October Reads
A hauntingly below average reading month (except for the Irish) & a long declaration of love for 'Intermezzo'.
Welcome to ‘Martha’s Monthly’, October Reads edition! October was perhaps my worst reading month since I started this newsletter - how fun! I read some of my favourite, and absolutely least favourite, books of the entire year.
Perhaps this is bad luck, or perhaps it is because I tried, for the first time, to read some ‘spooky’ books and, well, maybe that is not my thing. Of course, I could have just chosen not great books, rather than the failure of the genre itself. It’s good to try new things but I’ll be sliding back into my reading comfort zone for the rest of the year. Needless to say, strap in for a good deal of criticism in this piece.
In terms of a theme, I noticed the presence of being haunted. Yes, some of these books had ghosts, but this theme also encompasses the concepts of being obsessed, disturbed and preoccupied. The idea of being haunted is polysemous; it can mean to be consumed by an emotion. Many books explored grief and how intense and absorbing the experience can be.
To see the translated reads from October on Martha’s Map, including authors from Argentina, Mexico, Germany, Austria and Italy, click here.
For those who are new, buy, borrow, bust is my recommendation key: Buy = I loved this book and highly recommend it. Borrow = I liked this book and think it is worth a read. Bust = I wouldn’t recommend this book from my reading experience.
(I will never apologise for being a passionate reader & reviewer, but I should say - this newsletter is a lot longer than normal. It’s Sally Rooney’s fault)
‘Intermezzo’ by Sally Rooney
Critics of Rooney say that her writing is boring; that nothing happens in her novels. This criticism feels ironic on the basis that her novels are just about normal people.1 Nothing and everything happens in Rooney’s novels, she has this exceptional ability to tease out the poetic parts of mundane life. She does not write in outbursts, but instead in streams of intimate thoughts from the characters. Her novels explore the sheer insecurity of life, a compassion for the tragedy of human existence and a firm sense that there is beauty everywhere. While previous novels have been slightly more existential, there is hopeful recognition in ‘Intermezzo’ that while life is difficult, we can learn to accept it.
‘Intermezzo’ explores the spaces that exist within how we communicate and the role of language in our lives; the words we choose, or do not, choose to say. The novel follows two brothers; Peter and Ivan. A decade apart in age and a world apart professionally and personally, Peter and Ivan’s relationship is one characterised by tension. Peter is a successful lawyer in his thirties, whereas Ivan is a twenty-two-year-old competitive chess player. While externally the brothers feel they have little in common, they are both experts in games which are black or white; win or lose. Chess and the law have two sides; two definitive outcomes. Ivan and Peter seem to apply this binary in their personal lives; where they either win or lose. Relationships are much more complex than the finite outcomes of chess and the law. But they haven’t seemed to work this out yet.
In the wake of their fathers death, Ivan and Peter’s already strained relationship is stretched further. Peter begins to self medicate while entertaining two romantic relationships with different women; his first love, Sylvia, and Naomi, a college student who is a decade younger than him. In the early weeks of Ivan’s bereavement, he meets Margaret, an older woman emerging from a divorce. As they try to navigate the complexity that is grief, both the brothers have turned to desire and the possibility of a life with others, instead of finding comfort within each other. Seemingly set up to fundamentally misunderstand each other, Peter and Ivan’s animosity grows throughout the novel. ‘Intermezzo’ challenges the stale rhetoric that tragedy brings people closer, and explores how it has the potential to push people further apart.
Rooney is known for centring romantic relationships within her novels, and while they remain present here, the central relationship is between Ivan and Peter - and I loved this. The exploration of sibling dynamics full of misunderstanding is something that I think is often missing in the novels I read. Peter and Ivan’s relationship is painful; they have both struggled, but their own challenges affect their ability to understand the others point of view. While they are brothers, Peter and Ivan have ultimately experienced a different set of parents and a different upbringing within the same house. Both can be true; that Peter and Ivan are related and yet they cannot understand each other. While there are several factors for this, ultimately two stand out; Ivan’s neurodiversity and Peter’s experience with Sylvia’s chronic pain.
Ivan suffers from an inability to express his emotions; to choose the correct language to reflect his feelings. He struggles to interpret other people's emotions and understand how to appropriately react. While I am not going to spend time detailing all the reasons it can be interpreted that Ivan is autistic,
wrote a great piece about it and how Rooney writes a ‘careful picture of the many different ways of being normal’. Rooney’s considered characterisation of Ivan tells the story of someone who has struggled with himself, and interacting with others, for a lifetime.It is implied that Peter has historically been able to generally understand Ivan’s inability to explain the complicated ways he feels. While not always kind, there seemed to be a level of awareness. However, the crushing grief he experiences in the aftermath of Sylvia’s accident, where he understands the woman he loves will now be in excruciating pain forever, alters his patience. Sylvia and Peter’s lives have changed forever; a life they thought they would have taken away from them, an injustice which is rarely understood. Peter feels an immense frustration at Ivan’s disposition to being emotionally withdrawn; something that Peter wishes he had in the face of all he is experiencing.
Not to get into the weeds of it from my own personal experience, but a life with chronic pain and the impact that it has on a relationship, is beyond horrendous. It is an isolating and lonely experience, something the language of our ableist world is ill-equipped to convey. Rooney profoundly articulates the impact of chronic pain felt by those who have to, or watch someone they love, experience it. Ivan and Peter both become unable to articulate how they really feel but for vastly different reasons. Peter is cruel towards Ivan, and I think his cruelty is driven by his frustration at Ivan’s emotional inadequacy in the face of Peter desperately needing support.
Rooney is using the relationship between Ivan and Peter to explore how challenging life is. Life changing events, like the loss of a parent or being afflicted with a chronic illness for the rest of your life, are not things that you think will happen. Yet, when they do, they are immeasurably hard to handle. Rooney beautifully addresses how terrible life can be and how the dynamics between people are never perfect. There is profound recognition about how pain and love can coexist at the same time. Where language can fail us, not be there to explain the complicated ways we feel and the complicated way life can be. Our relationships with each other exist within language; it's the structure of our communication. The frankly indescribable feelings of love and loss are forced into a system that does not do the emotions justice. It reduces feeling to words that do not convey the weight of the experience. It leaves us struggling to communicate in the face of profound love and loss.
Deeply thought provoking, ‘Intermezzo’ suggests the judgement we give others is more often than not unfounded. While I have chosen to focus more on Peter and Ivan’s dynamic, I do want to also mention this novel's nod to traditional expectations in romantic relationships. Rooney challenges certain judgements that can be held towards relationships in the context of suggesting that these judgements, within reason, cause more tension than its worth; That a resistance to what feels right, because it isn’t ‘normal’, is causing more unhappiness than happiness. We all exist within this world, seeking to love and be loved, and yet society has tried to create oppressive structures to ensure the success of that. Is there a ‘right’ way to love and be loved? Rooney suggests that the complexity of life is consistently simplified by language’s inability to describe it; that it is more beautiful and challenging than we are ever able to say. Life is really hard, but isn’t that the point?
‘More and more complex, more difficult. Which is another way, she thinks, of saying: more life, more and more of life’
Unsurprisingly to no one, I recommend ‘Intermezzo’ with my whole chest and call it a buy. I think this is Rooney’s best work. Through a manner of personal reasons I will not get into, I connected to this novel more than anything else she has ever written. I have been thinking about it ever since. If you have previously not enjoyed Rooney, ‘Intermezzo’ is actually quite different from her other work. In my opinion, much less frustrating than the romantic dynamics within her previous novels. It has never been harder for me to write a review; primarily because I could write about this novel forever, but also because I loved the way it made me feel. It, at times, left me lost for words - which poetically links back to what this whole novel is about; the role of language in our lives.
(Other intermezzo pieces I enjoyed; ’s review and ’s review)
‘Our Share of Night’ by Mariana Enriquez is set in the decades during and after Argentina’s military dictatorship. The novel follows Gaspar and his father, Juan. Juan is a powerful medium who holds a unique ability to communicate with the Darkness. He can find what was lost, knows when someone is going to die and sees ghosts all around him. The Order, a secret society of wealthy and powerful people who practise rituals to achieve immortality, have been exploiting Juan’s powers for years. They commune with the dead and torture and execute people as sacrifices to the Darkness. Juan does not want this future for Gaspar, but the Order are convinced Gaspar has inherited his abilities. Gaspar is six-years-old the first time they try to come for him. Juan is determined for Gaspar to live a normal life and not become his successor. Can Juan really manipulate the Order and the Darkness in order to protect Gaspar?
A literal nightmare of a novel, ‘Our Share of Night’ is a political occult of the ‘Argentine Dictatorship’ (sometimes referred to as the ‘Dirty War’) which took place between 1974-83 in Argentina. It is estimated that between 22,000 and 30,000 people were killed or disappeared, untraceable due to the nature of state terrorism. Born in 1973, just before the military dictatorship started, Enriquez grew up in this world;
‘I grew up in a shadowy world where death was all around, but it was secret — disappearances have all the direct cruelty of sadism, as well as a particular aura of the sinister unknown.’ - Marina Enriquez in NYT
Enriquez acknowledges how victim testimonies that came out after the dictatorship penetrated into her stories. I don’t read much horror, but I admire Enriquez’s genre choice for exploring the dictatorship. I interpret it as follows; Enriquez is suggesting that the crimes committed by the state are more horrifying than anything she could create. Leaning into the horror that existed in Argentinas past, Enriquez has created a world within ‘Our Share of Night’ that is just as dark. The Order, an untouchable sect of society, are able to operate on their own terms; breaking laws and committing outrageous crimes without any fear of being prosecuted, representing the junta. The Order and the military dictatorship exist as mirrors to each other because of how they abuse power to inflict suffering on others. The Darkness, a supernatural evil, is a political allegory of an Argentina who are haunted by the military dictatorship and violence.
Enriquez's writing acknowledges some of the most significant moral wrongs that have taken place within humanity, from colonialism to poverty and economic instability;
‘All fortunes are built on the suffering of others, and ours, thought it has unique and astonishing characteristics, is no exception’ p.385 in ‘Our Share of Night’
Gaspar’s characterisation was the strongest throughout the novel. He was personable and worryingly accepting about his fathers erratic behaviour. However, the concept of this novel is stronger than the execution of it. Enriquez relies on timeline and point-of-view changes to maintain interest in the insecurity of Gaspar’s future. Sometimes, when we get the perspective of Gaspar’s dead mother, it works. Other times, the prose is full of meandering passages that bloat out an already incredibly bloated novel. This affects an otherwise straightforward plot - injecting the narrative with considerable distractions. For a novel with that many pages of world building and character development, a meandering ending felt slightly personal. While I don’t think the success of a novel is solely measured by the ending, I can’t help but share my disappointment with this one. Perhaps it is down to the psychological commitment of a big novel?
The story vibrates with unnerving dread and I felt this as a reader. Enriquez takes political violence, class and colonialism and writes these into parables throughout the novel. The anticipation of something horrifying at any moment is consuming. The horrors don’t end when you close the book; they live on in your imagination, articulating the pervasiveness of the fear incited by the dictatorship. As Enriquez said, the fear does not end with the dictatorship; it lives on. ‘Our Share of Night’ seamlessly communicates this; if Enriquez intended to evoke a fear from her readers that is a drop in the ocean in comparison to the experience of life under the military dictatorship, she achieved that.
I enjoyed the political discussion around the Argentine military dictatorship, but I wanted more. This review could potentially imply a stronger presence about the specifics of the military dictatorship than there actually is. For me, it is the most interesting aspect of the novel and therefore it is the lens I consider it within. A desire for more overt political discussion, to learn more about the Argentine dictatorship, suggests my next aim should be to try and read some novels that address this more directly. I have found ‘Hades, Argentina’ by Daneil Loedel and ‘The Ministry of Special Cases’ by Nathan Englander.
‘Our Share of Night’ is a commitment, a fantastical journey of epic proportions. Sometimes I loved it and sometimes I hated it a bit. I would call this a borrow. I am glad I read it and to be acquainted with Enriquez's writing. I would love to try one of her short story collections - I think I might like them better? There is less opportunity for meandering passages in a short story! I am unsure which collection to start with - so any recommendations for her work, please send them my way!
‘The Forgery’ by Ave Barrera. Set in 1990 Guadalajara, José Federico Burgos is a failed painter turned forger. He is unable to pay for food or his rent. Trapped in what seems like a relentless cycle of misfortune, José immediately takes an offer he can’t refuse; a forgery job from a wealthy man named Horacio Romero. Horacio wants José to forge an enormous Flemish altarpiece in order to trick his relatives out of inheritance.2 The piece is protected within a surreal and menacing building. Despite initial hesitation from José, he accepts the job because Horacio is guaranteeing José the safety he has been seeking. Once inside Horacio’s world, José drinks too much and feels increasingly trapped as he fails to succeed in replicating the painting. The longer José roams this unsettling, mysterious world, the closer he comes to uncovering the truth within Señor Horacio’s home.
This is a bizarre and unsettling book about the process of being an artist, friendship and the power we give ideas. Full of dreamlike hallucinations and an absolutely bizarre plot, we follow José as a struggling artist who cannot resist the lure of warmth, food and an opportunity to do what he loves; paint. Horacio’s house is full of ghosts and a strange pair of twins who inflict cruelty on José. Nothing is as it seems and yet José appears unfazed by the events unfolding. José keeps returning, unable to resist all the possibilities of the house.
‘The Forgery’ is a picaresque novel; a genre of prose fiction. It depicts the adventures of a dishonest but appealing hero, usually of low social class existing in a corrupt society. Barrera’s approach to José’s eccentric and unravelling characterisation is enthralling and atmospheric. Despite being cautious of José’s perception of events, I never felt constrained by his narrative. I was compelled to learn about what happens, even with the understanding that his perspective was perhaps fallible. José’s ambiguous moral compass is charismatic to read. We want to know what is happening in the house, even if it means repeatedly reading José’s poor decision making.
‘The Forgery’ is a novel that is absent of order, instead characterised by escalating chaos. I interpreted the story as a meditation on the power we give things and the significance of what it means to desperately want something. Barrera writes a labyrinth of a story; upon discovering one answer, you are met with exponentially more questions. The vague and philosophical nature of this novel is what carries it into a realm beyond the immediate story, offering considerable philosophical interpretation. It exists as a playful enquiry into obsession and identity. It reminded me of ‘The Invention of Morel’ that I read in June, because Casares also wrote a tale of deceptive mystery to ponder on questions of humanity. Together, these novels tell stories of psychological adventure; remarking on humanity's relationship to desire.
However, the enigma of this novel limits me on discussing the plot without entertaining the risk of spoiling it. Barrera has written a novel that is vivid and full of suspense. I enjoyed reading this novel and was delighted at the experience of being so confused, yet so compelled by José. I’d describe ‘The Forgery’ as an unsettling yet playful story. There are no discernible answers at the end of this novel, arguably it is to be read for the enjoyment of getting lost in the exuberance and eccentricity of a picaresque. José is a likeable, but foolish, anti-hero that is engrossing to spend time with. I loved him but I also hated him. I would call ‘The Forgery’ a borrow! I look forward to reading more of Barrera’s work, I thought her prose was excellent.
‘Small Things Like These’ by Claire Keegan is set in an Irish town in 1985 and tells the story of Bill Furlong. Furlong is a coal and timber merchant, and during the weeks leading up to Christmas, he faces his busiest season. Deeply familiar with the town through making delivery rounds, Furlong’s days are predictable. One day, Furlong accidentally witnesses the complicit silences of those controlled by the Church. Confronted with the discovery of disturbing secrets embedded within the town he calls home, Furlong finds himself struggling with a moral complexity that contradicts the quietly accepted order of life in Ireland at the time.
I have always intended to read Keegan, an author I have perhaps consistently saved for my future self. I knew I would love her writing and I enjoy having untouched writers' oeuvres to look forward to. However, with the film coming out (today in the UK!) and personally being a staunch advocate for reading books before seeing the film, I knew my Keegan time had come.
‘Small Things Like These’ tells a deeply poignant story about the unfairness of life and the role of ignorance in society. Our protagonist, Furlong, is presented to us as a man of kindness and heart. He, along with his wife and daughters, live a poor life, but one that is characterised by a happiness they find within each other. Keegan has written a delicately intimate story, one that is contrasted by a harsh landscape which holds harrowing stories that lie just below the surface. Keegan’s prose is a rich tapestry of Ireland at the time; religion, class and inequality. While Keegan never explicitly mentions any of these themes within her novel, they lie between the words in the story.
Opening with an excerpt from ‘The Proclamation of the Irish Republic’ written in 1916, that expresses equality and a ‘resolve to pursue [the] happiness [...] of the nation’, Keegan decides to tell a story of the lies and power that underpinned the social fabric of Ireland in the twentieth-century. Specifically, the story of the women and children who suffered in Ireland’s Magdalene Laundries. Keegan is telling the story that in any religion, it’s the women who are controlled.3
The tension of the novel emerges when Furlong witnesses something he isn’t supposed to. As a man of kindness, Furlong is tormented by this revelation and whether he could, or should, act on his findings. Furlong was born out of wedlock but was taken in and raised by a wealthy protestant woman. Furlong’s own understanding of the happenstance between wealth and poverty, happiness and ruin, is what underpins his unease about what he saw in the laundry. He understands how narrowly he escaped a life of cruelty because he got lucky. The idyllic life that ‘Small Things Like These’ initially presents quickly unravels with Furlong’s discovery;
‘What was it all for? Furlong wondered. The work and the constant worry. Getting up in the dark and going to the yard, making deliveries, one after another, the whole day long, then coming home in the dark and trying to wash the black off himself and sitting into a dinner at the table and falling asleep before waking in the dark to meet a version of the same thing, yet again. Might things never change or develop into something else, or new?’ - p.32 in ‘Small Things Like These’
‘Small Things Like These’ is a beautiful snippet of what it means to consider others and question the power structures that exist among us. The novel asks the universal questions; who we are, who we want to be and why does suffering exist? Furlong is slowly consumed by questioning the life he is a part of and the unquestioned presence of the power the Catholic Church holds in Ireland. In an attempt to look critically, Furlong contemplates on what social justice is and how do we engage, or ignore, it?
‘Why were the things that were closest so often the hardest to see?’ - p.100 in ‘Small Things Like These’
I loved every moment of this novel and did not want it to end. I have so many questions and am so hungry for more. This insatiable feeling will hopefully be (a little) satisfied by having another opportunity to get lost in the film. However, I think the ambiguity of the ending was perfect. While it leaves the reader with an abundance of questions, it merely reflects the stories and lives lost within the Magdalen Laundries. With most of the records destroyed or lost, we will never know what life was like for these women and children, just as we will never know what happens after Furlong makes his decision.
Poetically told and masterfully written, ‘Small Things Like These’ is a buy! Reading this book was a lovely way to spend an evening. The weight and intensity of the story Keegan tells in the simplicity of a hundred-and-ten pages is remarkable. I can’t wait to see the film. What Keegan shall I read next?!
‘Monstrilio’ by Gerardo Sámano Córdova tells a Frankenstein-esq fable about an unconventional creation of life. When Magos' son, Santiago, dies, she cuts out a piece of his lung. Fuelled by grief and the questionable logic of an old folktale, Magos decides to nurture the lung. The lung gains sentience and grows into a carnivorous little Monstrilio she keeps hidden in the walls of her family home. Eventually, Monstrilio begins to resemble a boy, just like Santiago. However, Monstrilio has animalistic impulses and despite Magos’ family's acceptance of Monstrilio, he is not Santiago. Enveloped by the horror of grief, Magos and her family are faced with the gap in their lives that Santiago left behind; one that they desperately seek Monstrilio to fill.
I think the concept of ‘Monstrilio’ is deeply imaginative. However, the execution of this was completely lacklustre. For a novel all about the life altering, utterly devastating loss of a child, the whole story was apathetic. The novel is told from four perspectives; Magos, Lena (Magos’ best friend), Joseph (Santiago’s father) and M (Monstrilio). Despite telling the story through four incredibly different perspectives, the prose is identical. Each point of view felt mind-numbingly similar, with little distinction between each voice. ‘Monstrilio’ is a representation of the impact that poor prose has on the emotional conviction of a story. While I was reading this, utterly astonished at how terrible the distinction between the perspectives were, I could not help but keep thinking about ‘The Bee Sting’ and how Murray created four connected, but completely distinct, voices within the structure of a nuclear family, not too dissimilar from ‘Monstrilio’. These two novels are miles apart in intimacy and delivery.
Considering that Monstrilio is a monster, something that transcends what it is to be human, his internal and external language is identical to the others. The only discernible attempt at making Monstrilio’s prose distinct is shorter sentences. That's it. I found it remarkable that this alternative perspective, with its potential for nuanced interpretations and observations of humanity, reads identically to the human viewpoints. The scope of this narrative creates the possibility of so much explorative freedom, and yet the story is a straightforward recount of events, void of emotion. Córdova has managed to take Monstrilio’s existence, which at its core is so remarkable, and make it unremarkable. The only compassion I managed to feel was towards Monstrilio, who is thrust into living a life in the shadow of Santiago, never quite living up to expectation.
In addition to the deeply unexciting writing, this novel feels like it holds you at arm's length. There is an emotional disconnect; like watching grief from the outside, instead of within the midst of it, like the premise suggests. There is no connection between the characters for us to feel. They aren’t explicitly unlikeable, but they have no accountability for their behaviour and exist in a sterile environment. For a novel all about the devastating experience of grief, I could not bring myself to care, or be moved, by any of the characters. Particularly Magos, which I found the most shocking due to her being so emotionally and literally invested in trying to grow a piece of her child (!) into a living being. I was indifferent to their story and grief, which feels extraordinary to write considering the pretence of this story.
I wanted weirder, more emotionally substantive writing full of nuance about the experience of grief; specifically, the loss of a child. To give one positive reflection, I thought the attempted exploration of how grief can alter, and break up families, was very honest and real. ‘Monstrilio’ contains no falsehoods or fairy tales about grief, confronting how the experience dramatically alters your relationships and life forever, often in irreversible ways. The framework was there for this to be an impressive meditation on grief. I think a different execution could've worked - all my criticisms of this novel lie within the writing, rather than the concept. 4
I did like the ending of this novel; primarily because it meant it was over, but also because I thought it was marginally poetic. ‘Monstrilio’ seems to be so well received online and in the book community, but I don’t see it and I don’t get it. This was truly dull, I wouldn’t recommend it and am calling it a bust. If you have read this and really enjoyed it, please let me know? I’m open to try and see it from the other side.
‘Tyll’ by Daniel Kehlmann tells the story of a benevolent devil in the Thirty Years War. Tyll is based upon the legend of ‘Till Eulenspiegel’ from medieval German folklore; he is a trickster, player and jester. Born in an innocuous village in Germany, Tyll practices balancing on a rope in the forest at night where creatures from tales and legends roam, and when he comes out, he will never be the same again. Tyll escapes the ordinary German village and embarks on an adventure that will take him far and wide, into the heart of a never-ending war.
In folklore, a ‘trickster’ is a character who uses their intellect or secret knowledge to play tricks, disobey rules and defy conventional behaviour. Tyll is an embodiment of someone who causes mischief. The origin of this folklore legend is mesmerising and I had a great deal of fun reading about Till Eulenspiegel.
‘Tyll’ starts strong, with initial chapters about Tyll as a boy becoming this illustrious trickster. Kehlmann’s characterisation of Tyll is endearing, he is presented as mischievous and intelligent. From the outset, Tyll’s character is engaging in the concepts of magic, philosophy and religion, discussing their role and reputation in medieval society. I particularly enjoyed the discussions around witches and witch executions, something which increased during the Thirty Years War. I was captivated by the potential in Tyll’s character and this incredibly unique story. Kehlmann’s prose in the early chapters were rhythmic and vivid; I felt immense promise for this novel.
Then, I regret to inform, it all went downhill. The structure of this novel completely lost me. After introducing Tyll as seemingly a central character, he becomes titular and slips away from us. The novel turns into something akin to a collection of short stories that are loosely threaded together by the fleeting presence of Tyll. Tyll becomes omnipresent, existing in the background, rather than the foreground, of these stories. These scattered vignettes describe different life at the time of the Thirty Years War. Aside from understanding that this was an incredibly bleak time to be alive, being one of the most destructive conflicts in European history, I have limited knowledge about this war. Perhaps this is why I found the novel so hard to follow. With an enormous array of characters who episodically appear throughout the novel, I struggled enormously with the timeline and character jumps. Kehlamann’s prose shifts erratically through time and place, altering narrative perspectives. These random transitions obscured the narrative vision, leaving me desperate to return to Tyll’s storyline.
Why then, did Kehlmann name a book after a character that is barely there? It is as if Kehlmann’s intention was to emphasise the shadowy and mysterious character of Tyll. In this he succeeded, Tyll became so mysterious he almost didn't exist. The focus of the novel pulls almost entirely away from Tyll, and onto a variety of snapshots of life within the Thirty Years War, emerging into a completely different book. The novel lacked cohesion, the story was disjointed and disconnected. What started with what felt like a strong character study evaporated, taking with it the promise of character development or investment. Tyll, as a character and a literary concept, is great. I had glimpses where I was so engaged, and then it would all fall apart again with a new story jump. I would’ve loved a chronological story of Tyll, following the evolution of him becoming a trickster and travelling across Europe. A different structure and format would probably have transformed this novel, making the expansive politics and history easier to follow. The sheer inconsistency of this reading experience means I would not recommend this, at all. I wanted to like this; I loved Tyll, but I hated everything else about this novel.
It took me a week to painfully read this, holding out hope that it would get good. I felt incredibly attached to the promise of the first chapter, but it never quite lived up to it. This frustrated me more than ‘Monstrillo’ - because ‘Tyll’ had glimpses of brilliance, whereas ‘Monstrillo’ was like reading about paint dry from the beginning. ‘Tyll’ is a bust. Perhaps if you love the Thirty Years War, you’d be more inclined to give this a try.
After two bad books in a row, I was frankly losing my mind. I decided to pick up ‘From Another World’ by Evelina Santangelo next, a novel that was distinctly different to the previous two. Set in the near future, ‘From Another World’ tells a ghost story and morality tale. Across Europe, seas are filled with migrants risking their lives in perilous crossings. In the cities and schools, strange children start to mysteriously appear. Then, they disappear like ghosts, causing uproar. Amid this mounting paranoia, Khaled, a young teenager from a war-town Middle Eastern country, by chance meets Karolina in a store in Brussels. She buys him a suitcase and they part ways. Karolina is searching, and mourning, for her missing son, whose laptop reveals an entanglement with extremist groups. Khaled is travelling to the south, against the flow of other refugees. He travels with urgent intent, fiercely protecting the contents of his suitcase.
The novel starts with vignettes which are fragmented, snapshots into different stories that feel disconnected. As the novel builds, the vignettes become more substantial and start to connect, creating a picture of a continent gripped by fear and anger; Santangelo has written a novel about a Europe engulfed by xenophobia.
In the Authors Note, Santangelo says;
‘This book arose from a question that struck me as extremely urgent: what does it mean to produce literature in dark times?’ p.237 in ‘From Another World’
Santangelo has rooted this novel in the horrors of our world; it reads like a nightmare and yet we know there is a lot of truth to the stories that are being told. The structure of the novel feels initially confusing, but eventually makes thematic sense when I began to understand her intent on building a narrative that explores how we are all connected. The storylines within this novel feel disparate, but are linked by one theme; the refugee crisis. Santangelo writes a story where all lives are touched by the rising rate of migration. A palpable sense of foreboding is created by our own knowledge and understanding of the hatred expressed towards migrants. While Santangelo writes great prose, she does not have to explain the negative emotional responses or attitudes towards migration; we know them. Thus, our pre-existing socio-political knowledge comes to the story, carrying our imagination to places that Santangelo does not have to explain.
The impact of this novel lies within the powerful imagery that culminates at the end. There is an uneasy undercurrent as the novel speaks to an extremity which often seems to be the only stance on migration. Santangelo aims to challenge our preexisting assumptions on the binary categorisations of ‘good’ and ‘’bad’, creating a chilling and eerie story.
What is most inventive is Santangelo imagining parts of Europe full of the haunting ghosts of migrant children. They are never quite defined, but ultimately they represent ghosts of those who have failed the crossing or died in accidents in the black markets. They are a metaphor, representing those who are stateless, without official identity, often ‘aliens’ by legal definition. They are there and not there. Real, but not real. They are visible enough to generate panic and fear, but not real enough to be officially documented and considered as a part of society. I thought the imagery of undocumented, lost or dead migrants as ghosts was exceptionally effective. It tells the story that the extremely inhumane and cruel treatment of migrants will haunt our societies forever.
‘From Another World’ was initially hard to get into, slightly clunky and had a lack of closure in some of the storylines. However, as a piece of political fiction I am so deeply impressed with Santangelo. She has written a bold story about the refugee crisis, exploring what stereotypical truths and fears we hold to be real. The violence and cruelty enacted by some, and experience by others, is so nauseating and familiar all at once. I would recommend ‘From Another World’ if you enjoy dark political fiction and call it a borrow! The approach to discussing the refugee crisis is innovative.5
‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle’ by Shirley Jackson was my classic novel choice for October. I have never read any Jackson before and I thought it would only be fitting to read my first in October. ‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle’ tells the story of the Blackwood family. Merricat lives in the Blackwood family home with her sister Constance and her Uncle Julian. Unliked by the people in the village nearby, the family are ostracised, but that seems to be just how they like it. Ever since Constance was acquitted of murdering the rest of the Blackwood family, the villagers are fascinated about what really happened. When Cousin Charles arrives, declaring an interest in a friendship and the Blackwood’s money, Merricat is forced to do everything in her power to protect the remaining family from interaction with the outside world.
Due to her reverence as a horror and mystery writer, I anticipated ‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle’ to be a very ominous story. With the pretence of a haunted house and a mass murder, I expected to feel even just the tiniest amount of fear. However, there was none. I was underwhelmed by this, with my reading experience feeling something akin to a great anticlimax. I felt slightly tired by the constant expectation that something might happen, and it never did.
Merricat, the unreliable narrator, is a strange but well intentioned young girl. She and her family are feared by society, characterised by Jackson as deeply odd. I enjoyed her point of view and found it intriguing how Jackson had written a novel that plays on the trope that we always fear the unknown. We, the reader, understand Merricat’s rationality for her behaviour, whether it is right or wrong, and therefore do not fear her. Merricat is written with a level of familiarity and warmth, providing us with an alternative perspective of the Blackwood family; less menacing than everyone makes them out to be.
The family, particularly the sisters, have become a legend due to their recluse from society. Two women, living alone and essentially keeping to themselves, are not accepted by the village, perhaps due to patriarchal stereotypes about how women should be behaving. In response to misunderstanding them, the village instead cast rumours. While there has been a mass murder in the Blackwood family home, you can’t help but feel like it may not have been entirely unjustified. The novel touches heavily on the persecution of those who are ‘othered’, and in that sense it reminded me a lot of ‘The Edge of the Alphabet’.
After finishing this novel, I spent some time reading about likely, and much more far fetched theories, about why the Blackwood family were killed and the psychological agency of the haunted house. To be completely transparent, I did not ‘sense’ the haunted house at all, even with the prompts I had read beforehand. The house, as a character, felt undetectable to me. The interpretation I enjoyed the most was that the novel is an exploration of women's position in society. That Merricat and Constance were responding to the suffocation of the patriarchy, and their experience with the outsiders and villagers is akin to a form of witch hunt.
While I was disappointed to discover that the novel was not as I thought it would be, I can understand the appeal of Jackson’s ambiguous writing. Jackson manages to make the reader constantly anticipate something that never comes, which is an impressive skill. I wanted more from this story. Perhaps more answers, or maybe more overt fear. Which is an interesting response from me because I don’t enjoy being scared - but I think I felt so expectant for it in this novel, I felt there was something missing. This novel is inherently slow and quiet and this is what I struggled with. I think this is a borrow. I am glad to have read Shirley Jackson, but I am unsure how much I liked it. I think I am interested in reading more Jackson, but maybe something different from the nature of this novel? Are all her novels like this? Let me know if you have any recommendations.
‘You Dreamed of Empires’ by Álvaro Enrigue. One morning in 1519, conquistador Hernán Cortés rode into the floating city of Tenoxtitlan - today’s Mexico City - accompanied by eight captains, troops and translators. Cortés and friends are invited to a ceremonial meal with the princess Atotoxtil, sister and wife of the emperor Moctezuma. One of Cortés captains, Jazmin Caldera, begins to question the ease with which they were welcomed and wonders the risks they face at getting out alive, much less conquering an empire. Moctezuma relies on hallucinogens to receive any kind of answer from the gods. When Moctezuma and Cortés meet later that day, two worlds, empires and languages collide.
This novel tells an impressive story of Tenoxtitlan at its height and reimagines its destiny. Some quick history; Tenoxtitlan, the capital of the Aztec Empire, was founded by the Aztec people in 1325 C.E. The imagined images of what this city looked like are fascinating. In 1521, the Spanish conquistadors, aided by the alliance of the Indigenous people, laid siege to the capital and after ninety-three days, the Mexica surrendered and Tenoxtitlan was destroyed, marking the end of the Aztec Empire. 6
Enrigue has written a colonial revenge story, entertaining a different outcome for Tenoxtitlan; one of revolution. I have never read such a vivid, and frankly chaotic, historical novel before. I gravitated towards ‘You Dreamed of Empires’ because it seemed entertaining and silly. Historical novels can have a tendency to be a mostly accurate representation of events, and this novel diverts from that playbook. Enrigue has taken the history of the Aztec Empire and playfully injected it with possibilities and psychedelics. ‘You Dreamed of Empires’ was an adventure to read, a daring and outrageous story. Despite not having retained much of the detail from this novel (it is turbulent) I know I had a good time reading it. I especially enjoyed the storyline of the translators and the emphasis on their role as storytellers and manipulators. It explored their positions in securing and threatening the future of the empires by accident and on purpose. Translators have been integral to the communication of humanity since time began, and will always continue to do so.
I have never used a name index more in my life. I often ignore these indexes, wishing to organically figure out who is who on my own terms. But Enrigue’s sprawling list of character names also include an extensive list of nicknames he interchangeably refers to throughout the novel. I don’t think I have been kept on my toes more than while reading this novel. Genuinely funny and a bit nuts, this was a breath of fresh air after the last four books I had read. I think the charisma of this novel lies within how vividly Enrigue paints a world that is so incomprehensible to us. For those in the UK, or perhaps anyone else who knows, I would compare this to a grown up literary version of Horrible Histories.7
I wouldn’t call this a buy because the storyline had its moments where it was confusing and hard to follow; it was not a flawlessly cohesive narrative. But, the atmosphere was great, so I would call this a borrow. I’d recommend it if you think you’d enjoy imagining great Aztec emperors swearing, being sarcastic and taking hallucinogens to help make enormous, world altering, political decisions.
And that concludes my October Reads! My favourite reads this month were (unsurprisingly) ‘Intermezzo’ and ‘Small Things Like These’. After this disappointing reading month, I am definitely feeling a bit uninspired.
My first read for November is ‘My Friends’ by Hisham Matar. This book sounds completely up my street and it has had an extensive amount of positive commentary from some people I trust (most recently, Jess) Hopefully, it holds the power to change the tide of my recent reading.
Let me know your thoughts:
❀ What have you read and enjoyed in October?
❃ Have you read any of these books? What did you think?
❁ A request for some recommendations after this tragic month. Looking for: strong narrative fiction, books where I would learn interesting things, translated (obviously), a good memoir (I haven’t read one in a while) or a classic!
Thank you, as always, for reading. Congratulations if you got this far!
See you next month,
Happy Reading! Love Martha
This is the part where I always say hey! share this with a friend, lover or enemy if you liked this!
Catch up on what you might have missed:
(these are much better. lots of very good books in both here)
If you are interested in what I was reading in October 2023;
Before you go - why not subscribe on the promise that next month’s reading will be much better?!
Joke intentional - obviously. It was right there. No regrets.
Don’t worry I had no idea what a flemish altarpiece was either - that is why I have hyper linked to the google images page of some for context. I can’t believe how enormous and detailed they are, an impossible job to replicate….although I think that is the point.
From 1922 to 1996, at least 10,000 women and girls were imprisoned, forced to carry out unpaid labour and subjected to severe psychological and physical abuse. 10,000 is the ‘official’ figure but they say it is a hell of a lot more 30,000. I wanted to write and write about what I learnt about the Magdalene Laundries but refrained because this piece is already stupidly long. If you want to read more, this website is full of information: http://jfmresearch.com/home/preserving-magdalene-history/about-the-magdalene-laundries/
If you want to read a science fiction novel about a monster and grief, just read the original ‘Frankenstein’ by Mary Shelley.
This novel most interestingly really addresses the far right - this post is already so long I cannot subject you to more so I didn’t write about it but I saw this https://www.channel4.com/programmes/undercover-exposing-the-far-right documentary recently and just really enjoyed it. I think if you have read this review and are interested in the novel because of the premise of a mother loosing her son to far right extremists, I wanted to point this doc your way. Let me know if anyone watches this!
I got my facts from here: https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/tenochtitlan/ - honestly time spent on the national geographic website is never time wasted - I lost track of time on here looking at so much Aztec history, 10/10 recommend
If there is anyone out there reading this who loves history, but has not had the pleasure of watching Horrible Histories in their childhood - you should. No notes, best TV show to ever exist. Horrible Histories is my roman empire.
loved what you had to say about Intermezzo -- after my initial feelings and review, i find that what i keep thinking about, as someone who's been dealing with chronic pain this year, is people's weird reaction to sylvia's situation and the lack of empathy denoted by it. i'm glad you wrote about it! for your next keegan read, i suggest her (most recent, i think?) short stories collection, So Late in the Day. i read it last november and it was perfect.
All right. I was not planning to read Intermezzo but you have moved it to a future “borrow” status for me. Based on my library hold list for it I can probably get it in 2026.
Have you read By Night in Chile? Something about your review makes me think you might be interested. It’s short and weird and a wry commentary on how the bystanders in dictatorship (who didn’t commit crimes but were close enough to those who did to be considered their aids even as they kept their hands “clean”) justify themselves.