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‘New World Fairy Tales’ by Cassandra Parkin

30 Monday Jul 2012

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New World Fairy Tales is a collection of short stories, influenced by the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales, set in the ‘new world’—chronologically as well as geographically. It is also the winner of Salt’s 2011 Scott Prize for a debut collection of short stories. I must confess that I didn’t have high expectations—it seemed a rather hackneyed concept; what could possibly be extracted from these stories that hasn’t already been exploited by Disney or parodied by Dahl? (Although, who doesn’t appreciate Red Riding Hood whipping a pistol from her knickers?) Cassandra Parkin’s interpretations, however, are fresh and inventive without losing the enchantment of the original tales.

The stories take the form of interviews and are not named, but numbered: Interview #4, #9, #15, #17, #27 and #42 respectively. I’m not sure if there is meant to be a message in that particular sequence—they are similar to the magic sequence of numbers in Lost: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23 and 42, and they  end on the portentous 42 which is the answer to the ultimate question in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,  but I digress. The interviewer is an un-named college student, touring the US, collecting stories. The interviewees are sometimes reluctant to cooperate but there is always a story to be wheedled out of them. They are all told in the first-person and, as an English person writing American voices, Parkin is very convincing.

The first interview immediately demonstrates how these stories differentiate themselves. The setting is evocative—New Orleans during Mardi Gras. The characters seem familiar—two stepdaughters, a step-mother, but where is Cinderella? There is an interesting twist: the step-mother is the Cinderella of this version—exploited by her step-daughters. It was not my favourite story but it encouraged me to continue exploring Parkin’s world. It is another universe that she has imagined—the settings are earthy and grounded but the stories convey an air of wonder that is other-worldly—the stuff of fairy tales—and yet somehow they do not lose their sense of authenticity. They are incredibly engaging. This is quite an achievement, particularly for short stories. A lot of contemporary short stories, in their endings specifically, seem to tend towards rather dire, kitchen-sink realism. Happy endings have fallen out of favour. Parkin’s stories unabashedly defy this trend—this is not even deus ex machina—this is magic. And we believe in her endings—we become the audience, clapping our hands to prove that we do believe in fairies.

Part of the fun of these stories is figuring out which original fairy tale is being referenced, some of them are easier to spot than others. (One of them I’m still not sure about.) I will try not to spoil all the surprises but one of the most straight-forward conversions is found in Interview #9—the Three Little Pigs become three corrupt cops pursued by a vengeful, lupine goddess—and boy does she blow their houses down. Some of the links are a lot more tenuous than this though—this is no paint-by-numbers homage. My favourite one has a Rapunzel connection but the story charts its own course, meandering through the forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains and a love story that spans twenty years. Its protagonist, Cornelia, is a sculptor, who moulds her life, as her art, with great patience and serenity. I found Cornelia to be one of the most interesting characters, perhaps because the vast scope of this story allows us to follow the development of her sense of identity and her creativity. The final story in this collection is a contemporary Snow White that is more moving and captivating than either of the recent Hollywood versions.

New World Fairy Tales is immensely enjoyable and utterly compelling; I was drawn into each world and into the concerns of each of the characters. I would highly recommend it.

This review was first published on the Writers’ Hub.

‘The Age of Miracles’ by Karen Thompson Walker

18 Wednesday Jul 2012

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Narrated by eleven-year-old Julia, The Age of Miracles begins in California on an unspecified date in the present or not-too-distant future. Without any warning the earth’s rotation suddenly starts to slow down, resulting in longer days and nights that increasingly fall out of sync with the twenty four hour clock. Called ‘The Slowing’, its cause is unknown although it is generally attributed to mankind’s abuse of the earth and its resources. It soon becomes clear that it will have far-reaching implications for birds, plants, crops, people, and may possibly even signal the beginning of the end of the world.

In the midst of this Julia must navigate the normal trials of her preteen years; school, puberty, friendships, boys, parents; with the pressure of the imminent annihilation of the human race looming. One of the most authentic and scary aspects of this book is the attitude of the characters towards the slowing. It is a shock at first but then they seem to adjust and accept their new lives. In a way this is a positive trait—it signifies that we are adaptable, we are survivors. In another way it is symptomatic of a terrifying complacency; an apathy that could itself be a factor in the origination of the slowing.

The scope of this novel is hugely ambitious. There is quite a lot of sweeping generalised summary and some inconsistencies and holes in the fabric of the universe that the author has created, but she should get credit for even envisioning a story of this magnitude. The science is frequently glossed over by virtue of the fact that it is narrated by an eleven-year-old—there are a lot of ‘we didn’t know’ and ‘we didn’t understand’ explanations that probably saved the author a lot of research headaches.

The story does focus a lot more on the psychological, relational and social implications of this disaster, and these are very skilfully evoked. The social tensions are particularly interesting—specifically the divisive question of how time should be measured. I think the government’s solution and the fallout resulting from this decision is one of the cleverest aspects of the book.

I will bestow my highest compliment and say that, at times, I was put in mind of Margaret Atwood’s more recent work—The Year of the Flood in particular. It bridges the divide between science fiction and literary fiction in much the same manner. I was also reminded a little of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go in the very personal perspective of a larger social drama and the slightly backwards-and-forwards narrative style. The pace is gripping but the language is moving and poetic—this balance is very well sustained throughout the book.

This is a topical piece of writing—appropriate for these uncertain times. We know that our vast consumption of resources is having an effect on our planet but we don’t know exactly what the consequences of this will be. The Age of Miracles envisions a shocking and unforeseen outcome. It is a frightening vision but also somehow heartening—a testimony to resilience and love in the midst of tragedy.

‘Skippy Dies’ by Paul Murray

11 Monday Jun 2012

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Skippy Dies, a coming-of-age saga set in an exclusive Catholic boys school in contemporary Ireland, introduces a colourful cast of characters including: ‘Howard the Coward’ a history teacher carrying a burden of guilt from his own school days, Greg the acting-principal desperately trying to pry the school out of the fingers of the Brethren who have been running it for generations, Carl the teenaged sociopath—dealing prescription drugs and becoming increasingly disconnected and delusional, Skippy—hopelessly in love with Lori the beautiful frisby-playing girl from the girls’ school next door, and his roommate Ruprecht—brilliant but obsessed with M-theory and alternate dimensions.

I am always wary of books described a ‘tragi-comic’ as they are invariably depressing and not at all funny. Two thirds of the way through I was convinced that this was the case with Skippy Dies but the last third redeemed it for me. The title conveys inevitability but use of the present tense adds a sense of cyclical motion reinforced by the bold, graphic cover art. I enjoyed the way that the tragedy is clearly signposted and yet things are not what they seem. The usual suspects are not the villains they first appear to be, although nearly everyone seems to be implicated in the circumstances that lead to Skippy’s death. Skippy is the scapegoat and the sacrificial lamb; drifting inexorably towards his own doom.

The humour lies in the brilliant schoolboy characterisation and dialogue that it is reminiscent of ‘The Inbetweeners’ as well as in the nerd-genius philosophy (epitomised in contemporary culture by ‘The Big Bang Theory’). The interaction between the boys is often hilarious and painfully poignant. The storyline, like the physics, is convoluted—comprised of twisted strands and the overlapping dimensions of different character’s perspectives and motivations. Frequently, when the perspective jumps to one of the boys, it shifts to second-person, putting the reader directly in the mind of the boy. Sometimes it is not even clear exactly whose perspective it is—there is a generic sense of lostness that pervades the school, envelopes us and sucks us in to its own consciousness. Skippy himself remains a bit of a mystery; we are allowed to dip into his awareness but what he is actually thinking remains vague. The adult perspectives are a lot clearer.

As Ruprecht explains—the universe is not symmetrical. It doesn’t make sense and yet—somehow by the end of the book—it does. ‘Bethani’ the pop princess (whose name always appears in a ridiculous curly font) is just as integral to the symmetry of the universe as the ancient sacred sites and modern scientific theory. Skippy Dies is well-written, funny and very moving.

‘A Division of the Light’ by Christopher Burns

30 Monday Apr 2012

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A woman is mugged on a quiet London street; her handbag is stolen, she is knocked over and a photographer captures her image as she falls. But is this just a chance encounter? The woman, Alice Fell, believes that the moment is significant but the photographer, Gregory Pharoah, is a rationalist; he doesn’t believe in fate and yet he is strangely drawn to the enigmatic Alice. As their relationship develops it has a butterfly-effect on the lives of those around them and sets in motion a chain of events that have spectacular consequences.

The book’s cover image is very striking, it captures a woman falling, or rising—the ambiguous moment referred to in the quote below:

Gregory shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you want to find in those shots, but you’ll be disappointed. In one of them you seem to be lifting from the ground rather than dropping to it, but that’s an illusion. Perspective and body posture and the fall of light just make it seem that way. There’s nothing unusual or bizarre or inexplicable about it. Take it from me.’

The protagonists’ names are clearly symbolic—they are captions to the portraits. Initially ‘Alice Fell’ is ambiguous, is it a name or a verb? It implies a spiritual fall from grace or falling down a philosophical rabbit hole, as much as the actual physical fall that initially captures Gregory Pharoah’s attention. Later on there is an allusion to the literary reference –‘Alice Fell (or, Poverty)’ is also a poem by Wordsworth about an orphan girl who weeps because her cloak is caught up and destroyed in the wheels of the poet’s carriage. ‘Gregory Pharoah’ (revealed to be an assumed name) is a transparently aspirational nom de plume. It speaks of a desire for power, for immortality and conversely exposes the things that he fears most of all—insignificance and death.

There are obvious parallels to be drawn between this book and Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love. Both books open with a dramatic inciting incident—a robbery and a balloon accident. The men involved both feel some sense of guilt, of being complicit in the incident even though they did not cause it—Pharoah, because he photographs it and McEwan’s protagonist, because he lets go of the rope. And both incidents lead to an obsessive relationship. Burns’ ending is similarly dramatic, though not quite as bloody as McEwan’s, but apart from these plot devices the styles are very different. McEwan’s language is lyrical; the words themselves add a sense of mystery to the scenes he describes, Burns’ language is plainer but the tone is philosophical. There is a photographic quality to Burns’ prose. The descriptions are evocative but the writing does not call attention to itself—there are no visible brush-strokes. The characterisation is revealed through stylised portraits and the perspective allows the two main characters to attain mythic proportions, they become archetypal—dare I say reminiscent of The Fountainhead, although their human weaknesses are ultimately revealed.

Though the action is told from the perspective of both of the protagonists, it is definitely Pharoah’s story. Pharoah, the photographer, is the one who is transformed as he is exposed, whereas Alice, the subject, remains mysterious, portrayed in shallow depth of field. Her background is never clarified, there are allusions but we are given no details about her past life. One could argue that, as a character, she is not as finely-drawn as Pharoah; we cannot quite comprehend the fascination she evokes in him. Pharoah shields himself behind his camera and documents life to avoid having to actually live it. We watch his progression out from behind the camera and into the focus of this narrative.

The story is presented in snapshots; it has a primarily visual rather than narrative emphasis. There are recurring motifs; sacred places, bolts of lightning, the contrasts of life and death, faith and doubt, light and dark. It is a study in chiaroscuro—a juxtaposition of light and shade to construct meaning and substance. The surreal climax could be described as a deus ex machina moment, but in context it is elevated into a philosophical question, not just a literary device. It does require the reader to suspend a large amount of disbelief, but no more so than any McEwan plotline.

As a work of art this novel is stylish and confidently framed—a compelling composition.

This review was first published on the Writers’ Hub.

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‘State of Wonder’ by Ann Patchett

08 Sunday Apr 2012

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The Orange Prize longlist was announced recently and Ann Patchett, a former winner, is on the list. (She won in 2002 for Bel Canto.) I heard her speak about her book, State of Wonder, at the Hay Festival last year. She was interviewed together with Kishwar Desai, author of Witness the Night, and at first it didn’t seem as though she would get a word in edgeways as a passionate Desai expounded her very worthy cause—the battle against female infanticide in India. When Patchett did eventually get to speak she was gracious, funny and self-deprecating and her book, which I hadn’t read at the time, sounded very intriguing.

The Lakashi are a primitive tribe living deep in the Amazon jungle, concealing a medical marvel—the women of this tribe are endlessly fertile, they do not go through menopause and they can go on bearing children into old age. Dr Annick Swenson lives with the tribe researching the reasons behind their abnormal fertility. Vogel, the pharmaceutical company who are financing the project, send a scientist in their employment, Anders Eckman, to check up on Dr Swenson’s progress. The book opens as another scientist, Marina Singh, receives news of her colleague’s death via aerogram from the Brazilian jungle. She undertakes to travel to Manaus to investigate Anders Eckman’s death on behalf of Vogel and his grieving family.

The pacing is a little slow as Marina waits in frustration in Manaus for Dr Swenson to report in (no one knows the exact location of the tribe except Dr Swenson and her researchers) but this delay adds a sense of realism and builds tension, as well as Dr Swenson’s mythic status in Marina’s mind. When Marina eventually meets up with Dr Swenson and travels with her into the heart of the jungle she finds more than one miracle hidden amidst the trees. The plot doesn’t get any less surreal—there is even a fight with an anaconda to look forward to. And yet Patchett’s elegant and empathetic prose lends credibility to this fantastic yarn—we believe in her miracles.

Like the deceptively tranquil surface of the river itself, things are not what they seem—the plot is a complicated web and there are undercurrents of tension lurking below the surface of the relationships. Marina herself is a very authentic and likeable character but her interactions with the other characters are influenced by factors that are gradually revealed, for example, the fact that Marina is a former student of Dr Swenson’s and, under her supervision, experienced a major professional failure that had a lasting effect on her career direction. Dr Swenson is a fascinating character—her cold, scientific pragmatism invites little sympathy but she breaks all her own rules and reveals her humanity in her relationship with the boy Easter. She is harbouring as many secrets as the jungle itself.

The story is fraught with ethical quandaries and philosophical questions. Do women have an inherent right to bear children? What would it do to the family structure if women could give birth in their sixties and seventies and eighties? What is motherhood?

Patchett has liberated me, once and for all, from the old adage ‘write what you know’. She doesn’t have exotic personal experience to draw on—she claims she derived the name of her fecund Amazonian tribe from her breakfast cereal. What could be less inspiring than cereal?

State of Wonder is a more mature and subtle book than Bel Canto and it deserves recognition for the sense of wonder it creates. The Orange Prize will be awarded on the 30th of May.

This review was first published on the Writers’ Hub.