The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea by Maggie Tokuda-Hall

Posted on March 1, 2024 by pagesofjulia

There’s a little bit of everything in this unusual fantasy novel for older kids or young adults (or any of us, obviously). Sweet, heartwarming, and surprisingly bloody, The Mermaid, the Witch and the Sea offers mermaids, pirates, and young love. Imagine a bit of Treasure Island, but gender-bending and with a greater emphasis on political workings and class divisions. And magic.

We open with a murder on a pirate ship, then shift to high tea in a house of wealth and privilege. In the first scene, a teenaged boy named Florian earns his keep, having gambled on a life of piracy to save him and his brother from a life of deprivation and scant survival on the streets of the Imperial capital city. In the second, a girl named Evelyn chafes at the bounds of her household, where she enjoys status but not the love of her parents, who plan to send her away to be married to a man none of the family has ever met. Evelyn winds up on the same ship as Florian, where loyalties are split between factions supporting the Empire (who have colonized almost all of the known world, to the discontent of many) and the Pirate Supreme, who serves the Sea. “The Pirate Supreme’s forces were the only thing standing in the way of complete Imperial rule on the open sea. If pirates could still disrupt the merchants, still stymie the trade routes, then the Imperialists could not claim full control. Every robbery, every kidnapping, every galleon destroyed was a protest against the Emperor.” Some loyalties have yet to reveal themselves. And oh, Florian is also Flora, whose pronouns and identity as ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ shift throughout the story. “Both, maybe, but not neither.” “Both were equally true to her” (or him); “neither told the whole story.” Florian is Black and Evelyn is something like Japanese, although these seem to be descriptive details rather than identities that affect status or prejudice in their world.

Flora has lived life on the margins, making hard choices, fighting for life in the most basic ways. Evelyn has suffered a different kind of privation, unloved and lacking agency, but has never imagined the kinds of challenges Flora has faced. The two have much to learn from each other. And I haven’t even mentioned the effects of mermaid blood or its price on the open market, the scarcity of witches in Imperial colonies, or the far-seeing powers of a conscious Sea.

Delightful, weird, fanciful, queer coming-of-age with murder and magic. Violence, rather than sex, may recommend a readership in their teens more than their tweens, depending on blood tolerance, but the themes are solid: finding oneself, living one’s truth, navigating ethical puzzles, being a good friend. And it’s a page-turner to boot.

Rating: 7 haircuts.

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Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Posted on February 26, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Hold out your hands and let me lay upon them a sheaf of freshly picked sweetgrass, loose and flowing, like newly washed hair.

Definitely one of the best of the year, Braiding Sweetgrass is a big serious one that I fear I won’t do justice. In good company, it reminds me of Pieces of White Shell and Soil. The good news is, many more thoughtful than I have also written rave reviews. It’s not a new one (original publication 2013) and the praise has been coming for years.

This is a beautifully written book, with poetry and metaphor and gentle, thoughtful articulations of big, important ideas. Robin Wall Kimmerer is a highly trained scientist – a botanist and a college professor; she is also a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, with a background in thinking about the world in very different ways from the standard, Western, materialist, human-centered culture that many of us (including me) are more familiar with. Part of her life story has been the reconciling of those two parts of herself, or the training of them to work in concert, when one did not always welcome the other. But it’s to our great advantage that she’s been working so hard at that intersection, and sharing it here. I’ll characterize that work as the integration of a sense of interconnectedness, and the idea that other-than-human entities hold their own identities and importance aside from what they offer to humans, with modern “hard” science.

I love the structure of this book, which progresses through Kimmerer’s life and perspectives on the natural world and humans’ relationship with it, always with sweetgrass as an organizing principle. The preface, whose first line introduces this review, succinctly describes the importance of sweetgrass to the culture Kimmerer comes from. The braid “is an intertwining of science, spirit, and story–old stories and new ones that can be medicine for our broken relationship with earth, a pharmacopoeia of healing stories that allow us to imagine a different relationship, in which people and land are good medicine for each other.” There follow five sections–“Planting Sweetgrass,” “Tending Sweetgrass,” “Picking Sweetgrass,” and braiding and burning it–each composed of individual essays. The first essay, “Skywoman Falling,” begins with an origin story of North America as Turtle Island, starting with “a great turtle” that holds the earth on his shell, an origin story that holds significance for me; the first few pages of this book won me over completely. And I remained captivated throughout.

Any book about the natural world and human relationships and responsibilities these days is bound to contain some bad news; I find myself shrinking back from some of this reading, while I’m also still drawn toward it, because of the pain I feel at that bad news. But Kimmerer has some real wisdom to offer about the choice between despair and joy, the question of whether we can view hard truths and still find good parts too. “What could such a vision create other than woe and tears?… it is not enough to weep for our lost landscapes; we have to put our hands in the earth to make ourselves whole again. Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.” Thank you, Sweetgrass, for that gift.

Gifts are an important topic throughout, too. The Native American culture of gift-giving, the importance of reciprocity, and the emphasis on giving with a faith that things will come back around applies not only to interhuman relationships but the ones with the earth and its nonhuman inhabitants too. The difference between a capitalist, materialist, consumerist culture and one of gifts and reciprocity is profound. An essay titled “Learning the Grammar of Animacy,” in part about language (and the near-extinction of the Anishinaabe languages Kimmerer might have learned to speak as a child, “had history been different,” and which she now studies as an adult), is also about some of these cultural concepts, and the fact that language shapes the concepts we’re even capable of comprehending. Like some of the best books in the world, Sweetgrass is about paying attention, and the importance of the choice of what we attend to.

Individual essays tell stories from Kimmerer’s family life (from childhood through motherhood), from the different communities in which she’s lived, from her experiences as a student and as a teacher. They take place in different parts of Turtle Island, including New York state and the Oregon rainforests, and integrate some pretty serious science with traditional storytelling and Kimmerer’s own. There is so much to learn here, and I love science made accessible by story. I won’t begin to try to tell you what all is available here; I really want you to discover it yourself.

This book might just change the way you look at the world. I hope it does. Please give it a chance.

Rating: 9 raindrops.

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Maximum Shelf author interview: Essie Chambers

Posted on February 23, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Following Monday’s review of Swift River, here’s Essie Chambers: One More River to Cross.

Essie Chambers earned her MFA in creative writing from Columbia University and has received fellowships from MacDowell, the Vermont Studio Center, and Baldwin for the Arts. A former film and television executive, Chambers was a producer on the 2022 documentary Descendant. Her debut novel, Swift River (Simon & Schuster, June 4, 2024), is a complex, place-centered coming-of-age reckoning with race and class.

What was the beginning kernel of this book?

Essie Chambers
(photo: Christine Jean Chambers)

I wanted to write about the experience of being a young person growing up in a small, weird, homogeneous town and being isolated, the only one. The image came out of nowhere, of a bigger-bodied person and her tiny mother walking on the side of the road. I knew that I had to write about these people. That was the powerful, impactful seed. I grew up in a small town; it’s a very isolating thing if you can’t get around. That very first sentence: “The summer after I turn sixteen, I am so fat I can’t ride my bike anymore.” That sentence came with such clarity. They have to walk. She’s a bigger-bodied person; what would it mean for that to be the way she got around?

Why include letters from Lena and Clara?

I grew up writing letters to my elders. I was forced to write thank-you letters, and I came around more willingly with my grandmother; we wrote regularly. I treasure those letters. I got to know a lot about my mom’s family through that correspondence. That form is a beautiful way to talk across generations. I knew the present-day story I wanted to tell. As I built the layers and came to understand how big a role history was going to play, I knew I had to connect the history to Diamond in a personal, meaningful way, to deepen the mystery of the community and what happened to Pop, and to give Clara, a character from another time, a real voice.

With Lena, I wanted Diamond to finally have a way to connect to the Black side of her family, but I wanted to maintain the sense of isolation that Diamond had with her mother; that would be gone if they met face to face. The letters were a way for a seed to be planted, and for me to show the ripples in Diamond’s life.

Inheritance is such a strong theme in this book. We think of inheritance as money; for her inheritance to be stories and letters just felt really powerful.

Your title is the name of the town. Is the book as much about place as it is about Diamond?

It’s absolutely just as much about place. The town is a character. But actually I thought of the title as being the river, rather than the town. River in these mill town communities is so central–it’s power, literally. Life-giving power. Rivers have many meanings across cultures. Crossing a river can mean transitioning from one phase of life to another. In Black culture and traditions and spirituality, river can mean life and rebirth, a place where you get baptized, where you wash away your sins and get renewal. All sorts of spirituals have “river” in their title. I started thinking about one called “One More River to Cross.” The notion was that getting to freedom was all about crossing many rivers. Just when we think we’ve crossed all the rivers there’s one more to cross. Freedom is so elusive. A river is also dangerous and fast and perilous–it’s just so rich.

When Clara is falling in love with Jacques, she talks about not being able to find language for it. It was like the experience of being held by God, when you don’t have language and you don’t have words, and something is holding you and you can’t see it–she likens it to floating on the Swift River, where she just feels held by something divine. What a beautiful feeling that was.

Was there research involved?

A ton, and research led me to the most important part of the book. I knew that I wanted to write about a Black person’s experience growing up as the only person of color in a community. I started thinking about Pop’s experience. I wanted to do more digging about Black people in rural New England. I was shocked at how little was written about them. I’m drawn to these hidden or forgotten histories. I was familiar with the sundown town, where a predominantly white community excludes Black people with laws, harassment, terrorism, or violence–the name comes from signs that were often posted right at the welcome sign, warning Black people that if they were caught after sunset, they might be killed. I had a lot of assumptions about racist violence in the North versus the South; I was surprised to learn that sundown towns were a very Northern phenomenon. It kind of blew my mind open. I found one book, Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism by James Loewen. A detail jumped out at me: sometimes an exception for one or two Black people was made if they were serving an essential function. If they were domestics or something, they would be allowed to stay. And I thought, Diamond is going to be descended from a person who was allowed to stay after a violent expulsion of the Black community. Boom, that was it. That’s my connection. That gives her roots; that gives me a chance to explore another character who is experiencing a different version of being the only one. It cracked the story wide open for me. That came from my research. I highly recommend that book.

How does your work in film and television translate to writing a novel?

I am a very visual storyteller. I often see a scene first: the image of Diamond and Ma on the side of the road. It’s incredibly exciting. Seeing an image first generates an emotion, and then I get to find the language to channel the emotion. The image gives me confidence that I know what the shape is going to be.

I spent a lot of time telling stories for kids and young adults in TV. I love telling stories about childhood; that moment in life is just so rich. We’ve all felt the pain of living through this very particular developmental stage. The language is “never” and “forever.” The feelings are so big–it’s not necessary for big things to happen in order to feel that pain and create drama. That was very much a mantra in telling this story: big things don’t need to happen in order to be felt in a big way.

Is the perspective of big bodies under-represented? What does this add to Diamond’s story?

I felt like everybody should be able to see themselves in books. I want more, more, more: diversity of story, where weight is not stigma, where weight loss isn’t the goal. Bodies not being represented in a stereotypical way. That really had a massive impact on how I thought about telling Diamond’s story. I didn’t want her to be skinny and happy at the end. I didn’t want weight to define her journey. I just wanted people to feel what it felt like to be in that body. It’s a way that she feels like an outsider, and that’s a universal experience.

This interview originally ran on January 24, 2024 as a Shelf Awareness special issue. To subscribe, click here, and you’ll receive two issues per week of book reviews and other bookish fun.

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Maximum Shelf: Swift River by Essie Chambers

Posted on February 19, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Maximum Shelf is the weekly Shelf Awareness feature focusing on an upcoming title we love and believe will be a great handselling opportunity for booksellers everywhere. The features are written by our editors and reviewers and the publisher has helped support the issue.

This review was published by Shelf Awareness on January 24, 2024.

Swift River tackles an impressively broad range of issues, including race, class, and body image, within the coming-of-age of Diamond Newberry. Essie Chambers’s first novel, building upon her work in film and television (Descendant, 2022), is set in the decaying New England mill town of Swift River, with meditations on place and the effect of a hometown upon generations of lives. Sixteen-year-old Diamond narrates: “This isn’t a mystery or a legend. It’s a story about leaving. It starts with my body. My body is a map of the world.” Her voice is strong, clear, and confident, interspersed with flashbacks to Diamond’s life at age nine, when her father disappeared. These two timelines are eventually joined by letters from a previously unknown aunt and great-aunt, so that the voices of three women over decades triangulate a story of longing, family connections, and growing into oneself.

“Picture my Pop’s sneakers: worn out and mud-caked from gardening, neatly positioned on the riverbank where the grass meets the sand.” This indelible image, published in the newspaper, haunts Diamond as she mourns her lost father. He was the lone man of color in Swift River. “Pop is the only other brown I know. No one else in town has dark skin like ours, not even Ma, which is what makes our family different.”

Years after the sneakers on the riverbank, in the summer of 1987, Diamond’s Ma, of “pure Irish stock,” is unemployed and dependent on pain pills after a traumatic car accident. Mother and daughter live in extreme poverty, and Diamond has dealt with her grief by eating. Diamond and Ma, like many mothers and daughters, have a complex, push-and-pull relationship, mutually dependent and melding love and disdain. By class, by race, by Diamond’s weight–their household is defined by difference. Ma has a plan to finally get a death certificate for the missing Pop (now that the requisite seven years have passed) and collect his insurance. Diamond, at 16, has forged Ma’s signature and signed herself up for driver’s education classes. She seeks escape. Out of the blue, a letter from an Aunt Lena in Woodville, Georgia, disrupts Diamond’s sense of herself and her heritage, and establishes her first link to any family since her beloved Pop disappeared.

As Diamond and Lena exchange letters, a new version of Swift River unfolds. Diamond learns about the past: “Time is folded in half. Black people live here, they call this town home. They are millworkers and cobblers, carpenters and servants. A ‘Negro’ church sits next to a ‘Negro’ schoolhouse; the mill bell carves up their days… clotheslines stretch across yards like flags marking a Black land… In one night, they’re gone. Those were my people.” Aunt Lena also sends Diamond older, preserved letters from Lena’s Aunt Clara, so that three versions of Swift River emerge through the years. Race is at the heart of their stories, an issue Diamond has had little context for until now. As she grows into herself, and rebels against Ma–including learning to drive, a literalization of her need for movement and self-determination–she finds new family and a new version of the world she thought she knew.

Swift River is an ambitious novel. Diamond and Ma struggle with small-town ostracization and class. The history of Swift River, with its firm racial lines and exodus on the night the Black former residents called “The Leaving,” as well as Pop and Diamond’s personal experiences, offers access to a larger history of race in America. Diamond’s choices about her own body, including food, track her sense of agency and self. The gravity of the novel’s themes is leavened by Diamond’s strengths: she is smart, sings beautifully, and takes initiative in her own life against all odds. At driver’s ed, she makes a new friend, Shelly, a hard-edged girl with problems and hopes of her own. Between the many hardships, Chambers imbues the story with warm compassion, gentle humor, and a care and respect for relationships between women: Diamond and Ma, Diamond and Aunt Lena, Clara and her sister Sweetie. “Who is a person without their people?” Other than the significant absence of one man, this is a story about women.

Chambers’s choice of the epistolary format is inspired, as Lena’s and Clara’s voices emphasize the importance of relationships and connection. Their perspectives on Swift River strengthen the significance of place and displacement. Lena writes to Diamond, “Your hometown makes you and breaks you and makes you again. Daddy said that to me. I wonder if that’s how you’ll feel about Swift River if you ever leave it?” The question of whether to stay or to go is at Swift River‘s heart, as Diamond told readers early on: “It’s a story about leaving.”

Featuring strong characters and a strong sense of place, amid numerous social issues and personal challenges, Chambers’s first novel will appeal to a wide audience and stick with its readers long past its stirring final pages.

Rating: 7 newspapers.

Come back Friday for my interview with Chambers.

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Maximum Shelf author interview: Yael van der Wouden

Posted on February 16, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Following Monday’s review of The Safekeep, here’s Yael van der Wouden: ‘All That’s Left of Them.’

Yael van der Wouden was born in Tel Aviv and currently lectures in creative writing and comparative literature in the Netherlands. Her debut novel, The Safekeep, a quiet consideration of the aftermath of World War II in the Dutch countryside, will be published by Avid Reader Press in May 2024.

What about this story needed telling?

Yael van der Wouden (photo: Roosmarijn Broersen)

The most common story you hear from Dutch Jewish people of my generation is they grew up not knowing they were Jewish. Around age 20, 25, when their grandparents got older, the story came out: they were Jewish and either had to hide during the war or decide to convert entirely. They were so traumatized by being recognized as Jewish that they just wiped it clean. I have a lot of friends around me who around that age started digging into that history. I think I leaned heavily into that.

My mother is Israeli but her heritage is Bulgarian and Romanian, and my dad is not Jewish. He’s Dutch. My Jewishness is not related to my Dutchness. I grew up within Jewish culture, so a lot of those friends came to me. I was always embarrassed to tell them I can give you the songs, the rituals, but the real, true, in-depth knowledge, I do not have. But I guess when you have nothing, then anything resembling a cultural narrative is a lot.

I spent a lot of my 20s in a turmoil of frustration and anger around how nonexistent Jewish heritage is in the Netherlands. It’s been cannibalized: taken apart and consumed by mainstream Dutch culture. There’s a lot of Yiddish in Dutch, which is very confusing when no one is Jewish but everyone says words you understand. How did this word get here? Mazzel, or punim which means face, or lef which means bravery, heart. There were traces. Empty synagogues, houses with David stars on them but no one lives there anymore… it’s as if–no, it is that an entire community of people has just disappeared overnight. And no one ever asked where they went.

All that’s left of them is the traces of language, and locale. The places where they lived. When I started to notice what was around me and what was not present, I (in very 20s fashion) became very frustrated and angry. It’s a conversation that I’ve been having with myself and with people around me ever since. What needs to happen with that history? What does an apology mean? Who is the apology for? Is it for the person who apologizes, or is it for the person on the other end, who receives it? I don’t want an apology. What kind of acknowledgement do I want? That’s the question that’s been on my mind for a long time.

What’s changed in the Netherlands?

If one person is born into responsibility, and the other person is born into misery, how do you marry the two? In that conversation I was having with myself, it’s more than acknowledgment. “Yes, this happened. Yes, I’m sorry.” What I wanted for these characters is for them to find the next step, which I believe is desire. Desire to have the other person around. Desire to have the other person stay. The other side of the coin.

The Netherlands had one of the highest percentages of deported people during World War II. The narrative is that the Dutch had a great resistance, they helped people hide, but actually a lot of people asked for money to hide people. Only people who had wealth could hide. The Dutch are very big on bureaucracy. So when the German officers and officials asked, where are the Jews and where do they live, the Dutch just said, here they are. That’s why it happened so quickly, across the board. They were very efficient. For me the flip side of not caring that someone is going to be taken away is desiring the person to come back, desiring them to stay. How do we take ignorance and prejudice and flip it into desire? I don’t think that tolerance and acceptance is the solution. I think desire is the solution. I wanted to take Isabel and crack her open and see what would happen if that small life, that small way of thinking, were filled up with desire.

The conversation about Jewish life in the modern-day Netherlands is either about the war, or Israel and Palestine. When the Dutch talk about Jews they talk about those who have died or those who are not there. It’s never about the present, the people who live here and how we are a part of society. It feels invisible–and at the same time, I don’t want my visibility to be connected to death. I want it to be about Passover or Rosh Hashanah, or anything else. When you talk about somebody only in the context of them not being there, you’re emphasizing that they don’t belong in your midst. And that goes back to the idea of desire. Maybe it’s a childish thing. I just want to be desired.

Your book includes some lovely erotic writing.

For me, erotica is about the knife’s edge of voyeurism and participation. As a reader, you want to feel like you are present, but if you are too present then I think the text tries to envelope you, tries to comfort, and I think good erotic writing makes you a little uncomfortable.

Zoom in, zoom out. Zoom in on a body part–ideally you don’t zoom in on a body part that is sexual. An elbow, the tip of the nose. Something unexpected. Then you contrast that with something that is very sexual or very obvious. I think that’s how you create that erotic tension.

People sometimes enter into it with their own discomfort, and rather than treat it earnestly, they make it either as weird as possible or as disgusting as possible. Every body part, all the filthy juices. They will not create something attractive, but lean into an element of disgust. I think you need a little bit of disgust, but it should be a palette. It needs to be a good goulash: the sour, the sweet, the savory. You have to be completely earnest about it or it will not work. You need to fully mean to write something personal and intimate.

What do you feel makes a fascinating protagonist?

Everybody will have a different answer. For me the answer is quite similar to the question of what makes good erotica. I think the answer is contrast. Conflict. My favorite line about protagonists is from E.M. Forster. When he talks about Maurice, he says he wanted to write the most normal, run-of-the-mill guy, and then give him something that upends his worldview. For Maurice, it is that he falls in love with a man. The entire mechanism of him has to change in order to accommodate this thing within him that doesn’t fit within the norm. I think that’s the most fascinating character. Somebody who has their idea of who they are, and then you throw something in the middle that topples that Jenga tower. Those are the most interesting moments in our lives, when you have this idea of who you are and something or somebody comes along and you realize, oh, no–I had no idea who I was.

This interview originally ran on January 17, 2024 as a Shelf Awareness special issue. To subscribe, click here, and you’ll receive two issues per week of book reviews and other bookish fun.

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Maximum Shelf: The Safekeep by Yael van der Wouden

Posted on February 12, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Maximum Shelf is the weekly Shelf Awareness feature focusing on an upcoming title we love and believe will be a great handselling opportunity for booksellers everywhere. The features are written by our editors and reviewers and the publisher has helped support the issue.

This review was published by Shelf Awareness on January 17, 2024.

Yael van der Wouden’s first novel, The Safekeep, explores the rural Dutch landscape in the years following World War II through the life of a lonely, sheltered woman reluctantly forging new bonds. In what is largely a closed-in, personal story with a solitary protagonist, van der Wouden also examines larger issues in the social context of Dutch postwar society.

The story is set in 1961, in a rural Dutch province that has largely recovered from war, on its surface. Isabel has spent her life tucked away in the house where her family relocated from Amsterdam during the war. An uncle found the place for them, and 11-year-old Isabel took up residence with her mother, younger brother Hendrik and elder brother Louis. Eventually, their mother died and the brothers moved away, but Isabel stayed, believing there was nowhere else for her. She keeps the house meticulously, polishing dishes and micromanaging a series of beleaguered maids. “She belonged to the house in the sense that she had nothing else, no other life than the house, but the house, by itself, did not belong to her.” She lunches occasionally with Hendrik, less often with Louis. In her lonely, strictly regimented life, the house is Isabel’s constant, the thing she can control, her greatest comfort.

The Safekeep opens in her garden. While digging out late-season vegetables, Isabel finds a shard of broken ceramic, “Blue flowers along the inch of a rim, the suggestion of a hare’s leg where the crockery had broken. It had once been a plate, which was part of a set–her mother’s favourite…. There was no explanation for the broken piece, for where it had come from and why it had been buried. None of Mother’s plates had ever gone missing.” This beginning offers an early clue that Isabel’s understanding of the house and its contents, of her own personal history, may be flawed.

Further disruptions follow. Hendrik, a steadfast supporter of his solitary sister, nevertheless lives a life she hasn’t come to terms with. He lives with a man; this makes Isabel uncomfortable. Worse, Louis brings yet another young woman, Eva, to a dinner with his siblings. Eva sets Isabel on edge for reasons Isabel does not understand. Additionally, any serious liaison for Louis implies a threat to Isabel, who is permitted to stay in the house only until Louis (its intended inheritor) settles down to start a family. Worse yet, at Louis’s insistence, Eva comes to stay at the house with Isabel while he is on a trip: Isabel is horrified to be made to share her space with a woman she despises.

The tension in the house rises to a nearly unbearable pitch. Isabel habitually suspects her maids of stealing, and now suspects Eva, whose own history is murky, as well. Isabel obsessively inventories china dishes, silverware, and items of décor, counting spoons and watching Eva’s every move. She cleans and displays and relocates the mysterious shard of plate from the garden, imbuing this small object with outsized power. Eva’s presence continues to feel inexplicable. Louis’s return from abroad, to collect Isabel’s unwanted houseguest, is delayed. Tensions continue to build.

Van der Wouden excels in surprises, including changes in tone. The Safekeep remains, almost in its entirety, nearly claustrophobic in its focus on Isabel’s commitment to her family home. “Bound to the house, [Hendrik] said. As if it was a tether and not a shelter. And not her own love, too.” But this tightly bound, insular story of one woman’s struggle finally zooms out, with near dizzying quickness, to engage with larger questions. An old friend of Isabel’s mother is preoccupied with a dish that was given to her “to keep” before the war, by a neighbor who now wants it back. This friend believes it is hers now; the neighbor disagrees. “What does it matter, gifting, keeping? She gave it to me. It was a terrible time. She was gone for years.” As its title hints, van der Wouden’s novel will puzzle over various meanings of safekeeping. Likewise, the sparsely populated story is punctuated by passages of erotic writing that surprise as much by their loveliness as by their departure from the book’s otherwise lonely atmosphere. Not only the story of one family’s struggle or Isabel’s quiet pain, The Safekeep addresses themes of yearning, possession, the difficulties of Dutch recovery from World War II and of same-sex couples’ experiences in a society still regaining its feet.

In the end, like a country recovering from a trauma, Isabel must step outside her space of comfort and familiarity in order to learn and grow. “Isabel tested one [of the frozen canals] with her foot, and found it solid, and then stood on it in wonder: a miracle, she thought, to stand so solidly on what could also engulf you.” Van der Wouden communicates and implies much with a minimalist style that is often quietly, shockingly, beautiful. “The shadows lifted as though they’d only been glimpsed under the hem of a skirt–the lift on an arm, secrets of the body that only unfolded for the night.” The Safekeep is a slow-burning, deceptively austere novel, whose subtle, crafty questions and lovely, lyric style will follow the reader long after its conclusion.

Rating: 8 pears.

Come back Friday for my interview with van der Wouden.

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The Golden Enclaves by Naomi Novik

Posted on February 9, 2024 by pagesofjulia

**Spoiler-Free!**

Following A Deadly Education and The Last Graduate, The Golden Enclaves wraps up the Scholomance series. I am very pleased with this conclusion and the whole series. For spoilers’ sake, this review includes practically no plot summary.

As a series finale, The Golden Enclaves takes on a lot, and involves a ton of action, ranging very widely in the ‘true’ geographic world as well as in the void and the magical spaces that populate Novik’s imagined world. A number of characters take great steps; this is indeed a coming-of-age for El, who has graduated from the Scholomance and achieved some real victories, but only to step out into a larger world where the monsters are decided not all neatly taken care of. She’s suffering some losses, not least in realizing the limits of her powers: she is one of the most powerful wizards ever, but there are still limits. We see her take less advantage of the friendships and alliances we’ve seen her form up til now, but also find news ones and/or revive some that have lain dormant.

I love about this whole series that it offers commentary on class divisions and the ethics of who gets to be safe and cared for in the world. Those themes are strengthened here, and complicated. There is a very pointed conflict of interests that she calls a trolley problem, of the highest order; El must face that she cannot (so to speak) save them all, that every choice has a cost. In the face of this frustration, she wavers, considers giving up. We have learned that El is incredibly strong and strong-willed; she doesn’t give up easily. But we have also never seen her tested like this.

I love the characters, including one or two who are still ‘rising’, coming to center stage. I love El herself so dearly; she struggles so hard with this book, even after having accepted help and friendship, and her struggles often yield some good snarky humor and fun amid the pathos. Novik has enormous world-building power, which was evidenced at the series’ start but is still at play here, because our understanding of the world (and El’s understanding of it!) must expand considerably in this book. I’d recommend her to anyone.

Rating: 8 bricks.

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Mr. Fox by Helen Oyeyemi

Posted on February 5, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Of the Oyeyemis, this one leans toward the more accessible for me, which is not to say I entirely understood what was going on, but I had a lower rate of whaaat?? than in some cases. I’m still not sure what it is about this author that although she frequently bewilders me I’m still on board.

Mr. Fox is, in most cases, a writer. Mary Foxe is his creation: a fictional character, or a muse, or an imaginary friend. There is also a Mrs. Fox, Daphne, who is married to Mr. Fox in the (if you will) real world; in some versions she is his third wife. She is jealous of Mary Foxe, whose existence is often in some question. There are various iterations of these circumstances throughout the book; it claims to be a novel (it’s right there on the cover!) but I would buy it as a collection of linked stories. Sometimes there are literal foxes. Often there is some reference, if oblique, to fairy tales. I don’t entirely agree with the back-of-book blurb’s description of what happens here, which is interesting. It is possible that one of us is wrong, of course, me or the blurb-writer–likely me, although I’ve seen the other happen!–but I think it’s possible that Oyeyemi has left things a bit up in the air.

I thought we had an organizing principle, briefly, in the idea that Mary was pushing Mr. Fox to do less killing off of his characters, particularly his female characters. (He is not an especially likeable man, and this is one manifestation of something unpleasant about his attitude toward women.)

What you’re doing is building a horrible kind of logic. People read what you write and they say, ‘Yes, he is talking about things that really happen,’ and they keep reading, and it makes sense to them. You’re explaining things that can’t be defended, and the explanations themselves are mad, just bizarre–but you offer them with such confidence. It was because she kept the chain on the door; it was because he needed to let off steam after a hard day’s scraping and bowing at work; it was because she was irritating and stupid; it was because she lied to him, made a fool of him; it was because she had to die, just had to, it makes dramatic sense; it was because ‘nothing is more poetic than the death of a beautiful woman’; it was because of this, it was because of that. It’s obscene to make such things reasonable.

I would have been interested in this guiding principle for the novel, but that is not this novel. It’s only a thread.

I’m going to stop saying much about Oyeyemi’s books. I more or less understood this one and it was an interesting ride. I’ll read another. If you know of a class I could sign up for online to help these books make more sense, I would pay for such a class (no joking).

Rating: 8 fountain pens.

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Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera

Posted on February 2, 2024 by pagesofjulia

Small-town dramas, sharp humor, strong characters, and a touch of romance spice up a genuinely fun mystery.

With Listen for the Lie, Amy Tintera (Reboot; The Q) offers a sexy, compelling mystery as her adult debut. Entertaining characters act out the intrigues of murder and of small-town life, with dark humor, propulsive pacing, and a properly confounding whodunit.

Lucy Chase has been living a not-particularly-successful life in Los Angeles. When the novel opens, she has just been outed by a true-crime podcast as the overwhelmingly favored suspect in the murder of her best friend five years earlier, in the small Texas town where they both grew up. Now that she’s been fired from her job and her boyfriend is trying to break up with her, she lets her grandmother (her last friend and defender in the world, it seems) talk her into coming home for a visit. Back in Plumpton, Tex., she immediately runs into Ben Owens, the true-crime podcaster who’s on his way to ruining her life. He is obnoxiously sexy, and perhaps less out to get her than she’d originally thought, but Lucy’s hometown offers her no comforts.

One morning, after they left a party together, Savvy was discovered dead in the woods, and Lucy was found nearby, walking down a back road, covered in Savvy’s blood, her skin under Savvy’s nails, and her fingermarks bruised into Savvy’s flesh. Lucy had a head injury; she’s never remembered anything about that night. Her then-husband and her parents, along with the rest of the town, were quick to assume her guilt, but there was insufficient evidence to charge her with Savvy’s murder. Lucy decided to move far away, to L.A., and try to start a new life. Not that it was going well, but being back in Plumpton, with everyone staring her down, sure of her guilt, is worse. Lucy is spirited, witty, and bold; if “innocent people don’t make sarcastic comments,” she’s guilty as can be.

Strangely, Ben, the annoyingly attractive podcaster, is the only one to question why everyone in this town (including Lucy herself) was so quick to assume Lucy’s guilt. The circumstantial evidence is damning, but Ben is able, with amateur detective work, to expose enough secrets to complicate the case considerably. Lucy is as surprised as anyone.

The murder suspect’s amnesia throws a wrench in readers’ ability to guess at Tintera’s plot twists. Even as Lucy wrestles with trauma, balancing guardedness with rare vulnerabilities, she and Savvy reveal a real sense of fun. Plumpton is a thoroughly realized setting, complete with neighborhood personalities and an authentic small-town dynamic. Listen for the Lie is quite sexy, compulsively readable, and laugh-out-loud funny, and Tintera has left herself healthy room for a sequel.

This review originally ran in the January 4, 2024 issue of Shelf Awareness for the Book Trade. To subscribe, click here.

Rating: 7 wineries.

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Starling House by Alix E. Harrow

Posted on January 29, 2024 by pagesofjulia

I still love Alix Harrow! Starling House has been much anticipated, and I think it fits neatly into her body of work, combining fantasy and whimsy with darkness and grit, as well as romance and a touch of sweet, but not so much that you don’t still feel the hard bite underneath. This protagonist reminds me quite a bit of Chuck Wendig’s Miriam Black; she’s hard-edged and a resolute loner, even though her heart is much softer than she’ll allow. She’s rough and dirty and antisocial, damaged but so strong.

I’m a cheat and a liar, a trickster and a tale-teller, a girl born on the ugly underside of everything. I’m nobody, just like my mother before me.

Her name is Opal. No last name, or whichever one she’s chosen for herself in the moment, like her mother before her. Her mother died when Opal was fifteen, and she’s been parenting her little brother–who was only five–ever since. Jasper is her only priority in life.

I’m a high-school dropout with a part-time job at Tractor Supply, bad teeth, and a brother who deserves better than this dead-end bad-luck bullshit town… People like me have to make two lists: what they need and what they want. You keep the first list short, if you’re smart, and you burn the second one. Mom never got the trick of it–she was always wanting and striving, longing and lusting and craving right up until she wasn’t–but I’m a quick learner. I have one list, with one thing on it, and it keeps me plenty busy.

Jasper is smart and talented, and his debilitating asthma is a bad match for the coal town of Eden, Kentucky. Opal is determined to get him out.

But she is distracted by the magnetic pull of the Starling House, a mysterious old haunted mansion that you can’t see from the road, but this doesn’t stop Opal from dreaming about it. One day she just sort of allows her body to take her there, and she meets its latest enigma of an owner/resident: Arthur Starling, an unkempt, haunted man about her own age. They both know Opal should steer clear of the House, but the House has a consciousness of its own, and once the seal has been cracked–contact made–her life is irrevocably intertwined with Arthur’s, and the House itself, and its weird and inexplicable history. The Starling House, it seems increasingly clear, is all bound up with the town of Eden and the terrible bad luck and sin and crime and hopelessness that Opal wants so badly to free Jasper from.

This is a novel that focuses on place, history, what it means to belong, to stay or to leave, and the meaning of home. Eden’s history includes coal mining, slavery, exploitation, and class divisions. The Starling family has been around for generations, and their role is ever-changing and unclear; the Gravely family has been around just as long, and they are the wealthy coal and power magnates, handing out favors around town or made of pure evil, depending on your perspective. There are a host of other compelling characters, including a loveable motel owner and an even more loveable librarian and a country cop who, again, falls somewhere between doofy and evil. I quite like Jasper, too. Harrow is good with characters, although not all of these are equally well developed.

So, a strong sense of place and a big role for place to play in the narrative. Great characters, with cleverness and snark and grit. And an emphasis on the power of storytelling, and questions about story versus history. “I told myself that writing down somebody else’s story wasn’t as bad as making up my own, the way repeating a lie isn’t as bad as telling one.” “I know that part of the story must be made up, because there’s no such thing as curses or cracks in the world, but maybe that’s all a good ghost story is: a way of handing out consequences to the people who never got them in real life.” “I saw this old map of the Mississippi once. The cartographer drew the river as it actually is, but he also drew all the previous routes and channels the river had taken over the last thousand years. The result was a mess of lines and labels, a tangle of rivers that no longer existed except for the faint scars they left behind. It was difficult to make out the true shape of the river beneath the weight of its own ghosts… That’s how the history of Starling House feels to me now, like a story told so many times the truth is obscured, caught only in slantwise glimpses. Maybe that’s how every history is.”

Finally, at the heart of Starling House is a mystery about power dynamics and the very nature of reality–as well as monsters, imagination, dreams and hopes and hopelessness, family, connections and home, and even romance. It’s a wild ride of a good time. I’m enchanted.

Rating: 8 Ale-8s.

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