Let’s consider two novels published this month which direct the reader’s gaze towards the characters’ inner lives, mentally and physically. The first, set in Australia during the recent rampaging bushfires, focuses on the characters’ wandering minds as they watch a play. The second, set in the Americas, looks in on the body and outwards to the stars.
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The Performance by Claire Thomas
Even before lockdown closed the theatres, it had been a while since I watched a live performance. I must admit that, although I appreciate ‘culture’, my monkey mind would often focus more on the contents of my head than the story unfolding on the stage. So this novel made sense to me: three women processing their own disturbance while watching a disturbing play as, outside, the Australian bushfires rage.
Seventy-year-old literature professor, Margo, has come specifically to think. Her bruised arms display her husband’s recent acts of violence, while she is guilty of bruising remarks to her son and daughter-in-law. Also in the audience, forty-something Ivy contemplates the wonder of her toddler son and the challenge of distributing her surprise inheritance to worthy causes. Summer, a young theatre usher and aspiring actor, struggles to manage her anxiety about her girlfriend’s parents in the fire zone. That’s on top of her everyday anxieties, the roots of which might be in her mother’s silence about her heritage, and the indigenous father who is a complete unknown.
The Beckett play – the one with the woman buried up to her waist – promises symbolism that could keep book groups chatting for hours. The novel adds an additional layer with the climate crisis, with the women juggling ethical decisions in the icy chill of the theatre while temperatures soar outside. Although I worried slightly about connections I might be missing, the prose is so engaging and the characters so finally drawn, I was carried along by the flow of the story (and less distracted by my own thoughts than I would be at the theatre). Thanks to publishers Weidenfeld & Nicolson for my advance proof copy.
If you like three-handed novels, mine is coming soon:
Seventy-year-old literature professor, Margo, has come specifically to think. Her bruised arms display her husband’s recent acts of violence, while she is guilty of bruising remarks to her son and daughter-in-law. Also in the audience, forty-something Ivy contemplates the wonder of her toddler son and the challenge of distributing her surprise inheritance to worthy causes. Summer, a young theatre usher and aspiring actor, struggles to manage her anxiety about her girlfriend’s parents in the fire zone. That’s on top of her everyday anxieties, the roots of which might be in her mother’s silence about her heritage, and the indigenous father who is a complete unknown.
The Beckett play – the one with the woman buried up to her waist – promises symbolism that could keep book groups chatting for hours. The novel adds an additional layer with the climate crisis, with the women juggling ethical decisions in the icy chill of the theatre while temperatures soar outside. Although I worried slightly about connections I might be missing, the prose is so engaging and the characters so finally drawn, I was carried along by the flow of the story (and less distracted by my own thoughts than I would be at the theatre). Thanks to publishers Weidenfeld & Nicolson for my advance proof copy.
If you like three-handed novels, mine is coming soon:
Nervous System by Lina Meruane
translated by Megan McDowell
The story of a family through their illnesses, medical investigations and surgeries from the point of view of the eldest daughter who is failing to complete a PhD in astrophysics in another country. The author provides few landmarks to aid the reader through her territory: places, people and ailments (apart from cancer) are undefined, and the names of the protagonist and her partner – Ella and El – are simply Spanish for She and He. I would’ve liked more about He and his forensic archaeology work in a dictatorship.
I have only myself to blame for two frustrating evenings as I hadn’t much enjoyed the author’s previous novel, Seeing Red which covers similar territory. Thanks to Atlantic Books for my proof copy.
I have only myself to blame for two frustrating evenings as I hadn’t much enjoyed the author’s previous novel, Seeing Red which covers similar territory. Thanks to Atlantic Books for my proof copy.
 | It’s said that we plant trees not for ourselves but for future generations. At this time of year, I’m grateful to whoever planted the glorious flowering cherry in my front garden. (It hasn’t yet reached the stage in the photo, but right now, as I work on this, the goldfinches are enjoying it.) Charli’s discussing gardens, plant-wise and metaphorical, with a flash fiction prompt on seeds of generosity. Inspired by The Performance, the prompt has led me to thoughts of literary legacy. |
In the footsteps of Anonymous
Under the studio lights, the author doesn’t see the face behind the question, but the microphone amplifies his words. “Who are your literary influences?”
The author reels through her gratitude list. “But I’m most indebted to Anonymous.”
The interviewer laughs nervously. “People too humble to take the credit?”
“Didn’t get the chance,” says the author. “Anonymous published in obscurity. She was female, poor, black.”
From the corner of her eye, the author sees the producer slice a finger across his neck.
She hurries on: “Who would have thought an unnamed courtesan’s plague diary would spark a bestselling 21st-century novel?”
Under the studio lights, the author doesn’t see the face behind the question, but the microphone amplifies his words. “Who are your literary influences?”
The author reels through her gratitude list. “But I’m most indebted to Anonymous.”
The interviewer laughs nervously. “People too humble to take the credit?”
“Didn’t get the chance,” says the author. “Anonymous published in obscurity. She was female, poor, black.”
From the corner of her eye, the author sees the producer slice a finger across his neck.
She hurries on: “Who would have thought an unnamed courtesan’s plague diary would spark a bestselling 21st-century novel?”
Latterly, I realise my flash is also inspired by a Zoom event I attended this week, hosted by Manchester Museum about cross-fertilisation of ideas through their liaison with a museum in Lahore. I rarely do anything cultural outside fiction and choral singing, and only went because my favourite artists, the Singh Twins (from whom I commissioned a painting of my garden including that flowering cherry) were speaking. I couldn’t summarise the discussion, but found it an extremely rewarding hour.
Finally – and fittingly, given that she is such a performer – Matty wishes to acknowledge the generosity of fellow Cumbrian, William Wordsworth, whose “Daffodils” planted the seeds of this parody poem, recently paraded at another part of the Ranch:
Finally – and fittingly, given that she is such a performer – Matty wishes to acknowledge the generosity of fellow Cumbrian, William Wordsworth, whose “Daffodils” planted the seeds of this parody poem, recently paraded at another part of the Ranch:
| She wandered lonely in her head Through deepest valleys, steepest hills, Her face a mask, emotions dead, So was it grief or those damn pills? Asylum brought her to her knees, God would not help her, will you please? |  |
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