Category Archives: fiction

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Haven, by Emma Donoghue

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My horror at the devastation wrought by evangelical “Christians” (who eschew the basic tenets of Christianity) in the U.S. made this novel tough going for me. I couldn’t get past my outrage that anyone would submit themselves to torture and starvation in the name of religion when salvation—an earthly one to be sure—was so easily available.

Donoghue, author of Room, has constructed another story where people are confined in a tiny location, dependent on the whims of an all-powerful tyrant. In 600 A.D. Cluain Mhic Nóis, an Irish monastery, hosts a visiting holy man, perhaps the holiest man on earth: Artt, legendary for having read every book in existence and surviving the plague with the loss only of a finger.

While there, Artt has a dream—surely a holy vision!—that he should found a new monastery on a remote island off the Irish coast, far from the earthly temptations that have, in his view, corrupted Cluain Mhic Nóis. The dream/vision/mandate from God further commands that he take two of the monks: Cormac, an older man who came late to religion and is fond of telling stories, and young, impressionable Trian, who was given to the monastery at 13.

They fetch up on a stony isle that it is hard to imagine anyone could survive a week on, though the author’s note assures us that it is indeed the site of a medieval monastery. The fascination for me was in the various ways they—mostly Cormac to be honest—find to survive in this hostile environment. Trian, too, captures the heart with their sweetness and love for everything—birds, fellows, mussels, God. Artt is just, in my opinion, a self-righteous, narcissistic blowhard, convinced that he alone is the conduit of God’s word.

Well, obviously I’m the wrong audience for this book. I could hardly bear continuing to read of their hardships, knowing that civilisation—with, sure, its evils, but also actual sustenance and shelter—is only a short boat ride away. The writing is gorgeous but the story infuriating.

I have my moments of thinking like Artt that the world is incurably decadent, and wanting to preserve some small piece of what life could really be like. But this is not the way. And I’m far too practical to take my minions, even if I could bear to have minions, away from necessities like food, water and shelter to create religious monuments. Nor could I ever sacrifice others to my vision of my own greatness.

So, while I admire the prose, the story left me cold. No, not cold, but a turbulent mix of emotions: frustration, anger, sadness, a hint of longing. The book challenged me to think outside my own box, a challenge I guess I failed. Stil, I’m left thinking of John Lennon’s Imagine: no religions, nothing to die for.

Have you read a novel that challenged you?

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The Fell, by Sarah Moss

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In the COVID lockdown. I was one of the lucky ones: healthy, able to work at home, and enough of an introvert to relish the time alone. Not everyone was so lucky, as I was well aware. Every say I saw and thought about the mail carriers, trash collectors, and delivery personnel on our otherwise empty street.

When I finally began to venture out to the grocery store, I wore a mask to protect the cashiers and other employees. I felt sad and angry that so many people—including my own sons and daughter-in-law—had no choice but to put their lives and those of their families on the line.

Now, a few years later, I barely remember those times, so I was eager to pick up this brief novel by Sarah Moss, whose Ghost Wall I had previously enjoyed.

Set in a village in the Peak district of England during the early lockdown, the story moves between four characters. Fittingly, the four almost never interact with each other, so we meet each one alone and plunge deeply into their psyche, creating a surprisingly gripping psychological novel.

Kate is a progressive single mother who has been exposed to COVID, so must self-isolate for two weeks, along with her teenaged son Matt. Since cafe where she works is shut down, they are struggling financially, but worse for her is the confinement to the house and yard. Matt is happy to blow off his online lessons and spend his days immersed in video games and helping his mom around the house, but she is not. Devoted to the outdoors, she is used to rambling the fells every day and feels suffocated and nearly out of her mind.

One day, near dusk, she grabs her backpack—always filled with the essentials dedicated hikers know to carry—and sets out for a brief walk on the nearby fell, reasoning to herself that she will almost certainly be the only out there, so she won’t endanger anyone.

When she doesn’t return, Matt is frantic but doesn’t want to get her in trouble by reporting her missing. Their next-door neighbor Alice, retired and with health problems, sees Kate go, but for the same reason doesn’t report her. Still, when Kate doesn’t return Alice worries about Matt, and eventually calls and persuades him to report his mother as missing.

The Mountain Rescue Team is summoned, including Rob, a divorced father whose teenaged daughter is furious about his departure on this rare night together. He is our fourth person, weighing his responsibility to his daughter against the missing woman’s safety, his commitment to the team, and his own desire to be out on the fell.

This is the thread through the four people’s stories: how do we balance our wants and needs with our responsibilities to others, not just family, but the person next door, the cashier at the village shop, the team that has to come out on a cold night to scour the fell?

Alice mourns for Matt, left alone through the long night, as the team searches for his mother, but is unsure about going to be with him, given her health problems and his exposure to the virus. Matt is unsure how to interact with the rescuers. And they, if they are lucky enough to find Kate, will have to touch this person who may have COVID and then go home to their families. Kate must wrestle with her own guilt and possible mortality.

Having hiked those fells myself just a few months ago, I was especially invested in this story. I saw how easily things could go wrong, even for the most experienced hiker. I met people on the trail who set off this way and that, determined to explore remote paths, and a woman who swam alone every day all the way around a large, usually deserted, mountain tarn. I knew about the Mountain Rescue Team—bless them!—and was doubly diligent about being careful on the slippery stones on the steep fells. I did not want to be carried out with a broken ankle!

Moss set herself a challenge with this book. A story about isolation and boredom could fall apart so easily, especially one with almost no scenes showing characters interacting. However, she succeeds brilliantly, with suspense building throughout the brief time frame of the story, abetted by the ticking clock of injury and exposure.

The characters come alive, convincingly portrayed in their intensely personal sections. Each of them will haunt me for some time. And each is wrestling with an issue that all of us—COVID or no COVID—are navigating every day: how to balance individual freedom with collective responsibility.

Have you read a novel that illuminates our particular moment in time?

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The Maid, by Nita Prose

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NOTE: There may be some spoilers in this review.

My first reaction to my local book club’s choice for this month was that it was a shoddy knockoff version of the delightful Japanese bestseller Convenience Store Woman. Like that subtle, smart novel, Prose’s protagonist is a young woman apparently on the autism spectrum who works in a menial job and loves it. Unfortunately, The Maid doesn’t measure up.

Molly Gray works as a chambermaid in a five-star hotel where she enjoys restoring each room to “a state of perfection.” Less enjoyable is the disdain with which most of her colleagues treat her—referring to her a weirdo, a robot, a Roomba—though not to her face. Still, she calls on the platitudes and proverbs she learned from her gram, recently deceased, to keep her world in order. Then one day she enters a room to clean it and finds the guest staying in it dead on the bed.

Billed as a cosy mystery, the book fails to be either. True, there is a death and cups of tea, but there is no intrepid sleuth tracking down the killer. There are no clues to follow, no investigation. Instead, the story limps through a threadbare plot, every step of it embarrassingly obvious. There are a few gratuitous “twists” at the very end which come across as cheap tricks because they are not integrated with the plot at all.

Not only is the plot childishly simple, but the language is in the middle grade range (appropriate for age 8-12), often even simpler than that. And that gets to the worst aspect of the book. Since it’s quite obvious to the reader what’s going on, the plot is not the driving force in the book. Neither is the setting, which is barely sketched in. The people in the story are caricatures and stereotypes, either all good or all bad, so nothing there to keep the reader going. The only thing left is Molly herself.

Yes, the force propelling the story is the reader’s amusement as Molly constantly misinterprets what’s obvious to all of us neurotypical folks and responds with prim childish speeches. Making fun of neurodivergent people is a bizarre—and repulsive—choice for the basis of a book. I’m aghast that so many people seem to think this is just great, and that the book has won multiple awards, achieved bestseller status, and will be made into a film.

Making Molly be so childish and naïve seems like the author knows nothing about autism. We talk about cultural appropriation in literature. If a neurotypical author is going to write a first-person novel in the voice of a neurodivergent person, they ought to at least be knowledgeable about the condition. There’s also the way Juan Manuel, who works in the hotel’s kitchen, is presented as naive, unintelligent and helpless, summoning the most despicable stereotypes about immigrants and Mexicans. The police too are shown as bumbling and cruel.

In addition to the above concerns, there are gaping holes in the logic of this story, For example, Molly bounces back and forth from clueless to astute and back again. She tells us about her condition, but sometimes doesn’t show it in her behaviour. Also, no police detective arresting a young woman in her pajamas, would cart her off to jail without enabling her to get dressed. Here, Molly even has to appear in court in her jail-begrimed pajamas, like that would actually happen.

Maids do not trundle their carts through the lobbies of five-star hotels or leave them outside the door to the bar. Nefarious boyfriends are not able to clean out a person’s entire savings account at an ATM in one fell swoop; there are limits on how much you can take out at a time. Plus, how is it that criminals can be running a drug ring in a fancy hotel without anyone noticing? Where are the security people?

Most of all, how is it that no one, from Molly’s childhood teachers to her co-workers to anyone on the police force, recognises that she is neurodivergent?

I am baffled by the praise heaped on this book. As I read it, I alternated between boredom and outrage. Of course, even though it’s a first novel, the author is a longtime editor and, at the time it was published, vice president and editorial director at Simon & Schuster, so she knows a few people.

There are some cute things in the story, like the devotion of Molly and her gram to the Olive Garden and the old tv Show Columbo. But that’s not enough to make up for the story’s weaknesses.

What story have you read with a neurodivergent narrator? What did you think of it?

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The Years, by Annie Ernaux

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Writing guru Donald Maass—writer, agent, and writing teacher—reminds us to include what’s going on in the world in our stories, partly because our characters will probably be thinking about current events and reacting to them. Mostly, though, because including specific details and big-picture events helps make the world of our story seem real to the reader.

In this book, Ernaux has gone further, focusing on the larger life of a society and placing the life of one woman within that.

. . . the idea had come to her to write “a kind of woman’s destiny” set between 1940 and 1986.

Ernaux’s genre-bending experiment adds a new dimension to the field of life writing. She goes beyond memoir—a subjective view of events in the author’s personal life—and autofiction—a reexamination and fictionalisation of those events—to create a new form that melds both of these with sociology and history. She has captured the sweep of the lifetime simultaneously with that of a person and a generation.

Everything will be erased in a second. The dictionary of words amassed between cradle and deathbed, eliminated. All there will be is silence and no words to say it. Nothing will come out of the open mouth, neither I nor me. Language will continue to put the world into words. In conversation around a holiday table, we will be nothing but a first name, increasingly faceless, until we vanish into the vast anonymity of a distant generation.

Time is the only narrative structure in this collage of private memories, public events, photos, songs, brand names, television, advertising, headlines. There’s no plot, no protagonist, no story question. Instead, we are given “abbreviated memories” spun together, some personal and some common.

It will be a slippery narrative, composed in an unremitting continuous tense, absolute, devouring the present as it goes.

I especially like the way Ernaux, looking back on a long life, refers to the past as a series of “palimpsests.” It’s an effective way to describe the veils that layer over each other as we try to recall how we were.

At first, I felt overwhelmed by the flow of historical events, popular culture, and experiences. I could barely grasp each fragment before it was replaced by another, perhaps because I was listening to the audio version, beautifully performed by Anna Bentinck. Eventually, though, I began to recognise how artfully they had been assembled to create a continuous narrative.

More importantly, I came to feel a part of the story, engrossed in the passing decades and fascinated by the ways my own life interacted with this collective story, merging and sliding apart, only to merge again and again slip away. I began to feel as though she were telling me the story of my own life, with occasional diversions.

Perhaps I should have first mentioned the unique point of view. Unlike most life writing, there is no “I” in the book. Instead—and fittingly for the story of a generation—it is narrated by “we,” as though by a chorus of voices. Apparently, in the original French version, the pronoun used is “on” which is the generic he/she that English is lacking, though it could be translated as “one.” The translator, Alison L. Strayer, has chosen instead to use “we,” which works brilliantly to capture the voice of the collective sections.

Some parts are about a specific woman, spoken of as “she.” As she nears the end of life, she begins to write this book to defy death’s erasure.

By retrieving the memory of collective memory in an individual memory, she will capture the lived dimension of History. This will not be a work of remembrance in the usual sense, aimed at putting a life into story, creating an explanation of self. She will go within herself only to retrieve the world, the memory and imagination of its bygone days, grasp the changes in ideas, beliefs, and sensibility, the transformation of people and the subjects that she has seen.

I plan to delve into other books by Ernaux, winner of the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature. I can see why this particular book was longlisted for the 2019 International Man Booker Prize. Without getting into the controversy over whether it qualifies as fiction (a requirement for the Booker), I have to rank it high on my list of best books ever. To reach into my own past: it blew my mind.

Have you read a book by Annie Ernaux? What did you think about it?

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Old God’s Time, by Sebastian Barry

Old God's Time

Tom Kettle is a retired Irish detective, living out by the coast, in a lean-to attached to an old castle. In retirement, he does nothing or, as he says, stays “stationary, happy and useless.” For nine months he has treasured his empty days, when they are interrupted by two junior detectives appearing at his door.

They’ve come to ask for his help with an old case, one Tom worked on: the murder of a priest who had been accused of abusing children. But this is no police procedural, with a brilliant sleuth and a puzzle for the reader to figure out.

There is a puzzle for sure, but much of it has to do with how much Tom can rely on his own thoughts. His mind moves plausibly between day and dream, present and past, until the reader is left wondering whether a visitor is real or a ghost, if things happened the way Tom described them yesterday to the way he describes them today.

He’s buried under the weight of the past. The abuse he endured in the orphanage, witnessing the sexual assault of boys “with the light in their eyes put out” by the priests was still not as awful as his wife’s suffering in the convent. Later, he thought they’d outrun the priests and the horrors, him doing well in the Garda, June raising their two smart and wonderful children. But those cautiously happy years have been erased by the repeated traumas of his police work and by his unbearable losses.

His memory slips around like a Rubik’s cube, realigning sometimes in a new pattern or falling into chaos. He cannot trust his own mind, his own senses. He becomes friends with another tenant of the castle, a cellist—or was that a dream? Tom often hears the cellist practicing Bruch’s Opus 47, an adagio based on the Kol Nidre, a Hebrew and Aramaic declaration that is associated with the “day of atonement” in the Jewish calendar.

Just as Tom navigates his slippery sense of reality, the reader is carried from a scene of pure realism into stream of consciousness into dreams and memories. It’s a brilliantly written book. I had to pay attention, and sometimes be patient, but I never lost the thread of the story. I wondered at some of the detours, but in the end could see they were all necessary.

This is a story about trauma, how it is carried in the body and the mind, how it endures into the next generation. Tom Kettle has his code. He struggles to hold onto his integrity even as he tries to sort out in his own mind what is true and what is not.

In my book club we often talk about how some novels require an extra effort from the reader, a bit more thought, a little more patience. I won’t deny that Barry’s novel is difficult to read, both because of its slippery narrative and the terrible descriptions of abuse, but it is well worth the effort. It’s unforgettable.

Have you read a novel by Sebastian Barry? What did you think about it?

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Convenience Store Woman, by Sayake Murata

Convenience store Woman

This quiet, first-person narrative from Japan invites us into the life of a woman at odds with her culture. At thirty-six, Keiko Furukura still works part-time in a convenience store, a situation that is considered disgraceful in a society that values high-pressure careers. Even worse, she’s unmarried; in fact, she’s never even had a boyfriend.

She’s been working at the same store for half of her life and is an excellent employee: always polite with customers and colleagues, cheerful and hard-working. Keiko, who is neurodivergent (probably somewhere on the autism spectrum), responds well to the clear instructions in the store’s handbook and the rigid daily routine.

While she is proud of her success at the store, her family and friends worry about her and encourage her to take steps to become more “normal.” It’s hard not to worry about her when she has let the store dictate every moment of her life, even when she is not at work. For example, she makes sure she eats meals and gets enough sleep, not for her own sake, but so she will be at her best when she is at the store.

This is a slight book and I don’t want to give too much away. I’ll just say that the story is driven by that conflict between her life and what society deems normal. The conflict is exacerbated by being set in Japan, where conformity seems to be the highest virtue.

Thus, the story explores nonconformity and—almost as an aside—gender roles. In Japan the title translates to Convenience Store Human, and I’m told that Japanese readers, with whom the book is enormously popular, are mystified that U.S. readers find gender issues in the book.

Still, my book club believed gender was key to the story. For one thing, there’s the role reversal of a potential boyfriend wishing to stay home and do nothing while Keiko works to support him—another instance of nonconformity.

More importantly, there is the essential conflict for women of how much to accommodate society’s attempts to control what they are allowed to wear, what jobs they can have, even whether or not they bear a child. As one person said, the book explores the cost to women of being yourself. She added that these days the attempt to be happy with who you are is undermined even further by social media.

Of course men, too, suffer from rigid social norms, though I believe less so in the U.S. than in Japan’s work-obsessed society. And there is, in the U.S. at least, a strong movement in the radical right to control women and subjugate them to men.

I saw one additional—and subversive—point in Keiko’s story. Her robotic conformity makes her the perfect employee. She’s never late—often early, in fact—and never misses a day. She obeys every rule in the manual. She makes no demands on the company or the manager. She expects nothing for herself: she is there to serve the customers; she is there to serve the store. If this is the ideal employee, what does that say about the future of work?

My book club commented on the short, fairly simple sentences as being appropriate for the character. Of course, we read the book in translation, so wondered how it would sound in Japanese.

This book may be short, but it is not simple. We found a lot to ponder in it.

Have you ever read a story that seemed slight at first, but upon reflection turned out to have multiple layers?

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The Dollmaker, by Nina Allan

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I looked forward to reading this novel because of its experimental structure. It turned out to be a labyrinth of stories within stories, dizzying reversals and reveals, counterpoints and echoes. Even more than usual, I felt that as a reader I was an active participant in creating the story as I read.

At an early age Andrew Garvie began collecting dolls. His parents eventually came around to appreciating their only child’s preoccupation, recognising that his dwarfism limited his social life and his expertise actually led to a valuable collection. Andrew also begins to make exquisite dolls, sometimes restoring antique dolls.

He comes across an ad in the personal pages of a trade magazine requesting information about a Polish writer and dollmaker named Ewa Chaplin, and begins corresponding with Bramber Winters who says that Chaplin “seemed to know that dolls are people just like us.”

As they exchange letters, Bramber reminisces about her childhood and describes people who live in the same house with her now, though she leaves us—and Andrew—to guess if it is a boarding house or an institution of some kind. After a year of this, Andrew declares that he “understood that we were destined to be together.” He sets out on a quest from London to where she lives in Bodmin in Cornwall.

The book is a mix of Bramber’s letters, Ewa Chaplin’s dark fairy tales (included in full), and Andrew’s own memories, descriptions of dolls he’s made, and his encounters as he travels from London to Cornwall.

I find dolls quite eerie myself and as a child had nightmares about them. Once I had to leave a store in Toronto because the walls were festooned with doll heads made into clocks. Yet they are a potent image, especially in this context of stories within stories of dwarves and princesses, of solitude and unlikely connections.

Their otherness—people but not quite—keeps dragging us away from the strangeness of these two people who have never quite fit in, making us question what “normal” means in a world where magic might be real and fetishes quite common.

Nothing is quite what it seems, and often I found myself lost in the funhouse—in a good way. I appreciate that much is left unsaid so that that the reader cannot avoid engaging with the story and contributing to it.

Have you read a novel that incorporates myth and fairytales?

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The Violin Conspiracy, by Brendan Slocumb

The Violin Conspiracy

I stumbled on this 2022 novel by chance. What a treat it turned out to be!

Playing one of his high school’s loaner violins, Ray McMillan finds his life’s passion. He loves music, especially classical music. However, his mother wants him to drop out of school as soon as the law allows and get a job at Popeye’s so he can help support the family.

No one in his family understands or supports his love of music except his grandmother Nora who gives him the fiddle owned by her own grandfather, a slave, given to him by his enslaver. Dirty and in need of repair, the fiddle is Ray’s most precious possession.

As a Black teenager, Ray finds his path barred in many ways. As my own son’s first grade teacher said, “No one expects to find a genius in a neighborhood like this.” Luckily he encounters teachers who help him get a scholarship to study music and advise him during his adjustment to college.

When he finishes school and begins auditioning, he discovers that PopPop’s fiddle is actually a Stradivarius, worth $10 million. He becomes a sensation, due to his remarkable talent and amazing story, but he still encounters racism at every turn.

And he’s got other headaches: His family orders him to sell the violin and share the money with them. Not to be left out, the Marks family, descendants of PopPop’s enslaver, claim the violin is theirs.

Then, just as he’s preparing to compete in the prestigious Tchaikovsky Competition, he opens his violin case to find it empty except for a white Chuck Taylor sneaker and a ransom note.

The author ratchets the suspense up even more, as the clock is ticking down to the start of the competition and to the deadline to raise the ransom money or find the thieves. Could his family have taken it? Or the Marks family? Or professional robbers?

This is simply a great read. The characters are well-drawn; many of them seemed like people I know. It’s a wonderful story with much to say about our culture here in the U.S. and in the international music world.

The author’s descriptions of performances make the music itself come alive. But you don’t have to love classical music to enjoy this story of a young man with a remarkable gift and the tenacity to make the most of it. Plot, character, theme, settings: this novel has it all.

Is there a debut novel that you enjoyed and would recommend?

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If I Survive You, by Jonathan Escoffery

If I Survive You

In this remarkable debut, the author gives us eight interconnected stories about a Jamaican-American family. Most of them center on Trelawny, the younger child, born after Topper and Sarah emigrated to Florida in the 1970s with Delano, their beloved first-born. Not only is Trelawny American in a way that the rest of his family is not, but he is also sensitive and bookish, earning scorn from his father and brother.

“In Flux” explores the complexity of race as Trelawny tries to find out what he is. His light-skinned parents were not considered Black in Jamaica, but he certainly is when he goes to college in the Midwest. That’s just the first layer, as he keeps peeling them back, showing both the obvious and the subtle workings of racism in the U.S.

In this, as in several other stories, the author makes extensive use of second-person point-of-view: addressing the reader directly as “you.” It’s an interesting choice. A fad for second person swept the literary world after the success of Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City and then quickly became tiresome.

Here it works by engaging the reader and creating a buzzing immediacy. The author avoids the doldrums with the vibrant energy of his prose, the precision of his depictions of the culture, and his irrepressible—if often dark—humor. It is also a good choice for someone who hasn’t yet figured out who he is or if he as a person actually exists.

The other characters are unforgettable: Cukie, whom Trelawny envies because he gets to spend a summer with his father learning lobstering; Jelly, whose racist family baits Trelawny in the strangest Thanksgiving dinner ever; Delano, who totally buys into his privilege as the preferred son and assumes the world will likewise deliver for him. One story, in Jamaican dialect, presents Topper as a young man deciding to emigrate to Florida.

Having just been reading the essay “Dysfunctional Narratives” by Charles Baxter, I couldn’t resist applying his thesis that too many books are about a young person identifying the trauma that damaged them when young—usually from their family—and has continued to ruin their lives. Writers sometimes refer to this as the protagonist’s wound.

But if that is all there is to the story, then readers lose interest. Most readers want to see characters who grow and “start to act like adults, with complex and worldly motivations.” I agree with Baxter that we want to see characters admit their mistakes, take responsibility for them, perhaps even justify them.

Trelawny, at least, does acknowledge his mistakes. And certainly he is a victim of so many circumstances: racial discrimination, poverty, his father’s oft-stated preference for Delano, even a hurricane that destroys their home. However, even with the humor and brilliant writing, I sometimes had to take a break from his woes as the victim also of less-than-loving girlfriends, weird jobs, his own mistakes.

If I had any doubt that men are in trouble, this book would have put them to rest. The women, once they’ve left their husbands, do well, but the men all flounder.

Still, I have to defend Trelawny’s sense of being a victim. I can’t speak to enduring racial discrimination, but I’ve been poor and Escoffery is right: when you’re poor, survival hangs by a most tenuous thread. If you have the emotional support of your family or your community or both, you can weave in some happy times, sweet moments, even a few successes. Without them, your outlook is pretty bleak.

As Trelawny says, “It occurs to you that people like you — people who burn themselves up in pursuit of survival — rarely survive anyone or anything.”

I am on the lookout for books of interconnected stories like this one, Jon McGregor’s Reservoir 13, and Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips. Have you read a good book that uses that format?

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Horse, by Geraldine Brooks

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This novel succeeds on so many levels. Brooks weaves together multiple storylines, with different narrators and time periods, ensuring that the story reveals itself smoothly.

We start in 2019 in Washington, D.C. A graduate student from Nigeria is working on a magazine article related to his studies in art history when he notices his elderly neighbor, the one who has always been rude to him, lugging heavy items—probably her late husband’s things—out to the curb. Theo goes out to help. She refuses but tells him to take what he wants. Politely he pulls out a dirty oil painting of a horse.

At the same time, in a Maryland suburb of D.C., Jess works for the Smithsonian running a lab where she and her team clean animal bones and sometimes wire them back together. Originally from Australia, she begins working with a scientist from England studying the skeleton of what was once the most famous horse in the U.S., a skeleton that has gotten lost in the Smithsonian’s storage units.

The we move to Kentucky in 1850 where we meet Jarret, a slave who has grown up with horses and has an amazing affinity with them. His father Harry, who has bought his own freedom and is saving up to buy Jarret’s, is the head trainer for the plantation owner’s racehorses. Jarret and Harry are with the mare when she gives birth in the night.

These are the main threads, but we also get the stories of the itinerant horse painter Thomas J. Scott who later volunteers with the Union army, a rebellious daughter of Jarret’s original owner, and the New York gallery owner Martha Jackson in the mid-1950s who specialises in modernist artists but finds a 19th century painting of a horse irresistible.

So, yes, this is a story about a horse, beautifully written, with leisurely scenes full of luscious period details. It is also the story of the United States, from the antebellum world to the present. Inevitably it is about what Wendell Berry called the U.S.’s hidden wound. Yet race is mentioned only as it is integral to the story, whether it’s an abolitionist dressing down his in-laws at dinner, the Talk that both the Australian and the Nigerian missed, or the chapter headings that identify the boy as Warfield’s Jarret, then Ten Boeck’s Jarret, and so on through the book.

For me, the story moves beyond race into thinking about those who want to achieve great things, whether it is a horse eager to run, a child who wants to be free to exercise his particular skill with horses, or an athlete such as a gymnast or tennis player, ballet dancers—the list goes on—and those who profit from them. There is much in the news about the dangers of playing football, the emotional and physical damage of pushing young athletes too hard, and the potential for abuse of young people who want to win. Yet they DO want to win.

The novel is also about science and art and where they intersect. Brooks stirs in us that peculiar pleasure that comes from hard, creative, purposeful work. Woven into the story, too, are the opportunities denied to the women of the 1850s and 1950s.

Brooks’s novel enthralled me, chores postponed as I plunged into each new chapter, savoring the texture of each scene, and moving easily between the different worlds.

Looking back, I’m surprised by the last item. I am generally not a fan of novels with multiple point-of-view characters, yet here the transitions are so smooth that I barely noticed. It felt as though we were all sitting around a campfire passing around a talking stick, taking turns to tell what is so clearly one story.

I particularly dislike the kind of omniscience that moves from one character’s thoughts to another’s in the same scene. Brooks rarely does this, but it’s smooth as butter when she does.

I’ve been studying one scene in particular between Harry and Jarret when they receive bad news. We start with Jarret’s thoughts, move into Harry’s, and then back into Jarret’s within the space of two pages. It works because there’s plenty of dialogue to anchor the scene, and the moments of transition are moments of high emotion so the shift feels right. Also, Brooks also uses action as a bridge in those two transitional moments.

Whether you are interested in horses or not, you’ll find much to enjoy in this novel. It is the story of us, what we strive for, and the price involved. There’s much to think about here.

Have you read a Geraldine Brooks novel that you enjoyed? What did you like best about it?