Two novels about a difficult patch in a long marriage, complicated by difficult relationships with the couples’ offspring. The first is the best book I’ve read so far this year. The second, by a more famous author, doesn’t come anywhere near.
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The Fire by Daniela Krien translated by Jamie Bulloch
Dresden residents Rahel and her husband Peter are spending three weeks housesitting and caring for a horse, several cats and chickens, and a stork while the owners are away. Married for a quarter of a century, the couple have drifted apart. Without the distractions of their work and city life, the rural isolation emphasises their differences. Do they have a future together at all?
The blurb prepares us for a story of love grown cold and the novel depicts the pain and bewilderment exceptionally well. The absence of histrionics – both between the spouses and within the gentle prose – enhances the reader’s empathy for the characters as, in their very different ways, they struggle to understand and adapt.
But this is more than a tale of a middle-aged marriage. Rahel’s relationship with the older couple who own the house provide an opportunity for reflections on her neglectful childhood; visits from their two adult children, Selma and Simon, raise questions about their own parenting decisions. Then there are the cultural differences, not only between the generations, but between contemporary capitalist Germany and the communist DDR.
All this makes for a beautiful short novel about attachment and transgenerational trauma, Rahel’s grandmother being her family’s sole survivor of the Dresden firebombs. As an extra bonus, Rahel is such a convincing fictional therapist (albeit off duty) that I can forgive the apparent confusion between psychological and psychiatric classification systems.
This is the best book I’ve read so far this year. Thanks to publishers MacLehose Press for my review copy. I haven’t come across this author before but have promptly ordered her previous novel.
The blurb prepares us for a story of love grown cold and the novel depicts the pain and bewilderment exceptionally well. The absence of histrionics – both between the spouses and within the gentle prose – enhances the reader’s empathy for the characters as, in their very different ways, they struggle to understand and adapt.
But this is more than a tale of a middle-aged marriage. Rahel’s relationship with the older couple who own the house provide an opportunity for reflections on her neglectful childhood; visits from their two adult children, Selma and Simon, raise questions about their own parenting decisions. Then there are the cultural differences, not only between the generations, but between contemporary capitalist Germany and the communist DDR.
All this makes for a beautiful short novel about attachment and transgenerational trauma, Rahel’s grandmother being her family’s sole survivor of the Dresden firebombs. As an extra bonus, Rahel is such a convincing fictional therapist (albeit off duty) that I can forgive the apparent confusion between psychological and psychiatric classification systems.
This is the best book I’ve read so far this year. Thanks to publishers MacLehose Press for my review copy. I haven’t come across this author before but have promptly ordered her previous novel.
The Motion of the Body through Space by Lionel Shriver
Forced into early retirement, Remington decides to train for a marathon. Unfortunately, this coincides with Serenata’s osteoarthritis becoming so severe she has to curtail a lifetime’s dedication to exercise. As he becomes more obsessed, she feels betrayed, as if he’s trespassed on her territory. On top of that, he’s struggling with the aftermath of workplace charges of misogyny and racism and their daughter is a religious fanatic.
These themes – exercise addiction, spouse rivalry, religiosity and the backlash against white privilege – have great potential, but the treatment is so heavy-handed and preachy, the novel seems trite. Lionel Shriver is playing for laughs, but I didn’t find it funny. I did enjoy the climax, but it’s hard to believe this comes from the author of the brilliant We Need to Talk about Kevin. Published by The Borough Press, I borrowed my copy from the library.
These themes – exercise addiction, spouse rivalry, religiosity and the backlash against white privilege – have great potential, but the treatment is so heavy-handed and preachy, the novel seems trite. Lionel Shriver is playing for laughs, but I didn’t find it funny. I did enjoy the climax, but it’s hard to believe this comes from the author of the brilliant We Need to Talk about Kevin. Published by The Borough Press, I borrowed my copy from the library.
 | A difficult prompt for this week’s flash fiction challenge. I suppose if you live in a country with native beavers you don’t automatically assume a lewd meaning when someone says beaver slap. I thought it might just be my dirty mind, I had to look it up. Fortunately, I found a slang meaning of beaver that I could run with. Since it’s inspired by the second novel I featured here, I’m wondering if I might have been too harsh in my review. |
The Beard
The kids labelled our disagreements the gender wars, but we argued for fun. Which body type was easier: XX or XY? He bemoaned the daily ritual of shaving. I said that was trivial comparative to monthly PMT.
As we aged, disputes deepened, but didn’t dent our love. Friends had affairs, but we kept our wedding vows. He was patient through the mood swings of my menopause, but I didn’t expect that, when I stopped buying tampons, he’d stop buying razor blades. The grandkids called him Grandad Beaver, but I bristled at his bristles and could have slapped his face.
The kids labelled our disagreements the gender wars, but we argued for fun. Which body type was easier: XX or XY? He bemoaned the daily ritual of shaving. I said that was trivial comparative to monthly PMT.
As we aged, disputes deepened, but didn’t dent our love. Friends had affairs, but we kept our wedding vows. He was patient through the mood swings of my menopause, but I didn’t expect that, when I stopped buying tampons, he’d stop buying razor blades. The grandkids called him Grandad Beaver, but I bristled at his bristles and could have slapped his face.
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