Elijah’s Mermaid

The first part of the book begins in 1850, with a delightfully Victorian-esque chapter title, and proceeds to tell the reader of the stranger who rescued a baby after her mother had drowned herself in the River Thames. The narrative voice used is that of this baby, Pearl – ‘the bastard child saved by the river by Tip that night when my mother drowned herself for shame’ – who was brought up in a brothel by the rather whimsical name of The House of Mermaids. This was a ‘most prestigious Chelsea abode’, where the owner of the house, Mrs Hibbert, indulged the ‘every whim of those men wishing to use the brothel’s services’. Pearl’s narrative voice is intriguing from the outset, and feels rich in both detail and atmosphere.

The second chapter of the novel then focuses upon twins, Lily and Elijah, who are adopted from Coram’s Foundling Hospital in 1855 by their paternal grandfather, an author named Augustus Lamb. They are taken to live in Herefordshire and are bathed with Augustus’ fanciful tales of make-believe. Lily adores her brother but feels she is shadowed by his ever-present beauty.

The chapters which focus upon the twins are told from Lily’s own retrospective narrative voice, and from hereon in Lily and Pearl’s narrative voices alternate for the remainder of the novel. A sharp contrast exists between these narrative perspectives – Lily’s is full of childish wonder and Pearl’s is often vulgar – and the juxtaposition of both voices is startling at times. Lily occasionally addresses the reader with questions in order to draw the audience into her story, but this technique does not work well enough to build up much empathy on her behalf.

The idea of the mermaid is intrinsically linked to the novel from the outset, when Mrs Hibbert tells Pearl ‘you were sent to us by the mermaids’. Lily and Elijah, who spend their days ‘searching for Treasures and Magic Things’, are inspired by Charles Kingsley’s The Water-Babies, and develop a ‘mermaid obsession’ at a young age. Whilst the stories of Pearl and the twins are unconnected at first, they soon encounter one another through a mutual acquaintance in the guise of a revered painter named Osborne Black. The way in which the stories are entwined works well, although it does take rather a while to reach the point of their meeting.

Fox’s descriptions are wonderfully written and feel rather original in their scope: ‘the winter air is a cool damp gauze’ and ‘the slip-slopping song of the Thames’ are among the strongest. The novel is stylistically strong for the most part, particularly with regard to the authentic sounding Victorian voice which Fox manages to capture so well in her letters. Fox does encompass many rife Victorian social problems in Elijah’s Mermaid, ranging from debauchery, orphans, the workhouse and the fear of institutions to madness, myths and freakshows.

Several of the phrases used, however, do jolt the novel from its Victorian setting, as they would not have been used during the period – when Lily ‘butted in’ to a conversation, for example. Despite Fox’s wonderful writing, the sentence structure often seems a little long and overcomplicated, and the reader does end up feeling drenched with far too many retainable details. Elijah’s Mermaid does seem a little too drawn out at times and the pace slows rather quickly, particularly when conversations between various characters ensue. Another downside to the novel is that we as readers do not really see Elijah’s point of view – instead, we see what Lily, and later Pearl, think of him. As a result it is easy to feel distanced from the characters, and to not be particularly sympathetic towards any of them.

The appendices feature a list of the real historical figures and settings which influenced the book, as well as information pertaining to the themes of the novel. Fox has also included a list of Victorian slang words – a useful tool, but one which would perhaps have worked better if it had been placed before the story began, rather than tucked away at its end.

Whilst the novel is an interesting amalgamation of Gothic and Victoriana, the twist which Fox has used does not come as a complete surprise. Elijah’s Mermaid is interesting enough, particularly with regard to the many Victorian themes which have been woven throughout, but there are elements of it – the lack of empathy with or feeling towards any of the characters, the few modern phrases and the lack of consistency with regard to the story’s pace, for example – which do not quite work as well as they could have done.

Of the included stories, ten are taken from volumes already published by Persephone, ten have been previously featured in their Biannually Magazine, and ten have been ‘selected especially for this collection’. Each tale is ‘presented in the order they are known, or assumed, to have been written’, and the year has been printed after the title and author of every story, which is a rather useful touch. In fact, the entire volume has been very well laid out, with an accessible author biographies section and a well-spaced contents page.

The collection is a wonderfully varied one and features authors from all walks of life. There are many British and American authors, as well as others from further afield – New Zealand-born Katherine Mansfield, Pauline Smith, who spent her childhood in South Africa, Irene Nemirovsky who grew up in Kiev and spent many years in Paris, and Frances Towers, who was born in Calcutta. The Persephone Book of Short Stories begins with Susan Glaspell’s 1909 story ‘From A to Z’ and finishes with Georgina Hammick’s 1986 offering, entitled ‘A Few Problems in the Day Case Unit’.

The stories woven into the collection are as varied as the authors who wrote them. They encompass every aspect of life in their perfectly crafted portraits. There are first jobs, first loves, marriages, affairs, illnesses and death, and these are merely the more obvious themes which float upon the surface.

The protagonist in the beautifully written vignette ‘From A to Z’ by Susan Glaspell is a young girl named Edna Willard, who spent her senior university year ‘hugging to her mind that idea of getting a position in a publishing house’, and is then discontent when this dream is realised. In Pauline Smith’s tale ‘The Pain’, we meet a South African couple who have been married for fifty years, brave in the face of the wife Deltje’s illness. Smith describes the way in which Deltje has ‘a quiet, never-failing cheerfulness of spirit in spite of her pain’, and the story is beautifully and sensitively realised. In E.M. Delafield’s ‘Holiday Group’, we meet a kindly and rather patient reverend, who struggles to take his young and rather demanding family – his wife Julia ‘had gone on being blissfully irresponsible until she was quite grown up’ and has a particularly selfish streak – to the seaside.

Some of the authors in The Persephone Book of Short Stories are more well-known than others, but all share common ground in the way in which they all deserve to be read on a wider scale than they currently are. The balance of longer and shorter stories works incredibly well, as do the differing narrative styles, which range from the third person omniscient perspective to interesting streams of consciousness. Hopefully, this lovely volume of short stories will inspire readers to seek out other novels and short story collections by the authors which they enjoy in this collection. Each story in The Persephone Book of Short Stories is like a small but perfectly formed work of art, and the book is sure to delight a wealth of readers.

When Tom arrives, it’s almost as if nothing has changed. The men retiring to play cards in the library after dinner. Going out shooting on Boxing Day. The New Year ball. Margot. But Tom hasn’t forgotten the long hot summer of 1914, when the famous tranquillity of Hennesford Court was shattered by the murder of one of the guests. Tom thought the matter was solved, but a comment from another guest at Hannesford brings it to the forefront of his mind. He asks around and uncovers a web of secrets and deception he could never have imagined. Was life at Hannesford ever as perfect as he had once believed?

Martin Davies’ third novel, The Year After, is the perfect winter read. It is just the book to curl up with over in the cold evenings and get stuck into. There is more than enough mystery to keep you guessing, and after reading the first few pages, it’s not hard to see why Davies previous book, The Conjuror’s Bird, was one of Richard and Judy’s bestsellers a few years ago.

The Year After has a mixture of themes running throughout, all of which are obvious from the outset. It changes from murder-mystery to thriller, to a love story, and Davies’ writing style suits the changing genre very well. It is an engrossing stand-alone read, but for me it was somehow unfulfilling. Although the answers to the mystery were not obvious to me from early on (it takes quite a few chapters before all the facts are revealed), I felt they were never developed enough. There was not enough tension building where it could have been, and overall the ending felt flat.

The book involves a lot of characters that died in the war, and therefore, they are only presented to us through Tom’s recollection of them. The few characters that are still about seem often to be there for no reason. Margot is your typical spoilt-rich girl character, not quite grown up, and is just annoying; however, she was not written to be liked by the reader.

One thing I did like about the novel overall was the narrative, presented in two voices. The main storytelling is told in first person from Tom’s perspective, but there are also a couple of pages here and there in the voice of Anne Gregory – Tom’s sort-of love interest. Her chapters fill in the gaps of goings on at Hannesford Court in Tom’s absence, and because they are only very short – two or three pages here and there – I found myself looking forward to her next appearance. Anne was my favourite character by far, probably because, under analysis, she is the only character close to Tom that is not a part of the Stansbury family. And I don’t think she is included nearly enough. The romance aspect of the story was only ever a sub-plot but is left on uncertain terms by the end of the book, and may leave readers feeling unsatisfied.

But, I am being harsh – The Year After was never meant to be written as long, consuming novel, but rather a short(er) mystery fiction. Davies writing was excellent, but the plot seemed to lack feeling. I still stand by my comment at the beginning; The Year After is the prefect book to keep you occupied on a winter’s evening, just don’t expect to be longing for a sequel once you’ve finished.

Essentially the story commences with Lea, an adventurous, married with two children, travel writer, who becomes trapped on an island during an atrocious hurricane. Similar to a hurricane that occurred on the island in 1935, most people have been killed in the most shocking and gruesome way; truly horrific to have witnessed. In the carnage afterwards, two orphan 12-year-old twins appear and Lea feels inexplicably connected to them and ultimately compelled to take them home with her as adopted children.

Her husband, a psychologist strongly tries to dissuade her from doing so, but she will not be deterred and brings the boys home regardless. Once home the twins are met with mixed reactions. But these are not normal twins and it soon becomes apparent that they have ulterior motives. As they poison the lives of the family and those around them, the sleepy town becomes affected by the twins evil antics.

As you will have already determined, children remain central characters in his story, which was probably a deliberate approach as the cross over to adult fiction after writing 300 children’s titles is probably a lot harder than could be imagined. Whilst not a bad book, it did at times feel apparent that Stine hadn’t quite disconnected himself from his historical younger style of writing.

The beginning was a bit clunky and I was not convinced by the travel writing dialogue, which had quite a child-like thrum to it. The scenes in the wake of the hurricane were however jubilantly gory, probably depicted scenes, Stine has stored and wanted to write for some time. As Lea’s husband’s character, Andy was introduced, with the contentious content of his book and the challenging receptions at his book signing events, the story gained a more adult feel, with better flow and grip.

However again when Lea and the twins return home, the characters and story didn’t connect particularly well. It lacked  suspense, given the genre and supernatural element, and the desire for the twins to ‘rule the school’ causes the book to again take on a more juvenile feel. The juxtaposition for Andy as a psychologist trying to rationalise his thoughts and actions in the most trying circumstances was well depicted. The last part of the book does pick back up and becomes more absorbing. Ignoring the worst organised police force ever, the story gathers pace and whilst some parts of the ending are predictable there are a couple of well constructed twists at  the end.

This was an easy read, that will probably still be enjoyed by many. It did lose its way somewhat in the middle and perhaps its quality was actually contaminated by the presence of children as central characters, preventing Stine from breaking away from a younger style of discourse and structure. For an adult readership, the plot does need to be tighter and more detailed. Notwithstanding this,  I’m sure the fondness held by younger readers will give him loyal support to given him cause to consider a better next time book, in the meantime it would be wise not to expect too much out of this read.

The novel takes a single character as its focus, discontented Dellarobia Turnbow, ‘a woman with flame-colored hair who marched uphill to meet her demise’. She has been trapped upon a failing farm in the relatively poor town of Feathertown, Tennessee, since falling ‘barrel-round pregnant’ when she was just seventeen years old. Her story begins at a critical point, when the decision she is about to make could easily tear her world apart: ‘Apparently, today was the day she walked out of the picture’. She is about to embark on an affair with a twenty-two year old who ‘lived in a mobile home with his mother and spent weekends doing the things that interested males of that age, mixing beer and chain saws, beer and target shooting’.

Dellarobia’s loneliness is apparent from the outset. Although ‘she had not slept outside [the family’s home] for a single night in ten-plus years of marriage’, there is a disquieting feeling built up that Feathertown is not a place in which Dellarobia has ever, or will ever, belong. Despite her family – ‘long-faced and slump-shouldered’ husband Cub, who is equally disgruntled about his life, and small children Cordelia and Preston – Dellarobia thinks herself quite alone.

Life in such a small town is depicted wonderfully, and Feathertown comes across as a rather heartbreakingly close-knit community in some ways for the residents: ‘Her car was parked in the only spot in the county that wouldn’t incite gossip, her own driveway’ and the fields which surround her own farm are described as an ‘ordinary wilderness’. They are cut off from the world around them, with not even a landline connected to their house, and farming is at the heart of the lives of the majority of the town’s citizens.

The third person perspective has been used throughout, and Kingsolver’s writing is startling. Her descriptions of the natural landscape, and of Dellarobia, feel particularly original. Kingsolver makes it clear that the two are intrinsically linked, and one would not be the same without the other. The sky is described as a ‘dull, stippled ceiling’, ‘black leaves clung like dark fish scales’ and ‘the day smelled of lanolin rathe than urine and mud’. Dellarobia’s place in Feathertown is constantly reaffirmed in terms of the landscape around her. An uprooted tree is described as ‘like herself, it just seemed to have come loose from its station in life’ and ‘this was happening all over the country, she’d seen it in the paper’. This skilful technique renders the landscape of Appalachia, and, in part its changing climate, a character in itself.

It does take rather a long time for the reader to be captivated by and involved in the story. Whilst we are launched into one of the most pivotal moments in the novel at the outset, and although we understand Dellarobia’s motives for wanting a different life to the one she has, she can come across as rather a selfish protagonist, particularly when she sometimes puts her own interests in front of those of her own children. The intricacies of Dellarobia’s character have been well woven together, and Kingsolver has evidently put a lot of thought into trying to create the most believable and realistic characters possible. Twists and turns are taken throughout, and the lives of the characters are realistic in the way in which they veer off in different directions, only to return to their original starting point.

Kingsolver’s writing can feel rather dense at times, but not in an off-putting way. It is merely that the story is a multi-layered one and each phrase needs to be savoured rather than read quickly. This is not really a novel which can be dipped into now and again. Rather, it is one which demands to be read, one which requires hours of thoughtful contemplation upon its many themes, heady descriptions and sometimes vivid characters. It is a big novel about small town life, and whilst it does not reach the dazzling heights of Kingsolver’s 1998 novel The Poisonwood Bible, it is sure to delight her firm fanbase nevertheless.

Full Blooded

The fact that she is the only female werewolf in existence is enough of a reason for the whole supernatural world to suddenly sit up and take an interest in her, and with twenty-four hours of her first shift, Jessica has been attacked twice. But how can they know so quickly that she’s different?
There are a lot of similar fantasy/paranormal books on the market these days, and quite a few that have a female werewolf lead, and – of course – more often than not, she is the only female werewolf/shifter out there. Kelley Armstrong’s Bitten is one of them.

So what makes Amanda Carlson’s Full Blooded – the first novel in the Jessica McClain series – any different? For me, the main reason was because it was not heavily reliant on the romance aspect of the story. There is a romance, but not until the end, and there wasn’t much of a chance for Carlson to develop it in this book – although I’m sure there will be plenty of time of that in the next instalment.
Jessica makes an excellent female protagonist. She is feisty, funny and fits in perfectly to the action-paced world that Carlson has so magnificently created. There is a strong friendship and bond between all the characters, and I can’t wait to read more about them.

The dialogue is very well written by Carlson; I particularly liked the witty, internal conversations that take place between Jessica and her wolf, which are a good source of amusement in an otherwise quite heavy book.
Along with lots of political talk about the wolf pack, of which Jessica’s father is the Alpha, there is a question of whether any of the pack will stand with or fight against Jessica when they eventually discover that she has changed. Carlson’s wolves are on high alert where Jessica is concerned anyway, due to the Cain Myth, which states that Jessica will be the one to end the werewolf race.

There is a lot of action within a very short time scale (I think the entire book takes place over just a few days) but it makes for a great read that many will love. Without wanting to give too much away, the ending introduces some interesting villains, and Carlson manages to pull of a brilliant description of the creatures that are truly terrifying.

Full Blooded is a very fast-paced novel that ends on a cliff-hanger, leaving plenty of room for a number of follow-up books to establish the series. Here’s the downside… The next instalment, Hot Blooded, isn’t released until April 2013, but at least that gives you a good chance to have enjoy Full Blooded by then! I, for one, can’t wait!

World War II is much-traversed territory for writers. Follett manages to keep the story fresh by telling it through the eyes of five families — one Welsh, one German, one Russian, one American and one British. (Readers of Fall of Giants will recognize the characters as the next generations of the families from that story.)

Living in Berlin, Carla von Ulrich watches as the Nazi’s take charge and civilians protest via espionage for Russia. Volodya Peshkov goes underground and collects insider war facts from Europe to share with his superiors in Russia. Volody’s cousin Daisy runs from the US to England in efforts to climb the social ladder and ends up falling for a soldier there. Lloyd Williams fights as a rebel in the Spanish Civil War and then for England in World War II.  American brothers Chuck and Woody Dewar offer an up-close look at American politics through their senator father as well as through their own military service.

A little overwhelming and confusing, right? Somehow, Follett makes it all understandable. He has mastered the art of weaving a detailed story with characters and storylines that cross paths.

If there is a flaw in Winter of the World, it’s that the subject matter is well-known and there weren’t a many stunning moments for Follett to reveal. Fall of Giants offered that opportunity on many occasions. That, however, might be due to my own experience learning about World War II but skipping over World War I.

Follett will be closing his trilogy by looking at the Cold War, in a book due out in 2014. Presumably, readers will join a new generation of families as they negotiate and world under siege.

Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland collects together Moss’ memories of living in Iceland during a turbulent period in the country’s history, which brought with it economic collapse and the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokul volcano, which caused problems on a global scale.

The prologue of the volume sets the vastly different vista of Iceland immediately: ‘the typography of the city’s night… There are perhaps half a dozen independent food shops left in Reykjavik and only chain bookshops, but every pool is distinctive’. She goes on to describe the way in which she views her new, albeit relatively temporary, home: ‘Here, just below the Earth’s summit, there are towns and villages, a tangle of human lives, in the shadow of Arctic eschatology’.

From the outset, the author’s fascination with the north is outlined. The first chapter describes her first trip to the country whilst still in her teens with one of her university friends, ‘camping rough because we couldn’t afford campsites and living on an increasingly sparse and eccentric diet because we couldn’t, really, afford food either’. The book is by turns heartwarming, sensual in terms of its perception of place, and rather amusing: ‘I am going to Iceland,’ Moss says, ‘but not because I have a secret desire to wear a horned helmet or drink mead out of a skull’.

Even before Moss, her husband and her two young sons move to Iceland, the problems of uprooting an entire family are made apparent. There is the problem of schooling for her oldest son Max who has become used to the English system of education, and how to decide which belongings to take: ‘my book-buying becomes more extravagant as I try to anticipate a year’s purchases, for myself and also for Max, who has a two-a-day fiction habit’. She describes in an incredibly honest manner what it is like to move away from everything you have ever known and to settle in a relatively alien place.

Throughout, Moss’ descriptions are wonderfully vivid and really bring her varied perceptions of the country to life. They are all enticing and rich in detail, and bring the landscape in which she lived to life. We are able to see the scenes for ourselves without moving from our comfortable reading nooks. During the Aurora borealis, she writes that ‘the northern sky, dark over the sea, is mottled with green that spreads like spilt paint… The green and white reach towards each other and then lunge away like opposing magnets forced together. I tread water, and watch’. When describing why she made the decision to uproot her family from comfortable Kent, she states: ‘We’d come for the landscape, for the pale nights and dark shores, rain sweeping over birch scrub, the whole circle of a flat world empty but for ourselves’.

Whilst Moss and her family are settling in, Iceland is hit hard by its failing economy. Other lecturers at the University of Iceland are resigned to the fact that the importation of books from overseas will ‘halt’, and the author’s own salary drops by a third in just a week. Rather than view this with a glum sadness, she takes it in her stride: ‘I don’t know why the collapse of the Icelandic economy… doesn’t put us off… I think it seems likely to be interesting’.

Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland is filled with a wealth of details about the country, from the wonderful to the unsettling. Almost everything about the day-to-day life of its citizens has been included, from the difficulty of renting a property when over ninety percent of the market is ‘owner occupied’, to the kindnesses of virtual strangers as they invite Moss and her family to learn about the culture and customs of their land. The battle between tradition and modernisation is ever-present and an interesting slice of social history has been thoughtfully provided throughout.

‘I am fascinated by this place,’ Moss tells us, ‘but I do not understand it, and all I think I have learnt so far is that understanding it won’t be easy’. As readers, we are her confidantes, those she does not mind sharing her secrets with. As a result, the book comes across as an incredibly friendly and honest piece of writing, which cannot fail but to entice the most resigned armchair reader to wish to explore the country. Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland is an incredibly engaging, insightful and rather marvellous piece of travel literature.

…..it happens that thanks to my peculiar background I can read a classic horror story as documentation of my family history.

As well as being the first published novel from Noémi Szécsi, released in her native Hungary back in 2002, The Finno-Ugrian Vampire is also her first work to receive an (overdue) English translation. Having won the European Union Prize for Literature in 2009, for her second novel – Communist Monte Cristo – it will be surprising to some that this publication of her debut has taken so long. Released through Stork Press, an innovative and new London-based publisher that specialises in translated fiction from Central and Eastern Europe, Szécsi’s first novel – a unique spin on vampire-lore – is well placed amongst a collection of initial releases that aim to soothe British hesitancy surrounding new literature from this region of the continent. Now that the wait is over, what can the reader expect?

To begin with, one immediately recognises that the mordant and exacting title distances The Finno-Ugrian Vampire from other such tales. In-keeping with the sharp wit Noémi Szécsi displays throughout, the reader is faced with a folkloric creation that lovers of Bram Stoker, John William Polidori, and even Anne Rice, will be unfamiliar with. As Jerne, the novel’s disenchanted young guide and narrator, muses: ‘But there’s no such thing as a Finno-Ugrian Vampire. “Finno-Ugrian” is a linguistic or ethnographic term. What’s wrong with “Hungarian vampire”?’ Here, moving beyond the unearthly deeds of Nosferatu, the vampire motif is delicately rewoven to chart a young person’s transition to adulthood. For The Finno-Ugrian Vampire understands that finding one’s own place in the world, the struggle to move beyond the parental yoke, is a far more terrifying reality than falling prey to a creature of darkness.

Living in modern Budapest with her vampire ‘grandma’, Jerne (pronounced YEAR-ney in the Magyar palate), exists on the outside of both human and vampiric society. Having returned to Hungary after a period of study in England (grandma loves to poke fun at Anglo-Saxon vampires – one of many satirical jibes in the novel – as British romanticism and popular culture has done far more to propagate the vampire myth than anything in Hungarian literature), she is found struggling to balance her life as an inspiring author of children’s literature (animal tales), with a career in a publishing house, as well as her glamorous two-hundred year old grandmother’s demand that she must soon join the un-dead, ‘Unless you start sucking blood soon, there’ll be hell to pay.’ On top of this, she also has to contend with the overtly sexual advances from an old school-friend, Somi, and her egregious managers, whom she later learns are also partial to a bit of hematophagy.

Choosing to live in a regular Budapest apartment, taking family holidays to Siberia (albeit using the trips to stock-up on reindeer blood), Jerne and her Grandma deliberately choose to maintain a low profile. Avoiding suspicion wherever they can, such living has served Grandma well throughout the centuries; she has amassed a considerable personal wealth, and even now, in modern times, she dabbles on the stock exchange. As is perhaps already noticeable, the “vampish” grandmother is the most colourful character in the novel. Flamboyant and demanding of Jerne – her hesitant familial mentee whom faints at the sight of blood – The Finno-Ugrian Vampire only approaches a conventional ‘horror’ when grandma is present, with her sardonic anecdotes about feasting upon young men, and proud reflections of her life as an old blood-sucker. Certainly, it is in these moments that Szécsi’s talent as a dark humorist shine through:

‘Grandma! Grandma! I know you can hear me even in the coffin.’ I flipped the lid open. And indeed there she was, eyes tightly closed. I bawled in her eye.
‘What is in the bathtub?’
‘My dear, why don’t you let me rest? I’m going to have a tiring night. Is it my bloodbath that’s upsetting you?’
‘So, it’s a bloodbath.’
‘Take a dip yourself! You’ll see, it’ll do you good. It rejuvenates.’
‘Hot water would do me. I got chilled to the bone on the way home.’
‘It’ll warm you up, too.’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting I get into a bathful of blood?’
‘Why not? It did the trick for Elisabeth Bathori.’
‘That was a show trial, Grandma, did no one tell you? I’m going to drain the bath if you won’t.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. It took all the blood from my pets to get that. I put in some anti-coagulant, too, so I can take a bath tomorrow as well. Don’t you dare touch it!’

The mention of Elisabeth Bathori (a 16th century Hungarian noblewoman accuses and brought to trial for an alleged centuplicate of child murders) is just one of the many tongue-in-cheek references to Hungary’s history. Though secondary to the bildungsroman narrative, they nevertheless are amongst the novel’s most intriguing moments, offering satirical taunts about Hungarian society past and present, chiefly through grandma’s reminiscing over cultural icons such as novelist Mór Jókai, as well as her unique brand of patriotism: ‘My dear, I’m not exaggerating, but tears welled up in my eyes when I saw the national flag at the airport. Red for blood, green for bile; happy is the person that sucks blood here.’ As with all good literature, The Finno-Ugrian Vampire subtly teaches and informs the reader in abundance.

Yet it is always Jerne’s path to adulthood and independence that is at the hear of the book. Split into two sections – ‘living’ and afterlife – Jerne’s narration describes her evolution from a vampire-in-waiting to fully blown vamp. Life doesn’t get any better post change: her dedication to bloodsucking is never enough for her grandma – whom swiftly leaves Jerne alone in Budapest, taking an extended break in Finland (of course); in being alone, she wrestles with only having her foppish Uncle Oscar for intelligent company; simple pleasures such as food and taste cease; her struggle to maintain her writing ambitions and commitment to the arts, ensures that she has an increasingly busy timetable, (This is how I spent my life on the margins of society and reality’, she at one point states, especially when she amusingly takes a job in a vegetarian restaurant, after losing her role in the publishing house; and mistakenly, she’s also fallen in love with her female Hungarian language instructor – ‘O’ – a natural romantic, dreamer, and dilettantish poet, whom Jerne cannot bring herself to feed upon.

Though the second part of the novel lacks some of the verve found earlier in the read, notable due to the absence of a glamorous and horrifically witty undead grandmother, The Finno-Ugrian Vampire offers a steady and highly enjoyable read about the struggles of a maturing young woman. Textured with a witty and ironic language, the novel takes no prisoners, attacking its characters and wider themes of nationalism, Eastern European stereotypes, and identity, with the vigour of the vampire metaphor that Noémi Szécsi has chosen to singularly adopt. Littered also with fanciful references to historical and literary figures – Hans Christian Anderson, Oscar Wilde, and Dostoyevsky, are sweetly omnipresent – the English language reader, perhaps unfamiliar with the Magyar-centric elements in the book, should not be deterred and welcome this translation with open arms (or fangs).

They’re not big scale. They’re mostly about an event or two in one individual’s generally humdrum life, so not much by way of intergalactic warfare, space fleets, replicants, terraformed planets or action-man derring-do.

They’re not great literature. They’re quite heavy going, hard to read in one go even when they’re only a few dozen pages or in the case of ‘We Can Remember it for You Wholesale’, otherwise known as ‘Total Recall‘, just 18 of them. They’re lacking in humour too, with even the colour changing breasts of Rekal’s topless receptionist failing to raise a grin.

They are great little short stories. Each contains one or two fresh ideas, maybe about how small animals have evolved in the seven years since a global nuclear war, maybe about a twin who was never born but instead remained undeveloped inside its sibling’s body and gained telepathic and clairvoyant powers, maybe about the suppression  of memories and the embedding of false yet true ones, twice. The characters could be your neighbours or work colleagues, just as true to life and day-to-day ordinary as them. Most definitely no action heroes.

This is not Total Recall the film, it’s a book for those interested in how Science Fiction developed in the period between the ‘50s and the ‘80s when technology was new, shiny and not very effective, and how the future was envisioned back then. There’s probably a germ of another film or two there, too.