As December winds to a close, we at Asymptote are once again reflecting and reminiscing on a year spent with books, those that have spoken to us, accompanied us, and in their own discreet way, carved their paths in the tracks of time alongside us. So today, in lieu of our weekly roundup, we return to our annual series with the following recap of Assistant Editor Barbara Halla’s literary year, filled with character-driven titles that range from the intimate to the epic.
I had this strange impulse, as I sat down to write my “Year in Reading”, to scrap my outline and do something different: write not about the books that have stayed with me because of how good they were, but focus instead on the books I did not like. A “year in books that made me wish I didn’t know how to read” meditation, so to speak. And that would certainly be fun. Unsurprisingly, I seem to have a lot more to say about the books that made me miserable than the ones I loved, but I fought the impulse. What good would that do, just more misery (and free publicity) to spread in the world. So, back to my outline, and the more traditional rundown of some of the books that meant a lot to me this year.
I am going to start in reverse-chronological order. Much is made of relatability in fiction, but it’s not something that I really think about, unless someone tells me that a specific book is supposed to be particularly relatable to someone of my age/gender/nationality, in which case my brain takes this as a challenge to actively dislike it. While reviewers certainly mentioned its style (Joycean!) and its girth (a brick!), I don’t remember anyone specifically telling me that I should read Ducks, Newburyport because I would find myself in its pages. Lucy Ellmann’s opus, where an American housewife from Ohio spends her day making pies and thinking about everything from the challenges of motherhood to the climate crisis, is certainly a book of our time. But I didn’t expect that my overwhelming reaction to it would be a sense of “if someone could scan my brain this is exactly what I’d imagine it to look like!” As for relatable, this is the only book I have read in my life that shows some pity for tortoise-owners like me, and the fact that our care and attention are treated with complete indifference by the subject of our affection. There is a lesson in there somewhere about love and letting go.
In terms of underrated books, I have seen little written about Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay’s The Yogini (translated by Arunava Sinha), a Ferrante-esque exploration of female sexuality set mostly in contemporary Kolkata. Homi, the protagonist, is the epitome of the modern woman, equipped with a fancy media job and a passionate husband. But her perfect life begins to unravel when a mysterious figure only she can see, and to whom she is unwillingly attracted to, starts to follow her everywhere. The Yogini is a disconcerting book that does not lend itself to one interpretation, as Homi finds her body hard to control, making decisions that land her in dangerous waters, but that may also lead her towards true freedom.
I was introduced to The Yogini by my brilliant friend Rachel, who also gifted me the deservedly lauded Tokyo Ueno Station. Written by Yū Miri and translated by Morgan Giles, Tokyo Ueno Station looks beyond the veneer of a spotless Tokyo and straight into the harsh reality of the homelessness that the Japanese government takes great care to hide from public view. The story of its protagonist, Kazu, is told through two interlacing narratives. The first is that of his experience as one of the homeless people that haunt Ueno Park, both in life and in death. The second is the more traditional story of Kazu’s life, of what led him to Ueno Park, from the backbreaking years of thankless farm labor to his alienation and yet understated love for the family he is forced to work away from. Miri’s tenderness for her characters is palpable, and it is easy to understand why this book is beloved by many.
I almost inhaled the two books above, and there is certainly great pleasure in reading a succinctly plotted and narrated story (including that they get us closer to our Goodreads Readings Goals for the year, although I tell myself I shouldn’t be treating reading like a competitive sport). However, this has been a particularly good year for doorstoppers too, which I tend to prefer. Nino Haratischwili’s The Eighth Life (translated by Charlotte Collins and Ruth Martin) is a masterclass on how to write historical fiction. In nine hundred pages that felt almost too short, we are introduced to the history of Georgia and a century full of hope, lies, and disappointments through the lives of seven members of the Jashi family. Heart-breaking, but also a wonderful example how stories can help us heal and understand each other.
I also finally got around to reading A.S. Byatt’s Possession this year, and it’s a shame it took me this long, considering Byatt dedicated this book to me. I mean, we have never met, but a book about two underfunded academics who chase the trail of a doomed love affair through Victorian poetry, feminist theory, and Celtic mythology must have been specifically written for me. On the flipside, I had to force myself to stick to a schedule to finish Elsa Morante’s House of Liars (partial translation done by Adrienne Foulke and a new one in the works by Jenny McPhee), but it is definitely one of those books whose artistry and intricacy you appreciate once you are done. The plot itself is not complicated: the narrator, Elisa, recounts in excruciating detail the life stories of her parents and their extended family as they unfold in a timeless and nameless Italian town. But the book has a certain magnetic power that compels you to keep reading despite Morante’s verbosity, as Elisa writes to understand what went wrong with her life and how she ended up an orphan who prefers to hide in her daydreams rather than nurture relationships with real people. A feeling I am sure many millennials can appreciate.
2019 is thankfully almost over, but there is sure to be further traumas to suffer through in 2020. Well, at least there will be some great books to see us through. Two recommendations before I leave you. Don’t forget to pick up Fernanda Melchor’s Hurricane Season (translated by Sophie Hughes) next February, a tale about a town where the murder of the local witch unravels the ties of intergenerational violence that poison the community. And in March, Emily St. John Mandel will be releasing The Glass Hotel, her best work to date. The story moves back and forth between multiple points of view and multiple timelines, but St. John Mandel has a knack for making her stories seem effortless, just as effortless as her characters’ ability to hurt each other even when all they want to do is help.
Barbara Halla is an Assistant Editor for Asymptote where she has covered Albanian and French literature and the Booker International Prize. She works as a translator and independent researcher, focusing in particular on discovering and promoting the works of contemporary and classic Albanian women writers. Barbara holds a BA in History from Harvard and has lived in Cambridge, Paris and Tirana.
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