It was beautiful: an opulent visual feast—I would expect nothing less from Luhrmann. The twenties aesthetic is perfectly rendered in the typography of the titles, the costumes and the sets. It is probably unfair to say that I was less overwhelmed by Gatsby than I was by Romeo and Juliet and Moulin Rouge—film-making technology has advanced so much in the last decade or so that it must be increasing difficult to surprise or impress an audience. Luhrmann was working with an additional element this time though, 3D, and he made good use of it but sometimes the 3D was a little distracting and I felt that it may not have actually been necessary.

The casting was very well done. Leonardo DiCaprio’s awkwardly contrived accent and painful idealism were well-suited to Gatsby. Carey Mulligan was lovely as the beautiful, self-absorbed Daisy, attempting to be the heroine of her own life but not quite able to live up to Gatsby’s idealised version of herself. Tobey Maguire was convincing as indecisive Nick Carraway—the perpetual observer, and Joel Edgerton did a very good Tom Buchanan. They were all pretty close to how I had always pictured them.

The music was a little disappointing. The twenties had such great music that there was scope for an amazing soundtrack, but Gatsby’s parties had a twenty-first century sound that wasn’t particularly exciting. The mixing of eras and stylised anachronisms that were thrilling and revolutionary in Romeo and Juliet felt a little contrived in this soundtrack.

The film has been criticised for losing of lot of the subtlety of the original and this is a fair assessment. The TRAGEDY is rather hammered home and all of the intricacies of plot and nuance are spelled out just to make sure we didn’t miss any of the CRUEL IRONY of this story. There were some sequences that were laughably over-the-top—the moment when Gatsby is revealed for the first time for example. Nick Carraway has spent the entire party searching for his elusive host; he mutters something to a passing stranger who spins around dramatically to reveal a beatifically smiling DiCaprio who announces grandly, “I am Gatsby!” to a simultaneous climax of fireworks. We did giggle—it was a moment worthy of Willy Wonka. But I can’t imagine subtlety was ever the intention of this film—the intention was to create a lavish, stylish, flashy, theatrical spectacle. Luhrmann is the King of dazzling melodrama and the film should be appreciated for what it is.

The script is pretty faithful to the original plot as far as I can remember. There is one significant element added as a framing device. Nick Carraway is in some kind of mental hospital—he has become a depressed, anxious alcoholic. His doctor encourages him to write as a way to achieve peace and closure. It is not elegant but it works and it does allow the manner in which the story is told—the words themselves—to become part of the narrative. What I really appreciated about this movie, and didn’t expect, is that it is a tribute, not just to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story, but to his actual words. This is where the use of 3D technology is most stunning and affecting—when the words of Fitzgerald’s original come to life and float in the midst of the cinematic action. (For a graphic designer the typographic visuals were particularly satisfying.) The closing sequence, superimposed by Fitzgerald’s transcendent final line, is intensely moving:

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Although comparisons to the original are inevitable, I believe that each new interpretation of a story should be judged on its own merit and can only extend the reach and influence of the original. (Could a film ever be a true reflection of a book anyway?) Baz Luhrmann’s Great Gatsby is a visually-stunning movie with an emotionally engaging narrative and it has already, undoubtedly, renewed interest in the book—as a result perhaps a new generation will discover the subtlety and nuance, the lyrical prose and the tightly-plotted narrative of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby.

As it turns out there were many things I enjoyed about this book but firstly; the South African setting. I lived in Johannesburg for eight years, ten minutes’ drive away from Hillbrow (‘Zoo City’) so many of the settings in the book were very familiar. And it is not just that it was familiar; Lauren Beukes brought it to life—the vibe, the pace and the slang of Joburg were pitch-perfect. I did wonder if the cultural references might have been off-putting or confusing for international readers but the book did very well in the UK—winning the 2011 Arthur C. Clarke Award—so apparently not.

The second thing I loved was the really imaginative concept behind this alternative dystopian world. It lends from the animal familiars of Philip Pullman’s fantasy trilogy His Dark Materials—but adds a new dimension. The animals are not universal—only people who have blood on their hands receive an animal. They are albatrosses—signs of guilt. Zinzi’s sloth represents her responsibility for the death of her brother. This physical manifestation of difference allows all sorts of stigmatisation and segregation and the formation of ghettos such as Zoo City. The animal familiars do come with some advantages though—other magical gifts. Zinzi’s gift is for finding things: ‘Lost a small item of personal value? I can help you find it for a reasonable fee. No drugs. No weapons. No missing persons.’ Against her will she gets sucked into searching for a missing girl—half of teenage pop-duo sensation ‘iJusi’. But the case is more complicated than it first appears.

Zinzi December is a fantastic heroine—she’s tough, she’s brave, she’s cocky, but she’s not perfect. Far from it; she’s an ex-con, ex-drug addict, paying penance for her past life—forced to write scam emails by her former drug dealer to pay off her debts. She’s the underdog—she’s up against criminal overlords and the threat of doom represented by the sinister ‘Undertow’. It a fast-paced, gripping, wild-ride of a story—I couldn’t put it down.

Mention should also be made of the very striking cover design—the edition I have is published by Angry Robot and the cover illustration is by Joey HiFi. It is exquisite—a greyscale sketch collage of animal fur, feather, faces and urban landscape forming the title, and another carrion collage on the back of the sinister Marabou stork. It’s the kind of image that sucks you in—both fascinating and horrifying.

It’s great to be pleasantly surprised by a book—I am really looking forward to Lauren Beukes’ new book, The Shining Girls, now.

New York high-society of the 1870′s somehow converts seamlessly to a present-day North-London Jewish community; a difficult task and testament to the skill and sensitivity of the author. Both societies have a close-knit community and strong family values in common, but Francesca Segal is slightly kinder to her community in ‘The Innocents’ than Edith Wharton was to hers. She describes it with affectionate warmth—the whispers about the scandalous Ellie are merely gossip, not censorious judgment. Perhaps this is the hardest element to translate to a contemporary setting—today we have the liberty of second chances, the opportunity to remake ourselves. Ellen Olenska’s reputation was irredeemable. In contrast Adam’s contemplation of betrayal seems somehow more despicable than Newland Archer’s. Perhaps we are more cynical about love these days—literature’s grand passions have been reduced to your garden-variety lust.

The characters are very well-crafted though, their feelings are authentically conveyed. Adam’s recurring grief at the loss of his own father and the role that Rachel’s father plays in his life is a poignant addition. It is an ambitious project—to take on the timeless genius of Edith Wharton’s original—but ‘The Innocents’ does add a worthy alternate dimension to a classic story.

The main character in Visitation is not a person but a place, a house on a small piece of land on the edge of a lake in the Brandenburg forest. The human characters, the successive inhabitants of this house through the early decades of the twentieth century, are ghostly and transient against this backdrop. Like many things in this book the title has layers of meaning. Visitation has connotations of hauntings – the inhabitants of the house live with the presence of the former residents – but it also suggests that our occupation of this world is temporary. We are all just visitors here.

The book opens with an even bigger picture – the shifting tectonic plates and melting ice that created the lake in the first place: ‘Approximately twenty-four thousand years ago, a glacier advanced until it reached a large outcropping of rock that now is nothing more than a gentle hill above where the house stands.’ The message is clear from the first sentence of the prologue – even the landscape is transient in the great sweep of history.

There is a common thread that ensures that the succession of characters does not feel too swift and desultory—a framing device in the form of a caretaker. ‘The Gardener’ is a constant figure who crops up between each chapter, pruning, sowing and weeding. ‘…he’s always lived there, everyone in the village knows him, and yet he is only ever referred to by both young people and old as The Gardener, as though he had no other name.’

The first human characters we encounter (after our introduction to The Gardener) are the Mayor and his four daughters. This recounting of their lives has the feel of a fable. Their world is framed by superstition, rituals and rules, but it does little good—the tragic Klara (the first owner of the land by the lake) slips slowly into madness and ruin. There is also an interesting reversal: instead of setting up Klara to haunt the future inhabitants of the house that is yet to be built, Klara sees a foreshadowing of future ghosts: ‘Only now, when she is looking for a good spot to sit down with him, does it strike her how many people there are all around her in this bit of woods, and everywhere there might be an attractive spot to rest, someone is already sitting or standing, […] It’s no doubt because all these people are so quiet that she didn’t notice them before.’

Most of the characters are not referred to by name but by designation: ‘The Architect’ ‘The Cloth Manufacturer’ ‘The Childhood Friend’. As readers we are disarmed into believing that we are seeing the characters in a dispassionate and impersonal way where in reality we are drawn in and absorbed into their lives. Each small action, related in rich detail in the present tense, has significance and is intensely moving and engaging. The huge historical events that lie under the surface of the narrative, including the Second World War, are not reported chronologically. Occupation of this particular territory, rather than being subject to regimes, becomes almost seasonal, in rhythm with the ubiquitous Gardener’s planting and pruning. The concept of conquest and ownership seems ridiculous in the vast metanarrative of history. Erpenbeck does not take sides or make judgements; there are no ‘good’ characters and ‘bad’ characters. She merely gives us glimpses, telling details about how the events affect the lives of the characters. This creates a sense of authenticity; the scenarios are observed rather than engineered: ‘When he acquired the bathing house from the Jews, their towels were still hanging there. Before it could occur to his wife to wash them, he’d gone swimming and rubbed himself dry with one of the strangers’ towels. Strange towels. Cloth manufacturers, these Jews. Terrycloth. Top quality goods. Not too much to ask.’

The epilogue, rendered in the technical language of demolition, is intensely moving – testament to the author’s skill in creating emotional investment in a piece of property, for all that it represents: ‘…care should be taken to minimise vibrations when the demolition is carried out so as to reduce the environmental burdens of dust and noise and prevent cracks from developing in nearby buildings.’ As a reader you actually mourn the death of the house—the vibrations continue to resonate after the house is gone and the book is finished.

Umbrella by Will Self (Bloomsbury – August 2012)
This is one of my absolute favourites – a broken umbrella is a useless, pathetic object but in this context it is rendered iconic and beautiful. The monchromatic palette and subtle texture makes this cover stand out next to a slew of busy, brightly coloured books. The nostalgic slab-serif title alternately grips and fades behind the contour of the umbrella. Lovely.

The Lighthouse by Alison Moore (Salt – August 2012)
Another Booker shortlisted book, the image is beautifully framed, the weight of the monolith is offset by the light-weight font and intersecting lines.

 
Hawthorn & Child by Keith Ridgway (Granta – July 2012)
In my opinion the most striking and original cover this year. You don’t find an image like this on stockart websites. Intriguing and disturbing.

Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon (Fourth Estate – September 2012)
Bright, bold and fun.

NW by Zadie Smith (Hamish Hamilton – August 2012)
Iconic, instantly recognisable, almost hypnotic.

The Teleportation Accident by Ned Beauman (Sceptre – July 2012)
Love the twenties-meets-cubism feel here.

Joy by Jonathan Lee (William Heinemann – June 2012)
The exhuberance of the title word contrasts beautifully with the mundane materials that have been used to construct it – staples on an office folder.

Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander (Picador – February 2012)
Subtle and beautifully crafted.

Black Bread White Beer by Niven Govinden (The Friday Project – September 2012)
I love the hand-drawn, collaged effect. It’s hard to pull this off without making it look like a pre-school mess so I think the designer did a great job here.

Lightning Rods by Helen DeWitt (And Other Stories – September 2012)
Honourable mention needs to be made of And Other Stories and their bold, graphic covers. The designs are not particularly exciting on an individual basis but together they create a very strong visual identity for the brand and, for my money, I think they did a better job on Deborah Levy’s Swimming Home, than Faber and Faber did with their generic ‘woman in swimming pool’ stock.

The Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling (Little, Brown – September 2012)
And one that didn’t quite measure up to expectation – it has the fashionable bold graphic look and the customised type but somehow it lacks the personality of some of the designs above. Almost, but not quite.

The main problem I had with this book was managing my expectations. Like many others I am a long-standing fan of the Harry Potter books and have read the series through several times. In my mind Voldemort has been vanquished and JK Rowling should, like Harry Potter, be allowed to live happily ever after…surely? The thought of her writing a book for Muggles seemed strange and wrong. The first indication of what to expect was the title, The Casual Vacancy, in itself rather vague. The cover art, released months in advance of the publication date—to much fanfare and obsessive analysis, similarly gave nothing away. The blurb introduced the character Barry Fairbrother and the clue that the title referred to a vacancy created on the Parish Council due to his death. In my mind ‘Barry’ is a comic name so I had assumed that I should expect a comic novel; a light-hearted satire on village life—the petty gossip and concerns of small-town existence. (It might have created a very different first impression if his name was John or Peter.) But there were also preliminary hints that The Casual Vacancy contained council estates, drug use, neglected children, and suddenly it seemed possible that Rowling was attempting some sort of kitchen-sink realism. In truth The Casual Vacancy is none of these things but I had to fight my way through all of these perceptions to get to grips with what this novel actually is. I’m still not quite sure.

As mentioned above, the book opens with the sudden death of one Barry Fairbrother in the village of Pagford. The Parish Council is in the midst of an ongoing battle about the future of a council estate on the edge of Pagford. The majority of the Council, under the leadership of First Citizen Howard Mollison, are attempting to push the responsibility for ‘The Fields’ estate back on to the District Council in the adjacent town of Yarvil. Barry Fairbrother, himself a former inhabitant of The Fields and resolute champion of the working-class underdog, is spearheading the opposition. The ‘casual vacancy’ created by his sudden death requires the election of another councillor and this appointment will be significant for the outcome of The Fields issue. We are introduced to the characters as each hears and responds to the news of Barry’s death, and from there Rowling slowly unravels the complex web of conflict and tension that binds the inhabitants of Pagford together.

In some ways this is actually a children’s book, not a book for children obviously, but a book in which, as a reader, you take the children’s side against the adults. This is not to say that the children are particularly worthy – they are predominantly awful creatures but their behaviour is easily attributed in part at least to terrible parenting. The first half of the book left me desperate to find at least one character with some redeeming characteristics. The narrative was weighted particularly heavily towards exposing the weakness and flaws of the characters up front. The constantly shifting omniscient perspective allows the reader to see each character through their own eyes and through the interpretations or misinterpretations of others. This is skilfully done but I did see the book referred to on Twitter as a ‘gloomy soap opera’ and this is probably a fair assessment of the first half at least.

Some of the teenagers’ issues addressed in The Casual Vacancy seemed rather predictable: cyber-bullying, cutting, drug-use, casual sex and birth-control – token issues, but some of the adult’s inner-battles are delightfully bizarre and creative. There is an element of caricature but this is balanced with some of the sober realities of life. One of my favourite characters is Stuart ‘Fats’ Wall and his quest for ‘authenticity’—pursued to the exclusion of all other considerations but still coloured with a teenager’s capacity for complete self-delusion. He is an obnoxious kid but still, like most of Rowling’s characters, has the potential for redemption.

As a reader you do feel safe in the hands of such a master story-teller. There was never any doubt in my mind that there would be resolution in the end. In a way this gave The Casual Vacancy, despite the drugs and council estates, quite an old-fashioned feel. Rowling herself says ‘I love nineteenth century novels that centre on a town or village. This is my attempt to do a modern version.’ The Casual Vacancy does have the feel of a contemporary Barchester Towers. The lives of the huge ensemble cast are fastidiously intertwined—contemporary fiction is rarely as tightly plotted as this.

Once I allowed myself to relax into the story, once I had stopped trying to classify it, I really enjoyed the second half—I read it a lot quicker than the first half and was suitably moved and comforted by the resolution. Perhaps the publishers were trying to avoid preconceived notions by putting out such a non-committal message upfront or perhaps they too were not quite sure how to classify it. But if you are able to set aside your idea of what you think this book is going to be then you will probably enjoy it a lot more.

This review was first published on the Writers’ Hub.

It was on the Northern Line, between Tottenham Court Road and Leicester Square, that Lucinda felt an overwhelming urge to lick the ear of the man standing in front of her. She couldn’t see his face but he had a beautiful ear; well-proportioned, clean, hairless. There was just a trace of stubble at the edge of his jaw, like sea sand. His jawline was defined, decisive. She liked a firm jaw on a man, though Charlie’s had been misleading. She had always been the decisive one, although tonight she wished she’d made up her mind to start for home sooner; before the evening rush hour began. All of the men in the carriage seemed so young in their dark suits, younger than her sons even. They reminded her of sixth formers she had taught – men, but bashful in their man-sized clothes, unaccustomed to the authority in their own voices. The man with the ear shifted in front of her as he turned the page of his newspaper.
Excuse me, young man, would you mind if I licked your ear? It’s just that it’s such a good-looking ear. Lucinda smiled to herself and then tried not to. People would think she was mad, smiling at nothing. She wouldn’t have to move much at all to reach his ear. Their bodies were already pressed together. She would just lean her head forward and stretch upwards a little bit. She would open her mouth, place her tongue underneath the lobe, close her lips over it and then gently rake the front of it with her teeth. She wet her lips – she had the feel of it in her mouth already. She became afraid that the urge would overwhelm her and that she might actually do it. It would be awful to see the revulsion in his eyes, the shock of the other people in the carriage. She could imagine how Charlie would laugh at that story.

She had met Charlie at a picnic on Hampstead Heath in the summer of 1971. Her friends had gone for a walk and she had stayed behind to enjoy the sun and read her book. He was sitting with another group a short distance away. She had noticed him earlier: the clean lines of his jaw, his smile, his athletic build. She wasn’t sure how old he was though – too old to notice her perhaps. She was nineteen and still felt like a schoolgirl.
She caught his eye and smiled in a neutral way – friendly but not flirtatious. He smiled back then ambled over.
“What are you reading?”
The sun was behind him. As a child Lucinda used to dream that she was looking for something important but she couldn’t see clearly enough to find it – as though she had just woken up and her eyes wouldn’t open properly, however hard she rubbed them. She had that feeling now; squinting into the sun, knowing that it was vital that she see his face but not quite able to.
“Jane Eyre,” she said and then, thankfully, he moved so he was blocking the sun with his body.
“Ah – Mr Rochester, dark and brooding – is that your type then?” His hair was blonde but he was still smiling – teasing her.
“Preferably without the mad wife hidden in the attic.”
“Yes, the mad wife always gets in the way. I’m Charlie,” he said.
“Lucinda. Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
“You didn’t want to go for a walk then with your friends?”
“I’d just got to the exciting bit.”
“But, you’ve read it before?”
“Yes, but I’m always holding my breath, just in case she doesn’t find him,” she smiled so he would know she wasn’t taking herself too seriously.
“Shall I leave you to it then?”
“No, stay – I’m sure she’ll find him, she doesn’t need my help.” She shifted slightly to the side to make some space. He sat down on the blanket beside her.
“So what do you do, Lucinda, when you’re not reading Jane Eyre?”
“Nothing, I just read Jane Eyre over and over. Although I do alternate with Pride and Prejudice obviously, as you do.”
“As you do.”
“I’m studying to be a teacher actually.”
“Planning on indoctrinating a whole new generation into the delights of Bronte and Austen?”
“Absolutely. What about you? What do you do when you’re not having picnics and deriding the classics?”
“I work in the City, in finance – not very exciting but it pays for the mad wife in the attic.”
He was very easy to talk to and he seemed intelligent. She liked that he’d read the same books as her even though he teased her about them. And he understood her sense of humour – he didn’t look at her strangely like some other boys did. They talked until her friends returned. She was short with them, engrossed in her conversation. The friends smiled and whispered pointedly at them. She felt a little intoxicated by this mutual fascination. She wanted her friends to notice it. The warmth of the day was retreating with the sun. Lucinda’s friends packed up their picnics and stood about looking awkward.
“You go on, I’ll catch up with you.” said Lucinda. Charlie’s friends had already left.
“You don’t have pierced ears.” He observed, brushing her earlobe with his finger.
“No, I didn’t ever get around to it.” She was embarrassed about him looking at her ears – they always seemed awkward things to her, she didn’t like to draw attention to them.
“Now I should be an earring model, I’ve got space for five or six pairs.” Charlie indicated his own ears.
“Gosh, those are impressive lobes.”
“I’m part Basset Hound.”
“Yes I can see that, do you think they enhance your hearing?
“Definitely. And with my super-ears I hear the sound of coffee brewing somewhere over the hill. Shall we go and look for it?”
“Yes, let’s.”

The train pulled into Leicester Square station and disgorged a small proportion of travellers. Twice the number attempted to cram into an imagined space. Lucinda, grasping an overhead rail, was pushed closer to the young man’s back.

She remembered clearly the moment she had noticed that Alistair had Charlie’s ears. He was about three, she was towelling him after his bath and suddenly she had seen that his earlobes were proportionally long. In that moment it was as though a small miracle had taken place. Charlie’s ear, perfectly reproduced in miniature – cloned. He resembled Charlie in other ways but nothing so direct, so pure. When James was born, two years later, she spotted them almost immediately – the same ears. And she pointed them out to the midwife and to Charlie. As the boys were growing up she would rub their earlobes between her fingers sometimes as they passed her; intent on boyish crusades.

Lucinda wished, again, that she had started home a little earlier to avoid this crush, but she had lingered – lost in memory.

It was pancreatic cancer, not strangulation by earlobe as he Charlie had predicted, that eventually separated them. It was quick, relatively speaking. There were no false hopes of remissions and second chances.
“You’ll make sure I’m cremated.” Charlie had said.
“Yes, I know.” They spoke of his death often without ever actually saying goodbye to one another.
“Otherwise my ears might keep growing in my coffin, awful thought. I could donate them to science I suppose, or an ear museum? I can’t decide. You listening?”
“I’m listening, I’m listening,” she said and leaned over him, pulled his hospital gown aside and pressed her ear to his corrugated chest. He coughed weakly. She rested her head for a while, his hand in her hair. When she finally pulled away there was a neat imprint of her ear indented into his skin.
“You have an ear print on your chest,” she said. He didn’t respond – his gaze was fixed in the middle-distance, but she couldn’t see the thing he was looking at. So this was it. She didn’t want to be melodramatic, it’s not like it was a surprise. In some ways she was glad that he went first. Not like this, of course she would not have wished this on him. But she knew that if it had been her, he would not have coped. She was good at coping. She pushed the button to call the nurse.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I think…I think he’s gone.” The nurse took over – practiced in the administration of death.

She would still have the same dream sometimes, of not being able to see, but there was a new element. She would find a contact lens but it would be too big to put in her eye; the size of a Frisbee or a dinner plate. Firstly she would try to put the whole thing in her eye, which wouldn’t work. Then she would try to tear off a small piece very carefully that might just fit; desperate to find that thing she was looking for.

Lucinda had wondered when she’d left home that morning, if she should phone James and Alistair and tell them where she was going. But she had been embarrassed. Scattering Charlie’s ashes on Hampstead Heath felt a little sentimental; something that would happen in a Hollywood movie. She was not generally a sentimental person but she didn’t know what else to do. They’d already had a memorial service. Having Charlie’s charred remains lurking in a corner of the living room seemed macabre, or the back of a cupboard – even worse. Hampstead Heath felt appropriate but when she arrived there she had been furtive and uncomfortable, waiting for someone to come and tell her that scattering ashes was not permitted in city parks. She’d found a quiet corner and sprinkled him on the grass, feeling a little absurd. It had been a mistake to go alone.
She’d felt she should say something but, “Goodbye. Goodbye, Charlie,” was all she could manage.

The train lurched to the left and Lucinda leaned forward quickly and licked the man’s ear.  He put his hand over his ear and his head made an involuntary movement in her direction, as though he might look at her, but then he didn’t make eye contact. Nobody else appeared to have noticed anything. And Lucinda was suddenly swallowed by grief – taken by surprise once again by its strange ebb and flow. Charlie was gone. She was alone. A small shrieking sob escaped her throat and she tried to cover it up with a cough. Several heads turned towards her then.  She swallowed hard and focused on willing the tears away. Just two escaped and she was able to wipe them away inconspicuously while tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear. The moisture in her eyes clarified her vision, brought the carriage into focus with its squash of sullen commuters. The young man finally looked directly at her, his hand still covering his ear. His face was unattractive, flaring nostrils – she had always found an excess of nostril repugnant.

The man with the ear and the nostrils got off at the next stop. She thought about how she would tell Charlie about this when she got home, then caught herself. Don’t do that. She clutched her arms across her chest. The empty urn concealed in her bag felt lumpy and awkward – like her grief.

Copyright Rebecca Rouillard 2011

This short story was first published in
Wooing Mr Wickham introduced by Michele Roberts (Honno Press – November, 2011)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that old age brings fitful sleep. Elizabeth Bennett rarely sleeps soundly. She dreams, if you can call it a dream, that she has something precious in her hands that she is trying to hold on to, though it keeps slipping away. Just before dawn she becomes convinced that she has a firm grip on it, but then she wakes with empty hands and a lingering sense of loss, her fingers clenched in useless fists.

She sits on the side of her bed and flexes her fingers gingerly. Her left hand is slightly less contorted so she uses that one to bend back each of the fingers of her right hand – very gently, one at a time. It is agony at first but as she moves her hands the pain eases a little. She stretches and rubs her hands together for a while until she can comfortably grip the edge of the bed and push herself into a standing position. She lets her breath catch up with her for a moment as she contemplates her next move.

The nurse bustles in. “Morning dearie, need a hand to the loo?”
“No thank you. I’m on my way.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”

She treads carefully, as though her feet might shatter if they encounter the floor too abruptly. She negotiates the dressing table with its bruising edges and escapes into the bathroom. It’s decorated in the same insistently cheerful floral style as the bedroom. She doesn’t remember what her favourite colour is but she is quite sure that it is not yellow. The mindless optimism of yellow makes her want to bang her head against the wall. But she knows that they mean well – her carers, her captors. This prison is not of their making – their culpability is limited to the decor.

Copyright Rebecca Rouillard 2011

‘Lightning Rods’ is a clever satire on corporate America, entrepreneurship and the self-made man. But, as much as I appreciated Helen DeWitt’s skilful characterisation – the narrative voice saturated in sales-speak and self-help hyperbole, I could not like Joe or commit to the story on an emotional level. I found it well-written, witty and engaging to the extent of horrified fascination, but not quite enjoyable.