Tag Archives: fiction

April 25, 2025 · 1:53 pm

North Woods: Do you believe in ghosts.

It’s an odd time to be Canadian and reading a deeply American novel. Is there such a thing as reading patriotically? Even when you’re someone who feels discomfited by nationalism and patriotism? I suppose there must be if my reading of Daniel Mason’s North Woods is to be believed.

The book itself – held apart from reading it in Ontario in 2025 – is beautifully written. The kind of thing where you admire the writing as art and pause at particularly striking descriptions and are moved.

And then the story – or many stories, I guess – is one of all the lives that pass through a particular patch of forest and a house built there in the New England woods. Each chapter offers a new moment in time and new lives led there (sometimes the decedents of previous owners, sometimes newly ‘discovering’ the house and its forest). While each chapter brings a selection of plot and affect (ambition, murder, betrayal, madness, grief) the thematic question of *what endures* persists both bubbling below the surface and explicitly called up in the form of ghosts, found artefacts, bones and hallucinations.

It’s an American novel for its geography, to be sure, but also for this fascination in legacy and ambition – of conquering and taming the land (though the land has something to say about that) and ownership and triumph. So you can know that going into it and read it alongside whatever feels you may have about that nationalist aspiration.

And you can also read it as an ecological narrative of land and nature having a much, much more expansive sense of time and scale. Where the house crumbles, where the sharp focus of one life that we intimately explore in a chapter is literally and figuratively subsumed under layers of dirt, where the trees persistently enclose and crowd out the human. And while their are moments in reading that this expansive sense of time and natural power reads as (unexpectedly, perhaps) claustrophobic, for the most part this reader found it entirely hopeful. Perhaps its the Unitarian in me that believes in that interconnected web of all living things less troubled by the smallness of one life and more optimistic in the eventual and inevitable dissolution of the one life into the natural whole. Or perhaps this is what the book best offers: you are small, your time is small, and yet all still vivid and worthy.

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March 11, 2025 · 4:56 pm

The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus: Not Memorable, but Also Fine

I read Emma Knight’s The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus in nearly one sitting, which is a good thing because the characters are so pleasant as to be extremely forgettable, and the plot – which couched as mystery/romance/wealthy-people-doing-rich-things should have been captivating – was slow to engage.

(On the forgettable characters: the first 20 odd pages were almost impossible for me to sort out as characters get introduced every six sentences, each with something (apparently) unique for the reader to try to latch on to, but let me tell you, just telling me a character is ‘quirky’ does not a memorable character make. So either make yourself a little chart or trust me that it really doesn’t matter if you know who Fergus or Charlie are because they are both unimportant and underdeveloped).

Our protagonist, Pen, is tackling a few things: what happened that ruptured her parents’ marriage? Is sex really all that people say it is (and when should you have it? with who? for what reason?)? what ties families together if not only blood?

Mostly these questions turn out to have fairly straightforward and boring answers: parents marriage: infidelity (isn’t it always); sex: it depends and whatever you want to do or not do is great as long as you’re consenting and choosing; family: family can be about blood relationships, but that is always an insufficient condition for Family, and family doesn’t have to be about blood relationships. There’s a vehn diagram in there for chosen family for sure.

The fun parts are descriptions of the big Scottish estate where most of the plot unfolds. Lots of misty walks through overgrown gardens.

And the best part for me were the moments where friendship is (lightly) explored. Pen’s best friend Alice is with her and has been her best friend since forever. This kind of friendship is held up as some kind of unassailable fortress of knowing-and-being-known. As if the sheer length of time they have been friends is proof of the power of that trust. And here I quibble. I do dearly love the friends I have been friends with for a long, long time (I see you S. and C. and J. and J.) and yes, there’s something to be said for a person who has chosen you to be around for years and years (something quite different from a sibling who often has no choice or a partner who chooses you for a different kind of love and usually well after your identity has solidified). But Pen and Alice seem to think that length of friendship alone is sufficient justification for depth. And maybe that’s true? I don’t know, I’m not sure it is, but perhaps the real complaint is that the book makes no effort to complicate or question this – instead just: Old Friends Always Friends.

Anyway, I wouldn’t bother with this one, but you do you.

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Filed under Bestseller, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction

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February 24, 2025 · 3:02 am

Long Island: Bets on the ending

Put Colm Tóibín’s Long Island in your library cart and you won’t be disappointed when it (eventually) makes it to you (I say eventually because inevitably it will have a wait list as everyone wants to read this one).

*many spoilers ahead*

It’s probably because I’d just finished the Elizabeth Strout, but the style of this one read as similar. Direct, descriptive of character’s thoughts, weighted moments that are not Literary – just excellent, and the interweaving of characters from previous works. Pressed I’d say I liked Strout better, but it would be hard pressed.

Long Island opens with a knock at the door. Eilis opens it to learn that her husband, Tony, has been having an affair. The woman he’s been sleeping with is pregnant, and her husband is at the door to explain that when the baby is born he will be dropping it off with Tony. And for some reason Tony thinks Eilis should go along with this plan. All of Tony’s family seems to think the same. Eilis is not so keen.

So off she goes (home?) to Ireland, bringing her grown children with her. With the unanswered question of whether she’ll return, and if she does return, if she’ll stay with Tony. She makes it seem like it’s his choice – like if he takes in the baby she won’t, and if he doesn’t, she will – but the reader knows (even if Eilis doesn’t) that this will always be her choice. Tony is not a choice maker.

Complications abound when she returns to Ireland. Her mother’s ailing health. Her former flame, Jim Farrel – now engaged to her best friend (but secretly!). Her adult children and what they want and expect from her.

How she can make a choice when so many people Expect So Much of her. What choices are hers, in the end. Well, that is the ending, and it’s a cliff hanger, so buckle up your book club and let everyone have their say.

For me? I want Eilis and Jim together on Long Island. And I want it to be a world where what Eilis wants she can choose. Want, we know, isn’t always get.

Delightful, great writing, absorbing (make it past the first 30 pages) and heart-full. Romance? I don’t know I’d call it that – stop slinging around genre words like you need them. Just read it, ok?

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February 3, 2025 · 1:22 pm

Poor Deer: Unsettling and Excellent

For months (years?) my mum has been reminding me to get Poor Deer from the library. I’ve ordered it twice, failed to pick it up once, and finally – finally – read it. And it was worth the wait and don’t make my same mistake: go get it!

Though maybe not. Depends on your tolerance for the weird and disturbing, I guess. As Claire Oshetsky’s Poor Deer follows four-year old Margaret during and after a terrible accident in which her neighbour dies. Margaret tries to explain what happened, but her mother silences her attempt and ever after Margaret stays silent on her role in the tragic death.

Told from Margaret’s young child perspective (well, written as confession by the adult Margaret but through her younger perspective) the reader is offered the view of how peculiar it is to a young child to be told that a friend has ‘gone to a better place,’ and to then… look for her because she must just be away for a little while. How confusing it is to be young (and old) in the face of death, and how much more confusing when adults both refuse to hear the child’s experience and feelings and to infuse the experience with obfuscation and euphemism.

The creepier parts are when Poor Deer begins to follow-haunt Margaret. A constant physical reminder of her guilt that relents for some periods of her life and returns demanding retribution.

The heartbreaking parts are the many occasions when adults fail her. Well meaning neighbours, teachers, an aunt – who very late finds a way to offer the consolation that was needed decades earlier. That in these adult efforts to protect the child they mistake kind words for kindness. What Margaret needs – what all children need – is truth from the adults around them, and the trust from these adults that they can handle these truths. What crushes Margaret is not the guilt, but the inability to speak her crime and have it heard.

And so enter the written confession. The insistence that the truth be heard – however many versions Poor Deer offers. Asking the reader to hold all the possible outcomes at once and to listen.

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