An ambitious but ultimately underwhelming story of immigration and labor.

SONG FOR THE WIDOWMAKER

In Fraser’s debut historical novel, a Scottish couple weathers the challenges of immigration to America.

In 1895 Scotland, William Fraser leaves his native Highlands for Dundee looking for work—even though conventional wisdom says that “you go to Dundee to find a woman, not a job.” This proves to be correct on both counts: William arrives to find the town shut down due to a strike by the women who work at the jute-fiber factories; he finally finds work loading wagons, and through a co-worker, he meets Mary Coyle, one of the jute spinners. The two quickly fall in love, although the pairing is not without controversy; Mary’s Irish Catholic father doesn’t condone her marriage to the Protestant William. William’s pending departure for the United States presents an even greater obstacle: His industrious father, Jack, has gone to work in the mines over there, and he wants William to join him. As William attempts to locate his dad in boomtowns across the American West, Mary lingers with her family in Dundee. Can their nascent love survive the time apart? It will depend on whether William can survive the mines’ deplorable conditions. Fraser’s prose quickly and effectively summons the dust and soot of the era without feeling stilted or antiquated, as in this passage, in which William makes his way through the streets of turn-of-the-century Seattle: “Walking felt good, though William had to dodge Commercial Street’s occupants: people were hawking wares, and men, both well dressed and ragged looking, and women with parasols were looking at storefront windows.” The author also succeeds in recreating the hardscrabble working conditions, both in Scotland and in the United States. However, there’s a feeling of inevitability to the plot that robs it of some of its liveliness. There’s plenty of movement, and it hums along nicely, but readers may find that the characters are generally too likable, and that their relationships feel too clean. Even so, fans of historical fiction will find much here to enjoy.

An ambitious but ultimately underwhelming story of immigration and labor.

Pub Date: May 16, 2022

ISBN: 978-1-03-913384-6

Page Count: 366

Publisher: FriesenPress

Review Posted Online: July 22, 2022

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Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.

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CIRCE

A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.

“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.

Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.

Pub Date: April 10, 2018

ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7

Page Count: 400

Publisher: Little, Brown

Review Posted Online: Jan. 23, 2018

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018

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A deep and grimly whimsical exploration of what it means to be a son, a father, and an artist.

THE SWALLOWED MAN

A retelling of Pinocchio from Geppetto's point of view.

The novel purports to be the memoirs of Geppetto, a carpenter from the town of Collodi, written in the belly of a vast fish that has swallowed him. Fortunately for Geppetto, the fish has also engulfed a ship, and its supplies—fresh water, candles, hardtack, captain’s logbook, ink—are what keep the Swallowed Man going. (Collodi is, of course, the name of the author of the original Pinocchio.) A misfit whose loneliness is equaled only by his drive to make art, Geppetto scours his surroundings for supplies, crafting sculptures out of pieces of the ship’s wood, softened hardtack, mussel shells, and his own hair, half hoping and half fearing to create a companion once again that will come to life. He befriends a crab that lives all too briefly in his beard, then mourns when “she” dies. Alone in the dark, he broods over his past, reflecting on his strained relationship with his father and his harsh treatment of his own “son”—Pinocchio, the wooden puppet that somehow came to life. In true Carey fashion, the author illustrates the novel with his own images of his protagonist’s art: sketches of Pinocchio, of woodworking tools, of the women Geppetto loved; photos of driftwood, of tintypes, of a sculpted self-portrait with seaweed hair. For all its humor, the novel is dark and claustrophobic, and its true subject is the responsibilities of creators. Remembering the first time he heard of the sea monster that was to swallow him, Geppetto wonders if the monster is somehow connected to Pinocchio: “The unnatural child had so thrown the world off-balance that it must be righted at any cost, and perhaps the only thing with the power to right it was a gigantic sea monster, born—I began to suppose this—just after I cracked the world by making a wooden person.” Later, contemplating his self-portrait bust, Geppetto asks, “Monster of the deep. Am I, then, the monster? Do I nightmare myself?”

A deep and grimly whimsical exploration of what it means to be a son, a father, and an artist.

Pub Date: Jan. 26, 2021

ISBN: 978-0-593-18887-3

Page Count: 208

Publisher: Riverhead

Review Posted Online: Sept. 30, 2020

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 2020

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