Sandra Hoffmann’s Paula, in Katy Derbyshire’s new translation, was one of the most subtle books I read last year. In an effort to draw new attention to literature that largely went overlooked during the first wave of the Covid-19 pandemic, I’ve dedicated some space at Splice to a review of Hoffmann’s work:

Where Paula really shines… is in its narrator’s capacity for doubt, as Hoffmann carves out spaces in which to question the worth of hoping to know a person by eroding their armour of silence. “What makes a person?” the narrator asks at one point, apparently in despair, unsure about whether stripping back the silence surrounding her grandmother will finally yield anything worthwhile — unsure, that is, as to whether it’s a valid method of developing a sympathetic imagination or merely an engine of fantasy. “And how can a woman add up… if she’s done her utmost to reveal nothing of herself”, she continues, “as though she could still say: No, I won’t give you permission. No, you may not know me. No, you may not tell my story. How far do vetoes extend? How far does silence reach?” There are no ready answers to these questions, and their unanswerability tears holes in the integrity of Paula. It is to Hoffmann’s credit that her narrator is able to leave no stone unturned in her investigation of Paula’s legacy — historical, emotional, and psychological — while also accommodating the possibility that the entire thing is a folly.

Mutual Attraction and Repulsion

New at Splice, here’s my review of Jaimie Batchan’s début novel, Siphonophore, which is narrated by a man named MacGregor who knows himself to be a character in a book written by another man referred to as “the Creator”. Although the novel begins as a fairly straightforward account of the disastrous Darién settlement of 1699,

Siphonophore [eventually] metamorphoses into something more interesting than historical fiction, if still recognisable: a metafiction of the sort in which a character tussles with an omnipotent author. The conceit, so far, is nothing new. Take it as the stuff of philosophy and you get Luigi Pirandello. Take it as material for playfulness and you get At Swim-Two-Birds (1939) and Mulligan Stew (1979). Or bear down on the stasis of the narrator’s situation — his awesome displacement combined with his stationary existence — and you get something like Antonio di Benedetto’s Zama (1956) or Gerald Murnane’s ‘The Battle of Acosta Nu’ (1985). But Batchan deftly avoids walking the same path as these forebears by introducing a new element, a new source of tension. A third of the way into Siphonophore, MacGregor learns that his Creator has been diagnosed with an illness that will slowly, agonisingly, drain the life from him. The illness is known as Prionic Fatal Insomnia, a real condition that causes sufferers to stop sleeping until, over time, fatigue compounds fatigue and finally results in cognitive failure, organ breakdown, death. So, on one level, Siphonophore straddles two distinct periods in time as well as two consciousnesses — although, rather than permitting the Creator a chance at narration, his twenty-first century worldliness is sort of imported into MacGregor’s thoughts as prior knowledge which he feels to be alien to his experience. But then, ambitiously, Siphonophore introduces a ticking time bomb that brings these two characters into conflict.


In his recent discussion with Dustin Illingworth, Mauro Javier Cárdenas has this to say about the literature of trauma:

I hate the automatisms of trauma. As soon as I hear that dreadful word, henceforth to be replaced with the word demipenteract, I see a hand with ruler & pencil drawing a straight line between demipenteract and present dramatic circumstances, and I hear a voice, stylized for your pleasure — it’s not self-help it’s literature, doctor — that explains the sadness of the demipenteracted. You can’t even watch an airplane movie without poor Mad Max having flashbacks to his demipenteract, which, paradoxically, is supposed to complexify him? And yet of course our demipenteracts, if you’re unlucky enough to have had them, do tend to have an outsized impact, so I am not trying to dismiss them or minimize them but instead I am trying to ask myself how to represent what’s so boringly linear. … In other words my answer to the question of the representation of demipenteracts is to represent the not thinking about demipenteracts.

Yeah, that’s the point I’ve come to as well. Which is to say that my first review of 2021 is a long, very personal, very anxious and ambivalent response to Trauma, a new anthology published by Dodo Ink. Here’s my take:

I’m sympathetic to the value of testimonies of trauma in the cultural discourse. If to speak of trauma is to speak of things done to objectified bodies, those bodies are by definition minoritised: therefore generally not male, white, straight, cisgendered, able, and at least middle-class. When people thus traumatised speak out about their trauma, they do important work for those who are similarly traumatised but remain silent. They create channels for dialogue. They build permission structures for the airing of experiences that would otherwise remain suppressed. They destigmatise trauma. They help to diminish the sense of shame that many survivors carry with them. They agitate for a cultural sphere in which those who testify to their trauma are acknowledged — “seen” — and, if victimised with intent, then believed. They prompt reconsiderations of experiences that sufferers may not have previously seen as traumatic. And they establish new bonds of solidarity, as those with no direct experience of trauma may understand it more keenly if they encounter the testimony of someone with whom they can identify in a bodily sense.

But it’s important as well to view the discourse with scepticism. Any system of validation, no matter how informally structured, inevitably creates perverse incentives and often arbitrary hierarchies of value. If, for instance, this discourse encourages the validation of testimonies of trauma, then doesn’t it ask careerists in pursuit of cultural prominence to embellish their testimonies, to exaggerate their claims? Jeanine Cummins is a glaring example of one who has fallen for the lure, but not everyone who seeks a public platform has to go as far as she did. Perhaps, amid fierce competition for the attention of readers, it can be helpful to characterise an experience as traumatic when it is not clinically so; but then, perhaps, to use the term in this way is to dilute a reader’s understanding of what trauma is, what constitutes it.

And thus begins this year’s coverage of new titles from small presses at Splice.

Lyricism as the Claw

Edinburgh-based Hannah Lees publishes an interesting Substack newsletter, restricting herself to just one topic of reflection and a handful of literary reviews per month. Last month, she had this to say about lyricism as the go-to mode for quote-unquote “literary” writing, including her own:

I know that when I reach for lyricism it is born of a search for precision, a seemingly generous or vulnerable decision to share the thoughts-in-progress rather than only the stark or elegant final product, but, more often than not, this lyricism is a foil for the absence of any standalone elegance. Such writing is not necessarily dishonest or lazy. Lacking precision, reaching for a truth or an interpretation with clumsily beautiful, hungrily iterative phrases does faithfully perform the foggy, trance-like experience of searching. For me, though, I am frustrated with myself when this style is my go-to. Lyricism reveals the way that my mind is operating more like the claw in the claw crane arcade game, descending, grasping, rising with something only barely in my grip, clapping as the cheap shiny toy that I never even wanted is delivered down the chute.

The drive to individualise via personal narratives and pseudo-vulnerable lyricism (less rough ‘n’ ready and more please see the labour apparent in my prose) is not an individual pathology but a wider phenomenon. Of course we find ways to insist on the existence and worth of our labour, of course we have a sales orientation when outside the core socio-economic unit of the family (which not many people can and no one should have to solely rely upon) is raw competition with very little support. We bend and contort in all sorts of asset-encouraging ways — not only on the level of writing as product but on the level of writer as producer; lyricism can sometimes act as an implied declaration of writerliness. Lyricism can be beautiful, but I want to know if it’s still how we want to write when market compulsions are removed. Maybe we do — I know I probably still would, at least some of the time. What can I say, the old tumbling awe might just persist.

Well, that hits home. I feel much the same. I feel, in fact, that Lees has just summed up the governing aesthetic, at the sentence level, of both Blood and Bone and At the Edge of the Solid World: these two paragraphs could stand as their shared epitaph.

Can I disagree with her at all? Hardly. I can really only qualify her comments. For one thing, I’m not sure how much any kind of market factors into my creative decisions; I write on the assumption that my work will never be published, which assumption is a force for liberation. More significantly, though, I might take her central problem as more of a fact of life. My mind operates like the claw in the claw crane arcade game, too, and I’m sure the same is true for everyone else. To the extent that “lyricism” is mimetic of its motions, the style is no-bullshit. That’s not something usually said of a style so syntactically ornate, so much a byword for pretentiousness, but there it is. My general feeling is that if a writer isn’t finding some stylistic expression for the grasping after ephemera that is life as I know it, then they’re selling snake oil and I’m not interested. This expression doesn’t have to be “lyrical” as such, in the middlebrow sense — I need it to be more overworked, more agglomerative, than the transparently lyrical prose of, say, Ian McEwan — but it does need to be perceptible for the work to be more than a commodity for me.

An Ornate Emotional Vivisection

How did I miss this? (Simple enough: I didn’t see it in print because don’t live in Australia, and the text doesn’t appear on the website of The Australian.) Anyway, Beejay Silcox published a great review of At the Edge of the Solid World in the year’s first edition of The Weekend Australian. You can sort of get it via PressReader, albeit behind a paywall, but I also have a screenshot that will do the job (click to enlarge):

Silcox’s review is, as you’ll see, more mixed than the others the book has received, though no less insightful or attentive to the details. For her, the branches of the timelines are “marvels of narrative engineering, but to be admired as one might admire the workings of a wind-up clock, all cogs and ceaseless ticking,” and she judges the Port Arthur chapters to be “a terrible miscalculation.” For my part, I wouldn’t call either of those impressions unjust. In fact, I’ll own up to having aimed at creating them, quite deliberately and for specific purposes. My suspicion is that if Silcox were to have pushed harder on these criticisms, and been given the space to elaborate on them, the result would have been a strengthening of her views, born from an understanding of the rightful origins and purposes of literature which is very different from my own.