Mariner Books

“Through its peculiar blend of horror, sci-fi and satire, Friday Black presents America as caught in a funhouse mirror—fear and fury and fully-righteous greed brought into relief and magnified into hideous detail. Still, no matter how exaggerated and distorted the reflection, its eyes are always staring back, as cold and star-spangled as ever. Adjei-Brenyah is undeterred, staring right back with an unflinching gaze, all the while grasping for anything that might represent a human heart that still exists within the monster ahead of him” [Read full review].

Jen Beagin – Pretend I’m Dead

OneWorld (UK) / Simon & Schuster (US)

“A fuller version of Mona soon emerges, one apathetic and emotionally-distant not through some hip disaffection but rather the chaos and distrust of her past. The metaphor of cleaning takes on a whole new slant, a constant movement toward purity that is doomed to perpetual action, just as Mona’s attempts to reconnect with herself and others allows long swept memories to surface.

Unlike [A.M.] Homes’s Novak [from This Book Will Save Your Life], Jen Beagin’s Mona cannot free herself from cynicism long enough to embrace any potential cure, though there is a similarity in how proximity to bizarre beliefs and lifestyles encourage the development of one’s own. Maybe a full embrace of one’s position and life, contrary to any outside expectation or criticism, is a noble and valuable pursuit. Which is to say, for Mona, perhaps cleaning could have a spiritual function? No book, no psychic seeing, no pyjama-clad, lotus-positioned observance of the setting sun can be sure of saving one’s life. But perhaps the idea can trigger something more practical. Something better than pretending to be dead” [Read full review].

Sam Byers – Perfidious Albion

Faber & Faber (UK)

“Far from nebulous abstractions, for Byers, ideas and opinions have effects and consequences. Thoughts, spread widely enough, can change the world. And now, thanks to the internet, they are spread with greater reach and immediacy than ever before. Context is stripped, as is intonation and intention. Irony is mistaken for sincerity and vice versa. The reader decides how to take any given information, and their interpretation can never be incorrect. Their interpretation is the information. Additionally, as communication is gamified into a competition of numbers, the feedback loop is closed. You simply give the readers what they want.

[…]

Byers suggests that if the dualism between on and offline has collapsed, so too has the dualism between true and false. Fake News and Alternative Facts may be presented as an invention of the Trump administration, but mass media is the true pioneer. And, in the same way, the solution is far deeper and more knotty than merely ignoring misinformation from nefarious governments in favour of the truth. Rather, fact and fiction blur, our world now a hyperreality where such distinctions have lost their meaning. In the closing scene, Jess and Deepa listen to an ASMR recording of rainfall, and the soundtrack merges with the sound of actual rain hitting the roof outside. The digital and physical have merged, the fictional and ‘real’ enmeshed as one. But then, such is life in the hysterical present” [Read full review (for 3AM Magazine)].

Elaine Castillo – America is Not the Heart

Atlantic Books (UK) / Viking (US)

“Elaine Castillo’s true triumph is that America Is Not the Heart cannot be faithfully categorized purely as an immigrant saga or LGBT romance. This, aside from being a testament to her writing, serves as a scathing critique of just what those labels entail, and what it says about the white gatekeepers who control them. Hero’s story does not conform to the ideal Western immigrant story of foreigner done well. She is not a plucky underdog making a home against homesickness and long odds, her history not present only to be beaten smooth of its sharp edges. Ultimately, she does not exist to follow the fanciful arc us straight white people like to imagine an immigrant or queer person traversing—the palatable, enriching passage from alienation to total acceptance, and thus, of course, a more realised state of being.

Because America Is Not the Heart is a novel about human experience, about loving and being loved, where every detail—the Filipinx-American setting, historical context, bisexual relationships, class hierarchies, family dramas—is used not to build the characters but the world around them, Great American conditions that must be navigated in order to live” [Read full review].

Evan Dara – Provisional Biography of Mose Eakins

Aurora

One of our favourite novelists returns with what he describes as “a play in progress,” which isn’t that great a leap seeing as Evan Dara’s work has always been entirely dialogue. Available only in electronic formats, Provisional Biography of Mose Eakins tells the story of the titular character’s struggle with a novel medical condition which renders every word that leaves his mouth meaningless. That is, unless he asks to buy something. Dara takes aim at Late capitalism, capturing the crushing confusion and alienation of existence in a world in which even human connection has been commodified.

Sergio De La Pava – Lost Empress

MacLehose Press (UK) / Pantheon Books (US)

Detailing indoor football teams, expert EMTs and Dali paintings on Rikers island, while the tone veers between Pynchonian slapstick and philosophical musings, Lost Empress has an almost improvisational quality that refuses to slow or settle into any one groove. In what is becoming the author’s signature, the book rebels against concision and efficiency in favour of proliferation, the interconnectedness never reaching a neat conclusion but feeling all the more salient as a result. Like A Naked Singluarity before it, the novel situates Sergio De La Pava as a lead figure in the contemporary fight for challenging, ambitious fiction—and proves that the battle is not as hopeless as many would have you believe.

Nick Drnaso – Sabrina

Granta (UK) / Drawn & Quarterly (USA)

Ignore the people that said Sabrina was overhyped, a token placement on prize lists. Nick Drnaso’s graphic novel is a wonderful piece of literature, and one of 2018’s best attempts to get at the fear, paranoia and pervading sadness of the contemporary western world. Although the narrative centres on unspeakable tragedy, the real triumph is how Drnaso’s simple muted illustrations capture quiet loneliness and isolation. Yes, there’s desperation and grief, but equally powerful is the sorrow ingrained in clipped conversations and the walls of empty rooms.

William Gay – The Lost Country

Faber & Faber (UK) / Dzanc Books (US)

A lost William Gay novel, what more do we have to say? One of the masters of Southern Gothic delivers another story full of colourfully downtrodden characters, McCarthy-esque prose and whip-poor-wills. Billy Edgewater hitchhikes home after being discharged from the Navy, and navigates a whole shapeless community of the damned and depraved, drunks, swindlers and evil killers gathering in a tragicomic hellscape of decay and destitution.

Lauren Groff – Florida

William Heinemann (UK) / Riverhead (US)

“The Florida of [Groff]’s world is a canary in the coal mine, a ground zero for the approaching catastrophe. Her anxiety is not concerned with the likelihood of disaster, but rather the scale. Degrees of ruin sorted into a hierarchy—individual, familial, local, regional, national, global—and the question becomes whether a personal calamity will get to the characters before the climate slides into a planetary one. Will they get picked off one by one by a monstrous feline before the sea engulfs the peninsula? Will their house collapse into a sinkhole, killing them before the real trouble begins? Because, while the titular state might be uniquely dangerous, with its cottonheads and gators and mythic black panthers, the real looming threat is more ubiquitous and inescapable. “She had always thought this would be the place to be during the climate wars that she sees looming in the future,” Groff writes, her protagonist finding Paris hotter than she had imagined. “But maybe there is no place to be; maybe all places on a hotter planet will be equally bad, desert and hunger everywhere.”

In the opening story ‘Ghosts and Empties’ we find her wandering the streets after dark, afraid to be in the house because of a propensity to yell, leaving the parenting duties to her husband, who does not yell. However, far from appearing unhinged, the narrator comes across the sane one […] Who wouldn’t yell, knowing what we know, living how we do?” [Read full review].

Denis Johnson – The Largesse of the Sea Maiden

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Random House (US)

To view The Largesse of the Sea Maiden as the parting words of a genius is a fair perspective, though to assume the collection’s primary interest exists in Johnson’s death is to disrespect the stories as valuable additions to his oeuvre. With an epistolary story where the protagonist writes to people as part of his AA program (“Dear Old Dad and Dear Grandma…,” “Dear Pope John Paul…,” “Dear Satan…,” “Dear Rolling Stone and TV Guide…,”), the return of some old faces (or, more accurately, old Heads) and devastating, semi-autobiographical tales of subtle grief, the work might be the last from a master, but it is by no means an end.

Rachel Kushner – The Mars Room

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Scribner (US)

“In The Mars Room, characters are not separated into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ prisoners. Stoicism and sacrifice mean nothing not because a yawning nihilistic meaninglessness consumes all within the cell walls, but rather because meaning persists in all. Even the disobedient have significance, the most troubled and violent. Which goes some way in explaining the cast of characters within Stanville. Spouse killers, baby killers, killers of any witnesses. White supremacists and death row fantasists and women now specialists in playing lonely men over the phone. All are treated with an even gaze, with no hierarchy of morality or self-worth.

In this way, Kushner is following something of a Dostoyevskian theme, her characters capable of committing terrible violence and maintaining some semblance of innocence too. As Jennifer Wilson wrote in a recent article for The New York Times, “Dostoyevsky implored [that] it is not only our task to support the innocent or wrongly convicted but also to recognize the humanity of the guilty and the shared sense of responsibility that we have for one another.” As Romy insists at the end of the novel, “the opposite of nothing is not something. It is everything.” For Rachel Kushner, being human no matter what means just that. No matter what” [Read full review].

Ottessa Moshfegh – My Year of Rest and Relaxation

Jonathan Cape (UK) / Penguin (US)

“In his 2013 book 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep, Jonathan Crary argues that, from the perspective of twenty-first century capitalism, sleep is a useless, even deleterious phenomena. After all, we cannot buy anything while unconscious, nor can we work. Our productivity is nil. ‘The stunning, inconceivable reality [of sleep],’ Crary writes, ‘is that nothing of value can be extracted from it.’

[…]

If capitalism denatures our existence into an unbearable state, then the obvious reaction is to rebel against capitalism. Only, Moshfegh’s narrator finds a dead end down that path, with art, protest and even complete withdrawal already co-opted and commodified to become just another version of neoliberal life. The second option, then, is to abstain from life altogether. If the parasite can’t be killed, then what about killing the host? Which means locking your doors, abandoning your friends, doing everything you can to minimise your existence. In this way, Moshfegh offers her own counter-intuitive cure—narcissistic solipsism as the antidote to a culture of narcissistic solipsism. Capitalism will still try to draw from you in this state, yes, but does it matter if one has no memory of its fangs? Perhaps the stunning, inconceivable reality of sleep is not that nothing can be extracted from it, but rather that nothing can get inside” [Read full review (for the Cardiff Review)].

 Sayaka Murata – Convenience Store Woman

Translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori

Portobello Books

“[Keiko’s sister is] far happier thinking [Keiko] is normal, even if she has a lot of problems, than she is having an abnormal sister for whom everything is fine. For her, normality—however messy—is far more comprehensible.” So sums up the position of Sayaka Murata’s Keiko, a woman who finds solace and purpose working in a convenience store, though faces unceasing criticism for her disinterest in ‘proper’ jobs or marriage. Her family and friends, projecting loneliness and depression onto her situation, want her to be ‘cured’, to be normal. But for Keiko, the only source of loneliness and depression is this concern from others. The result is cutting, fearless exploration of what it means to be different in a society that, for all of its talk of diversity, seems hellbent on the total homogenisation of what it means to be human.

Tommy Orange – There There

Harvill Secker (UK) / Knopf (US)

“Orange complicates things by delving into the idea of performance and invented identity. Yes, Orvil finds healing magic within powwow music, but then his brother finds the same within Chance the Rapper and Earl Sweatshirt, and the other in the arrangements of Beethoven. And, when Orvil films himself dancing in traditional clothing, the act is a half-satisfying tug-of-war between holy and phony, an attempt at realisation rather than realisation itself. Still, Orvil perseveres, determined to dance at the upcoming Powwow where the novel’s characters converge, and finds value within his quest. Because a Native search for meaning is much like any other, a process of belief and faith that depends not on some sacred arrangement of sounds and rituals but rather the commitment to the cause. Identity need not be a binary presence or absence, but something to be discovered, nurtured, or dropped.

Gertrude Stein’s passage containing the “there there” quote continues along such lines. “It is a funny thing about addresses where you live.” she writes. “When you live there you know it so well that it is like an identity […] then years after you do not know what the address was and when you say it is not a name anymore but something you cannot remember. That is what makes your identity not a thing that exists but something you do or do not remember.” Which is to say, Indianness is not something inherent and inviolable at the core of all things, nor is it something that can be eradicated forever. Rather, it is the product of what is remembered, and what is not. There can be a there there, Tommy Orange seems to say, and one defined not by white fantasy, but the Natives themselves. It is just a case of remembering” [Read full review].

Chris Power – Mothers

Faber & Faber (UK) / Farrar, Straus and Giroux (US)

“Strong stories will always instigate some sort of reaction or change, but to assume that this alteration will always be good, or to map them on any kind of good-bad binary at all, is to underestimate the power of fiction. Yes, the characters of Chris Power attempt to use stories as an antidote to loneliness, but that’s not to say every effort is redemptive or magically healing. Indeed, sometimes it is actively counterproductive, the stories growing into new, deeper sources of loneliness that grip a soul and refuse to let go. Fiction, it turns out, is not some therapeutic balm. Rather, it is something that can help and hinder, soothe and scorch, and in doing so, be as nuanced and complicated as life itself” [Read full review].

Richard Powers – Overstory

William Heinemann (UK) / W.W. Norton & Company (US)

“Speaking about the environment makes you either a naive idealist or unhinged polemic, and neither belong in the circles of the truly ‘intelligent’ […] Thus, to speak about the environment is to silence yourself.

But Powers refuses to be silenced, which translates to a lot of (intentionally) heavy-handed dendrological metaphors, a lot of (non-ironic) talk of rediscovering the beauty of nature and much (sincere) discussion of how humans are terrible and short-sighted and doomed in the way of a Greek tragedy. Essentially, a lot of trees. However, the fact that such a premise feels tiring, and the metaphors ham-fisted, and the views unsophisticated only confirms Powers’ point. There’s nothing hip or trendy about this message. There is no cultural capital to be earned, no badges of honour to wear, no quick redemption to cash in at the next available opportunity. There’s a slow, grinding process of unpicking ourselves from the prevailing attitudes and expectations, a version of life less comfortable and entertaining and cool. A willingness to appear naive in the short term in the hope of defeating the wider foolishness, a committed attempt to confront what surely lies before us. The Overstory represents a bravery test not only for Richard Powers, but for us all” [Read full review].

Nico Walker – Cherry

Jonathan Cape (UK, forthcoming 2019) / Knopf (US)

Cherry a blistering and breathless novel that confronts post 9/11 America through the lens of just one young man. It’s raw and brutal and hilarious, sad and terrifying and oftentimes intensely uncomfortable. Nico Walker has written a contender for the best Iraq novel and the best opioid epidemic novel in one.

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In taking on such subject matter, Rachel Kushner’s writing operates according to a similar dynamic. The book serves as our window into the invisible world, a product of the author’s willing immersion in the Californian legal and justice system. As Dana Goodyear unpacks in her New Yorker profile, Kushner spent time getting to know various people in prison, including a former contract killer serving life with no possibility of parole. By actually entering such places, giving names and faces to such figures, the usual tropes of prison fiction are avoided. Just as the characters give up a visible life when entering the previously invisible, Kushner also drops the previously visible world, or whatever the general public construct as the so-called visible, shedding all pre- and misconceptions in order to more fully take in the unseen reality. And, as with those serving life, once one drops the old view and takes up a new one, there is little possibility of reversing the process.

As well as detailing life within a women’s prison, the novel also casts a light on the lower class experience of San Francisco, the side of the city not buoyed by Silicon Valley, or perhaps even submerged by it. Kushner details a dangerous upbringing where personal freedom (pre-teens can traverse the city at will, drinking and fighting) is counteracted by a systemic limitation. The quote-unquote ‘proper’ path of life is severed sometime during school, be it through discrimination or lack of opportunity, or else a private refusal to assimilate. To be, quote unquote ‘saved’. The justice system is almost pitched as a remedy to this, a system of rules built upon negatives. No running. No congregating. No bare feet or uncovered shoulders. No high-fiving and no horse-play. No gum chewing in the courtroom and No-Huff Glue in the workshops. No escape from anything, ever.

This recurring motif of brutal and often bizarre orders serves a vital purpose in The Mars Room. If the economic disparity of late capitalism might feel like a prison of its own, Rachel Kushner is careful to extinguish any suggestion of metaphor. The system outside decides the penitential demographic, and indeed the entire form and shape of the contemporary justice system is dictated by capitalistic forces, so the two are intrinsically linked. However, Kushner’s portrayal of prison offers another level entirely, a captivity so deep and all-consuming that poverty pales in comparison. The small freedoms of childhood and adolescence do not excuse inequality, but they allow her to form an identity within it. The justice system, from court to prison, strips almost all aspects of identity, and with it a great deal of dignity too.

The Mars Room opens on ‘Chain Night’. A busload of women are cuffed and counted and transported to Stanville Women’s Correctional Facility, an all-night drive for sixty individuals who have varying degrees of familiarity with the process. Starting her double life sentence (plus six years), protagonist Romy Hall has never experienced Chain Night before, and never will again. Still, she holds herself together. Or rather, she holds herself better than when she first landed in county, where she cried and cried until her cellmate showed her a tattoo, scrawled on her back in the gap between her shirt and pants, which read ‘Shut the fuck up.” Romy comes to cannonize this woman, “not for the tattoo but the loyalty to the mandate,” as though the preservation of dignity is still a fight worth fighting.

However, while Romy forms a saintly image of her old cellmate, that is not to say that Rachel Kushner’s prison rewards displays of penance and asceticism. Indeed, it is made clear that remaining halfway human is the only goal inside, and dehumanisation through self-flagellation is no different than dehumanisation from the wider system. When the ultimate punishment is being reduced to simple inmate names and numbers, your life nothing more than a national statistic, then what use is there in flattening your own vision of yourself too?

Because to shrink your life into a stoic act of contrition would be to accept your crime as the core definition of self, a single moment obliterating all sense of personality and history. So, in The Mars Room, characters are not separated into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ prisoners. Stoicism and sacrifice mean nothing not because a yawning nihilistic meaninglessness consumes all within the cell walls, but rather because meaning persists in all. Even the disobedient have significance, the most troubled and violent. Which goes some way in explaining the cast of characters within Stanville. Spouse killers, baby killers, killers of any witnesses. White supremacists and death row fantasists and women now specialists in playing lonely men over the phone. All are treated with an even gaze, with no hierarchy of morality or self-worth.

In this way, Kushner is following something of a Dostoyevskian theme, her characters capable of committing terrible violence and maintaining some semblance of innocence too. As Jennifer Wilson wrote in a recent article for The New York Times, “Dostoyevsky implored [that] it is not only our task to support the innocent or wrongly convicted but also to recognize the humanity of the guilty and the shared sense of responsibility that we have for one another.” As Romy insists at the end of the novel, “the opposite of nothing is not something. It is everything.” For Rachel Kushner, being human no matter what means just that. No matter what.

The Mars Room is out now via Jonathan Cape (UK) and Scribner (US).

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Whether Garth Risk Hallberg lived up to the hype is up for debate. I’d suggest there is a certain ‘hype threshold’ past which people will ensure you get a fair share of criticism regardless of what’s between the covers. What is not up for discussion is the beauty of the writing on show, nor is the sheer scope of the world it brings to life. Here we find a network of characters linked by blood or love or sheer chance which grows through schizophrenic POV changes and creative interludes. To give you some idea: There’s Mercer, a man struggling with being gay and black in 1970s New York and his relationship with punk musician/artist William, heir to the Hamilton-Sweeney fortune who’s music with the now-defunct Ex Post Facto “seemed to promise complete freedom, on the condition of complete surrender”. Then there’s William’s estranged sister Regan and her troubled relationship with husband Keith, who are themselves caught up in the Hamilton-Sweeney machine, plus loser-loner Charlie and his friendship with punk cool-kid Sam, and their link to the Post-Humanist Phalanx. That’s not to mention the police detective, the art dealer, the shock jock radio presenter. The investigative journalist, the firework-setter, the transvestite keyboard player. The anarchistic, arsonist cult leader.

So… yeah, it’s all too detailed to review properly, though the key plot is strangely simple. Packed with the sort of suspense/drama you might expect from a film or television show, the book is not as challenging (difficult, ‘literary’) as you might expect. What Hallberg does achieve is to conjure New York at a specific time. The web of characters produce a panoramic snapshot of a generation, palpable nostalgia and a good sprinkling of well-used topics (troubled artists, drug addicts, traumatised and/or damaged lovers) creating a view of the seventies perhaps as we’d like to remember them. The spirit of the book is captured nicely near the beginning, when the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Day :

“For a second the city seemed to lean forward and make contact with a future self: ruined, de-peopled, and nearly still. In a sealed hanger, forensic economists move around numbered lots with scales and callipers. Believing themselves to have evolved beyond delusion and loneliness, beyond illness and longing and sex, they hum distractedly and wonder what it all meant”

As books go, City on Fire is pretty easy to soundtrack, so this playlist could have been a hundred songs. But anyway, here are twenty songs which go some way to capturing the time/place/mood Hallberg created. I’ve included a mix of classics and newer stuff to keep things interesting, and the order isn’t important.

Tracklisting:

1. Blank Generation – Richard Hell and the Voidoids
2. Art is Hard – Cursive
3. To Hell With Good Intentions – Japandroids
4. Kimberly – Patti Smith
5. Chinese Rocks – The Heartbreakers
6. Roar of Nothingness – Sun Organ
7. Docking Guard – Northern Primitive
8. Today, More Than Any Other Day – Ought
9. Aloha Steve and Danno – Radio Birdman
10. The Kids – Lou Reed
11. Orphans – Teenage Jesus and the Jerks
12. Stevie Nix – The Hold Steady
13. Who Do You Belong To? – The Spirit of The Beehive
14. You Can’t Hold The Hand of a Rock and Roll Man – Okkervil River
15. Our Lives Would Make a Sad, Boring Movie – The Hotel Year
16. Using – Sorority Noise
17. Fireworks – Radiator Hospital
18. Your Own Place To Ruin – Rivulets
19. New York Hardcore – Talons’
20. This Heart’s on Fire – Wolf Parade

City on Fire is out now via Knopf Doubleday (US) and Jonathan Cape and is available from all good book shops. Quiet, Constant Friends is available digitally and on cassette via the Wake The Deaf Bandcamp page.

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Illustrated by Joe Sumner, the book charts Wyld’s life, from hearing Aussie fishermen stories aged six to her grown adult self. From the moment her brother is brought the jaws of a bronze whaler by Father Christmas, Wyld becomes preoccupied with sharks. The captivation is not helped when she discovers a book on shark attacks and falls in love with Rodney Fox‘s “salty eyes” and look which said “the whole thing was just fine”.

Back in London Wyld finds obsession continuing, scouring the Sydenham library for shark books while plagued by a fear which makes baths difficult and forces her to sit with all appendages safely on-board the sofa. An ill-advised viewing of Jaws cements her mindset before the family return to Australia and encounter more sharks in a variety of situations (imaginary and otherwise).

What this simplification of the plot leaves out are the small details of familial life squeezed into both the writing and illustration, the astute observations and interactions from Wyld’s juvenile viewpoint which reveal what the book is really about. Wyld’s father, the pale Englishman, often cuts a lone figure, isolated in London by work and wine and in Australia by layers of clothing and high-factor sun-cream, while her mother floats with Wyld in the pool at night because “she is awake anyway”. When Wyld’s older brother begins “linger[ing] in doorways with a blank look on his face”, and returning home cut and bruised, the home is loaded with tension yet remains cryptic to Wyld, and by extension, us. Be they adolescent anxieties, genuine enduring depressions or just good old fashioned existential ennui, the emotions of the adults remain alien, unknowable and for the most part hidden, present only as dark, lingering shapes and ominous choppy wake.

Indeed, this sharks-as-emotions allegory can be extended further than sadness. From her father’s well-meaning day trip to ‘Vic Hislop’s Killer Shark Show’, to her encounter with an uncomfortably comic doctor, pretty much all of Wyld’s interactions are surrounded by the unseen forces of love and loss. Sumner’s artwork highlights this paradoxically by adding photo-realistic sharks and wounds to his otherwise simple drawings, beasts which often stalk Wyld when, consciously or otherwise, she is considering losing a loved one. Although she doesn’t quite understand it yet, she is thinking about love through its most illuminating prism – the loss of it. She is thinking about death.

While this morbid idea is true and central to the plot, it would be naive and unfair to dwell on it without noticing that, amongst it all, life not only goes on but flourishes. Wyld is never caught by the shark, nor is her brother or mother or father. She might have felt ill examining the colossal White Pointer at Vic Hislop’s museum but the next day she was braver in the sea. Our relationship with sharks is changing, with The Discovery Channel and National Geographic and the seemingly monthly event of ‘Shark Week’ beaming out pro-shark propaganda in which deep-tanned marine biologists preach education and understanding and love. Similarly, the message from Wyld seems not so much ‘LOOK OUT LIFE WANTS TO EAT YOU!’ but rather ‘life could eat you, sure, but such occurrences are exceedingly rare and even then you can poke it in the eye and escape to the hands of kind strangers who prod your guts back into your body’. In other words, learning to accept the atavistic, bone-level violence and pain as something natural, unaware and worthy of careful respect. Its strikes are few and far between, and even then, it’s nothing personal.

Everything Is Teeth is out now on Jonathan Cape/Random House.

As per usual, we’ve made you a playlist of songs that are related to the book. Nothing too subtle this time, I’m afraid, just plenty of teeth and blood sprinkled with Australians and capped off with the definitive garage-rock  anthem for sharks.

Tracklisting:

1. The Race – Oh Pep
2. Teeth – Bowerbirds
3. Drawn to the Blood – Sufjan Stevens
4. Swim – Surfer Blood
5. I Want Blood – Water Liars
6. Ocean’s Nerves – Songs:Ohia
7. Jaws of Life – Wintersleep
8. Find Me In The Ocean – Will Samson
9. Blood Song – Stupid Loser
10. Everywhere I Go Smells Like Fish – Donovan Woods
11. King Fish – Sun Kil Moon
12. Lurk Underneath – Trouble Books
13. Blood – The Middle East
14. Shark? – Shark?

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