A gripping and – of course – disturbing mystery, Ballard’s analysis of corporate capitalism shows us that some desires always need excluding or repressing to create an apparently perfect order.
Paul Sinclair is travelling to live for six months in Eden Olympia, an executive business park outside Cannes where multinationals are relocating, bringing their top executives to work and live in a gated and guarded community where everything they could ever need is provided.
He is travelling with his young wife, Jane, who has a six month contract as a doctor after the previous one, David Greenwood, apparently went off the rails in a mass shooting at Eden Olympia.
It doesn’t take long for things to unravel. Eden Olympia it turns out is the brain child of psychologist Penrose who recognises that business people can work productively in this environment, where work is all, but that all the monotony of this world needs an outlet. So he organises outings into Cannes for these managers to go out and beat up immigrants and attack prostitutes, all in the name of corporate success. Everyone in the complex is involved, but nobody speaks of it.
Gradually Paul, who is an outsider in many ways, becomes obsessed with why Greenwood – an apparently kind and gentle doctor – went crazy. He talks and is used by various people, the head of security, Penrose an Frances Baring who he has a relationship with.
Jane meanwhile is fully incorporated into Eden Olympia, she self-medicates and engages in strange and dangerous sexual relationships with some of the most powerful people in Eden Olympia.
It’s a good Ballard novel, not always a pleasure to read, but interesting, full of insight and ideas, and often surprising – though it bears a strong resemblance to Cocain Nights.
More than anything, and most effectively, it entertainingly explores the psychoanalytic insight of displacement. That when something is foreclosed desire will emerge in unruly and uncontrollable ways. At Eden Olympia the lives of the executives are thoroughly smoothed out – their lives are busy and fulfilled with work, their homes are beautiful, nothing outside of the complex’s control impinges on their lives. They are even developing a way to predict health problems so they are addressed before they happen.
But Penrose knows that this level of order can’t be maintained – people need disorder and rage and despair in their lives, and so he engineers for this to happen outside of their utopia, so the executives can expunge their base desires and maintain their order.
Politically, Super Cannes is similar to the theoretical writings of the likes of Chantal Mouffe, who argues the perfect ordered society is impossible – there will always be radical differences that cannot be assimilated and need to excluded or oppressed. What Penrose is doing is creating a gated utopia where the unruliness is allowed to be manifest outside to maintain order inside.
The dirty kid – a middle class woman lives in a rough neighbourhood, and learns that a homeless child she sees everyday is found murdered, sacrificed maybe.
This epic boxset-like novel features a huge cast of characters and dissects, like little else, the intricacies of small town politics – and the dangers we face as the world’s resources become more limited.
This is an astounding novel, with its stripped back insight into relationships and growing up.
A beautifully told and evocative – if slightly capitalist leaning – short story of the power of generosity whatever the circumstances.
Pushkin and his wife Irina are peasant farmers on the eve of the Russian Revolution. As the revolution occurs they move from the country to Moscow to be part of the birth of a new communist world.
Irina straight away becomes an organiser and Leninist activist, becoming active in her factory work. Pushkin ends up getting fired for incompetence and assumes the traditional role of the woman, queuing in long lines for essentials like bread or grain.
But, though he may be incompetent he is kind and endearing with everyone he meets in the queues, and he soon finds that his generosity towards others is rewarded. He stands in lines for others and they, in return, give him a share of what they gain – bread, jam, coffee etc.
As time goes by he, through generosity not self-interest, recruits a team of young orphans who follow his lead, and together they help people queue in long lines for things they need and get their rewards in return.
Irina re-evaluates her view of Pushkin; from a kind, naive, hapless idiot – like Dostoevsky’s The Idiot – to a useful contributor to the revolutionary society, helping people achieve their aims and even making others productive. Unspoken, though, is that she’s rationalising his contribution because it benefits them so much. By then they live in a beautiful large apartment of the sort occupied by party grandees.
All is well until Pushkin finds himself in a line for the right to emigrate, on behalf of an artist / cleaner he befriends.The artist never relieves him of his place in the queue, and so Pushkin ends up successfully getting the seal for himself and his wife.
Irina and Pushkin leave for New York, but Pushkin’s naivety leads him to give away half of their possessions on the journey there, prompting Irina to realise he’s as hapless as ever and so leave him alone with almost nothing in this heaving and entirely alien city. But it ends with a positive note, as Pushkin joins the queue for a soup kitchen, and Towles hints that through his patience and generosity in lines like this he will recreate m himself and achieve his previous successes again, there in New York.
This is a simply told, light and amusing story, almost parable-like at times, very Russian even. But it has a pretty clear message: that enterprise and ingenuity and survival are inherent to all people, even the most naive and virtuous, and this will thrive in a communist society as much as a capitalist one. The implication, too, is that the aims of communism are not only easily betrayed by good people like Pushkin naturally doing what they do, but also that people like Irina – activists and supporters – are easily corrupted into wanting more and more, and they will rationalise that desire to allow their acquisition to continue and inequality to grow. In other words i can’t help finding a pro-capitalist, pro-enterprise message in this otherwise touching and enjoyable story.
This has everything you’d expect from a Leonard book – cool and ludicrously readable dialogue (of course), a string of morally ambiguous characters, murder and drugs and plotting and theft – plus, in this book, bombs and 60s radicals gone bad, taking a dose of nihilism and bomb making skills with them.
It’s the story of once-radicals Robin and stoner-slash-bomb maker Skip, who put together a plan to use bombs and deceit to dupe super rich Woody and Mark Ricks out of a few million. It’s complicated by Woody’s assistant Donnell who also wants to benefit from their wealth, and by explosives cop Chris and Greta, a wanna-be actress. As you’d expect, the plot twists and turns satisfyingly, and the good-ish guys kind of win out, though there’s certainly no moral to be taken from this tale.
I was, though, particularly aware of Leonard’s treatment of women in this novel. Greta says early on that she has been raped by Woody. It’s unclear whether this is true or not, and at times Leonard seems to be saying she led him on, especially as Woody is an obese semi-comatose alcoholic. It’s never dealt with or clarified, and Greta seems untroubled by it. I guess it’s indicative of his treatment of female characters. Some of them anyway are little more than objects of playthings for men, and have little depth to them. Obviously this isn’t always true – Robin in Freaky Deaky is the brains and probably the most interesting character in the book – but in the case of Greta it certainly is.
This doesn’t make it a bad book – it’s a fun, gripping and character-packed read, but you do need a certain detachment I think, so you don’t think that the treatment of Greta as a character is ok.
Though it makes for uncomfortable reading this book is a powerful corrective to the left-liberal narrative around issues like immigration, the EU and national populism.
Eatwell and Goodwin take an evidence-based, considered but emphatically sympathetic look at the reasons why national populism is on the rise in the form of Brexit, Trump, Le Pen and elsewhere across Europe. Their view throughout is that voters for national populists have legitimate reasons for doing so that left-liberals moralise about and so not only misunderstand but also fuel. Specifically, they argue that there are four underlying causes for the rise:
Distrust. A political elite and wider business and cultural elite has become so far removed from the wider public, and especially manual workers and those without degrees, that they appear to forward their own values and interests, meaning people have little trust in them to do what they think is right for them or the county. Eatwell and Goodwin argue that people aren’t necessarily turning against democracy but actually national populism is offering a deeper, participative form of democracy precisely because the representative version has failed.
Destruction. In probably the most controversial chapter, Eatwell and Goodwin argue that the last few decades has seen the destruction of national cultures by successive waves of immigration that threaten the sense of national identity and culture. They make the point that many national populist voters aren’t necessarily racist, nor are they motivated by the self-interested fear of losing resources to immigrants, rather they value the national culture and it’s the destruction of that culture they fear.
Deprivation. Also over the last few decades, they argue, inequality and globalisation have together created a feeling of relative inequality especially among less educated and blue collar workers. This has not only fuelled anti-immigrant feeling but also led to those people supporting parties which promise more protectionist policies and public spending that will benefit them.
De-alignment. Amidst all of this change, there has also been a massive move away from the traditional party loyalties of the post war era. Many blue collar voters in particular have moved from social democratic parties to the right, especially to anti-immigrant protectionist parties, while the liberal left has fragmented somewhat, meaning national populists are able to poll better than they would have a couple of decades ago. Nothing is set, they say, as mainstream parties start to use the language and policy direction of populists, but today the trend remains de-alignment and volatility.
This book is well-written, packed full of data and evidence, and I think it’s a book that lefties and liberals ought to read to understand what’s going on among large numbers of voters. Eatwell and Goodwin are willing to talk seriously about the issues many people feel are important but cannot speak about for fear of being labelled racist, and that’s refreshing and important.
I think at times they go too far – are too generous to voters, giving them a consistent ideology when it might not really be there, and especially to national populist leaders like Farage or Trump or Le Pen who do stoke the flames of nationalism and division, making claims about immigration and the economy that they surely know will have a detrimental impact on many individuals and the country as a whole – and they do it as much for electoral gain as ideological belief.
Wow. This is a brilliant book – complex, thought-provoking, gripping, surprising and, I think, covering some of the big historical moments of the twentieth century from the perspective of women who are forced to compensate for their powerlessness with determination and wit.
Written in the first person by Iris Chase-Griffin, it tells the story of her and her sister Laura – who had driven herself off a bridge fifty years earlier.
Beginning in rural Canada in the early twentieth century, Iris and Laura are well-off children of a family which had made its fortune in button manufacturing. As the Depression kicks in, though, their fortunes change, their father turns to drink, as the economy collapses and the business folds, leading to unemployment in the town, circling by capitalist Richard Griffin and eventually the death of their father.
Iris ends up marrying Richard Griffin, to endure their family get financial support as the business closes down, and the narrative from Iris covers all these years – from the pair as young children to just after Laura has driven off the bridge.
Iris is an excellent character – until the end of the book her steeliness and resourcefulness are hidden to the reader and, importantly, to her husband Richard. She is treated at times horrifically and at others like a child by him and his scheming sister, and it’s only at the end of the book that Iris reveals what she’d really being doing all those years.
Laura is an intriguing character, highly moral and obsessed with God in most ways but rebellious and clear-sighted in others. We learn of her apparent relationship with Alex, a communist sympathiser who burnt down one of her father’s factories, and after Iris is married to Richard, how she is treated like a lunatic by Richard. In fact, none of this is quite as it seems and it transpires that in fact Richard and Laura had a very different relationship, as did Iris and Alex.
An apparently posthumously published book by Laura has led to her becoming an acclaimed literary celebrity – and chapters from the book, called the Blind Assassin, punctuate the book, telling a story that we assume until the end is a semi-autobiographical account of her relationship with Alex – a shocking, pulp-style tale of a well-off women carrying out a secret affair with a hard drinking, itinerant writer.
This is such a good novel – characters, the style, the complexity, the cagy narrator – but more than anything it’s like a take on the Great American Novel that tries to highlight the role of women in the great themes of history, economics and politics. Iris, Laura and even Richard’s sister have no power in the patriarchal world in which they live and so are forced to use ingenuity and determination to find ways to live with meaning and purpose and a future – ways that ultimately affect their lives, and those of their female children, detrimentally.
This is a captivating, readable and sad story about the repressed upbringing of a traditional, aspirational Indian family.
It focuses on a sister and a brother, with the novel split into two halves, focusing on each.
Uma is a kind but not beautiful or especially competent girl who watches other girls be married off and boys get an education. Her parents – the strict Mama and worried Papa – take her out of school to look after her younger brother and arrange for two marriages for her, both of which turn out to be scams, and eventually she is left at home, little more than a help. She longs to volunteer at local Christian school, the only people that have ever offered them any autonomy, but her parents refuse.
Arun, as a boy is offered so much more, but in a way that has a similarly repressive effect. From a young age he is at school and in tutoring almost constantly, eventually getting into a good university in the States. But his upbringing has made him chronically introverted and unable to deal with the people and situations he encounters – the other students and especially the Pattons, the American family he stays with over the summer. Mr Patton is a football loving, meat eating worker, Mrs Patton someone who loves having Arun and a chance to mother someone again, while her two kids have their own lives, the girl bulimic and the boy sport obsessed.
The Patton family is as dysfunctional as Arun’s but in a different way, one stemming from having too much rather than the risk of too little. And it’s this comparison or similarity that’s at the heart of this book, with each family set to reproduce itself again and again.
The contrast between men and women is as marked as that between rural India and suburban America. Uma has a freedom within, a life of the mind, a will, but her outward possibilities are limited, whereas Arun has all the chances but his upbringing was so stultified that he is imprisoned in his own mind, and so unable to make the most of any of them.
This is a brilliant book, but there’s something of its time about it, at least in its portrayal of the traditional patriarchal Indian family, where Uma is strictly prohibited from most activities because of her gender and marital status – today novels on these themes are often more complex, with resistance and oppression and snatches of freedom mixed together, the portrayal of people not quite so one dimensional.
This a beautifully written epic poem, riven with joy and despair, that combines classical Gods, basketball and brutality as a way to illuminate how women struggle and succeed against the odds in a deeply unequal world.
It’s a simple story, of Demi, the son of Modupe, a beautiful woman who was raped by Zeus. Demi, the half God of the title, is conceived – part man and part powerful being, who among other things is able to conjure up water and rainfall when in despair.
Growing up in Nigeria, he joins the basketball team and discovers that he has skills and ability beyond compare, a consequence it turns out, of being a half God. He leads the Nigerian team to the world basketball finals, but just as the deciding game begins, the crowd chanting for Demi, he has his Godly powers removed, making him nothing more than a normal player and his team is destroyed. Angry he confronts Zeus and is killed, and his family, his mother Mordupe is distraught.
It’s a beautifully written, elegant poem, that tells of the despair, the rage, that so many people feel because they lack control over their lives. Demi, of course, who has a gift but not the power to direct it when he needs to. But also, and more than anything, this is a poem about women – about the powerful, resilient Modupe who despite being attacked by Zeus, despite being oppressed, remains a strong woman intent on raising a brilliant child.
The fact that Zeus, a privileged, powerful, untouchable male is able to brutally attack and rape her with impunity is the horror at the heart of this poem, one that both she and Demi try to seek justice for, and one for which they both fail. A reflection, surely, of the realities of our unequal world where Zeus-like men can get away with, quite literally in this case, murder.
The style of the poem is lyrical and upbeat and beautiful, and one that optimistically celebrates the power of the powerless, but nevertheless it is this sad theme that is the main message of the book.
You get this mix of power and despair in the opening lines to the second part of the poem:
“They say when Modupe was born her own mother,
Who worshipped the God of vision and fiction, screamed
When she foresaw the future looks of her daughter:
the iridescent moon she’d resemble, the dream
she’d seem to men and thus the object she’d become.
Her mother had known these men her whole life, had seen
them all … from the weak and pathetic overcome
by lust, to warlords who to crush rebellion
would attack the women to daunt their men and son.
She’d suffered such brands of violence. It had churned
her for years.”
I don’t read Chandler or other hard-boiled fiction for it’s characters or plot, but it’s dialogue, style and atmosphere.
Set in a corrupt LA, populated by a pool of greedy rich people and a sea of desperate souls searching for money, security and happiness, The High Window is classic Chandler.
Marlowe is enlisted on a job for Mrs Murdoch, an ageing patriarch tracking down her daughter in law, Linda, who Murdoch says she suspects of stealing a valuable coin. As always, the trail takes Marlowe far and wide into a seedy world of high and low crime. There are murders, new character after new character, twist after twist as it turns no one is who they say they (except Marlowe), and in the end a resolution of a case that is as much to do with revenge and justice as the legal system.
I can’t say I followed all the plot twists, but it’s a joy to read. In fact, the style of writing, the incessant plot changes, encourages you read like Marlowe lives – in the moment, dealing with one situation after another as it arises, enjoying each scene as it’s happening.
Written in Ali Smith’s wonderfully readable style, this a story about hope and positivity set against a very contemporary setting of immigration and discrimination.
Two tales interweave over the book. One is of an ageing BBC play director who is grieving the loss of his best friend, a women called Paddy. He impetuously gets on a train to Scotland to get away from the pressures of a new play he’s been asked to direct.
The other is of a security guard at a migrant detention centre, Brit, who apparently randomly meets a 12 year old called Florence who she thinks she recognises as a pro-migrant activist and, mostly out of curiousness and a sense of adventure, joins her on a train journey to Scotland. And it’s on the train that they meet Richard.
They are picked up by a women called Alda from the station who, it turns out, is part of a network of resistance against migrant detention.
This novel is an insightful take on the injustice and downright unfairness of migrant detention centres. But more than this it’s a positive exploration of human motivation. Brit, in particular, is far from the stereotypical prison guard; her reasons for doing her job are not clear but she does her job with care and attention, and her sense of protection towards Florence is huge, and she begins to develop a friendship with her, one as equals, even if she ends up disappointed at the end.
Florence meanwhile is a beacon of hope – impossibly intelligent, mature, brave, challenging, charming, a symbol of what immigrants offer.
It is spring after all, so much of this is about hope, even against a backdrop of racism and sexism and immigrant sentiment.
And as always, it’s as much Ali Smith’s style that makes this book. She writes in long flowing sentences that you kind of gulp down, that are realistic, that read just as you’d hear them, without adornment or metaphor or pretension. Despite tackling weighty themes and the big ideas of social theory that lie behind much of her writing, her style is fluid and readable and digestible.
A simple and simply told short story but one that lingers, making you reflect on humans and animals, men and women, and hierarchies.
In the first couple of pages we meet a family attacked by wolves who’s young children disappear, save from one baby boy. Years later, as a child of nine or so, he comes across a pack of wolves with a female among them who is more human than wolf and he thinks is in fact his cousin, thought killed years ago by the wolves.
The family capture and take her to their home, where she prowls around on all fours, her body grown into the shape of a wolf, and her mannerisms more animal than human. Eventually the family is attacked by the wolves who return her to their pack.
What’s so interesting is how Carter uses this simple tale to show that the difference between animal and human is not too big – how over a few years a child socialising only with animals might develop things like longer ankles, walking on all fours, defacating as they walk and so on, taking on the characteristics of animals not humans. The gap is so small.
Likewise, the way the boy gazes at his female cousin’s naked body leads you to wonder not only about how humans are so divorced from what’s natural, the naked body, but also how men objectify women, liken them to an irrational species, to animals, and use this to create a hierarchy between men and women. In this way Cousins is an allegory about how women are treated by men, as animals to be tamed rather than equals.
Blimey. Milkman offers a hugely inventive, insightful and darkly comic take on the cultures that develop in divided places. But it is a difficult book too, it’s stream of consciousness style both readable and tough in equal measure.
Set in an unnamed city divided by religious / ethnic conflict, it follows the story of an unnamed 18 year old as she describes her fate when a member of the paramilitary elite (known as the Milkman) starts to fall for her and follows her around. Rumours begin to spread about their involvement, meaning she’s treated a bit like royalty in some ways, but looked down on in others. It leads to fall-outs with her complex family and her ‘maybe-boyfriend’ and ‘longest best friend’.
It’s not so much the plot that makes this such an interesting book but the insights into living in a city divided by religion – clearly supposed to be Belfast – where violence, murder and conformity are constants that force people to live self-censored and limited lives for fear of standing out. It’s the everyday nature of the narrator, the writing and the events that brings the ever-present threat and terrible affects of the divided culture to life.
There’s a simplicity to this novel that’s really refreshing – the writing is pared down and harsh, mirroring the tough fells that form the story’s backdrop, and the plot focuses in on just three characters.
The girl (we don’t know her name) has taken a child from the Hinckley’s, who she was a help for. She’s been there since being assigned by the orphanage where she was raised, and – we learn slowly – abused by the sisters and raped repeatedly by the priest. The girl is mute, though most likely through trauma rather than anything solely physical.
She has taken the baby and is fleeing across the hills of Cumbria, pursued by the Priest who has enlisted help from a Poacher, and its this chase that forms the core of the story.
The girl – we never know her name – makes her way across crags and moors and woods, half starving to death, meeting all kinds of strangers, some kind, some horrific, all the time trying to keep the baby as safe as possible, despite having no money, only a tiny amount of food and almost no opportunity to get any, save for what little she can forage or beg.
She meets occasional farmers and wanderers, some of whom help her, others quite the opposite, but on the whole she’s alone with her baby.
The Priest and the Poacher are in pursuit, tracking her. The Priest is hard, thin, mean, cites God constantly, and takes drugs rather than eats. At the end of the book the building sense of menace about him is realised in brilliant and surprising ways (I’ll say no more than that).
The Poacher is a simple country man, lives in and from the wild, and the Priest looks down on him, often refusing to engage in conversation with the Poacher, as if it’s beneath him. The Poacher begins as a rough character but he is slowly redeemed by Myers, as a plain talker who gradually reveals the true character of the Priest.
The relationship between the Priest and the Poacher is perhaps the most interesting and engaging part of the book. There’s something suggestive of Waiting for Godot in their ongoing dialogue. The dynamic between them gradually changes as the Poacher starts to see what the Priest is really like, that the Priest is pursuing the girl for self-interested and perhaps even malevolent reasons, and by the final third of the book the Priest avoids conversation with the Poacher, not because he considers it beneath him anymore, but because the Poacher is too close to the bone in his blunt and often funny questions and taunts to the Priest.
Like others of Myers’s books – like Under the Rock – it’s the evocation of the countryside that is so strong in Beastings too, alongside the characters – not as a rural idyll but as a tough, unruly place where nature dominates humans rather than vice versa.
Days of Awe is a darkly comic and unsettling short story about a woman novelist on a speaking engagement at a conference on the Holocaust, at which she meets a guy she used to know at university and has a brief affair. But it’s about so much more than this – guilt, truth, forgiveness, openness, what it is to be yourself…
She recognises the guy when she arrives at the airport (we never know the protagonists’ names; the woman is the Trangressive Novelist or just ‘she’, he is the War Correspondent) and they strike up a conversation when they meet in the hotel lobby. They soon get together and have a one night stand, despite the fact that she is in a relationship with her girlfriend, a relationship close enough that her girlfriend and her mother play online scrabble with one another.
This is followed the next day when she finds a synagogue to go and worship at, only to find him there too. They spend time together, time in which they are able to be playful and honest and maybe very different from how they normally are – but eventually fall out and she leaves him in the middle of nowhere to walk back to the hotel.
Alongside this story is their relationship to war and genocide. He is a war correspondent, a witness to genocides, and held in high esteem. She is a novelist who has no direct experience of genocide but who is trying to understand its effect on future generations, and is taunted by holocaust survivors at the conference for having no right to talk to about the subject. Her treatment by some of those attending the conference is just hilarious.
The Days of Awe is a ten day religious period in the Jewish calendar when people ask for forgiveness from those they have wronged, and it’s this question of forgiveness and how much is owed that is at the heart of this story – to holocaust survivors, to parents, to partners. At the same time, though, it’s as if everyday life for the woman (and probably the man) are frozen and normal rules don’t apply at the conference, as she acts in ways that seem to be at odds with how she typically behaves.
The question is, does she need to ask for forgiveness for how she behaves during these Days of Awe that we witness in the story, or for how she normally behaves?
“The Priest’s mouth was a gash in his face as if the flesh of his mouth had been pulled tight across his skull then slit with a knife.”
Macabre and vivid description from Benjamin Myers in Beastings