survivors scrabbling for avoid death. As always with Atwood, it is difficult to read this and come away from it having simply read a good novel. Rather, you come away pondering, and continue to do so for some time to come, finding events from the book popping back into your head at strange times, and leaving you considering things you otherwise might never have thought to mull over.

Undoubtedly another splendid achievement for Atwood, leaving us in eager anticipation of MaddAddam’s release in August of this year, The Year of the Flood is a quirky and unique take on the possible fate of man, and the dangers of interfering with nature.

Modern Book Review: Star of the Sea (2003)

In 2003, Irish author Joseph O’Connor released the historical novel Star of the Sea, combining fact and fiction in an innovative way to create a tale – a collective biography – depicting the harrowing journey undergone by Irish immigrants escaping the terrible famine ravaging the country. This period in history would come to be widely known as “the greatest social catastrophe of 19th century Europe”, as described in a review of the novel upon its release by Terry Eagleton. Such was the immense scale of human loss and sacrifice.

 The main event in the narrative – the Star of the Sea voyage – takes place in 1847, with the details of various passengers’ life stories continually emerging. These eventually combine to create a collage of human experience within the context of “History”, managing to be every bit as evocative, as if it were written –or compiled as the case seems to be – into a present-day diary. The voyage of the Star of the Sea to America became infamous as one of the most deadly of those many that attempted a similar path across the ocean, claiming lives relentlessly throughout the journey – with a cruel irony, some even before the journey had begun.

The “menace” of the impending journey is established early; the “viciously black water which could explode at the slightest provocation” already sets a dangerous and foreboding atmosphere. A dark figure – the Ghost, or the Monster, as he is described in the passage, whose real name is Pius Mulvey, stalks the decks, adding menace to an already apprehensive atmosphere. “He seemed to carry an indescribable burden” – that burden being the “mission” he was being coerced into undertaking at some point during the journey.

Then we meet the troubled couple, David and Laura Merrdith, and their nanny Mary Duane, all of whom are linked in more ways than what it appears to be on the surface. It transpires, unfortunately not surprisingly at the time, that David had been propositioning Mary, but simply to watch her undress and nothing more. It is not clear whether Laura realises what occurs between them but they become an almost normally squabbling couple; “Abusing each other had become a kind of pantomime”.

David soon comes to blows with the claiming-to-be enlightened and self-promoting American, Mr Dixon, who takes a fashionably liberal stance towards the plight of immigrants and the ongoing slavery which was rife in America at the time; ie., “Treat a man like a savage and he’ll behave like one”. This certainly contrasts heavily with the virulent extracts from the magazines, but even here there seems to be a scale of discrimination. However, soon even Mr Dixon veers slightly from his supposedly liberal agenda, to comment on the many troubles Ireland was facing at the time, saying simply that “its nom de guerre is Laissez Faire”.

Inevitably, the class system was going to infiltrate Irish society, if not in legal terms then certainly in attitude. Ships at the time would be holding these people together for great lengths of time, so many would revert back to the familiar class system in order to reassure the passengers that not all law and order was lost at sea; that this happens on a ship with primarily Irish people, most of whom are merely trying to survive, is in itself worthy of note.

It soon emerges that Mulvey, his brother and Mary Duane have a history; Mulvey, rebelling against taking the priesthood like his brother, got involved with Mary Duane, resulting in a sort of “love triangle”. When Mary ends up in “the family way”, Mulvey leaves abruptly, with Mary soon suffering a miscarriage. Shunned by the Mulvey brothers, and by society, she was forced into prostitution for some time before being adopted into the Merridith family as a nanny.

However, it is Pius Mulvey who perhaps has the darkest story to tell; after the “incident” with his brother and Mary Duane, he essentially goes “on the run”; he goes to the city, eventually ending up in London, and ending up in a life of crime, keeps going under new aliases to fit in. However, his past does not get left behind completely, as shady acquaintances blackmail him into carrying out another murder on the Star of the Sea – the intended victim being David Merridith – before reaching the shore.

Just as the ship was so unbearably close to shore at home, problems begin to arise as the ship draws tantalisingly close to the American shore. Immigration issues mean that the ship is not allowed to dock and allow its passengers to disembark, so technically, while the ship is so close to shore, it and everyone within is still subject to the laws of the old country. People continue to die, and others in desperation – just as before – leap off the ship and swim to shore.

Furthermore, Mulvey has been carrying the burden of his past and the task he’s been assigned for some time, continually “speaking at an angle”, prompting him to actually warn Merridith of the plot, saving his life initially and absolving himself of the responsibility, yet someone else ends up taking it upon themselves to kill Merridith, giving a tragic foreshadowing quality to someone saying not long before, “one of them would never set foot in Manhattan”.

The Star of the Sea had become a prison, and by the end of the journey, in the literal sense. A prison which, those who did survive, grew more determined to escape; when that day finally did come, the fates of the characters on board the Star of the Sea proved to be variable. After the death of her husband, Laura Merridith and her sons try to repair and restart their lives in the New World, while Mulvey ends up not being able to escape his past entirely, as he ends up being caught and murdered quite gruesomely, putting an abrupt end to his troubled life of crime. Meanwhile, there is the unexplained disappearance of Mary Duane – she embarked upon the New World never to be seen again. Hints of her whereabouts, and possible identity, crop up all over the country, but no-one can be sure that it is in fact Mary, because she disappears again just as quickly.

Even in the time since this novel’s release, there have been far more Irish authors approaching the subject of their nationality, and its troubled history. Joseph O’Connor has articulated this traumatic time in Ireland’s history, using fact and fiction in turn, where they are deemed necessary. Possibly the most “true-to-life” example, if not entirely anchored in fact, of life on board the “Star of the Sea” in the deadly winter crossing of 1847, as there is likely to be.

Book Review: Wither, Lauren DeStefano

A cold, dark box, filled with terrified teenage girls is the rather dramatic opening to Lauren DeStefano’s debut. Of those girls, all but three are shot and killed. The survivors are taken as ‘Sister Wives’ for Linden Ashby, the son of a very wealthy ‘First Generation’ scientist who has dedicated his life to finding a cure for a mysterious plague. The virus is killing all girls born in the last fifty years at the age of twenty, and all boys at twenty-five, a side effect of the creation of the ‘First Generation’ – genetically faultless humans, free from all disease, who live extended lives in perfect health. In a world where everyone but the very old now die very young, Gatherers roam the streets snatching young girls to be taken as wives for the wealthy, used to produce children and, in the case of those taken by Vaughn Ashby for his son, experimented on for the sake of finding a cure.

Central character Rhine Ellery is one of these three wives, arriving at the Ashby estate in Florida just as Linden’s first wife and childhood love is dying of the virus. Accompanied by older wife Jenna, and the painfully young Cecily, Rhine must endure being married to Linden and everything that comes with it. But while Cecily embraces her new life, and Jenna cuts herself off from all emotional response to it, so that she might enjoy the last year of her life in comfort, Rhine is determined to escape, and return to her twin brother in New York.

As the novel unfolds the extent of Vaughn’s disgusting actions are revealed, and Rhine forms a close friendship with Gabriel, one of the servants. Her resolve to escape never wavers, however she does find herself enjoying the comforts of her new life, and truly feels she is a ‘sister’ to both Jenna and Cecily, and is also drawn to Linden in a way she cannot explain. Ultimately she must struggle through her feelings and decide who she is: the girl her brother always knew as his twin, or the woman Linden sees as his wife, sister to Jenna and Cecily.

The first of The Chemical Garden Trilogy, Wither introduces a type of world rapidly gaining recognition thanks to the success of The Hunger Games: post-apocalyptic, dystopian earth in the near future. Wither is also a Young Adult novel, an odd juxtaposition for post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction, which either works splendidly or fails miserably. Unlike classic titles in this genre, such as the numerous works of Margaret Atwood, and Mary Shelley’s seminal The Last Man, Young Adult post-apocalyptic fiction is often hindered by the limitations of the genre. The Hunger Games managed to spectacularly avoid such pitfalls. Wither, on the other hand, did not.

Due to the age of the readership for YA fiction, both plot and characterisation are often curbed by the perceived need to make the work suitable for a younger audience. The plots are often simplified, due to YA books being generally shorter in length, and the view that young readers are either uninterested in, or incapable of following, more complex plots. The result is novels often have the basis of a reasonable plotline, but it is never fully explored, never truly explained, and the reader is left with a lot of questions and the feeling they have been robbed of something.

This is the case with Wither, for while there is some potential in the general plot, the lack of salient details make it borderline ridiculous. From the simple perspective of mathematics, it makes no sense: we are told the First Generation was born seventy years ago, yet for fifty years people have been dying of this illness. Since it is not possible for the First Generation to have children old enough to die at the age of twenty or twenty-five, when they themselves are only twenty, this very early statement completely undermines the entire premise. Being forced to second guess the narrator’s statements and figure out how the entire situation could possibly work is a severe distraction from the very first pages of the book. Add to this a virus which targets people at a specific age, and a different age, depending on gender, and the plot becomes even more unbelievable.

The final nail in the plot’s coffin is that North America is supposedly the only surviving land on the planet. Every other country has been obliterated by war; land masses have broken up into such small pieces they are uninhabitable. The reader is expected not only to believe this, but to believe America remained unscathed, and there aren’t any other humans on the whole planet, or any humans who were not a part of this test-tube-born first generation and whose children live perfectly normal lives. While there is the occasional hint that this might be explored in future books in the trilogy, for the sake of Wither, that so many people would simply accept as fact something so utterly implausible it is just one more unbelievable point.

Fortunately, what is lacking in plot is more than made up for in characterisation. In this regard, Wither exceeds itself, providing full, well rounded and completely believable characters. Rhine, as a first person narrator, never fails to deliver. While there are few other characters in the novel, those that do appear are always solid, no matter how briefly they appear. The only oddity in characterisation is that DeStefano holds back in some respects with Rhine. In particular her sexuality and the physical aspects of her relationships with both Linden and Gabriel are censored; too censored for a sixteen year old girl full of hormones, in a situation where she would be in desperate need of comfort. This is particularly odd, because such is not the case with either Jenna or Cecily, in particular Cecily, who is only thirteen years old.

It is all too common for YA novels to avoid sexually explicit scenes out of the need to keep it clean, however this vastly underestimates the reality of teenage life in modern society: whether we like it or not, teenagers have sex. Presenting characters that don’t, even when their situations, emotions,  and wishes, make it far more likely they would, smacks of a need to preach. This is seen in the dynamics of the central relationships in the ever-popular Twilight series, and A Discovery of Witches, despite the fact the latter involves a woman aged thirty-three. While it is understandable to shy away from including sexual elements in fiction geared towards young adults, there must surely be a more believable way of handling these issues, especially in a book such as Wither, where young girls are taken as wives and forced to conceive, prostitution is openly discussed, and a thirteen year old girl is coupled with a twenty year old man who has three other ‘wives’.

Despite the pitfalls of the plot and the incongruities in the manner in which more adult components are handled, Wither is most certainly worth the read, if only for DeStefano’s beautiful prose and compelling characters. There are times in the novel where you truly forget that the plot is ridiculous, and the reactions of Rhine and Linden make no real sense, because of the manner in which the tale is told. This is a book which makes you glad teenagers are reading it, because the calibre of the writing is so much better than that usually found in the YA market you feel as if young readers will come away from it with a heightened awareness of how literature should be written. It remains to be seen how the rest of the trilogy will unfold; hopefully the issues in the plot are addressed further in, and Rhine grows as a character, becoming a more convincing teen. One thing is for sure, if the next two books are written as well as this one, I’ll be reading them regardless.

Modern Book Review: “Dodger” by Terry Pratchett (2012)

Dodger is the latest and highly anticipated new book by Terry Pratchett; but unlike the brilliantly fantastical writing for which he has become renowned and known by, this offering reads more like a wry crime caper through the underbelly of Victorian London.

The story is told (in third person) mostly through the eyes of the young boy known as Dodger, having earned the name by moving quickly, which with the kind of life he leads is in fact necessary.   Although a drastic change in direction for Pratchett, his typical sense of satire – and a tendency to never convey anything too seriously – are ever present throughout the story.

Clearly an homage to Charles Dickens from the start, Dickens – known as “Charlie” even makes an appearance as a supporting character, and in his interactions with Dodger, adding something of a “meta” quality to the whole thing. Even a  sneaky “Can I have some more?” is rather knowingly put in there…   Furthermore, despite Victorian London being notoriously unforgiving of those down on their luck, or otherwise fallen on bad fortune, Dodger is helped out by a few forgiving people; firstly the maid of the household he is part of for a short period of time, and then by Solomon Cohen, a devoutly Jewish and street-wise man with a habit of saying “mmm” constantly.

It is not long before Dodger focuses his attention on an unfortunate young woman, known only as “Simplicity”, who falls foul of some shady men and whom he takes it upon himself to help to save.   Simplicity, however, remains a rather vague character, about whom we learn relatively little. She shows some resilience which lend her a slightly stronger presence as the story goes on but, unfortunately, her character is never really developed in a satisfactory way (perhaps in itself an echo to Dickens’ tendency to underwrite female characters in his writing?). Indeed Simplicity, near the end of the story, appears to be subsumed into another similar character known only as Serendipity, who appears to merely replace Simplicity.

However, this is otherwise a well-written and witty tale. Despite being typically “Pratchett-style”, in the way the characters are conveyed and how the story seems to unfold almost randomly, it is clear that Pratchett has done research into the reality of Victorian London, and indeed it reads in a sufficiently contemporary way that the story could almost be read as a comical take on what could very well have been written at the time.

Well worth a read whether or not you are a Terry Pratchett fan.