Both of these novels defy easy classification, but I’ve chosen to pair them for their themes of the legacy of slavery, or the way in which owning another person demeans us all. In the first, we follow a young man, marked by his unusual appearance, from babyhood in Jamaica shortly before independence to England and back. The second is a translated Argentinian dystopian novel about cannibalism. In both novels, a character, or characters, withhold or are denied their voice.
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A Tall History of Sugar by Curdella Forbes
In 1958, four years before Jamaica’s independence, Rachel finds a baby amid a tangle of sea grape trees and decides to keep him. Marked by his unusual appearance, with blueish translucent skin and two-toned and -textured hair, Moshe is kept away from other children until starting school at six. There he bonds with Arrienne, a big black and beautiful girl who, like Moshe, is intellectually streets ahead of her peers.
The friendship deepens, as Moshe retreats into silence, his sketchbook continually at his side. But, as puberty looms, Arrienne becomes intensely jealous of those who might come between them, such as Alva, a gay boy who takes a particular interest in Moshe. What happens to a friendship forged in early childhood when those friends become sexual beings?
At eighteen, Moshe stows away on a ship to England in the hope of finding his biological father while studying at art school. Of course, mid 1970s England is not what he expected: for one thing, the English don’t wash. Of greater concern, is the racism he encounters and other people’s confusion about how to place him: is he black, white, mixed race or something entirely different?
The young man’s identity is based on more than genetics and skin tone: that’s the legacy of sugar that has enslaved his ancestors and enriched the small island where he’s come to live. This manifests itself in an allergy to the substance: “Sugar’s by-blow a hex against sugar” (p170). He also suffers from “blood sweat”, “Hematidrosis. A disease of nearly ghosts” (p210), a perfect symbol of the ravages of colonialism.
With such arresting themes, I wanted to like this novel more, but I’m afraid I limped through it, snagged on a morass of detail, unclear where the author was leading me and whether I wanted to go. I still don’t know whether I took from it what’s the author intended, but it did furnish me with another fictional toilet to add to my collection, and we English can never have too many reminders of the barbaric origins of our prosperity, although I found the Brexit references somewhat clunky. Thanks to publishers Canongate for my review copy.
The friendship deepens, as Moshe retreats into silence, his sketchbook continually at his side. But, as puberty looms, Arrienne becomes intensely jealous of those who might come between them, such as Alva, a gay boy who takes a particular interest in Moshe. What happens to a friendship forged in early childhood when those friends become sexual beings?
At eighteen, Moshe stows away on a ship to England in the hope of finding his biological father while studying at art school. Of course, mid 1970s England is not what he expected: for one thing, the English don’t wash. Of greater concern, is the racism he encounters and other people’s confusion about how to place him: is he black, white, mixed race or something entirely different?
The young man’s identity is based on more than genetics and skin tone: that’s the legacy of sugar that has enslaved his ancestors and enriched the small island where he’s come to live. This manifests itself in an allergy to the substance: “Sugar’s by-blow a hex against sugar” (p170). He also suffers from “blood sweat”, “Hematidrosis. A disease of nearly ghosts” (p210), a perfect symbol of the ravages of colonialism.
With such arresting themes, I wanted to like this novel more, but I’m afraid I limped through it, snagged on a morass of detail, unclear where the author was leading me and whether I wanted to go. I still don’t know whether I took from it what’s the author intended, but it did furnish me with another fictional toilet to add to my collection, and we English can never have too many reminders of the barbaric origins of our prosperity, although I found the Brexit references somewhat clunky. Thanks to publishers Canongate for my review copy.
| If you’re interested in the exploration of identity through fiction, you might like my debut novel, Sugar and Snails, about a woman who has kept her past identity secret for thirty years and my short story collection, Becoming Someone, with forty-two stories on the theme of identity. |  |
Tender Is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica translated by Sarah Moses
Marcos isn’t happy about the unsolicited gift a supplier has delivered to his home in rural Argentina. He hates his job as a manager of a meat-processing plant, misses his wife who has moved in with her mother after the sudden death of their baby; caring for another living creature can only add to his woes. But, when he’s cleaned her, got her house-trained and given her name, he becomes rather fond of Jasmine. If discovered, his fondness will get him into deeper water than if he’d slaughtered and eaten her for lunch.
Years before, animals became infected with a virus that rendered their meat poisonous. To replace them, humans have been bred for consumption in a legalised form of cannibalism, their vocal cords cut so their screams can’t be heard. Jasmine is one of the finest specimens from this breeding programme.
I found this quirky novel more entertaining than disturbing, but it might read differently for those who eat meat. (And Argentinians consume a lot of meat.) About three quarters of the book is taken up with world building, but this is never tedious as the parallels with our contemporary treatment of sentient beings reared for food, science or entertainment are cleverly crafted. (As well as specific detail on the mechanics of production and processing, we also follow Marcus to a research laboratory and to a game reserve where hunters collect trophy heads and dine on the creatures they’ve killed.)
It’s not until halfway through that Marcus transgresses with Jasmine and the tension cranks up. I was surprised, and initially disappointed, at the ending but, on reflection, felt it was a brave conclusion and a perfect fit. With themes of animal welfare, our collective disregard for humans deemed different to us, alongside the dehumanising culture of some types of work, it’s nevertheless not a heavy read. Thanks to Pushkin Press for my review copy.
Years before, animals became infected with a virus that rendered their meat poisonous. To replace them, humans have been bred for consumption in a legalised form of cannibalism, their vocal cords cut so their screams can’t be heard. Jasmine is one of the finest specimens from this breeding programme.
I found this quirky novel more entertaining than disturbing, but it might read differently for those who eat meat. (And Argentinians consume a lot of meat.) About three quarters of the book is taken up with world building, but this is never tedious as the parallels with our contemporary treatment of sentient beings reared for food, science or entertainment are cleverly crafted. (As well as specific detail on the mechanics of production and processing, we also follow Marcus to a research laboratory and to a game reserve where hunters collect trophy heads and dine on the creatures they’ve killed.)
It’s not until halfway through that Marcus transgresses with Jasmine and the tension cranks up. I was surprised, and initially disappointed, at the ending but, on reflection, felt it was a brave conclusion and a perfect fit. With themes of animal welfare, our collective disregard for humans deemed different to us, alongside the dehumanising culture of some types of work, it’s nevertheless not a heavy read. Thanks to Pushkin Press for my review copy.
 | There’s an animal link in the latest flash fiction challenge, but I couldn’t find inspiration for my 99-word story in either of these novels. So my take on a dog in the daisies is about creativity, a.k.a. making things up. |
My kind of dog
“What you need is a dog. A big brown dog with floppy ears and waggy tail.”
He was right I needed something. But I hated dogs as much as I hated people telling me what to do.
Even so, I heeded his advice, a sour taste in my mouth as I scrolled through canines online. Without luck: I’d find the eyes I wanted paired with the wrong kind of nose.
“Is that one of those crossbreeds?” they asked at the exhibition. “A labradoodle or somesuch?” I smiled, didn’t admit my dog among the daisies drew breath solely on canvas.
“What you need is a dog. A big brown dog with floppy ears and waggy tail.”
He was right I needed something. But I hated dogs as much as I hated people telling me what to do.
Even so, I heeded his advice, a sour taste in my mouth as I scrolled through canines online. Without luck: I’d find the eyes I wanted paired with the wrong kind of nose.
“Is that one of those crossbreeds?” they asked at the exhibition. “A labradoodle or somesuch?” I smiled, didn’t admit my dog among the daisies drew breath solely on canvas.
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