Books in brief: Ben Chu, Daljit Nagra and Philip Ball

Three new books you might have missed.

Chinese Whispers: Why Everything You’ve Heard About China Is Wrong
Ben Chu

Ben Chu, the economics editor of the Independent, thinks we’ve been getting it wrong about China for years. Bertrand Russell once wrote, “The spectacle of suffering does not . . . rouse any sympathetic pain in the average Chinaman.” For others, notably Voltaire, the Chinese empire was “the best the world has ever seen”. From the orientalist fantasies of the 18th century to the “tiger moms” of today, China has always been a mirror for European fantasies and fears. Chu’s smart, iconoclastic portrait dismantles seven misconceptions – or “whispers” – to let in light on a heterogeneous nation about which it is impossible to generalise.
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 288pp, £16.99

Ramayana: a Retelling
Daljit Nagra

The Ramayana is the story of Rama and his quest to recover his wife, Sita, from Raavana, the lord of the underworld. It is an important story in numerous religions and cultures across Asia. “The Ramayana I present now is not the one I was told as a child,” writes the poet Daljit Nagra. “Instead it is the product of a globalised, westernised writer who lives among many faiths and cultures who seeks to represent voices from as many villages as possible.” Recounted with energy, wit and bold imagination, this version is a joy.
Faber & Faber, 352pp, £18.99

Serving the Reich: the Struggle for the Soul of Physics under Hitler
Philip Ball

In his preface, Philip Ball writes with clear misgivings about the view of science as “disembodied, pure knowledge”. After the Second World War, most scientists who had worked under German rule maintained that they had been apolitical. Peter Debye fled to the US to warn the world about Germany’s nuclear potential, while Werner Heisenberg and others argued that they delayed the bomb. Was it so simple? Ball’s book shows what can happen to morality when cleverness and discovery are valued above all else.
Bodley Head, 303pp, £20

Painter Matthias Bier works on the historic Rokoko hall of the Anna Amalia library in Weimar, eastern Germany. Photograph: Jens Ulrich-Koch/Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iran vs Israel

Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

The End We Start From imagines London underwater

Megan Hunter's fictional apocalypse is a tender one. 

It is six months after the flood. The nameless narrator of The End We Start From is a new mother and a refugee, and by the midpoint of the novel we have followed her and her baby from the “Gulp Zone”, where their London flat was swallowed, to a safe house that proved to be not safe enough, and then refugee camps, every move stripping life a little closer to the essentials. First what can be fitted in a car as you flee to safety, then what can be carried in your arms; first porridge, then only gruel.

Halfway through, the narrator and her baby make it to an island under the guidance of another new mother she befriended in the camps. Here, a family has established a small life of plenty. The narrator has left behind a “place of not-enough”, but here there is food to spare. Seeds grow into vegetables. The baby “likes to eat butter in chunks”. But where has the butter come from? There’s no mention of cattle on the island, no bucolic descriptions of churning. We’re told there is no electricity. So how do they have butter and why is it not rancid?

It’s a small thing, but an outsize irritant in a book whose prose is pared back to match the minimal existence it describes. Every detail feels weighted with significance because it was chosen over something else. Megan Hunter is a poet (this is her first novel), and her poetic instincts are underlined by the TS Eliot-referencing title, borrowed from Four Quartets: “What we call the beginning is often the end / And to make an end is to make a beginning. / The end is where we start from.”

Apocalypse and rebirth are central to Hunter’s story. Butter aside, it invokes a thoroughly plausible end of the world. Like Emily St John Mandel’s luminous Station Eleven, or Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy, you read it with the conviction that this is what it would be like. (These stories are told from the perspective of the resourceful fortunates who make it through. Apocalypse literature kindly dodges the reality that, if it came to it, most of us would die whimpering in a dirt hole.)

But realism is not the only dictate here. The End We Start From is also deeply invested with symbolism. It begins with the narrator going into labour: “Finally I am waterless, the pool of myself spreading slowly past my toes.” Maternity is a kind of apocalypse, an end to being one kind of self who lives one kind of life, and the beginning of another. Names, like everything else here, are cut back to the barest essentials, becoming just initials. The narrator’s husband is R, her in-laws are N and G, and her baby Z – an alphabetical end who is at the beginning of his life. Anyone who has welcomed the catastrophe of a newborn into their lives is likely to feel sympathy for this parallelbetween infant and Armageddon.

There is a cost to the allegory, though, and it comes through in moments when Hunter sacrifices the merciless logic of calculating survival in favour of giving play to her metaphor. Milk is, as it would be for a new mother, a theme. The milk in the narrator’s breasts that keeps her baby alive becomes an analogue for all sustenance: “As for food, I have started to think of it all as milk,” she says. “I wonder how long we would survive, how quickly human milk runs out in famine.” Perhaps it’s inevitable, then, that the unexpected gift of security and nourishment the narrator and Z find on the island should be represented through dairy; but it also punctures a world you could otherwise believe in utterly.

Hunter’s apocalypse is a tender one. There is violence and disorder at the start: one of the most affecting uses of Hunter’s spare style is when the narrator’s mother-in-law fails to return from a brutal trip to gather provisions, and the narrator simply announces: “No G.” But while R chooses isolation and suspicion of others, leaving his wife and child to make his own way, the narrator chooses humanity. She tells us how she “falls in love”, deep and quick, with those with whom she forms alliances. To borrow again from Four Quartets, “The houses are all gone under the sea” – but The End We Start From promises the possibility of life afterwards. 

The End We Start From
Megan Hunter
Picador, 127pp, £9.99

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear