Book Recommendations: November

Fiction

Brandon Taylor, Real Life

Eventually, they are all just people going about their lives, shopping and eating, laughing and arguing, doing what people in the world do. This too is real life, he thinks. Not merely the accumulation of tasks, things to be done and sorted, but also the bumping up against other lives, everyone in the world is insignificant when taken and observed together.

A captivating, highly introspective novel about sexuality, race, and inner turmoil, but most of all, about what it means to live among others, when trauma collides with banality, and intimate connection rubs up against awkwardness and distance. The novel centres around its protagonist, Wallace, and his struggle to connect with his college friends during a tumultuous summer.

Living in a world where the existence of racism is decided by those who are never its victims (i.e. present day America), Wallace struggles to have his experience heard and validated by those around him. Taylor manages to express these sentiments through his protagonist in a way which shows their emotional, individual effects, but also allegorises them to make them broadly recognisable and therefore highly resonant.

The most unfair part of it, Wallace thinks, is that when you tell white people that something is racist, they hold it up to the light and try to discern if you are telling the truth. As if they can tell by the grain if something is racist or not, and they always trust their own judgement. It’s unfair because white people have a vested interest in underestimating racism, its amount, its intensity, its shape, its effects. They are the fox in the henhouse.

Yet to say that this was primarily a novel about racial tension would be to undersell it. Taylor’s skill in translating these loaded issues into personified and engaging prose is just the tip of the iceberg. What stood out to me the most about this narrative was its exploration of selfhood, of the unstable and constantly tested line between self and world, and the struggle to draw and redraw that line to protect ourselves emotionally; how much of ourselves must we give up to connect authentically with one another? Taylor engages with this question with sensitivity and nuance throughout the novel as Wallace grapples with the vulnerability and loss of control incited by emotional connection.

People live here. Their lives go on. He has not been left entirely alone. The incompleteness of his abandonment makes him want to laugh a little, but he also feels the curious, inverted sweep of vertigo. The shame of having given away too much of himself, and to Miller of all people. The reflexive desire to seek cover, to hide, flashes through him.

In equal parts heartbreaking, thought-provoking and profound, this novel offers a deep dive into the intricacies of the emotional, social, and political self in all its interactions with ‘real life’ – from its minutiae to its societal resonance.

Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (2018)

Delia Owens has been an ecologist for most of her life, and it shines through into her writing. This is her first novel, and it is interwoven with gorgeous descriptions of nature, of North Carolina marshlands and their creatures. Its first few sentences are a perfect indicator of what is to come:

Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky. Slow-moving creeks wander, carrying the orb of the sun with them to the sea, and long-legged birds lift with unexpected grace—as though not built to fly—against the roar of a thousand snow geese.

This is the first book I have read in a while where I have found any opportunity to read it; I couldn’t put it down. Owens seamlessly weaves together an engaging and well-paced plot, fascinating characters, and immersive description and imagery. Following the story of the so-called ‘Marsh Girl’, Kya, this book is an insightful exploration of prejudice and the effects of isolation and abandonment, but also a celebration of humanity’s ability to connect and be in harmony with the natural world.

The first parts of this book echo some of the themes of Jesmyn Ward’s Salvage the Bones (another novel I would recommend), with its descriptions of what has been called ‘bare life’ by theorists, and its effects on a young protagonist. Both novels explore the ways in which poverty creates a constant sense of precarity, and a thin film between nature and home. Beauty and threat go hand in hand in this state of life, and the natural world brings with it both violence and comfort.

Kya’s coming-of-age timeline (starting in 1952 when she is just 6) is interspersed with chapters which narrate a local murder in 1969. As the two timelines converge, the book morphs into a murder mystery, with the last section centring around a page-turning courtroom scene which for me echoes that in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

This book is really, truly beautiful and intensely gripping. I think it will appeal to almost anyone’s reading tastes. As a first novel it is truly remarkable and I am very interested and excited to see what Delia Owens produces next.

Non-fiction

Michiko Kakutani, The Death of Truth (2018)

This work is focused mainly on how Trumpian discourse has discredited the idea of objective truth, but also the multi-decade lead up to this state of affairs. Kakutani's compact book explores how politics and culture have become polarised and shattered by postmodernist thought, which widens the gap between language and meaning, between fact and fiction.

While it is hard to offer solutions to this contemporary phenomena, this book does a good job of analysing the reasons for, and implications of, this ‘fake news’ and ‘alternative facts’ culture in a succinct and accessible way. Kakutani successfully depicts how the idea of truth has been hijacked, something accelerated by the internet and social media, to produce a cynicism even in those who still believe in objective truth; we are so bombarded by misinformation and hyperbole that we no longer truly believe in anything.

Outrage gives way to outrage fatigue, which gives way to the sort of cynicism and weariness that empowers those disseminating the lies. (142-3)

While it comprehensively engages with the main implications of the death of truth, I would have liked this book to do more with how alternative narratives have been used for good, i.e. to bring attention to the struggle of marginalised groups. Perhaps this was intentional, to try and remain objective in the face of overwhelming subjectivity, but for me it fell ever so slightly short of engaging with the nuances of this post-truth world.

It is an impressive piece of work nevertheless. And, possibly we will never truly answer the question of how to promote open-mindedness and a receptiveness to narratives outside the mainstream without undermining the concept of objective truth at the other end of the spectrum.

The postmodernist argument that all truths are partial (and a function of one’s perspective) led to the related argument that there are many legitimate ways to understand or represent an event. This both encouraged a more egalitarian discourse and made it possible for the voices of the previously disenfranchised to be heard. But it’s also been exploited by those who want to make the case for offensive or debunked theories, or who want to equate things that cannot be equated. (73)

How can we create harmony in a world of battling narratives and perceptions, where these perceptions are becoming more and more polarised? Can we see science as a dynamic discipline which changes and grows with technological advancement, while also accepting its most recent conclusions as fact? Can we productively explore the arbitrary and somewhat subjective nature of language and knowledge while also accepting shared interpretations and understanding?

This book has provided a great springboard into a complex, ever-changing, and elusive subject matter, and given me lots of food for thought. I hope to find more reading on this topic in the future, and to apply this knowledge to my evaluation of information that I come across.

TV

Joe Swanberg, Easy

I loved this understated Netflix series, watching it more compulsively with every episode that went by. Set in Chicago, this series is an anthology of different stories and characters, meaning its episodes are standalone and can be watched noncommittally and in any order.

As the seasons go on, however, some characters cross over into different storylines, and some return for second and third episodes. For me, this strikes just the right balance between storyline and concept.

With all-star cameos, including Orlando Bloom, Jake Johnson, Dave Franco and Emily Ratajkowski, this show sensitively explores many everyday people-issues, alongside broader sociological and political themes.

Prominent stories include a married couple who decide to pursue an open marriage in an attempt to rescue their relationship, a pair of brothers who decide to open a brewery together, and a single woman who grapples with online dating alongside constant reminders of her ticking body clock, and desire for a family.

My favourite recurring storyline, however, is that of a lesbian couple, Chase and Jo. Their first episode in season 1 depicts Chase going on a date with vegan Jo, and grappling with changing who she is to impress her. Then, in season 2, they reappear for a perceptive look at feminist ideals applied to real life. Chase is an archetypal feminist who runs an art gallery which holds events for feminist performance art. Her ideals are tested, however, when her now-girlfriend Jo decides to pursue burlesque dancing, something which Jo feels empowers her but which Chase sees very differently. I loved this episode because it so successfully portrays the messiness of theory and ideology when applied to real situations, centred around real people with real feelings. It shows feminism as a nuanced real-life experience and asks questions about what constitutes art, and who gets to define its parameters.

This show’s realism is perhaps its biggest selling factor: the characters are believable as real people with real lives. There are no happy endings and no clean resolutions; such is life. Much of the dialogue is improvised, meaning scenes and conversations are authentic, raw, and engaging as the characters are allowed to speak for themselves and not limited by a strict script.

In summary: easy-to-watch entertainment which engages perceptively with high-minded ideas in an accessible and authentic way.