Our Souls at Night by Kent Haruf

For the last couple of years, I have been suffering crushingly debilitating insomnia. It has been going on for so long, fatigue is my new normal. I’ve tried all the tips and tricks but given my current circumstances, I need to let it be what it is, in the hopes one day it will dissipate.

This book is poignant to me in that I read it solely at night. And by night, I mean the witching hour of 2-3am when I usually awaken for seemingly no rhyme or reason with dearth hopes of immediate slumber. For a while I decided reading would be the best elixir to induce me into a blissful and nocturnal bliss. In truth, this strategy saw mixed results.

But through my battle against the great unsleep, I found this tale to be an exquisite comfort. It’s sweet. And beautiful; beguiling. And a stark reminder that intimacy and companionship are important at any age.

One evening, 70-year-old widow Addie visits her long-time neighbour, widower Louis, with an unusual proposal. She suggests that they platonically sleep together to provide comfort through the dark hours of loneliness. Addie and Louis are challenged by their respective family members who are bewildered by this newly-formed and yet increasingly co-dependent relationship. I thought this little story was gorgeous. Life-affirmingly so. Like Addie found her Louis, I found my insomniac antidote, if only for a few nights.

 

Brooklyn by Colm Toibin

There is a well-worn expression that asserts that people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. For me, a perennial loyalist, this painful adage is brutal in the transient honesty is foretells. Gently folded across the reason/season borderland, the tyranny of distance can be a cruel mistress. Many of us have suffered the loss of one who moves away. The distance can be as far-reaching as Spain or as close as Hobart, but the jabs of grief are frequent enough to be uncomfortably paralysing.

I recently lost a dear friend to geography’s greedy clutches. While the sudden departure was swift and unexpected, the emotional aftermath was clumsy, confusing and confronting. Time will be the great antidote; the simple, and yet only inoculation against the painful ennui of the gaping hole of loss. But those of us left behind are only one part of this dichotomy. Within the binary union, there also exists the one who leaves. They depart our shores for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

Brooklyn is the story of the one who leaves.  Eilis, a young woman unable to find work in 1950s Ireland, sets sail for the promises of the holy land: NEW YORK CITY. Eilis had no immediate desire to depart her motherland. Family and circumstance prescribe the vaccination against poverty and intergenerational languor. She tries, she strives and she thrives (mostly) in her quest to build her life in the globe’s toughest and most unforgiving city.

Eilis’ experiences are blanketed by the female experience. Her circumstances are uniquely felt because of her gender and, in many way, transcend the period in which this novel is set. I once overheard a mother say to her daughter, ‘always earn your own money, that way you’ll have choices’. This is indeed true. The feminisation of poverty is as omnipresent in 1950s Ireland and New York as it is today.

Tobin has a bonsai-quality with emotion and yet the haunting restraint is powerful. Eilis’ adventures are unsophisticated, simple and yet profound in their meaning. Her desire to move forward is inhibited only by the clutches of the past and bygone, guilt-imposed responsibilities.

So to those of you who leave, we wish you well and may only the best things come to you.

For those of us left behind, for whom the gaping hole will never be quite filled even as it does grow smaller, um, f*ck you geography.

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

Recently a dear friend told me some rather startling health news. Shocking in fact. So I reacted in the manner of a typically supportive, caring and compassionate friend: I burst into rivers-of-snot-running-breath-wheezing tears immediately compelling my illness-riddled mate into consoling me!!! I mean. WHO. AM. I.???

It got me thinking about the nuances of friendship. Unlike a family member where a contract is defined by blood, or a spouse where a union is bound by marriage, friendship is a tenuous and precarious attachment with little certainty but oh so much exquisite and inimitable joy. A friendship is free but it is not cheap. For all its peerless rewards (and they are countless), there is a fragility and uncertainty that shrouds it in a film of instability and flimsiness.

Since I was mired in my own selfish grief, I needed something to read that could traverse the grief/ friendship borderland. I needed a tale about imperfect friendship, longing, pain with a dash of hyperbolic tragedy. You know, something to accompany me in my self-invited pity party for one.

Given my home address does not include the suburb “Under Rock”, the Ferrante novels have been on my radar for some time now. To be honest, I was concerned they would suffer from the “Dan Brown” effect: everybody reading them but they are kinda just meh. I was happily surprised. My Brilliant Friend was EXACTLY what I wanted and needed.

Set against a backdrop of the mean streets of Naples two deliciously flawed and confused girls rely on each other as they negotiate the swings and arrows of growing up in 1950s Italy. Elena and Lila represent any of us as we navigate childhood to adulthood. While their circumstances may be unique, the growing pains they experience are universal and form the foundations of so many friendships, past and present. Sometimes we connect with people through circumstance and the relationship may last due to convenience. But always, friendships are looked upon in bewildered and stupendous awe for their capacity to transcend the unexpected.

So to MY brilliant friend, you know you can always rely on me for a shoulder to cry on. Hmm, actually, I’ll cry on yours. Call it even buddy?

Beside Myself by Ann Morgan

I’ve been thinking about the film Sliding Doors a lot lately. I mean, ALL THE FRICKING TIME. As I traverse my “Sex and the City” years with all the complicated and adult-y swings and arrows, it has given me cause to reflect on all the choices I have made in my life; conscious or otherwise. While I am coming out of my mousy-brown-dowdy phase, I’m not quite peroxide-pixie-cut-start-my-own-PR-firm Helen Quilley.

*cut to Gwyneth*

Beside Myself is a little sliding doors with a twist. A set of twins, one good, one not-so, swap clothes and personalities for an afternoon in order to trick those nearest and dearest. This seemingly innocuous hoax results in life-altering repercussions as the bad twin turned good, refuses to return to her original self. The original good twin is forced to fill the role of bad, despite all protestations.

This novel is multi-faceted and full of meaning; more so than it appears at first glance. It speaks to how the presentation and representation of ourselves in everyday life can define us despite who we may actually be. I am reminded of the seminal sociologist Erving Goffman who wrote (and I’m paraphrasing/ plagiarising):

When an individual plays a part, he/she requests observers take seriously the impression that is fostered before them and believe that the character they see actually possesses the attributes they appear to possess.  

You tell ‘em Goffman. Beside Myself is as much about a set of twins as it is about the duality of our own personalities. Once we present or represent ourselves in a certain way, it becomes a challenge to manifest an alternate, no matter how desired.

So there may be no pixie cut for me, nor a self-run PR firm. But there may, just may, be a little Monty Python.

 

The Girl Before by J.P. Delaney

I have been recently been thinking about relocating to a new abode. In the immortal words of my [imagined] avuncular Edina Monsoon,

I don’t want what modern was, or what it is…I want what modern will be.

Amen Eddie.

I also want it on a shoe-string. You know, fancee but cheep! Real estate is bewitchingly compelling. Good architecture that *gets* you, even more so.

The Girl Before traverses, albeit very tenuously, my two current loves. Slick minimalist architecture with a ‘oh-my-god-what-the-actual” thriller. I mean, as Eddie once proffered:

Surfaces. Surfaces. Where are my surfaces?

Who doesn’t love a slick clean benchtop???

The Girl Before skims the borderland.  However, it then gets trapped and is somewhat hoisted by its own petard. The juxtaposition of the premise probably signifies its inevitable struggle between itself. The current infatuation in the publishing world of books with “Girl” in the title is well understood (The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl, The Good Girl yada yada). Throw into the mix slick architecture, a Gen X, Gen Y, Millennial struggle for home ownership and a modern novel is maketh. But it’s kinda not enough. To be an ‘also ran’ in the “Girl” symposium, a tale really, really, really needs to suck you in.

Completely. Envelop. I mean, I want don’t-leave-the-room-avoid-shower-sleep-food good.

The Girl Before is not this. It is good, but not great. As its title eludes, it been done before.

The Comoran Strike Novels by Robert Galbraith

A number of years ago my office location allowed me travel to and from work by ferry. The commute was sublime. I challenge anyone to catch this barging bateau and arrive to work anything but composed, calm and collected. It’s impossible. A seat was always available and the journey unencumbered by commuter traffic was the perfect distance to complete a chapter of a book.

It was against this backdrop that I read my first Robert Galbraith; the artist formerly known as JK Rowling. I adore JK Rowling. Her Harry Potter episodic novels have brought me hours of blissful entertainment. I have read them many times and channel my inner Hermione in my current postgraduate studies. Rowling’s foray into adult fiction has been equally and unequivocally enjoyable. The Casual Vacancy didn’t disappoint and exposed Rowling’s enormous commitment to social justice.

Rowling’s proclivity to social justice is creatively continued as Galbraith in her Comoran Strike narrative.  Her motley crew of magnificent misfits and miscreants are artfully pitted against the rich and powerful, but not in a cliché or banal way. The narrative in these tales reminds me a little of the ferry commute itself; a syncopated rocking of relaxation to the edge of discomfort.

If you are looking for light, entertaining reads with a pinch of social justice, pick up a Robert Galbraith. Ferry commute optional (but highly recommended).

 

The Dry by Jane Harper

I have taken a lover. I have never met anyone like him. He is a breath of fresh air.

His name is Dyson. I think I’m in love.

I don’t know what specifically or technically defines a heat wave. If it is the suffocating and choking heat that has gripped Sydney for the last two months to the point of asphyxiation, then that’s sound enough a definition for me. There is nothing like the unrelenting pain of unstoppable heat; the type of excessive warmth that makes you sweat lying down and you never feel clean. It’s weary. It’s depressive. It ain’t for me. #teamAutumn

In this novel, heat and temperature are more than just backdrop. The very plot and narrative of The Dry could not exist without such an impenetrable protagonist. Set in rural Australia, the rising mercury coincides with rising madness to the point of folly and psychosis. The heat is brutal and unrelenting to the point, as reader, I never felt truly comfortable.

I am not generally a fan of crime fiction as can be evidenced here (pun intended). But The Dry is good. It’s very good.

But if, like me, a novel can completely overpower you, I suggest you wait until the temperature drops and the leaves begin to fall lest you are overpowered by its roasting gaze.

If you cannot wait, get a lover. Get a lover like Dyson.