Reviews and Comments

Greene tells a drmatic story in one of his most famous novels, but what is particularly amazing about this book is how prescient it was. Written in the early 1950s, The Quiet American seems to predict with surprising accuracy the future of US intervention in Vietnam long before they were actively involved in the conflict there. It also carefully deals with colonialism, racial stereotyping and post-war politics while telling a tense story (in part-metaphor) of war, love and loss (albeit still occasionally a victim to the prejudices of the time when it was written).



The narrator, a journalist, is trying not to be engagé, to be a neutral observer as the war goes on around him. He constantly reminds those around him (particularly the brash American Pyle) that the people of the country that they are in are suffering, and that they have their own motivations and desires, despite what the western powers believe. The moral and social tale that he is part of (and that is told around him) is told with the fluid dialogue of an author who understood his craft well.

Deborah Levy is a craftperson. Like in the Ancient Greek statues you can't see the marks of the chisel and the finished product looks effortless, but there is a life of craft and creativity hidden beneath the seamless veneer. Hot Milk is deceptively simple. It presents a maybe-hypochondriac mother Rose and her daughter Sofia (yes, wisdom), two English women sharing the Greek surname of Sofia's father.



The narration is mostly provided by Sofia. The story takes place in post-economic-crash Spain (and a little in Greece), where Rose is trying one last long-shot to find a cure for her legs, which don't work all the time. Sofia has cared for her since she was a child, and resents her position as carer. She seeks freedom but seems trapped as an anthropologist, doomed to observe. Her father ran away to his homeland years ago and now lives in Athens with a wife who is only a little older than Sofia, and a new baby daughter. In Spain, the (maybe quack) doctor Gómez, his daughter, two love interests and a couple of extras make up an ensemble cast, an entanglement of human, jellyfish and one dog actor who all play parts in this comic tragedy.



The familial struggles and simple concepts are a narrative base for a more interesting metaphorical play, and a clever use of classical storytelling to present a myth for our times.

Shaun Tan's imagination is superb. This is a book of short stories, essentially. Each chapter is a story of a different animal that sits in the most disjointed space of storytelling I have come across. The chapters each come with an image of a painting that visualises the ideas in the strange universe of Tan. The paintings are immaculate, both as narrative and craft, using line, colour and structure brilliantly to complement the writing.



It's near impossible to describe how this all plays out as an experience, other than it is a treat both in reading and visual. Fish that fly, bears with lawyers, pigeons doing economics, a yak in the snow, and dogs that wait...the stories are all different and each one opens a new world in just a few short pages. The writing and art are impeccable, and the analysis of the modern human condition through the eyes of uncanny animals is beautifully executed.

Annemarie Mol achieves two things in this book. First, she manages to make a text about living with diabetes, societally and individually, into something that is legible and fluid for someone who has no experience with this topic. Secondly, she constructs a whole theory (her Logic of Care) about how people can care for one another, and equally how people can care beyond one another, using living with diabetes as an example. To do this, succinctly, is a great achievement. To make it an enjoyable read is a bonus.



Mol contracts "care" with "choice". Her arguments are nuanced, and she is careful not to weight one over another, but instead highlight some of the problems with patients having complete choice (for example, over what medical equipment to buy), without having the care to go with it (guidance and personal advice from a nurse).



Her sensitivity to readers is also admirable, summarised in my favourite statement in the book: 'I want to avoid unmarked normality. To presume that you and I are healthy would go against the soul of what I seek to say.' (p11).

Care is a broad subject, and not easy to pin down to one idea. María Puig de la Bellacasa approaches it from a study of ethics and philosophy. The first section sets out the possibilities for care across different types of human and more-than-human actors, including inorganic technologies. It is dense reading, and not easy to recommend for that reason, but it is also carefully written, with each word chosen for its accuracy and no term used lightly.



The second half of the book presents a possible real-world praxis for the theoretical framework in the first. Puig de la Bellacasa uses her own experiences learning from a permaculture retreat to begin an argument about how care of soil is a critical and central example of a system that requires care. Drawing from science, philosophy, experience and culture, she uses soil to show how complex webs of interconnected actors need to care for one another to maintain healthy soil for present and future generations.



The theoretical framework in this book is one that anyone with an interest in networks and assemblages would find fascinating.

James Rebanks is a historian and farmer. English Pastoral is a memoir that presents a view of English farming beginning during his grandfather's farming days and ending in 2020 at the book's publication.



The book is divided into three parts, and these are subdivided into short sections that hold anecdotal tales or brief arguments about the benefits or problems with different farming practices. Rebanks presents a nuanced view, influenced by his reading of Rachel Carson and his life on his family's farm. The overall narrative is about striking a balance between industrialisation in farming and keeping traditions alive, presented with some suggestions for future farming in the last chapter.



The short sections can be enjoyable, but the writing is not very strong and the sections often jump from one topic to another or become repetitive, particularly in the first section. The book could easily have been edited down to about two thirds of its length. Also, as a character who is careful to maintain neutrality, Rebanks never acknowledges the extraordinary advantage he has with owning so much land (c. 185 acres) and just barely manages to acknowledge that women have a role in his tale. It's a difficult book - lively at times but overall a little disappointing.

McLiam Wilson's last book, written in the mid-1990s, is a good portrait of Belfast at the point of transition, when the peace process was well underway and the city (and country of Northern Ireland) was moving out of its violent 30-year war. The book follows two main characters, a narrator and his friend, who live standard working-class lives in the port city. It has the wry humour and the perfectly pitched matter-of-fact-ness that is so typical of the city of Belfast.



Some of the tone is very dated, particularly with the male-centred story, the poorly developed female characters, and the strangely off-temperature treatment of characters who are not heterosexual or white. The satire is also a bit too hammy - Seamus Heaney (named Shague Ghithoss in the book) gets what seems a very unfair personal attack throughout, and even when the delivery is nicely wry (for example, the "Just Us" political party is a mistranslation of Sinn Féin's Irish name, and a pun on "justice") it can be laid on too thick.



Still, the book is very funny and is one of the best portraits of Belfast as a city that I have read.