Reviews round-up

The critics’ verdicts on Julie Otsuka, Ahdaf Soueif, and Susannah Clapp.

The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

Lucy Scholes, in the Independent, sees in Julie Otsuka's novel a "rhythmic, repetitive flow of collective experience, combined with the sparseness of the descriptions, [which] means her intensely lyrical prose verges on the edge of poetry". Distinctive personalities and circumstances are at the heart of her prose: "A host of individual characters and experiences crystallise as families and communities take root."

In the New York Times, Alida Becker reads Otsuka's playfully obscure representation of her characters as in fact the source of their intense feeling: "While it appears to hold the characters at a formal distance, that reticence infuses their stories with powerful emotion." For Becker, Otsuka's work is full of powerful anecdotes and cautiously inflated explorations of identity: "Otsuka's novel is filled with evocative descriptive sketches (farm women with their children sleeping 'like puppies, on wooden boards covered with hay') and hesitantly revelatory confessions (domestic servants who 'felt, for once, like ourselves when "the whole house was empty. Quiet. Ours.')..."

Michael Prodger, in theFinancial Times, notes Otsuka's earlier concern with global conflict, and sees here a more localised consciousness as horror approaches: "Her previous novel, When the Emperor was Divine, was about one Japanese-American family during the years of internment that followed Pearl Harbor. Here, her subject is the whole Japanese immigrant experience in the years that led up to the war." Ultimately, says Prodger, Otsuka seeks to accomplish too much, with pretensions to grand scale stifled by the absence of a specific, identifiable character: "This is a sad tale - unremittingly so - but because there is no single figure to stand as an emblem of the communal travails she can't interest the reader in the addictive vicissitudes of an individual life. The result is a book that aims for the epic but only reaches the intermittently affecting."

Cairo: My City, Our Revolution by Ahdaf Soueif

Tom Porteous, in the Evening Standard, sees qualities in Soueif's reporting that one also finds in Carlyle or Churchill - accounts of humanity within an ambitious but focused narrative sweep: "Ahdaf Soueif ... has produced a chronicle - heartfelt, courageous, and hopeful - of the 18 days that launched Egypt's revolution and shook the world. This short, urgent, beautifully written book, rich in texture and atmosphere, is a timely reminder of the idealism, humanism, optimism and sacrifice of those first weeks of the revolution." Porteous sees in Soueif an author given to reflection but not to empty idealising: "Cairo is a hopeful book but it's not naive. Sitting on a kerb in Tahrir Square, Soueif imagines what her beloved aunt Toufi, now dead, would make of the revolutionary scene in front of her."

In The Guardian, Yasmine El Rashidi notes the creative delays experienced by Soueif, the way she wanted her work to be realistic rather than sentimental: "[S]he begins this new book with an almost chilling admission of such: 'Many years ago I signed a contract to write a book about Cairo; my Cairo. But the years passed, and I could not write it. When I tried it read like an elegy; and I would not write an elegy for my city.'" El Rashidi observes how, amid the wealth of literature covering historical and social aspects of the uprising, Soueif adds a more personal touch: "There are many records of the Egyptian revolution, but Cairo takes us on a more intimate journey; one that goes far beyond the 18 days of Tahrir Square, to the places in her memory: her aunt's flat in Lazoghli, now the centre of the battle with state security; Maspero, where she had her first job, and now the mouthpiece of Mubarak's regime; and the many rooms and views and places that bring back memories of her mother ('I cannot tell you how many people in the Square have said to me, can you imagine if your mother were alive today? How she would have enjoyed this?')."

Louisa Young, in The Independent, highlights Soueif's fusion of the savage and the benign: "The title, My City, Our Revolution, reflects the book's dual personality. One moment we are in the Revolution, haring chronologically through a cloud of tear gas ... next we are in Soueif's heart and past: standing on a palm roof looking out over an orchard to the pyramids beyond, remembering her parents, her childhood, her own love affair with her city."

A Card from Angela Carter by Susannah Clapp

Jenny Turner, in the Guardian, emphasises the importance of biography in any estimation of Angela Carter's work: "Carter was very much part of that postwar non-posh lefty-bookshop culture - 'the children of Nescafé and the welfare state, as she once put it." Turner goes on: "And although it's not wrong to admire Carter's work for its many sophistications, it also partakes of that satirical-postcard roughness." This is not to say, though, that Turner dismisses the presentation of Clapp's memoir, noting how it is is playful yet deferential: "There's something nicely ceremonial about this little book. Its endpapers reproduce the invitation sent out to Carter's memorial gathering in Brixton - 'an onstage menagerie' featuring a parrot, a champagne glass, a zebra, drawn by Corinna Sargood, an old friend. Clapp's text is warm and loyal, funny and yet formal."

In the Independent, Paul Barker recognises the formative influence on Carter of film: "As Clapp notes, in this charming personal memoir published to mark the 20th anniversary of Carter's all-too-early death, at 51, Angela was enamoured of film. The passion was nurtured by cinema visits with her journalist father." Barker notes how Clapp's memoir resembles Carter's chosen mode of correspondence with her: "Clapp became close to Carter - who wrote a dozen or so reviews for the LRB - and is her literary executor. She builds this very short but very evocative book around postcards Carter sent her. The book reprints them; its own format is not much taller or wider than a postcard."

In the Financial Times, Emily Stokes admires the way Clapp rejects sentimental philosophising, but nonetheless makes way for genuine feeling: "Far from being a confessional memoir about friendship, this book is poised and elegant, and conspicuously slender - as if it has shed everything but its most presentable self."

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The non-fiction novel that takes readers inside the head of Raoul Moat

Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, but its semi-fictional world is something more complex.

In July 2010, just weeks after becoming Prime Minister, David Cameron expanded upon his vision for the “Big Society” that he had first unveiled at the 2009 party conference. It promised a “big advance for people power”, in which individuals would be responsible for their actions. “To be British is to be sceptical of authority and the powers that be,” he told conference. “There is a ‘we’ in politics, and not just a ‘me’.”

That same month, just two days after being released from HMP Durham for the assault of a child, the self-employed gardener and former doorman Raoul Moat shot and injured his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart and killed her boyfriend Chris Brown, who he wrongly believed to be a policeman. Moat went on the run, shooting a policeman at point-blank range, then fleeing to the rural Northumberland town of Rothbury. For a week, the story of this exotically named, delusional man who left behind a wealth of material, including letters and four-hour-long Dictaphone recordings, was given joint top billing with Cameron’s “Big Society” – soon to be as dead and buried as Moat, who, cornered by police after a seven-day hunt, killed himself.

The journalist Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, yet really is a non-fiction novel, in which writer and reader squat inside a mind that moves from irrational anger and self-pity to despondency. Moat’s is a solipsistic narration, in which he is the perennial victim – of circumstance, enemies, authoritarian bureaucracy, police harassment and past lovers. There is little room here for the outside world. Like most outlaws, Moat believed that everyone had failed him. “All my life I wanted death,” he laments.

The real-life Moat story, however, was more than that of a lone fugitive. It was also about rolling news coverage and Facebook groups, some of which celebrated Moat as a Ned Kelly-type folk hero – a “#ledge”. When Cameron denounced him in parliament he inadvertently elevated Moat to a clearer anti-authoritarian position: the antithesis of a “Big Society” citizen, in fact. It is also the story of the Northumbria Police force, which did its very best to show that it had everything under control when it really didn’t.

And, bringing an element of farce to a tragedy, it featured the subplot of a thoroughly leathered Paul Gascoigne – the most exciting and idiosyncratic footballer of his generation – tearing through the countryside in a taxi with a fishing rod, a dressing gown and a rotisserie chicken in an attempt to bring a sense of calm to the situation. “All I want to do is shout, ‘Moaty, it’s  Gazza! Where are you?’” he explained en route during a live radio phone-in. “And I guarantee he will shout his name out: ‘I’m here.’” Gascoigne’s pantomime intervention added to the chaos: now another disenfranchised northern male was running amok. The parallels were evident: Gazza’s career had been beset by injury and alcoholism, Moat’s bodybuilder’s physique was no longer in prime condition after weight loss in prison. Both were separated from their families and prone to self-examination. Onlookers knew it could quite easily have been Gazza holed up in those woods.

Other exponents of the non-fiction novel such as Norman Mailer and Gordon Burn would surely have put all this in, yet Hankinson chooses not to cover any of the peripheral subplots, instead using a second-person narrative to burrow deep into Moat’s paranoia, sourcing all his text from real material. This narrative sacrifice in favour of a singular voice gives the book thrust and authenticity of voice, and manages to show the nuances of a man who was articulate and often capable, and had reached out to social services on many occasions for help. None of which excuses Moat’s action – but it does explain his choices. Where the tabloids favoured the simplicity of the textbook “cold-blooded killer”, Hankinson’s portrait lets the reader make his or her own judgement. Clearly Moat was a bully, and yet he was not born that way. Few are. “There’ll be books written about all this, and you’ll be made out to be some crazed fucking maniac,” he says to himself, with both foresight and grim resignation.

Elsewhere the semi-fictional Moat brushes over past transgressions and labours over the tiniest slights in such repetitive, droning detail that the reader’s sympathy soon wanes. The book’s strength lies in the real-life Moat’s keenness to confess – to be heard, finally, beyond death – through these nocturnal monologues, recorded in his tent after yet another meal of charred burgers. From these remnants, Hankinson deftly assembles the man’s inner workings, lending credibility to his portrait while, beyond the myopic commentary, we know, although we don’t see it, that the outside world is closing in. Critics might ask: why give voice to a loser? Perhaps because in the right hands any real-life story is worth telling, and history should never just record the heroes and victors. The losers play their part, too.

Ben Myers’s novel “Beastings” recently won the Portico Prize for Literature

You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life [You Are Raoul Moat] by Andrew Hankinson is published by Scribe (211pp, £12.99)

Ben Myers’ novels include Pig Iron and Richard, a Sunday Times book of the year. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, NME, Mojo, Time Out, 3:AM Magazine, Caught By The River and many others. www.benmyersmanofletters.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war