The Everyday Book Review Roundup (February '21)
Welcome to February, and the Literature section’s first Book Review Roundup!
We’ve got some pretty exciting book reviews coming your way, from dystopian fiction to all things mental health; fiction and non-fiction - we’ve got it all!
‘Your Work Wellness Toolkit’ by Ellen M Bard
Words by: Halimah Begum
It’s no secret that work often impacts your mental wellbeing, and vice versa. With the strike of the pandemic and the emergence of ‘working from home,’ it is now imperative that we prioritise a healthy work/life balance, and Ellen M Bard’s latest release guides you to achieving this.
‘Your Work Wellness Toolkit’ is an interactive journal, helping readers navigate their patterns around work and showing how this not only impacts their performance, but their wellbeing. The book comprises 12 chapters that explore various things and their impact on our performance at work. Chapters range from topics such as physical environment, all the way to work relationships. One of my favourite things about this book was how it allowed me to realise that often the things that we don’t consider to be important, really are important. They can be vital in how they will affect our ability to work. Something as little as where I am sitting can hugely impact my mood and even my work patterns - and it can do the same for you. In some sense, the journal mirrors Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), as it asks you to reflect on your current practices, and where you want to be. It’s up to you to make those changes that the book guides you to make, and if I’m honest I liked that aspect of the book. I like how it normalises accountability in these situations. I also found it incredibly useful to find solutions to problems that were identified. There are 100 exercises in the book – you’re bound to find a few that work PERFECTLY for you and will most certainly change your work patterns.
My favourite exercise was naming my ‘work why,’ which as the title suggests, looks at why you are working. For anyone who has taken the time to read my review; first, how does it feel to be part of the cool club? Secondly, I’d like you to ask yourself what your work why is? Why do you work? I know that previously my reason for working was to survive, and upon reflection I realised how genuinely terrifying and pressurising that was. Whilst survival is an important reason to work, it’s also extremely weighty and stressful, and it places some scary responsibility on us. So, I’ve decided to change my work why because I became so fixated on the idea of survival that I lost sight of what really pushed me to study my chosen subject and aspire for my chosen career; it was my passion and the excitement I got from it.
If there’s one thing I would have liked to have seen more of, it’s more content related to students and studying. I’m still at university, and so I often felt that I didn’t relate to many of the exercises, or the aspects covered.
I’m glad I got the opportunity to read this and reflect, and I found that being able to do this away from a therapist was nice in the sense that I could be completely honest with myself when it came to identifying some of the issues with my current practices. (FYI: This isn’t an attempt to discourage you from therapy, I found it to be a life changing experience, but personally in a situation like this, I would prefer the privacy and I guess the independence of being able to identify these issues by myself). I found that working my way through this journal was an incredibly insightful experience, and I found many deficiencies in some of my practices. I thought that changes were easy to implement, and I did find them to be particularly helpful. I read a chapter a day, and at the end of every chapter I felt motivated to make these changes. If you’re in a similar situation as me, and you’ve got an atrocious work/life balance – pick this up. But this isn’t restricted to those in such a situation, and in all honesty, anyone who works can read it. I think you’ll find it helpful, and definitely eye-opening.
Thank you to Watkins Publishing for sending me an ARC of the book!
‘You’ve Reached Sam’ by Dustin Thao
Words by: Tesni Jones-Edwards
‘We are two parts of a song. He is the music. I am the words.’
When seventeen-year-old Julie’s boyfriend, Sam, dies suddenly and unexpectedly, her whole world comes crashing down. All her plans; moving away together, going to college, visiting Japan with him, all seem to disappear in an instant leaving Julie heartbroken. Without Sam, she finds herself drifting away from friends, family, and life itself and one night, desperate to hear his voice, Julie calls Sam expecting to hear his voicemail.
One thing she doesn’t expect is for Sam to pick up.
When she’s given a second chance at saying goodbye, Julie takes it. The only rule she must follow is this; don’t tell anyone or she could risk losing her connection with Sam prematurely. With each call, it becomes harder and harder to let Sam go, and keeping things a secret becomes a task in itself when Julie witnesses the suffering of Sam’s friends and family.
What are you supposed to do if the only way to help the ones you love is by losing your connection to another forever?
‘You’ve Reached Sam’ is a hauntingly beautiful debut that deals with loss, death, and young love. It is the kind of book that stays with you long after you’ve read it, the sort of book that makes you tear up in public just by thinking about it, and the sort of book you recommend to anyone.
Thao manages to juggle a perfect ratio of sadness, joy, and anger that mimics what we as humans often experience when someone close to us tragically dies. The book unapologetically confronts the most painful, most devastating aspects of grief, and does it in such a way that also makes you feel unburdened by the end. It is a perfectly cathartic experience that felt very accessible to all ages.
The concept is so unique and so interesting that it immediately grabs you, but I think one of the best things about this book is that the connection that Julie and Sam has isn’t the main focus of the book. Instead, Thao focuses a lot on Julie moving on, reconnecting with friends, family and learning to live with the tragic death of Sam.
Even writing this review I am tearing up; it was just so beautifully done.
One thing I find with many contemporary books is that the side characters are never fleshed out, their personalities being non-existent and forced, but in ‘You’ve Reached Sam’ that is never the case. Each character feels like a real person, and you can see how each one struggles in different ways with Sam’s death. I particularly loved Mika, and honestly, I would love to see a sequel that follows her into her next phase of life. She was funny and quirky and most importantly real. The writing isn’t anything notable, it isn’t flowery or lyrical, but that never seems to matter because of how well written the characters are. I found that through the side characters Thao manages to communicate with the reader that there isn’t a ‘right’ way to grieve, and however you feel after someone's death is valid and I absolutely adore that message.
All in all, the story of Sam and Julie will stay with me for a very long time because of this beautifully written book and I would one hundred percent recommend this to anyone.
‘Sorrow and Bliss’ by Meg Mason
Words by Florine Lips
When there is as much hype around a book as there is for Sorrow and Bliss (2020), Meg Mason’s third novel, it is difficult not to approach it with caution. Books described as ‘jaw-droppingly funny’ (Jessie Burton),‘unforgettable’ (India Knight) and ‘emotion-bashing’ (The Times) seem almost destined to disappoint, so often falling short of the lofty expectations set for readers by the general critical consensus. Sorrow and Bliss, though, is different: it is one of those books that really does live up to every ounce of its praise. It is witty, astute, unexpectedly and deeply poignant, taking you deftly from one emotional extreme to the other, without losing the agility that gives it such momentum. In short: believe the hype, it is really very good.
When we first meet Martha, the novel’s protagonist, she has just turned 40, split up with her husband, and moved back to the family home. Mentally, she is not in a good place; hints at her emotional state are sparse, until we learn that at 17 ‘a little bomb went off in my brain’ and she has never been the same since. From this revelation follows a lifelong quest to obtain a correct diagnosis, one that takes her from uncomfortable, invasive early doctor’s appointments (at one point she is misdiagnosed with glandular fever, with the doctor telling her father that ‘evidently, someone has been kissing boys’) to a discovery later in life that makes her question everything. A key thread of the novel, and what ultimately becomes its heart, is Martha’s unrelenting desire to understand her own behaviour. Referencing Martin Amis, she tells us that ‘unless I inform you otherwise, at intervals throughout my twenties and most of my thirties, I was depressed, mildly, moderately, severely, for a week, two weeks, half a year, all of one.’
References to Jean Rhys, whose books Martha comes across during a stint in Paris, are more apt. Because what we take away from her description of the emotional tumult she deals with on a daily basis is just how exhausting it is to live with a mental illness and not get the right treatment for it. The prevalence of misdiagnosis in women is astounding, and only just beginning to be talked about: recent research has called it an epidemic, noting that women are between 30% and 50% more likely to receive an incorrect diagnosis than men. Although Mason has claimed not to have set out to explore this topic, it is something that saturates the novel. Through her retrospective narration, Martha outlines how symptoms of her illness have become integrated into her personality, wondering why, for years, ‘nobody thought to wonder if those episodes were separate beads on one long string.’ When she does, eventually, put the beads together, it has drastic consequences, and flows into one of the most heart-rending passages in the novel.
Many reviews have focused on the novel’s tone, which is uniquely brilliant and effective in drawing us into Martha’s world. Her narration is dry and funny, brightened up by exchanges with her highly entertaining and loveable sister Ingrid, as well as the presentation of the rest of her family unit: her mother, the ‘minorly important’ sculptor; her father, the poet once described as ‘the male Sylvia Plath’; her disciplined yet continuously supportive Aunt Winsome. The novel is loosely structured around a family Christmas, spent at her uncle and aunt’s house in Belgravia, which is described so vividly that it is hard to remember that Mason is from New Zealand, and not, in fact, from the UK. It is at one such Christmas that Martha meets Patrick, the gentle, endlessly loving man who is to become a vital presence in her life, and whom we root for from beginning to end.
As an exploration of mental illness, and what it does to the people around you, this novel is incredibly powerful. It also broaches this topic with a skilful lightness, through energetic narration that effortlessly takes us through Martha’s memories; Mason’s use of language is economical, and nothing is there that doesn’t need to be. Every word is loaded with meaning, creating a novel that is so absorbing it leaves you regretting having finished it. And, ingeniously, it is really funny, creating a Fleabag-like trajectory of extreme emotional ups and downs. It evokes every single kind of sorrow and bliss, and is an absolute must-read.
A Love Letter to Ling Ma’s ‘Severance’
Words by Natalie (@bookenders)
Severance, you have my whole heart. You lured me in with the premise of a dystopian-pandemic novel, a genre I adore, and you infused a saturated genre with a fresh, nuanced take.
Severance follows a young woman named Candace as she traverses the end-days of New York City, cleverly interwoven with chapters of her life working in a corporate role producing fashionable Bibles, which outsources work/labour to China. Although this predates the pandemic in our current lives, it is very reminiscent of those early 2020 feelings, where as a society we found ourselves in a real-life sci fi world, coming to grips with a virus that was worse and more widespread than majority of us had anticipated. Ling Ma blends many separate themes into one cohesive book: the struggle of immigration, the flaws of modern capitalism (and whether or not we can ever be truly ethical as individuals under our current economic system), science fiction, the grip that nostalgia of our youth holds over us, loneliness, religion.
The author cleverly uses a dual timelines, flipping between Candace’s corporate life in the moments leading up to the virus, and her life during ‘the end’, where she joins a small band of other humans who appear to be the only survivors of the widespread Shen Fever. Candace works throughout the outbreak, when most of society returns home to their families, since her immediate family is deceased. This aspect of the book resonated with me as a reader deeply: I moved away from home (to a different country) 5 years prior to the Covid-19 outbreak, and whilst my peers returned to their family homes, I felt a profound loneliness. During a time when “stay home” becomes the nation’s mantra, it begs the question for those of us who are estranged, orphaned, or otherwise removed from our immediate families: what makes a home a home?
Severance is packed to the brim with wit, beautiful writing, and satire. My only criticism is that at times it felt a little too on the nose, heavily reinforcing the imagery of the infected as phone-zombies. Whilst my personal preference when reading is always understated, Severance is such an unforgettable novel that I am willing to forgive some of the more heavy-handed symbolism throughout.
Perhaps the reason Severance is such a feat of a novel is its duality: it criticises the actions we are forced to take under late-stage capitalism, but is sympathetic to the cycle we are all indebted to. The novel examines the notion of freedom for the modern world: is it living off the grid, or is it having a career which provides a comfortable lifestyle? It highlights that financial security is essential to be able to live entirely in the moment. When an individual is concerned about affording their monthly rent, or their next meal, the idea of breaking away from a secure career is suffocating – not freeing – and the novel understands this while still holding a critical lens to the injustices which occur under modern capitalism. Severance is not a mindless tirade, but rather a clever observation and critique of modern-working life, infused with a sprinkle of sci-fi horror, and I absolutely adored it. I didn’t want this book to end, but equally I couldn’t wait to see how it finished, and for me that is the mark of an excellent book.
If you’ve read and enjoyed Severance, I recommend Under the Blue by Oana Aristide, Earthlings by Sayaka Murata, and Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung. Whilst these three are different to Severance, they share core themes and/or aesthetics.
For more book reviews and content, please follow me on Instagram: @bookenders
Olive, Again Is an Expressive Triumph
Words by: Maya Yegorova
It takes an exceptional writer to excel in all storytelling fields: It’s remarkable when someone writes excellent dialogue, plot, character development, and setting description. Elizabeth Strout is one of those writers who possess an unparalleled gift for writing and delivers a captivating story from start to finish: There’s always an established plot, and the descriptive setting gives readers a clear vision of what Maine, the New England state in which Strout sets most of her novels in, looks like. Strout’s novel Olive, Again solidifies her status as a high-caliber writer.
Olive, Again is a novel published in October 2019, and even Oprah’s Book Club chose it as their monthly pick. The novel is composed of 13 short stories that chronicle the life of the elderly woman Olive Kitteridge, a retired middle school math teacher, and her interactions with other locals in Crosby. It’s a sequel to the 2008 Pulitzer Prize winning novel Olive Kitteridge, but it’s not necessary to read the first instalment to understand Olive, Again.
Yes, there’s an 11 year difference between the two books’ publication dates, but that gap doesn’t affect the quality of Strout’s writing. To begin, Olive, Again is memorable due to its lyricism. Nowhere is this more evident than when Strout describes her beloved home state.
Readers are transported to this rugged state known for its extensive coastline, lobster, and forests. Crosby is a quintessential New England town: Strout mentions lobster buoys, lobster boats, and fishermen throughout the novel. Her descriptions are poetic: In the story “The Poet,” Strout writes that “seaweed lay like combed rough hair” and “the boats that remained in the bay sat graciously, their thin masts pointing to the heavens like tiny steeples.” As a result, readers get a vivid image of Maine in their mind. A Maine native, Strout succeeds in paying homage to her roots.
Strout’s writing isn’t just expressive when describing places, she depicts emotions in a wonderful way too. In the short story “The Walk,” the character Denny describes that looking at the girl he likes is “like looking at the sun.” The poetic writing is meant to be savoured and it is best to read this book at a slow pace, as I found myself rereading certain passages because they were so beautiful. Olive, Again is the book to read if you’re looking to relax for a couple of hours on a lazy afternoon or if you want to take time to unwind before bed.
The thirteen stories are additionally realistic and simply portray life in an idyllic small town: A woman goes into labor during a baby shower, a history lover participates in a war reenactment, and Olive is nervous before her son’s family in New York City visits her Maine home. Readers can identify someone in their own life that reminds them of these characters: Olive is that grumpy but loveable grandparent, her son Chris is that person who thinks his family dynamics are complicated, and Fergus is that person who is a total history buff. These characters are not flawless, but that’s okay: Strout broadcasts that perfection is impossible, and that imperfection shows signs of humanity.
But the best element of Olive, Again is how Strout’s stories glide and how she always connects her final words of a story to what she mentions in the beginning of the story. In the story “The Light,” cancer patient Cindy Coombs says she doesn’t understand why people hated February and why they complained about the cold, as some days in February there was light and that offered hope on how winter would be nearly over.
At the end of the story when Olive visits Cindy in her home, Olive gets distracted and looks out the window on the sunny day, saying, “My God, but I have always loved the light in February.” Strout always has a memorable conclusion in her stories, and makes sure that a reader remembers what a character said earlier in the story.
It’s hard to find a novel that both appeals to the human spirit and is very meaningful, but Olive, Again comes close. Strout should publish a third book about Olive, as I just want to return to Maine over and over again.
The Stranger by Albert Camus (Translated by Matthew Ward)
Words by: Khushi Gupta
Albert Camus’ The Stranger was originally published in French as L’Étranger (1942) and translated into English in 1946. The novella’s opening line is one of the most memorable (and absurd) lines in literature, which sets the tone for the novel:
Maman died today. Or yesterday, maybe, I don’t know.
It is divided into two parts, separated by a murder that the narrator commits. Both parts are told through the eyes of Meursault, who is both the narrator and the protagonist. The stranger in the title refers to him as he is a stranger among other people because he is so alienated from them emotionally, spiritually, and physically. The plot is simple, with minimal action, but there are multiple layers to uncover. It has several characters; only a few of them are actually named (Meursault, Salamano, Raymond, Marie Cordona, Céleste, and Thomas Perez), while some of them are alluded to by their occupations (the Chaplain, the Examining Magistrate, the Caretaker, the Director, the Prosecutor, and the Lawyer). Interestingly enough, none of the Arab characters in the novel are named, which highlights the colonial lens through which the novel portrays the colonial subjects.
Meursault is a peculiar character who intrigues the reader and makes them want to know more about him. He is described as someone who is emotionless and unbothered by the happenings in/of life. The way in which he deals with the news of his mother’s death sets the tone for the novella. He does not cry on receiving the news, sleeps on the way to the funeral, does not wish to see the dead body for one last time, describes the weather at the funeral as “pleasant” and even gets upset that he cannot enjoy a walk on that beautiful day because of his mother. His reaction to an event that would have been heartbreaking for others does not change anything for him. On the day following the funeral, he goes for a swim, plans a date with an ex-colleague named Marie Cordona, and even watches a comedy film with her.
The consequent events over the course of the novella produce a similar reaction in him. His relationships with other people are hollow. There is a point in the novella where his “friend” Raymond, asks him to become his witness in a case, and he agrees to act as a witness, even though legally he is not a witness at all. The fact that nothing really matters to him is highlighted again and again, such as when Marie asks him to marry her, or when his boss offers him to work in the office in Paris, or when he is put on trial for killing an Arab man, or when he is put in prison. In the second part of the novella, which I found to be more interesting than the first, Meursault is labeled “Monsieur Antichrist” because of his personality. His case is interesting: he has killed an Arab man, but shows no remorse and even finds the idea of attending a trial interesting. He is guilty not just of killing an Arab man, but also of not having a soul and of moral principles not being within his reach. I think the prison could also be read as a metaphor for human life in general. The novella elaborates on the “utter pointlessness” and absurdity of human life through the character of Meursault. Towards the end of the novel, Camus elaborates on this idea and writes:
Salamano's dog was worth just as much as his wife. The little robot woman was just as guilty as the Parisian woman Masson married, or as Marie, who had wanted me to marry her. What did it matter that Raymond was as much my friend as Céleste, who was worth a lot more than him? What did it matter that Marie now offered her lips to a new Meursault?
Although it might seem like Meursault does not feel any emotions, I’d say that he often feels the wrong emotions. For example, he feels joy on returning to Algiers after attending his mother’s funeral, and he feels annoyed by the investigation rather than remorse at his crime. He is an interesting character and makes a great subject for psychological study. It is an interesting and quick read that would have you question the idea of life itself. You might not relate to Meursault too much, but you still might find sense in some of his arguments about the absurdity of life. If you are someone who is fascinated by the philosophical concepts of existentialism and absurdism, I would highly recommend this book to you.
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