Tag: lit review

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Lit Review: ‘Children of Time’ by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time celebrates its 10-year anniversary in 2025, making it an opportune time to revisit, or discover for the first time, one of the most remarkable science fiction series of the 21st century. Among the finest examples of hard science fiction since Cixin Liu’s The Three-Body Problem, Children of Time is an expansive, innovative, and meticulously researched saga that evokes the grand tradition of Asimov’s Foundation and Herbert’s Dune. Tchaikovsky’s novel is the story of humanity qua spirit—a spirit that endures within a cold, indifferent universe, even if it may no longer be recognisably human. 

The novel opens just as humanity has completed preparations for its own demise. For millennia humans have been the only intelligent lifeforms in the solar system, reaching a point where they seek to remake the universe in its own image. Casting their terraforming spacecraft far and wide into the galaxy, humanity aims to remake and claim new planets as its own. At the helm is the brilliant and ruthless Dr. Avrana Kern, whose ambition extends beyond planetary engineering. Driven by hubris, she intends to seed these worlds with a new species of uplifted primates, and therefore, play deity to a new species of Man.

Kern had given up on traditional humanity: too much infighting, too much politics, too much sentiment. It was doomed, as far as she was concerned. If there were any species fool enough to unleash a galaxy-wide virus that could destroy every digital system out of sheer ideology, it would be the humans; and this, they do at the critical juncture when Kern is about to populate her new world with primates along with a bio-engineered nanovirus designed to accelerate their evolutionary development. The virus is effective: humanity is good at destruction, if little else. Everything galaxy-wide shuts down. In a last ditch effort to complete her plan, Kern jettisons the nanovirus and the primates to the surface of the newly terraformed world, hoping that her plan will still come to fruition. It does not.

The primates do not survive re-entry. The nanovirus, however, does and finds waiting hosts on the planet surface: insects and arachnids seeded during the terraforming process. In an instant, the humblest of creatures in the animal kingdom find themselves heirs to humanity. Kern, having narrowly escaped destruction in a rescue capsule, barely registers the change in the script before succumbing to the somnambulant effect of cryostasis. Trapped in her capsule, she becomes a permanent satellite of the world that is home to her uplifted spiders and which bears her name: Kern’s World. 

At this point, the novel jumps between the two main arcs of the story. On Kern’s World, the nanovirus has started to manipulate the evolutionary development of the portia labiata spider, whose individuals are named Portia throughout the book (and through the generations). In the first of the many Portias to come, we bear witness to the effect of the nanovirus, curbing her natural predatory instinct and encouraging cooperation with her male counterpart who would have once been regarded as little more than a snack: 

Past individuals of her species might have decided that the little male was a safer lunch… but now something changes. The presence of the male speaks to her. It is a complex new experience… A new category appears that expands her options a hundredfold: ally.

This new instinct for cooperation would create the platform for an arachnid civilization, a process accelerated by a keen new intelligence and scientific mind—courtesy once again of the nanovirus. Over the next few chapters, we bear witness to the rise and fall of the various ages of arachnid civilization as it embraces and rejects various ideologies, which bear close resemblance to humanity’s own reckoning with history. Ultimately, they, too, reach the pinnacle of scientific progress and become a spacefaring species in their own right. 

Back on Old Earth, the survivors of the self-inflicted Armageddon are forced to scrape together an existence. Old Earth is dying: the environment has been destroyed by millennia of poor stewardship and the digital virus has wiped out almost all information repositories. Having unearthed ancient, if uncertain, technology, the survivors discover information about the terraforming project. With little hope left for Old Earth,  the remnants of humanity make one last bid to secure species survival by making for these planets. 

Cobbling together large spacefaring craft known as Arks, they fill the storage chambers with ‘cargo’—humans placed in cryostasis who will be reawakened at their destination thousands of light years away. One of these Arks, the Gilgamesh, picks up the distress signal from Kern’s rescue capsule. It burns bright as a beacon of hope. The Gilgamesh needs no further invitation. 

Children of Time is a masterful blend of science and speculative fiction—a lyrical meditation on the rise and fall of civilisations, and a bold projection of a post-humanist, evolutionary future. The scale of the novel—and its two sequels—unfolds over an unimaginably vast span of time (by human reckoning), underscoring how slowly true change occurs in the universe. Yet each moment is punctuated by stories of individual success and failure, for whom time is a precious and fleeting commodity. While humans spend the majority of their lives in cryostasis—skipping through history in the hope of reaching their destination faster—the spiders evolve in the present, adapting in real time to the challenges they face. Ironically, it is the humans who remain stagnant across the millennia, deprived of the very process that once defined their species: the capacity to change.

Children of Time is a marvellous read—rich with profound explorations of evolution, intelligence, and what it means to be human. It is essential reading for readers of all stripes. Available in-store and online.

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Lit Recap: Author Event with Zen Cho

When it was first revealed that Zen Cho’s new book would be a contemporary romance, the news came as a surprise. After all, the UK-based Malaysian author has made a name for herself in the realms of fantasy and speculative fiction with such acclaimed titles as Black Water Sister and Spirits Abroad.

Zen’s new book is called The Friend Zone Experiment, and it’s inspired by K-dramas and political scandals. She says, “It’s a cross between the K-drama, Crash Landing on You, which is on Netflix, and like corporate intrigue and the 1MDB political scandal. It’s set in London about a young woman called Renee Goh, who is a Singaporean heiress who runs her own business. She’s estranged from her family, which is why she lives in London.

“But at the beginning of the book, she finds out that she’s in the running to take over her father’s company, which is one of these massive Southeast Asian conglomerates. And on the same day, she runs into her first love, Yap Ket Siong, who broke her heart 10 years ago when they were both at university and hadn’t been in touch since then. So they reconnect, but the secrets from their past and what they’re trying to achieve now threaten their renewed connection. That’s my elevator pitch for The Friend Zone Experiment.”

Zen was speaking to us at an author event at Lit Books on 17 Aug, 2024. She had initially wanted to go the self-publishing route because she wasn’t sure her agent would get behind this book. But her agent did see its potential and was supportive of it, even if she did caution Zen that genre-hopping might not be the wisest move commercially.

“This definitely is a departure for me. I definitely could have earned more money if I had stayed in fantasy,” she quips. “But I don’t actually write to make money because I could make money much easier if I just focused on my day job, which is being a lawyer. I was writing what I wanted to write.”

In the hour-long conversation that ensued, Zen spoke about how this all came about. Below are edited excerpts from the session moderated by our co-founder Fong Min Hun.

On why she enjoys K-dramas and how that led to writing The Friend Zone Experiment:
What happened was, during lockdown, I got really into K-dramas. What I really like, and I’m sure this will resonate with many of you who watch it, is that they really focus on very trope-led storytelling. It’s very entertaining storytelling; it’s often very over the top; it’s very light-hearted.

But then they also, at the same time, grapple with quite serious issues… Stuff like government corruption, family issues. That combination of the light-hearted and the substantive, I’ve always been really drawn to and tried to achieve in my work. So I said to myself, ‘Oh, I wonder what it would be like if I wrote my own K-drama.’ This is the result.

On incorporating Malaysian themes into the book, such as the 1MDB scandal and the issue of illegal logging:
In the earlier version of the book, it didn’t have anything to do with all that stuff. But my agent said it needed higher stakes; it needed more conflict. The male lead, Ket Siong, had a bereavement, and he was trying to work out what had happened. The female lead Renee always had a corporate succession subplot. And my agent was like, ‘Why don’t you make them scions of competing business families?’ Which, of course, is a very classic trope.

But it wasn’t quite what I wanted to do. And I think part of it was that their families are really important in the story and I wanted to tell a story where there were two very contrasting families. Renee’s from this wealthy family where it’s all about business and she’s in a competition against her brothers to try to become CEO of the family company. But on Ket Siong’s side, he’s actually from an activist family. His mom’s a lawyer who was very involved in civil society and so on. And that is going to be the thing that sets them on the path to clash, to be like a collision of values. And they have to decide what’s important to them.

I think that was where the Malaysian themes came in. What generally gives a story idea enough energy for it to become a novel for me is there’s a story I want to explore or understand. This was my chance to think about 1MDB.

On writing sex scenes:
I wouldn’t say I am very comfortable writing them, but they’re kind of mandatory for the genre. I mean, you can do clean romance as well, and I would say this is actually quite clean romance. But I did feel that there should be at least one sex scene.

But actually, what I enjoy writing much more are moments of intimacy that don’t necessarily extend to sex, but have a lot of meaning. I think this is from my Regency romance background because my first two novels, Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen, were inspired by Regency romance, by these kind of 1800s-style romances where even just the touch of the hands is very meaningful. And that’s something that has always spoken to me.

Something I like about K-dramas is there’s so much yearning in just looking at each other. For some reason, they always seem to stand at a distance from each other and stare at each other really meaningfully. And you’re like, ‘OK, this is quite awkward, but fine.’

Two of the scenes I’m proudest of in The Friend Zone Experiment that I enjoyed writing much more than the sex scenes is where the female lead, Renee, is cold, and the male lead puts his scarf on her. That’s a really meaningful moment for them both because they’re not really sure what terms they are on.

There’s another scene—this is not a spoiler because you know what happens at the end of romance novels—where they get together and he dries her hair after she’s had a shower. This caretaking scene has a quiet intimacy to it. That is what I was more interested in writing.

On writing within the confines of the romance genre:
A romance novel, for people who don’t know, has got a very specific definition. Firstly, the main plot has to be the development of the romantic relationship. The other thing is that it’s got to have a happy ending—either happily ever after or happily for now. I knew that I was going in with these kind of restrictions, as it were. But I really enjoyed it, actually. It was a fresh technical challenge.

With romance novels, there’s a formula, which I say in not a critical way at all. I found it quite interesting writing with those concerns and working within the boundaries but I didn’t let them really inhibit me.

But I did have some issues with my agent when we were editing the book. She pointed out that my style is very different from most romance novels where every emotion had to be expressed as a physical sensation. If the person was alarmed, their heart had to race. If they were nervous, you had to describe how sweaty their palms were. I gave in in a couple of instances, but I did push back on most of that because I feel that if you overuse it, it just doesn’t achieve what it’s intended to do, which is to evoke the same emotion in the reader. If you use it too many times, people’s eyes just skip over it, in my opinion.

On trying to market the book to publishers:
Most publishers turned it down. What was interesting was a lot of the feedback was, ‘Oh, the writing’s good, but it’s just a bit serious for where the contemporary romance market is at the moment.’

You can see this in fantasy and science fiction as well. I think after the pandemic and with all that’s happening in the news, people don’t really want to be stressed by their fiction. They’re looking for escapism; they’re looking for gentleness. And although I would say The Friend Zone Experiment is escapist, it does kind of have a strong vein of sadness in it. But I was lucky it did get picked up.

The Friend Zone Experiment is available at our store and online here.

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Lit Review: ‘The Scarlet Throne’ by Amy Leow

“A woman had been crushed by a goat that fell from the sky.” 

Thus begins Malaysian writer Amy Leow’s debut novel, The Scarlet Throne, one of the most assured and deft fantasies to have fallen in my lap in recent times. Deliberating on the case of the crushed woman—on whether her family should be compensated for this dereliction of duty by the gods—is Binsa, the protagonist of the novel. 

Let me say from the outset that I thoroughly enjoyed this book and have been pressing our regular customers to get it as soon as it comes out. It’s been a while since I’ve come across a fantasy novel so astutely written and compelling in storytelling. There is a maturity to the world-building which recalls Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy, and a deftness in character portraiture, which is particularly tricky in the case of anti-heroes (which Binsa is).

In Leow’s world, the gods directly intervene in all aspects of human activity, from influencing natural phenomena to presiding over the governance of city states—including matters concerning goats. This they do through their Rakthis (or Raktha, the masculine form of the noun)—mortals chosen to be avatars for each respective god to become the central governing figure of these theocratic cities. In Binsa’s case, she is Rakthi for the goddess of wisdom, Rashmatun, and governs Bakhtin, one of 10 city states described in the novel. Leow notes that The Scarlet Throne is inspired by Nepal’s Kumari Devi tradition where young girls are worshipped as divine manifestations, a tradition which is still in practise today.

Binsa, when we meet her, is already dealing with two crucial problems: first, her tenure as a Rakthi is quickly coming to an end. A canny operator, she has been delaying the inevitable by taking drugs and potions to delay the onset of puberty (Rashmatun chooses pre-pubescent girls exclusively to be her vessel during a Trial of Divinity). Even then, the coterie of priests who surround her and who wield the real political power behind the throne are scheming to replace her with a younger, less experienced (read: more compliant) candidate. Having come from poverty and destitution to become Rakthi, Binsa is all too aware of what awaits should she be removed from her position as the goddesses’ vessel, and will do anything to prevent this from happening.

Second, Binsa may not actually be a vessel for a goddess at all. Instead, what she harbours within her is quite the opposite of divine, namely Ilam, a blood demon which takes the form of a giant cat when it manifests itself. Theirs is not a happy relationship but a transactional one insofar as Binsa needs the powers granted by Ilam to perform her duties as a goddess, while Ilam needs Binsa to feed and strengthen him. Ilam is the bequest of her dead mother, a blood shaman, who has taken—and dealt—great pains to elevate Binsa to her current role as Rakthi, including viciously tampering with Binsa’s Trial of Divinity. 

Binsa fears and resents Ilam, who is both a threat to her soul and a painful reminder of her abusive mother. Nevertheless, she knows that she needs his power to maintain her position as Rakthi, which means giving in to Ilam’s demands for blood and sacrifice, further setting her down the path of blood shamanism. Moreover, she needs Ilam to get even more powerful as the other Rakthas and Rakthis are conspiring with her priests to depose her. This means more blood, more sacrifice and the further loosening of her already weakening grip on humanity and precious few relationships, particularly a burgeoning maternal/sororal relationship with Medha, her successor.

Leow, in a comment on Goodreads, says that the best way to describe The Scarlet Throne, is “messy”, and she is absolutely bang-on. Messy means complex; messy means layers and texture; messy means moral quandaries. But messy, if done right, also means interesting and satisfying, and Leow does get it right. Her world is rich and finely detailed, but these are judiciously revealed so as to not disrupt the rhythm and flow of the story—a pitfall of many a new fantasy writer. There is, of course, magic and demons and gods, but these aren’t the standout elements of the story. Instead, what takes centre stage in the book is the palace (temple) intrigue, political conspiracy and Binsa’s reluctant transformation into her mother’s heir.

A truly enjoyable book made all the more impressive by the fact that this is Leow’s debut novel. 

The Scarlet Throne is available in-store and online. We’re also hosting an event with Amy on 5 Oct. Get tix here.

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Lit Review: ‘Edge’ by Koji Suzuki

Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. This is especially so in the world of physics where the behaviour of very large and the very small defy the causal relationships that we have come to expect from our mundane senses. So much so that if some quantum theories are correct, reality is barely hanging on by the thinnest of threads, and the slightest change in fundamental atomic structure could bring about the end of the universe. So they say. 

Koji Suzuki’s Edge, winner of the 2012 Shirley Jackson Prize—awarded for “outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror and dark fantasy”—is based on that very premise. In the book, our universe is undergoing a phase shift. It’s not entirely clear what that means but essentially, the universe is coming to an end. An event involving a black hole at the edge of our galaxy is bringing about change to the structure of reality, but rather than this meaning that the universe is being destroyed, it’s simply winking out of existence. 

Back on earth, people have started disappearing at an alarming rate near fault lines—places where tectonic plates beneath the earth’s crust meet. Our protagonist, science journalist Saeko Kuriyama, is working together with a television studio to produce an exposé on these mysterious disappearances which seem to be happening with greater frequency. Saeko has a personal stake in the matter: Her own father disappeared without a trace 18 years earlier and she has yet to give up finding him. She believes the current spate of disappearances are related, and clues along the way seem to be pointing her in that direction. Meanwhile, her prodigious science brain suspects something else is up.

It’s difficult to describe Edge, which seems at times to be a plot-driven existential-horror book, but at other times a discursive science text. Unlike the Ring trilogy which shot Suzuki to fame because of the ingenuity of the plot device—paranormal, techno-virus, as it turns out—Edge is limited by the boundaries of science. It’s clear from the book that Suzuki wants to be faithful to the possibilities offered by physics as we understand them but this generally makes for poor storytelling. To help his protagonists understand the existential threat they are facing and ratchet up the tension, Suzuki introduces various characters to be repositories of information: a fortune teller, several scientists, and, to the detriment of the book, an angel/devil figure which explains everything neatly before the novel’s climax. 

It’s hard to write a novel that holds a knife-edge tension when the focal element is the disappearance of random people. From this perspective, Edge has a similar narrative to Christian Rapture movies and books, where people mysteriously disappear ahead of the anticipated apocalypse. As with the Rapture narrative, these disappearances can only hold dramatic value if it is indicative of some larger existential issue—the apocalypse in the Rapture narrative and the end of the universe in Suzuki’s novel. The end result is a fairly imbalanced novel where readers are invited to invest in the lives of these protagonists, but who never really develop to a point where you care for them. Even Saeko’s narrative is fairly erratic with promising bits that fail to materialise. In fact, it seems that her only proper role is to be a vehicle for Suzuki to explicate some exploratory point on physics, astronomy or evolution. 

So it’s not a great book. And yet, I finished it and would still recommend it to the right sort of reader. To explain why, I need to delve a bit into my past where I entertained the possibility of a career in mathematics several lifetimes ago as a young undergraduate student. Alas, this course of study was quickly abandoned following the discovery of a preternatural inability to do basic calculus, although I had a slightly higher than average talent and disposition for number theory. Ruminations on the latter appear not infrequently in the book, and the bits that touch on math and science are intriguing, and sufficiently so to keep a person with a similar disposition to chug on through to the end.

The novel lets itself down at the end with a literal deus ex machina.

Edge is available in-store and online.

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Lit Review: ‘Boys Don’t Fry’ by Kimberly Lee

by Elaine Lau

Malaysian lawyer-turned-children’s books author Kimberly Lee was just trying her luck. In late 2020, she submitted her picture book in a Twitter pitch contest called PitMad in hopes of attracting the attention of US book agents and editors.

But the mother of two boys wasn’t expecting much “save for learning from the whole experience”, she recalls over an email interview with Lit Books. Lee had written a picture book set in a Peranakan household about a boy named Jin who volunteers to be a kitchen hand for his grandmother who’s cooking a big Lunar New Year’s eve dinner. His aunts dismiss him because the kitchen is no place for boys, but his grandmother thinks otherwise.

“My pitch suddenly took off and the retweets and positive comments started flooding in,” says Lee, who is managing editor of parenting platform makchic.com. “This then led me to connect with my agent, who submitted my book to several publishing houses for consideration in early 2021. Very soon after, Boys Don’t Fry attracted attention and wound up being sold at auction to my wonderful editor at Macmillan’s FSG. It was a bit of a whirlwind, to be honest.”

Boys Don’t Fry came out in December 2023. The story, beautifully illustrated by Singaporean artist Charlene Chua, challenges gender norms and celebrates intergenerational relationships. The author tells us how this all came about in our Q&A.

Can you share with us your background, and how you got into writing children’s books?
Writing has always been my first love. As an only child (with an overly-active imagination), stories became my first friends — along with my wonderful mother, who brought me up on a steady diet of magical, made-up tales throughout my childhood.

My love for storytelling ultimately led me down the path as a lawyer, where I remained in litigation practice for several years and placed my dreams of becoming an author on the backburner. After starting my young family, I took a step back from practice. Somehow, I stumbled back into my love for writing amidst motherhood, endless pandemic-induced lockdowns and finding new purpose in this new season of my life.

Children’s books serve as such powerful mirrors and windows for our young. To play a part, however small, in shaping young minds and guiding them through their understanding of the world, is the greatest privilege. 

What was the impetus to write Boys Don’t Fry?
I’ve always had a deep love and respect for the wonderful food and family I grew up with and Boys Don’t Fry is the culmination of this. This book serves as a fond love letter to my Peranakan/Nyonya upbringing and was born from a desire to share and showcase this culture, its colours and its magnificent cuisine to a greater audience.

More importantly, at the heart of this story is a message about honouring the desire in every child’s heart to feel seen, valued and included.

Admittedly, great chefs run in my family — I was brought up on tales of how my great-grandmother’s dishes would practically bring grown men to rapturous tears — and my mum, aunts and other family members are continuing this same tradition. I love cooking as well, though there’s such a specific art and painstaking detail to Nyonya dishes… I still have much to learn!

Boys Don’t Fry is your second children’s book after What If?, which introduces children to the concepts of body boundaries and personal safety. Was it easier or more challenging to write a story versus a nonfiction book?
Both mediums present their own unique sets of strengths and challenges. Boys Don’t Fry was a story that contained some elements of my own personal experiences, so in a sense, that made it easier to communicate. That being said, my challenge was to present this subculture and the story’s intended message in a way that was universally understood.

As for What If?, this book is unique in that it contains both fictional and non-fictional elements. While it is rooted in non-fiction, there are still fictional and even, fantastical elements in the scenarios posed, which allow a young reader to think about their possible reaction to events that range from the silly to the more serious.

With the book’s discussion guide, my co-author Liyana Taff and I had to carefully ensure that the information contained was reflective of the research we undertook (our content was guided and informed by the UN Conventions on the Rights of the Child, the Protective Behaviour Framework for personal safety and The National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children’s (UK) PANTS rule), as well as the extensive consultations we had with experts such as Child Protection Officers, child psychiatrists, teachers and NGOs. So it was the research process, more than anything else, that was the most time-consuming (although ultimately, rewarding).

Tell us about the illustrator Charlene Chua and how she came to be on this project. What was the process like working with her to bring your story to life?
Charlene was a delight to work with — there was honestly no one else I could have imagined serving as the illustrator for Boys Don’t Fry. Charlene had left a comment in a tweet expressing her excitement about there being a book centred on Peranakan/Nyonya culture, and once I sold this manuscript, I knew immediately that I wanted her on board as the illustrator! Being from Singapore herself (and with a great-grandmother who was adopted into a Peranakan/Nyonya family), Charlene was familiar with the nuances of our Southeast Asian way of life and brought the book’s characters and setting to life in such a vivid and authentic way.

It was also such a fun process working with her on ensuring accuracy in the book’s illustrations — from finding references from old personal family photos, to taking videos from my visit to Melaka’s Baba & Nyonya Heritage Museum to give her a “feel” of the space as inspiration for the book.

Are you working on your next children’s book? If yes, could you share what it would be about?
Yes! I’ve just announced my upcoming book, 100 Days, which will be released by Macmillan in Spring 2025. It’s a story that centres on the traditional 100-day celebration observed by many Asian cultures (including the Malaysian-Chinese community), and follows the journey of a newly minted big sister as she grapples with the arrival of her baby sister. As the days go by, she slowly discovers a love that deepens with time and learns to embrace sisterhood through the changing seasons.

Locally, with the wonderful team at makchic and the brilliant Delia Razak as illustrator, we’re currently working on a book on internet safety for kids (featuring several characters from the same universe as What If? and serving as a follow-up in an ongoing picture book series) and aimed at a 2025 release.

Boys Don’t Fry is available in-store and online.

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Lit Review: ‘Falling Animals’ by Sheila Armstrong

by Fong Min Hun

I have been a big fan of Sheila Armstrong since coming across her debut collection of short stories, How to Gut a Fish and you can read my review here. In that review, I gushed about the Shirley Jackson-esque flavour of her writing, and marvelled at the seamless transitions in her writing. I was therefore very excited when Bloomsbury sent me a review copy of her debut novel Falling Animals, which I finished months ago and promptly let procrastination (in writing this review) get the better of me. 

Falling Animals is brilliant. (And what an amazing cover!)

Putatively a mystery concerning a dead man, Falling Animals is told from the perspectives of the villagers living in a small Irish tourist village by the beach where the corpse is found. The stage opens with the story of the waste collector who has been hired to dispose of the beached carcass of a seal. Though not an everyday occurrence, it happens regularly enough that there is a checklist of kit that needs bringing, and a proper handling sequence to avoid a revolting end. All this happens at the break of day, where dawning light further illuminates the props and setting of the stage: the skeletons of a shipwreck and a whale; an exposed beach recovering from an unseasonal thunderstorm; and a serene dead man sat cross-legged on the wind-swept dunes. 

An unidentified dead man is a question mark, a challenge. Who is he? How did he get here? How did he die? Why did he die? No one seems to know the answer to these questions, not even the police and the forensic pathologist whose raison d’etre in these situations is to come up with the answers. 

The sergeant’s eyebrows come together into one hard line when she presents him with the autopsy results, and he asks if she is sure. She isn’t, of course, isn’t sure at all, but his questioning makes her bristle and dig in her heels… But still, she cannot make up facts that are not there. Death by natural causes.

The unnamed man will be buried in a public grave, but we will hear more from those who have crossed paths with the dead man. Among them, the village gossip who first finds the body; the barman who owns the pub in which she holds court; the grieving mother whose story is entwined with the wrecked ship;  an artist who paints the ship; and the ship, to which the dead man is inextricably linked. Armstrong weaves a tangled web, and though each narrative strand seems individual and unconnected, a portrait slowly reveals itself with each turn of the page.

As each vignette gets told, our circle gradually closes in on the identity of the dead man. But perhaps that isn’t really the point of the story. Even as more light is shed on the identity of the dead man, we come to learn more about the chorus of voices, who they are, how they got there, and why. We come to learn of their grief, their guilt, and importantly, their redemption. The stories of those who come across the dead man are tinged with melancholy and regret, and reflects primaeval truths of the human condition. 

She watches the wrecked ship from the cafe’s window every day, seeing the tide wash around it, rust climb up its sides, the hull buckle and break. Sometimes she suspects it steered itself into the sandbank, broken and exhausted by whatever years it had spent on the water, whatever weights it had carried, whatever sadness it had soaked up. As metaphors for her life go, it is slightly on the nose, but she will take what she can get. Candlesticks and doilies are not for everyone.

Falling Animals isn’t the sort of story that invites the reader to go on a journey of discovery; instead, it’s one where the entire story has always already been there, and the author is slowly unfurling the tapestry from one small corner. The book is dark, elegiac and at times unsettling, but what emerges is a quietly beautiful tale helped along by Armstrong’s poetic sensibilities and sparkling clarity in her writing. From this perspective, Falling Animals bears strong similarities with other novels of quietude, such as John McGregor’s Reservoir 13 and John Williams’ Stoner.

My favourite book of 2023. 

Falling Animals is available both in-store and on our online store.

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Lit Review: ‘Marzahn, Mon Amour’ by Katja Oskamp

by Fong Min Hun

Marzahn, Mon Amour, the Dublin Literary Award 2023 winner by Katja Oskamp (translated by Jo Heinrich), brims with warmth. Part memoir and part collective history, Marzahn is a portrait of the eponymous Berlin district, its inhabitants and Oskamp’s relationships with them. It is therefore perplexing that the publisher had unwisely included the all-too-familiar “This book is a work of fiction” caveat in the edition notice of the book when this is clearly not the case.

On the one hand, this is typical fare: an attempt by the publisher to dissemble and taichi legal liability away. But from a reader’s perspective, it is impossible and unjust to read Marzahn as a pure work of fiction. In doing so, we do great disservice to the writer, the book and the book’s subjects. Especially in Marzahn where the author’s intention is clear throughout the book: Here are these people and here are their stories. Read and bear witness, for these stories and these lives matter! Clearly, it wouldn’t matter so much if these stories and lives were merely “coincidental” as the caveat would have us believe.

This issue aside, Marzahn, Mon Amour is a splendid book that is touching without falling into the pitfalls of whimsy and over-sentimentality. The narrator of the book (read: Oskamp) is a former professional writer who has retrained as a chiropodist and is working at a beauty salon in Marzahn, a Berlin district which was part of the former German Democratic Republic. The book begins with her decision to change careers in her middle-age, a  decision, she says, that was partly due to a setback with her writing career, but also by the changing seasons of her life:

I was forty-four years old when I reached the middle of the big lake. My life had grown stale: my offspring had flown the nest, my other half was ill and my writing, which had kept me busy until then, was more than a little iffy. I was carrying something bitter within me, completing the invisibility that befalls women over forty. 

This struggle against invisibility is a central theme of the book. Marzahn, for one, is an overlooked district that would not be regarded as an ‘iconic’ German district or a must-see for tourists to Berlin. Developed as a model socialist city in the 1970s, Marzahn once held the dubious honour of being the largest expanse of plattenbau prefabricated tower blocks (read: concrete jungle) in Europe. The district was meant to be one of the shining examples of the central planning prowess of the German Democratic Republic, but the fall of the Berlin Wall saw an exodus of young, progressive people to pastures greener. Marzahn subsequently became home to socialist die-hards, and is today still regarded as a bastion for the German far-right.

Oskamp does not judge. Chapter by chapter, Oskamp tells the stories of her clients, her co-workers and her city with affection without glossing over the sharper corners. Her clients are mainly elderly Marzahnites, former East Germans whose identities were crystallised before German reunification. Despite some of their unique foibles — Herr Pietsch was a right-leaning party organiser in his prime and whose laser-eyed focus on efficiency and order has carried over to his 70s, to the chagrin of his hiking group — these are ordinary people who have lived through the transition from communism to capitalism. There are those among them who have lived admirable lives of sacrifice and duty, but whose status as residents of a district past its prime have consigned them to invisibility.

Having spent time in marginalised cities such as Marzahn, Oskamp’s book tugs firmly at my heartstrings. As a former journalist working in such communities, I can tell you first-hand that these inhabitants are generally closely drawn together and fiercely protective of theirs and their stories. It takes patience and a great deal of empathy before the walls start to come down brick by brick, but the stories and friendships made are usually worth the effort. Chiropody is probably an ideal way of building such relationships; after all, it’s probably quite difficult to hold anyone’s feet for an extended period of time without some chat.  

Marzahn is also a book about personal epiphany, the virtues of the small, and the gratification of work dedicated to the service of others. In an interview with The Irish Times, Oskamp said she “saw how people dealt with loneliness, with children leaving, losing their flat, their job, disappointment, and I got a lot out of this on a daily basis. It was really important for me to understand that you can always rely on that: these people supported me, they helped me, and in that moment of my life I was very open to these small, friendly, warm gestures.”

In the book, she describes how her decision to switch from writing to chiropody — a “comedown” of sorts — is greeted by those around her with revulsion, incomprehension and, “worst of all, sympathy.” And yet, this career switch would fundamentally change her life for the better. The bitterness disappears, and she finds that her world is significantly enlarged by her new role in the service of others. Seldom emerges the thought that a small, ordinary life can be more gratifying than one of a higher calling, but it can be so.

“It was very important to me at the time that I wasn’t stuck in the intellectual writing experience, a writer in this writing tower,” Oskamp said in the interview. “If you are in front of your screen all day long you don’t know in the evening what actually made you tired, what we achieved or did not achieve. In chiropody I know every evening what I have done. I know I had 13 or 16 pairs of feet, everybody was happy, everybody was satisfied, everybody left in a better mood than they entered the room, and this is something very satisfying.”

As Voltaire says in Candide, we must cultivate our garden.

Marzahn, Mon Amour is available in-store and on our online shop.

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Lit Review: ‘Days at the Morisaki Bookshop’ by Satoshi Yagisawa

by Fong Min Hun

Elaine and I were in Amsterdam on holiday recently, and made a quick detour to The Hague to see Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring and catch the Escher exhibit. On the way back to the train station, we passed a bookshop just down the road from the Central Station with the following message above the entrance:

“Friend, you stand on sacred ground. This is a Bookshop.”

Sadly, we didn’t have time to stop in Boekhandel Douwes, but the message on the transom resonated and amused us, reminding us of the high regard and fierce loyalty that book people develop for their favourite bookshops. As a result of which, a mythology develops over time turning the bookshop into hallowed ground. No surprise, then, that bookshops have long been fertile ground for both speculative and documentary writers. 

A recent entry into this long and storied writing tradition is Satoshi Yagisawa’s Days at the Morisaki Bookshop, a Chiyoda Literature Prize winner translated into English by Eric Ozawa this year. The story revolves around Takako, an erstwhile office worker who is thrown for a loop when she suffers a psychological setback. Out of the blue, Takako’s boyfriend announces to her that he is getting married, but not to her. The news sends Takako into a spiral of depression that subsequently leads her to quit her job and turns her into a shut-in. Takako spends most of her days and nights asleep to keep her emotional pain at bay. Her uncle, Satoru Morisaki, who runs the Morisaki Bookshop in the storied Jimbocho book district, offers to let her live above the bookshop. The offer is made under the guise of helping Takako stretch her savings, but the uncle is clearly more of a meddler than he lets on. 

What happens in Morisaki Bookshop should be obvious by now: Takako, a non-reader, takes up residence on the second floor of the shop to begin her involuntary convalescence. One sleepless night following a confessional with her uncle, she chooses a book—or the more romantic of us might say that the book chose her—to while away the time, but instead finds it unputdownable. The book in question, Until the Death of the Girl by Saisei Murō (untranslated in English), keeps her entranced till dawn. Finishing the book, Takako ignites her love of reading and finds new ways of connecting with her uncle and the people around her. During the course of Morisaki Bookshop, we see Takako discuss Osamu Dazai’s Schoolgirl with a new friend, attend a local book festival with pure glee, and transform herself into a more expressive and connected being. 

The overall plot of Morisaki Bookshop is tropey: the bookshop is a place of succour and books are balms for a bruised soul. There is a daintiness in the story’s execution that one typically finds in Japanese light novels, but Morisaki is hardly the worst perpetrator. What makes Morisaki Bookshop worth reading—and it is—is the whirlwind tour through modern Japanese literature that Yagisawa takes us on, the way his love for Jimbocho and bookshops shine throughout the novel, and, yes, dammit, one does care somewhat about what happens to Takako and her uncle. There is also a second part to the book which sees the return of Satoru’s wife, Momoko, who walked out on him five years ago. 

Morisaki Bookshop is a charming story that book lovers will find endearing despite its flaws. It pays homage to the saving grace of the act of reading and to the places that house its instruments. In Javier Marias’ The Infatuations, Marias has the antagonist, Diaz-Varela, say the following:

It’s a novel, and once you’ve finished a novel, what happened in it is of little importance and soon forgotten. What matters are the possibilities and ideas that the novel’s imaginary plot communicates to us and infuses us with… 

Book people are interesting for various reasons, but one eccentricity they share is that many of them also tend to enjoy reading about reading: i.e. about books, bookshops, booksellers, libraries, librarians and about other people who enjoy reading. Perhaps it’s because these books communicate to them the possibility of an utter life of bliss, a sacred sanctuary bounded by bookshelves. One can but dream. 

Days at the Morisaki Bookshop is available in-store and online.

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Lit Review: ‘How to Gut a Fish’ by Sheila Armstrong

by Fong Min Hun

Sheila Armstrong’s debut short story collection, How to Gut a Fish, is a poised and masterful blend of the quotidian and the unsettling. The stories showcase an author with an array of writing styles at her disposal, ranging from the slow and lyrical, to the quick and punchy, to the arrhythmic and surreal. These are put to good effect with each story coming off as equally unique and compelling. 

In the title story, we follow the travails of a down-on-his-luck fisherman in the midst of gutting a mackerel while waiting for a late night appointment with clients of questionable disposition. His existential ruminations take him from fish to family, and his poor fortune that has turned him into a pleasure boat operator and potential criminal. Written in the second person, the story feels pregnant with fatalism: “Find a prayer as the little death whispers away across the deck and over your shoulders into the sunset. Look your fish in the eye: they say the last thing a man sees is imprinted on his pupil. You check every catch this way for your reflection, but there is only a dark hole of fright.”

Red Market opens with preparations for a village Christmas fete. It is a communal affair that brings people together for the festive season to barter and sell their artisanal wares. Men and women busy around their booths selling an eclectic mix of goods ranging from used wedding dresses and used cooking utensils to an ancient diving suit. But at the centre of the fete is the star attraction of the auction: a trussed up young girl whose vocal cords have been anesthetised and placed belly down like a Christmas turkey. It’s quite clear why she’s there:

Some stop to admire the girl on the podium. A student nurse fingers a foot-long scar across the girl’s exposed abdomen. Pity, she thinks, the left is usually the stronger. Marci opens her palms in a helpless motion when questioned about the missing kidney; it is difficult to get undamaged goods these days , but the stitches are neat and old.

The story is a horrific one, made all the more so by the nonchalance of those participating in the auction; even the bound girl herself adopts a ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ air in these last few hours of her life. Red Market recalls to mind Shirley Jackson’s equally terrifying and superb The Lottery.

Then there are the quieter stories. Lemons tells the story of a girl’s journey to adulthood in 10 brief pages, but nevertheless succeeds in compressing the pains and challenges of a life in a reflective, melancholic story. Mantis, written as an unbroken stream of consciousness, offers a glimpse into the mind of a man in the grips of a mania as he reckons with regret, death, relationships and parenthood. 

Originally from Sligo but now living in Dublin, Sheila Armstrong sets many of the stories in her home country of Ireland and deftly evokes the landscape to create an extraordinary sense of place and time in her writing. Her keen judgment ensures that her stories, which are relatively short, are sufficiently detailed to be enticing but not so much so as to break the pace of the story. An excellent collection that we highly recommend.

How to Gut A Fish is available in-store and online.

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Lit Review: ‘How Kyoto Breaks Your Heart’ by Florentyna Leow

by Elaine Lau

On a month-long cultural exchange trip to Japan as a teen, Malaysian writer Florentyna Leow fell in love with Japan – so much so that the Petaling Jaya-native went on to study Japanese at university in the UK, and moved to Tokyo when a job opportunity came up. 

Leow jumped at the chance to move to Kyoto when a friend she’d met at university asked if she wanted to work with her and move in as her housemate as well. It was this time of living and working in this storied Japanese city that forms the spine of Leow’s first collection of essays, How Kyoto Breaks Your Heart, put out by independent UK publisher The Emma Press in February.

In an excerpt from the foreword of How Kyoto Breaks Your Heart, Leow writes: “The following pages are a brief record of trying to find a home in Kyoto; a series of sketches, vignettes, and attempts to make sense of all the ways you can love a place. Here’s what I’ve figured out so far: when you try to belong somewhere, your chosen home becomes a reminder of what you stand to lose. It will shape you, make you, break you. To love a place is to love its people, and to love a place is to let it break your heart.”

A slim volume of 12 essays, the intimate book tells the stories of the people, places, and food that have left an indelible mark on Leow. She also reflects on friendship, belonging, and unexpectedly, tour-guiding, a side gig Leow picked up during her time there. 

I was drawn in to Leow’s stories by her poignant, expressive writing.  Pieces on specific streets and places, namely her favourite shotengai or shopping street and the jazz kissa she frequents, are vivid and charming. But there is, nonetheless, a thread of melancholy that darts in and out of the book as she reflects on the painful demise of a friendship. “I often joke that writing the book was like five years of therapy condensed into a month,” says Leow in an email interview with Lit Books. 

Most of Leow’s professional writing encompasses food and drink (she’s written for Gastro Obscura and Japan Times, among others), and there is of course, a sprinkling of that in her book, where she waxes lyrical about persimmons and tea rituals, kakigori and eggs. She credits a food memoir she read when she was 13 as the catalyst. Titled Candyfreak by Steve Almond, it’s “a semi-journalistic memoir centred around a candy/chocolate obsession and visiting small candy factories across the US”, she says. 

“Before reading Candyfreak, I had no idea you could write about food, much less write about food like that – describing how it was made, how this guy ate it, how he felt about it – and the sheer granularity of food images you could conjure through sentences. I read that book obsessively,” she adds. “I learned how to use words like ‘exude’ (as in, the dark chocolate coating of a limited KitKat Dark exudes a puddinglike creaminess) and ‘gnash’ (as in, the sweet gnash of hickeys) and ‘tchotchkes’ (as in, a bank of shelves packed to overflowing with candy tchotchkes)… I still read it at least once a year.”

How this book of essays came to be published is straightforward enough. Leow says she sent in a proposal to The Emma Press’ call for submissions and a few months later, received an email asking to see the manuscript. “I was beset with sudden exhilaration and horror at having to deliver a manuscript which was at the time 10% complete at most,” she recalls.

Does she have a favourite from the collection? Leow says, “Not especially, as they represent various aspects of my life and work, but Rainy Day in Kyoto comes quite close as it explores a friendship I cared deeply about. I’m also quite fond of A Bowl of Tea, which is perhaps the most “Kyoto” piece in the collection, as well as the most uplifting and celebratory, tonally speaking.”

Residing in a smaller city with a less frenetic pace of life than Tokyo enabled Leow to become more observant of life in general. She says, “Living in Kyoto really taught me the value of slowing down and looking closely at my surroundings. And also remaining curious. I don’t always remember this in Tokyo — life here is frenetic at times and I am a total workaholic and homebody — but it is always worth going for a walk and letting the world surprise you… I never used to like plants, nature, or the outdoors. Living in Kyoto for a few years definitely changed that.”

Old cities fill us with a sense of wonder and reverence because they are often more than just a collection of people and places. They have a mood, a rhythm, a pulse, a personality; they breathe through you, and you, in turn, find yourself changed and moved by the city. How Kyoto Breaks Your Heart captures some of those elements on the page.

Pick up a copy of How Kyoto Breaks Your Heart in-store and online.