There are few young adult novels that have continued to be a necessity in my life since I stopped being a school librarian. I am currently basking in being able to read adult fiction, and dabbling increasingly in picture books for fun. But without the Geek Girl series, I fear my life would not be the same.
It is finally time for Harriet Manners to hit New York City. With a new baby sister in her life, Harriet's dad must go back to work, and his career choices lead the family to New York. Harriet and her best friend, Nat, dream of those high spires and infamous landmarks, of adventures through great museums and romantic walks through Central Park. It means a couple of months off school, where Harriet is excited to embark into sixth form, but perhaps she might get to see a little more of the handsome Lion Boy, Nick.
But the arrival of the Manners family in New York does not quite go according to Harriet's plan. Rather than living in a fancy appartment in Manhattan, they are a few hours out of town in Harriet's idea of suburban hell. She has no friends, no school, and her parents seem to be perminantly asleep or trying to sleep around baby Tabitha's naps.
In a tizzy of anger, Harriet decides to take matters into her own hands, and ventures into the city to see Nick and the magic of the Big Apple. But running away is not as easy as it seems, so Harriet manages to upset just about everyone around her. And, in classic Geek Girl style, she finds herself drawn into a world where people just seem to want to change her and trick her and ultimately (though mostly accidentally) ruin her life.
As a reader, it is very easy to get frustrated as Harriet plunges into foolish decisions, from simply running away from home to pretending to play it cool with Nick to make him more eager. But equally, it is very easy to relate to her confusion and desire to fit in - we have all been there.
Yesterday, I stumbled upon the next Geek Girl book in a book shop, and could hardly stop myself reading it. So I went straight home and ordered it from the library. I cannot wait.
Howl, Kaddish, and other poems Allen Ginsberg Andrew McMillan is the reason for me reading Allen Ginsberg - I am just ashamed that it has taken me so long! Reading this so soon after finishing Kerouac has slightly messed with my brain - I am starting to feel like part of the Beat Generation, like a young, disillusioned man, endlessly searching for truth and honesty and beauty. Even now, Ginsberg's style seems unconventional - it must have shocked and awed when first published - with it's long, winding sentences, peculiar line breaks, and complete disregard for standard meter. But all this adds to Ginsberg's power. He is angry and passionate and contemporary, though some of his words resonate with society today. The images in Ginsberg's poetry are vivid and mesmerising. I can picture him sitting in a coach station on "great wooden shelves and stanchions posts and beams assembled floor to roof jumbled with baggage"; I see Ginsberg bent over his typewriter, wondering if his audience of the future "will [...] eat my poems or read them".
As I read 'Kaddish', I was gripped by Ginsberg's depth, his love for his mother and his battle between the guilt and the responsibility he feels. My heart broke for his strength through such adversity. But the poem I loved most was 'Sunflower Sutra', an account of a day spent with his friend, Jack Kerouac, mulling over the beauty of the tiny details in the world around them; finishing in a loud, uplifting call to arms:
Oh the irony of this being the first book I am reading in my new life. This was meant to be the last book I read in my Staff Book Club, but due to life being mad over the holidays, I finished it a little later than usual. In the late forties, Sal Paradise (what a name!) sets off from his aunt's home in New York on a series of national adventures. Dean Moriarty is the cause of each - an eccentric, energetic young man who inspires Sal to cross America to Denver, San Francisco and finally into Mexico. Their trips are fuelled with drugs, drink, and sex, and are enabled by hitch-hiking and borrowed cars. Along the way, the men tell share everything with each other, from childhood memories to lose change to women. The novel explores masculinity in a time and place where the future seemed uncertain and the past haunted your every step. Young men were better educated than past generations; the threat of nuclear war hung over their heads, but they were not sent to Europe to fight on the front lines like their fathers. Equally, the American dream thrived in post-war success; and Sal and his friends push the boundaries of this ideal to the very limit. On the Road is written in Kerouac's well-known stream of consciousness style (not that I would actually know, having never read his work before). Great paragraphs flow through the pages, describing scenes of marijuana-filled ecstasy or beer-crazed jazz clubs. I didn't particularly like the characters in this book - the men were all selfish and the women were uninspiring - but I loved the way the story was told. Each part contained a new trip, with new faces and new towns. And each journey felt like a struggle - a battle with long, dull roads, against broken down cars and jobsworthy policemen, with limited money and no end goal. But every time they returned to their normal lives, they found themselves bored of the mundane nature of the every day; so unable to stay still for long, Sal and Dean would set off again for another journey. All it makes me want to do is book some flights. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Gone Girl Gillian Flynn London, Phoenix, 2013, 496p Another one of those contemporary novels I have been meaning to read for a while, I finally found a few days on my half term holiday to be drawn into the dark, haunting world of Nick and Amy Dunne. And all I needed was a few days (my flight was delayed, I was stuck in an airport for three hours longer than expected), despite this being a 500 page novel. Gone Girl is the story of a missing woman and her husband, who suddenly finds himself accused of her abduction and possible murder. Their relationship was on the rocks, and the police find significant evidence that places Nick at the scene of various unsavoury disturbances. And despite having the support of his sister and Amy's parents, Nick finds himself hurled into a media storm determined to drag his name through the mud. The novel is narrated through both Nick and Amy - Nick's narrative explains what happens following the disappearance, whilst Amy's diary recounts their past: how they met, their marriage, their move to the suburbs, and their slow deterioration. Nick is clearly not the perfect husband, and Amy's diaries increasingly cast light on a growing fear she felt around him. But the narrative is not as honest as it may seem, and in the second half of the novel, a whole new level of psychotic drama unfolds. It is so difficult to write about this novel without ruining the plot, though I am sure most people have a vague idea of what happens (especially since the movie adaptation was recently released). But I will say that it is a haunting novel about the darker side of relationships. As the story unfolds, it is not just Nick who is revealed to be a dishonest character, but Amy's true colours begin to show. These are not individuals that you root for or support - neither are 'in the right' - but you are gripped as you watch them destroy themselves and the world they have built together.
Having grown up in Nigeria, Ifemelu has a fascinating outlook on life in America. She first moved there for university, and over the years, struggles through relative poverty to eventually achieve success with a blog in which she writes about race from the perspective of a 'non-American black'. Meanwhile, in Nigeria, her high school boyfriend, Obinze, has become a wealthy business man, despite a short illegal stint in England. After many years apart, Ifemelu starts to wonder about Obinze, and when she decides to move back to Nigeria, she gets in touch with him. Americanah tells of their lives during the years spent apart, and builds towards a reunion that is perhaps not as simple as either would have wished. Although sold as a love story, Americanah is about so much more than this couple's romance. A large chunk of the novel is dedicated to Ifemelu's observations about race in the USA, highlighting how complicated and unconsciously embedded racism is, and exploring the relationships between different minority groups. This is what I found most gripping - the social commentary about the way race and racism is percieved by the people who are most subject to it. Some of her thoughts made me cringe, embarassed that anyone could ever say or act in such a way; whilst other passages made me reflect on myself and my behaviours, wondering if I had made such ignorant mistakes. And, equally fascinating as her experiences in America were her experiences on returning to Nigeria having been away for so long, faced with a new, different sort of prejudice. But in becomming enthralled by Ifemelu's commentary, I found myself attached to the character, willing her relationship with Obinze to succeed.Yet, for me, the romance pales in comparison to the story of their journey to the point of reunion.
I love Adichie's style of writing - it is direct and clear, and she effectively balances the voices of Obinze and Ifemelu, allowing both to tell their own stories through an omniscient third person narrative. Her novels are long (and I cannot wait to read another), but they do not feel heavy or difficult; instead, they are a delightful breeze on which to float.
All the Truth That's In Me Julie Berry Dorking, Templar, 2013, 266p
When Judith returns home, her tongue cut out and the last two years a mystery to all around her, she is outcast by her society and her family, subject to looks of horror and pity. As the town talks, there is only one person she wishes to listen to her - Lucas, the boy she has always loved.
Set in the early American settlements, All the Truth That's In Me is a haunting, dark novel about abduction and young sexuality. Judith is victimised by those in her town, who assume her kidnapping was of a sexual nature; and she is continuously haunted by the feeling that men only want her as a silent object. As the story unfolds, it becomes apparent that there is more mystery to Judith's story than the townsfolk have presumed.
The novel is told in first person by Judith, who often narrates as if she is speaking directly to Lucas, pleading for his sympathy and understanding. The chapters are very short - some only a sentence long - meaning reading is easy and swift.
I found myself quite caught up in the romance - Judith's longing is heartbreakingly beautiful, as she sits on the sidelines of Lucas' life. And she is a surprisingly strong protagonist, despite her many obstacles. She is brave and strong, fighting for justice and protecting the man she loves. If anything, Lucas seems weak in comparison.
I am finding this year's Carnegie list to be surprisingly dark, especially compared to the variety of the 2013 list - many of the books would not be typically suitable for teenage readers - yet I am enjoying the journey of shadowing.
To read more of my reviews of the 2014 Carnegie shortlist, click here.
On this gloriously warm weekend, I found myself reading a novel about the infamous heatwave of 1976. Sat in the sun, I was taken from London to New York to Ireland, invited into the lives of the Riordan family on the day their father leaves the house and never returns. Michael Francis, Monica and Aoife haven't spoken to each other in years, having taken themselves world apart. All three have angry memories about their childhoods, and have chosen to avoid their siblings in their adult lives. But when their mother, Gretta, calls to say their father has disappeared, they must put the past behind them to bring him home. This is the most recent book I have read as part of the staff book club and, having never read any Maggie O'Farrell before, I had expected it to be one of those self-indulgent stories about middle class families full of secrets. And yes, whilst it is about a middle class family with secrets, it is brilliantly written and full of warmth. O'Farrell's characterisation is astonishing - the plot plays out over just three days, leaving her plenty of room to develop fully rounded and realistic individuals. Gretta, for example, is a lonely and desperate woman, raised Irish Catholic and shocked by some of the choices her children have made. Her pride is overwhelming; but what I love most is the fact O'Farrell has made her one of those mothers who would take to an empty room if she thought there was a chance someone was listening. The Irish Catholic heritage has a strong impact upon the family - strangely, it makes them all proud and guilty in equal measure. But the fact that the Riordan family are so multi-dimensional makes for an interesting and reflective novel - one that I particularly enjoyed reading whilst sat in the sun.
A Streetcar Named Desire Tenessee Williams London, Methuen, 2009, 90p
What I like most about reading a play is that it can so often be done in the space of a day. And in that time, with a play like A Streetcar Named Desire, you can go from the comfort of your living room to the streets of Louisiana.
Blanche DuBois is visiting her sister, Stella, and her new husband, Stanley. She is a fragile, dreamy woman who is shocked to find her sister, once a Southern belle, is living in a dingy flat in New Orleans. To Blanche, Stanley seems aggressive and common, but Stella is smitten, and though they fight often and loudly, they make up with sweet kisses and tenderness. But the addition of Blanche to Stanley and Stella's household puts a strain on the couple, and it becomes increasingly apparent that Blanche may not be telling the truth about her visit.
Tenessee Williams' play is gritty and dramatic, contrasting Stanley's rough manners with Blanche's fragile state of mind. To Stanley, Blanche appears to be a compulsive liar, though she is suffering from mental health problems and seems to have a fantastical way of rationalising her past.
After I read the book, I watched the 1951 movie with Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando, which added another level of depth and drama to the play. Brando's performance - borish and sensual - is the complete antithesis of Leigh's scatty and angelic Blanche. And between the two sits the marvellous Kim Hunter (Stella), torn between sister and lover.
The Handmaid's Tale Margaret Atwood London, Vintage, 1985, 324p
This is one of those books I have been meaning to read for a long time - the kind of book my non-librarian friends condemn me for not having read. But at last, I can stop feeling guilty - instead, I now feel haunted by one of the darkest novels I have ever read.
In the Republic of Gilead, the roles of all are clearly defined by a strict social structure. Commanders and their wives occupy places of power, served by Marthas and Handmaids. Any rebels are swiftly removed from society, the punishment typically being death. Offred is a Handmaid, and her role is to enable procreation - she's are subject to harsh rules about sexuality and sensuality, dressed always in long dark robes.
But a repressive state does not prevent Offred of dreaming of her past and hoping for the future. She had a child, once, and a husband, and longs to be reunited with them; but fear is a powerful deterrent.
Margaret Atwood defines her writing as speculative fiction, as, unlike science fiction, the world she creates could really happen. As Offred describes, the transition from the contemporary society in which her reader lives into the Republic was slow and smooth, beginning with identity cards and scienfitic developments in relation to DNA. As such, the world Atwood has created is plausible, it could become our reality in the future.
The Handmaid's Tale is a sharp, perceptive novel about structures of power in modern America. Atwood explores issues of sexuality and desire, highlighting the impossibility of a 'moral' state, in part due to the complexity of defining what is moral. Her prose is incredibly witty and readable, drawing you into Offred's world and haunting you with the possibility of this dark, repressive future - and slowly revealing how it came to be.
The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath London, Vintage, 2005, 234p
I have a whole lotta love for Sylvia Plath, despite her reputation as being rather depressing. I first read The Bell Jar during A-Level for my coursework, for which I set about on a focused study of the themes of the novel, with a particular emphasis upon gender. It has been such a long time since I read it that it felt like reading it for the first time, and again I savoured every minute. Esther Greenwood is spending a summer in New York, having won a writing scholarship to work at a reputable fashion magazine. Holed up in a female-only hotel full of fellow winners, she is trying to make the most of this opportunity, but finds herself overwhelmed by the hypocrisy of world in which she finds herself. On returning to suburban Boston, Esther is exhausted but completely unable to sleep, and spirals into depression as she contemplates her future prospects. First published in 1963, The Bell Jar outlines the plight of the educated, middle class young woman in a society with offers limited opportunities outside domesticity. Esther is surrounded by women who work under the thumb of powerful men or gave up their jobs to marry. When she thinks of her future, she knows that whatever decisions she makes will cut off a hundred other opportunities, and she finds herself unable to act. The feeling of completely lack of control overwhelms Esther, making her feel stifled and suppressed, like she is trapped beneath a bell jar. Reading today, with a better understanding about mental health, the story of Esther Greenwood is disturbing and frustrating. She finds herself isolated, unable to talk to anyone about how she feels; and when she tries to explain, she is patronised and mocked. Contemporary treatments included electroconvulsive therapy, a traumatising experience that offers no solution to Esther's feelings. The story is thought to be semi-autobiographical, with Esther's life unfolding in a similar way to Sylvia Plath's. But I always felt this novel was more universal than that, appealing to many young people, growing up unsure of what lies ahead. But there is such beauty in Esther's sorrow. The imagery she uses is profoundly unique, demonstrating the complexity of the depressed mind. It is almost as if she sees more than the rest of us, and this deep awareness sinks her into melancholy. The Internet is flooded with meaningful quotations from the novel, adopted by readers as a reflection of their own lives. Reading this again, I was able to distance myself from Esther's story, whereas I used to read too deeply into it and relate it to my own life. Now, I am able to note the beauty in the melancholy, seeing the nuances of the language and the detail in the images. For me, this novel is not a sad one, but one of incredible originality, poignancy and beauty.
