This edition of Smokin’ Books is fashionably late because I turned thirty over the weekend and I had to deal with that. I actually feel pretty chill about turning thirty. Let’s do our thirties now, etc. I’ve been balls deep in great books this month – a flight to Prague helped speed things along. I always travel with a book for each leg of a journey, one for whilst I’m there and a back up book just in case. The one time I didn’t follow this simple formula, I ran out of books by the flight home and it was a fucking disaster. I had to read The Alchemist.
The Girls by Emma Cline.
California, 1969: a long, lonely summer of suburban ennui is shattered when fourteen year old Evie meets bohemian free spirit Suzanne. This is The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test meets The Poison Tree with a squeeze of The Beach and I loved it very, very much. The writing style is almost breathless, dreamy and vivid, like the elaborate diary of a teenage girl. I feel like this is up there in “most anticipated books this summer” and if you can afford the hardback, I urge you to pick it up asap. (UK release: June 16th).
Nobody is Ever Missing by Catherine Lacey.
Elyria hitches rides with strangers, sleeps in barns, hangs out in roadside diners and gradually reveals why she opted to leave the rain and pain of New York to hitchhike around New Zealand on her own. This book reminds me of Ali Smith’s The Accidental – the run on sentences and the recklessness and the slippery protagonist – if the Accidental had just stuck with the irreverent Amber. Nobody is Ever Missing has a really distinctive voice that won’t be for everyone, but I have a soft spot for books about women like Elyria; women who are young and struggling to work out who they are versus who those around them want or expect them to be.
Fell by Jenn Ashworth.
If books always had their own fragrance, Fell would smell like saltwater and mildew. Narrated by the ghosts of the Annette’s parents as they watch their adult daughter return to their dilapidated family home, Fell is a ghost story unlike any other. Fell isn’t trying to be frightening or overly melancholic, but it strikes a chord somewhere between a thriller and a nostalgic telling of a childhood lost. As I read Fell, I understood that Jenn Ashworth is a writer that I just implicitly trust to take me somewhere I want to be. (Although I also feel like I need to reread A Kind of Intimacy with my fat politics hat on so there’s that). (UK release: July 14th).
The Vegetarian by Han Kang.
The Vegetarian is one of those books that crawled into my heart and died there. It’s so much darker than I imagined, with some beautiful and disturbing imagery that I’m sure I won’t forget for a very long time. There is a duality between beauty and ugliness in The Vegetarian: flowers painted on naked skin, nipples through a summer shirt. It’s a slim volume that cut deep, that really hurts, like a hangnail or a papercut.
I Love Dick by Chris Kraus.
This is one of those marmite books: some readers say it’s one of the most important books they’ve ever read whilst others seem to hate it. Ever the contrarian, I feel the same way about I Love Dick as I do about marmite: yeah it’s alright. I like it as a crisp flavour but I wouldn’t have it on toast. It’s a book about obsession and the breaking down of socially constructed barriers. It’s also a book about intellectualism and fucking (is that a genre?). It reminded me of a more theory-drenched (dare I say less engaging?) Eat My Heart Out by Zoe Pilger. I love books about women going off-piste and breaking rules and hearts and records for wild behaviour though, so of course I lapped this up.