The Casualties by Nick Holdstock

Published by Thomas Dunne Books on August 4, 2015

The Casualties is a pre-apocalyptic novel more than it is a post-apocalyptic story. While the story is told from 60 years in the future, it begins in the past (our near future) because history teaches that "everything is determined by what came before." The novel's structure sets The Casualties apart from typical post-apocalyptic novels because, although we are immediately and frequently forewarned that a near-extinction event on three continents is coming, the story focuses on the lives and activities of an eccentric group of people in the Comely Bank neighborhood of Edinburgh during 2016 and 2017, before the apocalypse occurs.

From the narrator of The Casualties (whose identity the reader deduces from hints as the novel progresses), we learn that Sam Clark, manager of a charity bookshop, learned about people from the books they donated and from the ephemera they left in their pages (ticket stubs, pictures, letters). A man named Alasdair who lived under a bridge owned few possessions because possessions make people unhappy -- except a stranger's old photo album that he cherished until he didn't. Caitlin, who had a horrible skin condition that isolated her from the world, had a crush on Sam. Sinead, a goth who has abandoned promiscuity in favor of celibacy coupled with obsessive self-gratification, had sexual fantasies about Sam. Unfortunately for Caitlin and Sinead, Sam was too terrified of reproduction to have sex with anyone.

Other odd characters of Comely Bank include an obese man whose hunger seems to be partially satiated by watching cooking programs, the caretaker who tests that phenomenon experimentally, a woman who writes letters to a dead man, an alcoholic couple, a Filipina prostitute, and a Pakistani shopkeeper who feels unwanted in Comely Bank. No writers do "eccentric" as well as those from the British Isles, and Nick Holdstock is a worthy heir to that tradition.

A part of the plot deals with old black-and-white photographs (reproduced in the book) from the 1920s to the 1950s. If everything is determined by what came before, those pictures tie the past to the present. A challenging amalgamation of past and present in the last pages drives that point home.

The Casualties is about the need to understand others, to avoid judgment of lives we have not lived. It is about living with the past while living in the present. It is about "admitting the faults of the dead without saying that they deserved to die." It is about transformative experiences and how their occurrences are so often unexpected and seemingly random. It is about the relationship between the past and memories of the past. It is about "me" being a succession of selves defined by memories (selves that would be different if lost memories could be restored). It is about moving on when plans and expectations are shattered. It is about how everything that happens is determined by what came before.

Apart from a brief visit to 2047, it is only at the novel's midway point that we learn anything meaningful about the apocalyptic event. Most post-apocalyptic novels assume than an apocalyptic event is a bad thing. This one assumes that it is a bad thing for the 2 billion people who die but ultimately a good thing for the 5 billion who survive. That's a remarkably fresh take on a tired genre that, while not the novel's focal point and thus not fully explored, is yet another fascinating notion that makes The Casualties worth reading.

Since the story deals with contemporary, pre-apocalyptic lives, The Casualties might be a good science fiction novel for readers who don't really like science fiction. On the other hand, it might be a bad novel for readers who think post-apocalyptic fiction should be about zombies chewing on non-zombies or scavengers killing each other as they fight over scrap metal. Setting aside genres and expectations, I would say The Casualties is a worthwhile novel for any reader who enjoys strong characters, provocative thought, and a memorable mixture of humor and drama.

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The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen

Published by Grove Press on April 2, 2015

A central theme of The Sympathizer is betrayal. From one perspective, the Communists betrayed the Vietnamese by promising independence and delivering poverty. From another perspective, the Americans betrayed the Vietnamese by promising liberation and delivering abandonment. Various characters in The Sympathizer betray their countries, their causes, their friends, and their selves. Some betrayals are political, others involve love, but all are betrayals of the heart and soul.

The Sympathizer tells a riveting story in elegant, clever prose. The novel begins at the end of the Vietnam War. Saigon will soon fall. The South Vietnamese president has fled to Taiwan. Americans have tired of supporting a war that cannot be won. The American government botched the final days of the war as badly as it botched the war itself, leaving behind thousands to whom transportation out of the country had been promised.

The Captain arranges an evacuation for the General he serves and some other lucky officers. Unbeknownst to the General, the Captain also serves as a Communist spy. He narrates the story from a prison cell, some years after the war's end. His narrative is his confession of guilt, but only near the novel's end do we learn why he is writing it.

After a harrowing evacuation to a refugee camp in Guam, the Captain is sent to America. As a beneficiary of American "aid" that cost him his country and nearly his life, he is understandably suspicious of the Amerasian life he is expected to live. Eschewing fish sauce in an effort to blend in, the refugees are divided and flung across the American map, the better to prevent them from organizing or benefitting from mutual support. The General's task in the United States is to assemble a ragtag Army that will renew the Vietnamese battle against Communism with the unspoken support and secret funding of certain American politicians and organizations.

Drawing upon sources as diverse as Ben Franklin and Mao, the Captain contrasts American and Vietnamese politics and culture. A job in the movie industry, where he makes futile efforts to educate filmmakers about the reality of life in Vietnam, gives the Captain a chance to reflect upon western stereotypes of Southeast Asians and the Americanization of the world.

While the Captain contemplates America's substitution of image for reality, he struggles to come to term with his own identity crisis. Thinking back to the life he left behind -- a life in which he pretended to serve one cause while aiding another -- the Captain wrestles with the clash between East and West and, in Vietnam, between North and South. He is torn between his longing for Vietnamese village life and his appreciation of flush toilets, TV dinners, and obedience to traffic lights.

In a life that is characterized by betrayal, one in which he has been the betrayer and the betrayed, the Captain's most difficult moments come when he is asked to betray his friends in order to maintain his anti-communist cover. The Sympathizer is not meant to be a thriller, but it creates dramatic tension in the moral dilemmas that the Captain repeatedly confronts. A plausible surprise near the end underlines the story's key theme. Much of the tone is light but powerful moments that reveal the horror of war from the Vietnamese perspective (North or South being irrelevant to horror) give the story its moral force.

While The Sympathizer is about betrayal, it is also about the corruption of ideals -- American ideals, French ideals, communist ideals, all extolling freedom and independence while denying those gifts to Vietnamese villagers who are never free to think and act in ways that offend their "protectors." While the novel is tangentially about the aftermath of the Vietnam War, its strength lies in its honest and complex examination of human nature, its recognition that people, regardless of national origin, are at once cruel and compassionate, cynical and hopeful, weak and strong, guilty and exonerated. Written in perfectly pitched prose, The Sympathizer works on every level: the story is fascinating, the characters are multidimensional, and the themes are profound.

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Aquarium by David Vann

Published by Atlantic Monthly Press on March 3, 2015

Aquarium is one of the most intense novels I've ever read. It isn't about fish, but it is, to the extent that fish teach us about people. In part, Aquarium is a coming of age story, the story of a girl named Caitlin who discovers her own identity and comes to accept harsh truths about her mother Sheri.

Aquarium is also about the possibility of change. The waspfish lives fifty feet underwater where light barely penetrates. Rise a few feet and the waspfish might experience a small change "as something enormous." So too might people who step outside the "narrow range" in which they live their lives. You cannot change the past, but it might be possible to change how your react to the past. Sheri hates her father but her father has changed. Can Sheri?

At 32, Caitlin Thompson looks back to the time when, at age 12, she visited an aquarium in Seattle every day after school before walking home. She likes the way the fish are protected from predators, unlike the real world, where people face all the risks of fish in the ocean. Every day, Caitlin runs into an old man at the aquarium who makes a point of talking to her. The encounters appear to be innocent but the situation is ominous. Is he a lonely old man or a child molester?

The leafy seadragon does nothing but hide. As the story progresses, Caitlin keeps parts of her life hidden but can't imagine living that way. "There has to be more than just hiding," the old man tells Caitlin, but hiding keeps the leafy seadragon safe. Caitlin values safety, enjoys being home with her mother even when Sheri is so wrapped up in her new boyfriend that Caitlin becomes invisible to her. Sheri is scraping by on the salary she earns unloading containers from cargo ships. The aquarium is her after-school babysitter. Sheri used to take Caitlin to work during overtime shifts until a customs inspector threatened to call social services. Caitlin's greatest fear is not of the old man but of social workers taking her away from her mother, particularly after the police correctly suspect that Sheri slapped her.

What Caitlin sees of adult life is unbearably sad. People are trapped by their lives. Sheri resents working a job "that meant nothing and would lead nowhere." Hatred inspired by the father who abandoned her to a hellacious existence consumes Sheri's memories. Sheri has good reason to feel angry but she is so consumed that she pollutes Caitlin with her rage and resentment. When Sheri lets the past control her, even Caitlin's home does not feel safe. The reader cringes at some of Sheri's behavior with Caitlin, but it is hard to blame Sheri for being the person she has become. At the same time, it is easy to be concerned about Caitlin. Many of the adults in the novel feel like they are living lives filled with dents that can never be repaired; they are Caitlin's role models.

I won't discuss what happens in Aquarium beyond the setup. The powerful story moves in unanticipated directions. Sensitive readers might find it too disturbing. It is often raw and painful, the kind of story that makes the reader want to scream at a character to make her understand how wrong she is. David Vann is able to spark that reaction by creating characters that are utterly convincing. Aquarium is not a sunny story of forgiveness, but it is a realistic story of redemption that reflects both the difficulty and the possibility of change.

Even if you do not read this extraordinary book, you should page through it to look at the pictures of fish. They are just as gorgeous as Vann's elegant prose.

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Mr. Tall by Tony Earley

Published by Little, Brown and Company on August 26, 2014

Generally set in Appalachia (primarily in Tennessee and North Carolina), the stories collected in Mr. Tall are surprising, funny, and moving. Protagonists have rich personalities while eccentric background characters contribute to the sense of realism that each story (except the last) conveys.

My favorite in the collection, "Haunted Castles of the Barrier Islands," is a sly domestic drama. Daryl is no longer tolerant of his wife and doesn't understand why his sweet clingy daughter, now in college, is no longer sweet or clingy. I particularly enjoyed Daryl's contemplation of his marital duties: "Find me a Hardee's. Find me a room. Stay with me until I die. It was all the same thing, really." Daryl's wife, on the other hand, makes it clear during the couple's weekend away that her first husband was infinitely superior to Daryl. The story is both an amusing and a biting look at a marriage gone sour that invites an obvious question: How do couples stay together when the only glue that binds them is mutual animosity? The answer turns out to be unexpectedly practical.

"Mr. Tall" is a wit-driven story about a young woman who bears the guilt of abandoning her family when she allows the only boy who ever chased her to catch her. Her introduction to marriage, sex, mules, and hillbilly living is hilarious. Even funnier is her adventure with her neighbor, Mr. Tall, although the humor is ultimately overtaken by an intense scene that explains why Mr. Tall is a recluse.

The background characters in "The Cryptozoologist" are a fugitive who bombed an abortion clinic and a skunk ape (a version of Bigfoot) but the protagonist is a woman who only begins to understand her husband years after he dies. The poignant story illuminates the importance of appreciating one's life partner as a unique person, rather than appreciating a shared lifestyle.

"Yard Art" is an achingly heartfelt story about the importance of the ordinary -- because what is ordinary to everyone else can be extraordinary to one person. "Have You Seen the Stolen Girl," a good story that is nevertheless weaker than the others, tells of an aging woman's reaction to news that a girl disappeared on her block.

"Just Married" consists of four compact descriptions of aging, sometimes damaged people who are or once were married, and of the memories they carry of their younger lives. The last of the four ties the first three together, neatly and sweetly.

The final story is quite different from the others. The Jack in "Jack and the Mad Dog" is the Appalachian version of the once-famed Giant Killer, but his best days are behind him. He fears he has come to the end of his final story, "his mind free from the embarrassment of exposition, the regret of flashback, the dread of foreshadow." He's in pretty much the same boat (albeit a magic boat) as his rival, Tom Dooley, who also lacks cultural currency. After so many stories mired in self-indulgence with no regard for the farmer's daughters who surround him, can Jack develop a new narrative? The story is a contemplation of the slow death of Appalachian storytelling and a reminder of the power stories have to teach us about life (and death). We are, after all, characters in our own stories, just like Jack ... at least until the book is closed.

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Far As the Eye Can See by Robert Bausch

Published by Bloomsbury USA on November 4, 2014

Far As the Eye Can See is in many respects an old-fashioned western informed by a modern sensibility. It is the story of a decent man living in a time and place that challenges decency. It is the story of a man who finds himself by helping others. It is sad, funny, exciting, and redemptive. This is one of the best westerns I've encountered and one of my favorite reads of 2014.

Bobby Hale (the most recent of many names he has adopted) made it through the Civil War knowing that if he died, nobody would give a lick. With a desire to roam and no desire to work, he hooks up with a wagon train, befriends an Indian named Big Tree, and takes up the life of a hunter and trapper. The story follows Hale on his wander through the West from 1869. His ambition is to live free, enjoy the empty spaces, and avoid death as long as he can. It turns out that life is not so simple.

Hale eventually takes a job as a guide for the Army, which is intent on solving the "Indian problem" -- although as Hale sees it, the problem is with the Army, not the Indians. He also befriends two women who are crossing the country in a wagon pulled by an ox, determined to reach Oregon. All of this (and a good deal more) occupies the first two-thirds of this eventful novel.

The prolog takes place in 1876, when Hale mistakenly shoots a teenage girl called Ink who is running away from her husband. The last third of the novel begins at that point. It leads to one of the most harrowing parts of a life that has been "one long everlasting war." Hale would like to make a different life but the west, and thus his life, is defined by violence. Yet that is not the only definition of life and change, Hale discovers, can come about in unexpected ways.

"There's a million ways to die out here," a character tells Hale, and that's the sense that the novel conveys. Isolated men in the wilderness die by mistake and by design. They die from disease, from bullets, from animal bites, from arrows. Hale is a frequent witness to the death that nature imposes without moral judgment. He also sees death imposed by man: Indians killing whites (usually in defense of their lives or liberty), Army troops slaughtering Indians, lone travelers robbed and hung from trees. He witnesses countless deaths at Little Bighorn. He causes a fair amount of death himself, usually with regret but always with the (sometimes mistaken) belief that he is doing the right thing. There are times when he feels "like ain't nothing under my skin but air, and I can't get enough of that to keep on living."

Robert Bausch writes the first-person narration in an uneducated voice that draws upon nature and experience for its eloquence. It is difficult to make that kind of a voice seem authentic rather than hokey, but Bausch manages the task with great skill. He softens the drama with humor and paints an unbroken landscape that stretches as far as the eye can see, but the novel's power comes from its descriptions of death and survival, humanity and inhumanity.

Hale experiences something like love on more than one occasion as the novel progresses, an emotion that surprises him with its intensity and that he nurtures as an antidote to all the harsh memories that haunt his dreams. At the same time, he can't quite decide what it is he wants (or needs). "It's a tragic kind of world we find ourselves in," he thinks, "all the time looking for some way to have what we want, hoping for nothing but a reason to hope." We make choices based on what we think we want, sometimes without appreciating what we have. Hale wonders if the things we want and for which we hope all just lies that we tell to help us cope with hardship of living. The question for Hale, and for the reader, is whether we can recognize something in life that is worth cherishing, something that makes us more than "a savage animal that can talk."

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