The Death of the Heart

I have very dim memories of reading this copy of Elizabeth Bowen's 1938 novel, The Death of the Heart, as a teenager in the 1980s. I have a feeling that my mother might have been studying it when she did HSC English as an adult.

The Death of the Heart is regarded as Bowen's best work. Sixteen year old Portia comes to live with her half-brother and sister-in-law in London after the death of her parents, and finds herself lonely and adrift in a social world whose rules she struggles to comprehend. Frankly, her sister-in-law Anna is a bit of a selfish bitch, who reads Portia's diary and makes no attempt to welcome her; her brother is at a loss; Anna's erstwhile toyboy, Eddie, is a self-absorbed dick who can't resist flirting with Portia. The only person in the household who seems to have any real relationship with poor Portia is the maid, Matchett, inherited from Thomas and Portia's father.

This is an incredibly sad novel, in which various isolated and self-loathing or bewildered characters orbit around each other without ever making any real contact. The figure of Major Brutt, in his shabby hotel, imagining he's friends with Thomas and Anna, is absolutely heart-breaking. The one character I couldn't feel too sorry for is the 'charming' Eddie, whose company I couldn't bear even for a few pages; of course Portia falls in love with him, but he's such a pretentious little shit, I felt like throwing him across the room. 

It's possible that I didn't finish reading The Death of the Heart the first time around, because I found a possible bookmark wedged in its pages about how to care for ear-piercings, which would have to date from 1990 (so slightly later than I first thought). If that's the case, I only made it about a third of the way through. 

Plainsong

I had never come across the American author Kent Haruf until my friend Elizabeth put Plainsong into my hands. What a revelation! I'm not usually drawn to American novels, but I was completely won over by Haruf's spare, deceptively simple prose, which matches the austere landscape of (fictional) Holt County, Colorado.

This is a very cinematic novel, though the action is mostly subtle, with occasional bursts of violence. We are never told how characters feel or what they're thinking; instead, we witness their words and actions and make our own interpretations. Haruf takes 'show, don't tell' to the extreme, but it works beautifully across a range of characters, who are all isolated in their different ways, and who end up interacting unexpectedly. A pair of elderly brothers on their remote farm; a pregnant teenager; middle-aged teacher Tom Guthrie, whose wife has withdrawn and finally left him with his two young sons; warm, humorous fellow teacher, Maggie Jones, who is the catalyst who brings the McPheron brothers and young Victoria together.

Plainsong is true to its title -- unadorned, no fuss, but deeply moving. Elizabeth has promised to lend me two more Haruf novels and I can't wait.

Book of Lives

Another quite big brick of a book and another surprisingly speedy read (well, Margaret Atwood is a very good writer). I have been an Atwood reader for most of my adult life. The Handmaid's Tale blew my mind very soon after it was published and I was captivated by Cat's Eye, with its tale of childhood bullying. I faithfully bought and excitedly read the big thick novels that followed: The Robber Bride, Alias Grace and The Blind Assassin, but I think The Blind Assassin must have exhausted me or else I ran out of time for big thick novels because I dropped off after that. I did try Oryx and Crake (which began life in Australia as Emu and Crake) but at the time it didn't engage me. The good news is that I now have several Margaret Atwood books still waiting patiently for me to plunge into.

Atwood's life makes for an interesting story in itself. Famously her naturalist father carted the family into the wilderness for half of every year, which left Atwood with a legacy of environmental awareness and a love of birds in particular. She writes enjoyably about the beginnings of the Canadian literature scene, which I imagine has a lot of parallels to the Australian situation -- it was difficult to persuade publishers to risk printing local stories, and aspiring writers were advised to try their luck in the UK or USA (sadly, I fear that 'global' appeal is again becoming a requirement for publishers to risk their money).

The latter part of Book of Lives is overshadowed by the decline and death of Atwood's second husband, Graeme; another story of grief and mourning. It's remarkable to think that Atwood is now in her late eighties, and yet she is as sharp or sharper than she ever was, making films during Covid and still experimenting. I suppose we might not have her for much longer, but what a blessing to have this chunky, rich and funny memoir from a real literary legend before she leaves us.
 

Nest

I am a huge fan of Inga Simpson's writing (her novel Willowman and memoir Understory are just so beautiful), but for whatever reason, her second novel Nest didn't quite do the trick for me. Perhaps this quiet, reflective, observational novel suffered from being read simultaneously with big, blustery King Sorrow; perhaps it was my state of mind, where I was looking for distraction rather than meditation. Perhaps even the very short chapters, which is something I usually enjoy, meant that it took a long time to make my way through the story, to the point where I'd sometimes forgotten characters or events by the time they were referred back to (did I mention my concentration is not great at the moment?)

The actual writing and the nature observations were as usual absolutely gorgeous, in fact I think I would have enjoyed Nest more if it has been presented as a piece of nature writing or memoir rather than a novel. There is hardly any plot, and what there is, moves slowly and quietly. There is a missing child, harking back to a missing friend of Jen's own childhood; an absent father, an unsatisfactory ex. But these are elements that hover around inside Jen's head as memories and speculations, rather than playing out on the canvas of the novel. Gradually, very gradually, tense loner Jen starts to unfreeze, through her close relationship with the trees and birds on her land, tending to her house and garden, and her tentative friendships with the townsfolk and neighbours, and her drawing pupil Henry. The novel ends in quiet hope, but anyone looking for high stakes drama will not find it here. 

I think I would have loved this book more if I'd been in a different frame of mind! I have another Inga Simpson novel on my pile, but I might wait a while before I open it; I want to meet it in the right spirit.

How To Be Normal

Ange Crawford's How to Be Normal is the next book on my CBCA Notables List. Astrid has been homeschooled for years, but when her dad's business collapses (record store, no surprise), her mother has to go back to work and Astrid goes to high school for the first time.

There is quite a lot going on for Astrid. Her older brother has left home, her father is controlling and sometimes verbally abusive, and Astrid has never mixed with 'normal' teenagers before, so she has a lot of new friendship politics to negotiate, complicated by her father's 'strictness' and rules around behaviour. Though Cliff isn't physically violent, Astrid and her mum are always walking on eggshells, placating, soothing, forestalling his outbursts, and it's uncomfortably tense to read about. I must admit I was more engaged with the domestic drama than the high school situation.

Astrid's passion is electronic music, which was a refreshing novelty for me and worked really well as a method for her to communicate her isolation and her tentative reaching out, as well as a pathway to a future course of study and career. Sound became a really effective element of the story and a fascinating window to a field I know nothing about.
 

The Foal in the Wire

  

In terms of size, there could hardly be a bigger contrast between the whopper King Sorrow and The Foal in the Wire, which barely tips over a hundred pages, with lots of blank space and wide margins. As a verse novel, The Foal in the Wire covers a lot of ground with few words.

Sam's older brother is dead, his parents are fighting and he's struggling to find anything to make life worthwhile when he and the girl on the neighbouring property rescue an injured foal. Together, they nurse the young animal back to health, and in the process, discover companionship and then love in each other.

While The Foal in the Wire doesn't exactly have a happy ending, it does offer the prospect of change, and ultimately, hope. And how beautiful is that cover, by artist Tannya Harricks?

King Sorrow

It's been quite a while since I ventured to read a 900 page brick of a book; my attention span hasn't been up to it. King Sorrow was like reading four normal sized novels strung together, but it's a real roller coaster ride. It's the story of six friends who summon a dragon from another realm, ostensibly to do their bidding, but of course, as in all the best fairy tales, it turns out that they end being in his thrall. Every year they have to choose a victim for King Sorrow, or else one of their own lives will be forfeit, and inevitably a lot of innocent victims fall prey along the way (dragons are not known for their restraint).

To start with, King Sorrow reminded me of The Secret History -- a group of college students negotiating a dreadful secret, and the intra-group politics and shifting loyalties and betrayals that play out over the years that follow. But there's also a terrifying mid-air adventure, a chilling conspiracy and abduction episode, and a mythic quest for a magical sword, led by a troll deep underground. All this before the final confrontation. King Sorrow is also a fascinating meditation on the power of imagination and reality. 

I probably wouldn't have picked up this book if I hadn't heard it recommended on the ABC's Book Shelf program, but it was fun to explore something off my usual track. Joe Hill is the son of Stephen King, and has evidently inherited his father's gift for story-telling. I did have to renew it as I was ploughing through, luckily there wasn't anyone else on the library's waiting list.

The Impossible Fortune

How lovely to be back with the Thursday Murder Club gang again! Though I must admit that the Netflix movie has irreversibly influenced the way I picture the characters now -- and there was a nice cheeky reference to Pierce Brosnan being the best James Bond (which may be the case, but he still isn't quite how I imagined Ron). 

Sinking into The Impossible Fortune was like stepping into a warm bath -- totally comforting and nourishing, and exactly the kind of book I feel like reading at the moment. My only complaint was that there was not quite enough Bogdan; mind you, there are so many gorgeous characters milling about Coopers Chase by now that it's hard to give them all full air time. There are some lovely Joyce-Joanna moments in this novel that make up for it.

The Impossible Fortune takes our octogenarian crew into the world of Bitcoin and old-fashioned 'cold storage,' a service providing physical storage in an age where digital security has become vulnerable. There are explosions and secret codes and double crossing, but there is also another parallel plot involving Ron's daughter and grandson which is less showy, but possibly more important.

I know the Thursday Murder Club can't live forever, but please, can they have lots more adventures before we have to say goodbye?
 

Death of an Ordinary Man

Novelist Sarah Perry's first non-fiction book, Death of an Ordinary Man, was recommended by Susan Green a few weeks ago. Looking back at Sue's review, I see that she used the exact words I was planning to write here: almost unbearably moving. Perry's father-in-law was diagnosed with advanced oesophageal cancer, worsened rapidly and died at home just nine days later. How well I could relate to Perry's panic and bewilderment, her pleas for help, for someone to come round now, now, now, we don't know what to do. And yet surprisingly quickly, caring for David becomes routine and manageable and not scary at all; Perry describes a sensation of a woman's hand on her shoulder and feels the reassurance of generations of carers behind her who have faced this challenge and met it, as she and her husband do, too, folding the process death into part of life.

I was amazed at the speed and compassion (mostly) of the health workers who rolled swiftly into action, delivering a hospital bed, nursing care, morphine, special sheets to David's home with a minimum of fuss. I have no idea if similar systems are in place here; I guess I might find out one day. It might not have been the best time for me to read this book, as I'm currently caring for my ninety-year old mother who was recently in hospital with an infection and is taking a while to recover. But I was also able to recognise myself as one of that long line of carers who find themselves able to deal with incontinence, dirty sheets, coaxing tiny spoonfuls of ice cream into a reluctant mouth, organising medication and all the rest of the work of caring. 

The very last image of the book was so incredibly beautiful, it made me cry.

Sometimes I stand at an upstairs window after dark when the city is getting ready for bed, and watch the lights go out one by one in rooms where strangers live. And if I stand there long enough I find, in compensation for the gathering dark, other lights arriving out of nothing -- the passage of a car turning for home, lamps switched on in bathrooms and bedrooms on the outskirts of town, streetlights marking roads I know quite well. Then I imagine I've walked out of the city and up what passes in Norfolk for a hill, and that I can see spread all around me  this same pattern going on over and over: lights, everywhere, coming on where there was no light, then shining for a moment or an hour before fading slowly to an ember, or being suddenly extinguished. On and on it goes, far ahead and behind me, over borders, horizons, seas, summoned up and going out in their own time -- illuminating barely half an inch or fully half a mile, and each light particular, never to be repeated or replaced: all those other lights. All those other towns.

Eleanor Jones is Playing with Fire

Eleanor Jones is Playing with Fire is the third novel in Amy Doak's tremendously enjoyable series; the first two are Eleanor Jones is Not a Murderer and Eleanor Jones Can't Keep a Secret. In this book, Eleanor is still a new-ish student in country town Cooinda, but she's managed to gather a group of friends around her and some of her social awkwardness has mellowed, though she still speaks her mind. She's even got a kind of boyfriend! But Eleanor seems to attract trouble -- or does she go looking for it, as her friend Holly the police officer seems to believe? This time, in a tinder-dry rural community, someone is setting fires. But who could it be? And why?

Amy Doak has created an appealingly forthright and funny protagonist in Eleanor Jones, but she doesn't carry the story alone. Doak is adept at exploring issues of friendship, loyalty, small town politics and toxic masculinity in this novel, all wrapped up in a satisfying mystery plot (not actually a murder this time, though initially it seems like it might be). I really enjoy the way that Eleanor has collected some adult allies, and her willingness to ask questions about things that other people take for granted. I really hope there are some further installments to Eleanor's adventures!
 

Ancestral Journeys

Jean Manco's Ancestral Journeys was a Brotherhood Books impulse buy, and I didn't really know what I was getting. It's actually quite a scholarly book, though packaged up appealingly with lots of pictures and break-out sidebars to break up the text. It's a multi-disciplinary approach to tracking the movements of peoples across (mostly) Europe during prehistory, drawing on archeology, genetics and linguistics to piece together the likely shifts of population, whether by invasion, wandering, retreat or expansion.

I must admit that some of the detailed explanations of DNA haplo-groups made my eyes water and I tended to skim those sections! But Ancestral Journeys excels at painting a big picture of climate changes, the spread of agriculture, and the rise and fall of empires. I found the sections about language the most engaging -- I'm always up for a discussion of Proto-Indo-European and its descendants in modern languages. Ancestral Journeys covers millennia, from the very first humans emerging from Africa, right up to the Vikings, in a relatively short and easy to digest package: a great overview.
 

Impossible Creatures: The Poisoned King

This sequel to Katherine Rundell's Impossible Creatures takes us back to the Archipelago, that magical world peopled by talking animals, dragons, flying unicorns and other incredible beasts. The Poisoned King introduces us to twelve year old Princess Anya, whose wicked uncle is hell bent on taking over the kingdom at any cost, even murder. Guardian-to-be Christopher, from our world, joins forces with Anya to solve the mystery of who is killing dragons (spoiler: it's the wicked uncle) and to save Anya's father, the true heir.

As usual, Rundell delivers a pacy, magical adventure with plenty of heart. I wonder if she was influenced by Eva Ibbotson, because Rundell set her first book in the Amazon, a beloved Ibbotson location, and there is something about the emphasis on love, courage and compassion, and the love of the natural world, that reminds me very much of Ibbotson's novels. I also loved the fact that hereditary royalty is dismantled at the end of the book! Now that wouldn't happen in an Eva Ibbotson novel.
 

Light and Shadow

Mark Colvin was a veteran ABC journalist who died in 2017, about a year after this autobiography was published. Sadly we never got to read the second volume he hinted at in this book. It doesn't seem like nearly ten years since he died; I well remember his mellifluous tones on Radio National.

The subtitle of Light and Shadow is Memoirs of a Spy's Son; clearly the publisher felt this was the strongest hook to draw people in, and it is a fascinating element of Colvin's story. His mother was Australian, his father English, and it was confirmed when Mark was an adult that John Colvin was actually an agent for SIS (MI6). John's most exotic postings (under cover of being a diplomat) were to North Vietnam during the Vietnam War, and Ulan Bator in Mongolia to keep an eye on the border between China and Russia at the height of the Cold War. (It was while young Mark was visiting his father during this time that he was given the information about the death of Lin Biao who significance he totally failed to realise!)

But Mark's own life also makes a gripping narrative. He fell into journalism at a young age, worked at Double J when it was just starting up, covered wars in Iraq and the Whitlam crisis, started The World Today and for many years hosted the evening current affairs show PM. It was a remarkable career and his family background, which he kept secret, made it all the more dangerous -- he'd been warned by his father never to visit Russia, for example (though he did). Light and Shadow is a thoroughly absorbing and informative read, one of those unknown gems that you pick up sometimes and provide rich rewards.
 

Wild Swans

I am extremely late to the party on Jung Chang's international bestseller from 1991, Wild Swans. If you've been living under a rock for the last thirty years, Wild Swans is the story of three generations of women living in China through the tumultuous decades of the twentieth century. Jung Chang's grandmother was a warlord's concubine; her mother was a dedicated Communist Party official; and Jung herself eventually studied English and emigrated to the UK.

Wild Swans has been a school text almost from the moment it was published. My younger daughter used it in studying Revolutions and the copy I've been reading is hers. My ignorance of China's history is shamefully almost total, and Wild Swans filled in quite a few blanks for me. I vaguely knew about the Cultural Revolution, but not quite what a horrific period it was, nor the extent of the arbitrary violence and cruelty it unleashed. The tides of being in and out of favour washed Chang's family to and fro; sometimes they enjoyed quite a lot of privilege, sometimes things were absolutely desperate.

For me, Wild Swans started slowly and it took me a while to become captured by the story. The book really came alive for me when Jung Chang herself appeared, and I sometimes found the parts about the internal machinations of the Communist Party head-spinning. However, I was excited when simultaneously reading Mark Colvin's autobiography, Light and Shadow, to come across a section when Colvin was travelling through China in the early 1970s and he was told about the death of important general Lin Biao -- a very deliberate piece of information-planting whose significance young Colvin completely failed to recognise! Thanks to Wild Swans, I already knew the background story of Lin Biao, so this story meant much more than it would have otherwise.

 

Helm

I feel like there's been a bit of a buzz around Sarah Hall's novel Helm, which is centred around the only named wind in the UK (I must admit I hadn't heard of Helm and didn't realise that it was a real thing: a unique, powerful, occasional force). It's such a cool concept for a novel and Hall has constructed a rich narrative of interweaving strands through the history of human interactions with the wind. Hall has given Helm a wild, poetic voice, and it has motivations and desires of its own, which adds a distinctive flavour to the novel.

For me, some of the narrative strands were more successful than others, though Hall has obviously expended a lot of effort in creating authentic and researched stories for each time period. Most of the narratives are focused on attempts by humans to tame or measure Helm: a medieval churchman who sees Helm as a demonic force; a Victorian scientist who wants to set up an elaborate machine to dye the air flow; a modern climate scientist who becomes paranoid in isolation; a Bronze Age wise woman who sees a sacred stone in a vision and dedicates her life to finding and erecting it. Often the protagonists are women who develop a special relationship with the wind, like Janni, a victim of 50s psychiatric treatment who is eventually reclaimed by Helm as Helm's own.

I especially loved the Janni story and the Bronze Age narrative, perhaps because they both came to a satisfying conclusion. Some of the other plotlines petered out or ended anti-climactically, but there is more than enough meat here to compensate, and the actual prose is rich and wild and gorgeous.