Book Review

By Eric Page

Daren Kay The Brightonians (£8.99, Grosvenor House Publishing).

Opening with death is always a wonderful start to any novel, particularly one which eponymously calls to mind the lives of the denizens of this Twisted Gilded Ghetto by the sea. Author Kay serves up a delicious book, full of entitled social wrestling, secret histories, blossoming love, elderly drag queens, polysexual queerness in all its forms and a geographical love for Brighton which showcases the city itself as a major character.

The plot is a fun exploration of the way that events can hugely impact long after they’ve been secretly hidden from sight, and the way that truth often finds a way to shine, bringing not shame but glory in a different, more understanding age and flattering light. I’ll not go into any more detail to avoid spoiling its finely constructed and rather teasy disclosures, but I enjoyed the narrative tension and the amusing, believable twists.

It’s a fun read, with a narrative momentum which whisks you along like the Volks railway, although unlike that ancient locomotive this book takes you somewhere interesting, a rather fabulous fantastical Brighton, not quite the same, but oddly familiar.

For those of us who call this city home it’s a lovely read, with much to delight, for the others who love the city but have yet to make it safely to its glittery shores it’s a wonderfully evocative social comedy, full of charm, a touch of savagery, much sauciness and just the right about of arch waspishness, exactly what one wants from a new ‘find’. Learn more from the author’s website www.darenkay.com/

Julie Sutherland Bright Poems for Dark Days (£12.99, Frances Lincoln).

Ah poetry, what is it good for? Absolutely everything. I adore a good anthology making me gasp at the magnificent word play of our grand tradition of poets. Opened at random it inspires, delights, challenges and touches you deep down. Opened when seeking some support in the darkest days of life it shines a light along a path well-trodden by others, offering hope, solace, understanding and – where there is no hope to be had – just comfort.

Sutherland has amassed an eclectic group of poets here, from uber modern like Carol Ann Duffy and Maya Angelou to weathered classics from John Donne and Emily Dickinson, the range is impressive. Some fun, frivolous and fancy, others profound and pertinent. It touches the spot.

The book is set into eight parts on the themes of hope, resilience and courage, joy, nature and escape, love, tranquility, gratitude and comfort, and each segment has some supporting writing exploring good mental health practice and provides a much-needed dose of hopefulness and happiness in turbulent times. The warm, uplifting illustrations from Carolyn Gavin which accompany many poems are gloriously meditative and burst with colour.

Deep Sniff Adam Zmith (£10.99, Repeater Books).

Zmith’s sense of place is perfect, summoning up long-dead ghosts of our queer past and sharing real insight into sexualised spaces and sexy interactions. Skilfully weaving these wholly sex-positive narratives though some pretty curious spaces, wafting us back to the present before another rush back to a sensory overloaded side quest of lost fact, titillating scandal and some serious historical narratives. Zmith’s exploration of detail is exemplary and, although a short book, this is an in-depth history.

There’s very little fat or indulgent twaddle here, just the ever onwards push towards the next surprising link. Underscoring queer sex, spaces and bodies, how they have been hidden, oppressed, policed and penalised with a widely celebratory ‘up yours’ of chemical abandon. Showing how communities of ‘deviant’ sexual practice are clearly connected to the politics of expanding liberty and human rights. The book takes us on a radical journey, pushing at boundaries, lubed up by our relationship with poppers, stretching us open, filling us with gorgeous facts, celebrating our filthy minds, erotic bodies, and unstoppable need for pleasure.

Carmen Maria Machado In the Dream House (£9.99, Serpent’s Tail).

Carmen Maria Machado’s searing account of her relationship, from the breathtaking joy of finding that special someone to a hallucinogenic plunge into ferocious abuse, is a tone poem of a silent scream. Machado writes in myriad styles, convincing in all, and uses this kaleidoscope to share her experiences of samesex abuse.

There is a very little writing on violence in female queer relationships, In the Dream House is an important addition and an excellent deconstruction of the dynamics of an abusive relationship, but it doesn’t feel like that. Not an easy read in any measure, certainly a remarkable one but Machado’s control of word, texture, meaning and narrative combine to allow her to guide us carefully through the medium of words though her own confusing, distorting and ultimately disastrous experiences of living with an abusing partner.

The stories, some very short, leave us unsettled, knowing the truth but unable to leave. The book is astounding, but with its clarion call of authentic experience it shows us the author not only growing stronger in a world determined to undermine and destroy, but learning, navigating and finally breaking free to document, share and convince. Machado redefines what a memoir can be and gives us a new kind of personal narrative, showing that literature transcends and transforms experience, and that is what it is for. It reminded me of By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept and you don’t get a better recommendation than that.