Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts

Reading Notes: The Monster Baru Cormorant





SPOILERS, obviously. I started writing this when I had finished the book once already, so spoilers for the whole thing. 

This is my second run-through, and I'd imagine I'd require a couple more to grasp even more of the beautiful details in this second part, but for now, a collection of thoughts: 

I like that the multi-perspective nature of Monster builds a puzzle of sorts, both by showing different characters and different timelines. We have Baru, going forward after the traumatic ending of The Traitor Baru Cormorant - losing Tain Hu to the incoming tide at Elided Keep. 

We have a scheming character, intending to send Baru off to the Necessary King who is eager to take revenge on her and show his strength, a character that turns out to be the Jurisprudence Xate Yawa, and another horrifying antagonist (one that works really well with the title of the novel - Tain Shir is a former prodigy of Itinerant, Baru's predecessor in that role, who entirely lost herself in the process, and therefore a foreshadowing of what could happen to Baru). 

We have a flashback to 25 years in the past that gives some background on both Hesychast (Cosgrad Torrinde) and Itinerant (whom Baru met all those years ago as trader Cairdine Farrier), their struggle to prove to still mysterious Renascent that their individual approaches to "racial hygiene" (and aren't they both utterly freaking horrible in their own way) are correct in their studies of Oriati Mbo, the empire to the South that works so very differently from Falcrest and yet has proven more long-lived than anything else known in their world. 

Then there's the complex and struggling friendship between three entirely new characters, which we see through laman (a third non-binary gender in Oriati Mbo, which gives children the opportunity to choose their own gender, much to the horror of the Masquerade and its cryptarchs) Tau-Indi, an Oriati Mbo prince growing up with his friends, fellow Prince Kindalama and born-into-a-rich family Abdumasi Abd. They encounter Hesychast and Itinerant when they are held as friendly hostages, and their presence changes the course of their relationship. One of the the themes that runs through the book is that of "trim" - a concept that holds religious value to the people of Oriati Mbo but is hard to translate. It seems to be about the relationship between two people - Tau-Indi clarifies that he holds the "dyad" of two people as the central thing in everything he does - a relationship that can be tarnished through lies and other misdeeds, and that, if damaged, can have serious consequences, way beyond the two people involved. For example, when Tau-Indi 25 years ago started to resent his two friends for starting a relationship with each other that was separate from him and did not include him, he began to resent them both, and only later realised that he made the presence of Hesychast and Itinerant responsible for the change in their friendship - and the way he approached that change had greater ramifications for the outcome of the First Armada War between Falcrest and Oriati Mbo. It doesn't really matter if we the readers or Baru as someone who has grown up with Falcresti indoctrination (and as much as she despises the Masquerade, she does sometimes fall back on Falcrest's low opinion on other cultures and their particularities) believe that trim is something that exists and has real-world-consequences, because some of the characters profoundly believe that it does, and it affects their actions. One of the thins that Baru has previously been called out for is believing herself to be the only conscious player on the field, while thinking everyone else is a pawn (as predictable in their moves as Falcrest wishes its entire empire to be), so this time around, many things that happen in Monster are about other characters proving that they are the opposite of pawns. Plus, trim works beautifully with some of the truly exceptional coincidences, like Tau-Indi looking for the same person that Baru needs to find to track down the cancer cult that Hesychast and Itinerant are so eager to find (even though she is just trying to start a two-front war that will tear Falcrest apart and will put an end to the trade that is is lifeline), the same person that Baru's navy friend Aminata, who was so desperate to captain a ship but is now reduced to what she is too good at, retrieving information from prisoners, is tasked with torturing. And then, somehow, Aminata just ends up in the same place that Baru is at, after months and years of keeping her close to her mind, of trying to figure out if her allegiance to the navy runs deeper than her deep feeling of trust and love for the friend she hasn't seen in so many years (and how beautiful would it be if that friendship, and whatever else could grow from it, would somehow become the focus point of this whole series and the two novels remaining in it - wouldn't that be a sign that trim is, indeed, a real thing that influences the course of the world). 

Talking about Aminata, her bits in the novels are among my favourite. She didn't get much to do on her own in Traitor, but now she is a fully fleshed-out character, one that has built a shrine of sorts to her friend Baru and almost discards a poorly-written letter by a prisoner, only to later find out that it is a letter written by TAIN HU (!!!), one that asks her to prove herself to be Barus' true friend, her "KNIGHT", and the person to convince her that she does not have to be lonely in the world (which is exactly what Baru struggles with after sacrificing Tain Hu - a loneliness like a hole, like a whole literal part of her vision, from which unexpected things sneak up). These two are fated, as much as Aminata struggles with the fact that her good friend Baru turns out to be somehow at the centre of a conspiracy and as much as Baru struggles with the idea that maybe, back in the day, Itinerant set Aminata up to watch her (And to warn her away from "tribadism", which in any case didn't work out too well). 

(and, a sidenote, how many feelings can you have about the fact that Tain Hu didn't used to be able to write in their shared language Alphalone, but spent the last few months of her life LEARNING HOW TO, and then spent that ability specifically to recruit Aminata as Baru's knight? Inbetween teaching a seagull  who just happens to be on the same ship that Baru is on how to "dance for food", which I'm sure is way more than that). Tain Hu, who at the end of Traitor I thought was surprised by Baru's betrayal, but must have seen it coming from miles away, to the extent that she made sure that Baru would have her killed rather than being turned into a hostage for the sake of the cryptarchy)

So - trim. With Baru hungry to start a war that will crush the evil colonist empire crossing paths with gentle Tau-Indi, who despises war, who despises the cult she is seeking because it is the worst part of his culture's past. Tain Hu, still watching over Baru somehow - from her mind, where she conjures her up, and her seizure-induced dream (a seizure caused by Xate Yawa's attempt to turn Baru harmless, to steal her mind, so she can have her way), where Tain Hu speaks these words -

"There is a difference between acting out their story, and truly obeying their story. Do you know what it is?"

This question returns again and again. Baru asks it of herself, if it makes a difference whether someone is truthful and genuine when the outcome, the actions, are the same ("For what, in the end, was the difference between pretending perfectly to feel something, and actually feeling it? If you acted the same way, truth or lie?"). But then, this is the same person who, after sacrificing her beloved, lost half her world. The other argument would be that someone who acts against their own conscience, their own concept of what is good (even if they act for a deeper plan, for a greater game) will inevitably lose themselves in that game. Like Tain Hu, never believing that the Masquerade could be destroyed from the inside, because much like capitalism it simply absorbs all that oppose it and becomes stronger for it (and yet she loved Baru enough to trust that she would find a way, somehow). On the one hand, there's the Masquerade believing that the only way to hold their all-powerful cryptarchs in check is to hold their beloved ones over them - an Admiral who is a thorn in the side for career navy for Apparitor, who we meet here, the lost Prince, who's reemergence, from Baru's perspective, may convince a second front of a war to open. Xate Olake over Xate Yate, an addition even more recent than Baru. Someone, or something, over Itinerant and Hesychast (the flashbacks to their younger years open some possibilities for an answer to that, as does the idea that their stake in the game is sheer vanity of being right). Baru thinks she has smartly escaped this equation by having Tain Hu executed, except it doesn't even take Tain Shir that long to figure out that Baru still has parents to care about (two remaining parents, and truly, who knows what happened to her second father all those years ago?). Throughout the novel, the fact that she sacrificed Tain Hu sometimes makes her even more likely to be blackmailed into another act of cruelty, because if she isn't willing to sacrifice more, then isn't she betraying those previous, incredibly valuable sacrifices (something that is, brilliantly, termed an "ethical credit line" here), in a line of thought and narrative that opens the possibility that Baru is truly the villain in someone else's story, even if she is our hero. 

What happens to Baru is a literal split. It is medically diagnosed, as much as the limited resources of Falcresti psychotherapy can diagnose things (with its ideological limitations). Her left side and her right side respond differently to stimuli, and seem to hold different values. Throughout the book, there are moments where Baru questions if she even realises what her right hand is doing, and there is one specific moment where it is clear that she doesn't, always (when she leaves the Llosydanes islands to which she has tracked Abd's fleet, after destroying its economy, she rues not setting up a fund of sorts to secure the well-being of the inhabitants, except we find out, that someone actually did do just that - so likely, Baru's right hand). One morning she wakes up entangled in hostage Shao Lune's chains and doesn't quite remember how she got there, and her explanation is all the alcohol, but the following chapter which enlightens us as to what happened doesn't really clarify which Baru is willingly participating in this (and somehow, painfully enjoying it more than with much more evenly matched and lovely diver Ulyu Xe, whose self-possession reminds her in bits of Tain Hu).

There are opposing views of humanity, of power, of the obligations between people here. There's Aminata instinctively knowing that Baru is her friend, and that she must trust and help her, even if her navy background tells her that Baru is the enemy that must be controlled. There's Itinerant and Hesychast fighting over whether the future of Falcrest lies in indoctrinating the new citizens of the empire through its schools (with Baru being Itinerant's proof of success, while all the while her insane predecessor lurks to prove the opposite is true - as she is Baru in extremis, a perfect tool, eager to prove that Baru never loved Tain Hu) or in adopting what the Cancrioth did for centuries before they were cast out of Oriati Mbo - transplanting cancerous tumours from one person to another (and how fitting is it that Baru is so eager to find the Cancrioth and yet is literally haunted by one of its creature the entire time, getting glimpses of the monstrous whale that may be partly human, in a chilling visual reference to Annihilation). A practice that is now so taboo that it utterly horrifies Tau Indi, who so believes in trim.

There is a scene in the past, where the people of Tau's land are ready to take revenge on Hesychast and Itinerant for what happens in the war, but then a woman descends and brings an offering. Where it goes, we don't quite now, but we do know that Abd has made a deal with something, that he is repeating the same mysterious words over and over that are meant to have some kind of effect (a young man who is now Apparitor's distraction faints whenever the Cancrioth are mentioned, and it takes Baru entirely too long to put the pieces together - Hesychast and Itinerant set out to find their opposites in Oriati Mbo, and not only does Baru find them in the end, she also realises that they are seemingly capable of similar psychological programming). As much as Falcrest utilises the biological warfare of diseases (and promising cures, and hygiene, in exchange for giving up freedom), so do the Cancrioth willingly set free a terrible disease to bring chaos into the world (and maybe, in this novel, it all comes down to the riddle that is repeated to Baru over and over, one that she finally solves by refusing its premise of putting the blame upon the actors, and not the circumstances that decide the context of their possible actions - much like that old Falcrest saying frees the individual from any responsibility for what the empire makes it do).

And so much more:


  • Have we crossed paths with Kindalama? Is she the "pregnant" woman in the end? What exactly did Abd and Kindalama do when the flashback ends?
  • One of the greatest moments in this great novel is right after Baru loses her fingers and her first thought is literally whether she will still be good in bed. 
  • The greatest surprise here is that 14 years ago, Tain Shir - the woman who incidentally crossed Baru's path, and probably influenced, or at least fit right into, her thing for severe women in uniform, disappeared father Salm rather than killed him - which means that the catalyst for every single decision that Baru has made since is still alive, and under the control of the woman who wants to make Baru pay for insisting that she truly loved Tain Hu, and that she can destroy Falcrest from the inside. 
  • And talking about women in uniform who have left a deep impression on Baru, how next-level romantic is it that both Baru and Amanita are holding on to their talismans so dearly, the boarding sabre and the Cormorant feather?
  • Baru finds out that her remaining parents Pinion and Solit are part of a resistance against the Masquerade in Taranoke, one that depended heavily on the very Abd that is now being tortured by Amanita, the navy prison he landed in due to Baru's actions in Aurdwynn. 
  • Seth Dickinson says that the Masquerade series is about the "cutting line between subversion and complicity", and that's exactly the thin red line Baru is walking desperately, trying not to lose herself. Tain Hu thought it couldn't be done (and she thought that Baru could never go home again, because home changes with time, so it will never look the same as in Baru's childhood). Tain Shir insists that Baru has betrayed everything she ever touched, regardless of her insistence that her motives are ultimately good (as does Xate). But then, slowly and over the course of the novel, a voice starts to speak from the right of the page and the right of Baru's impaired vision (what a perfect visual metaphor) a voice that very much sounds like Tain Hu, gentle, caring, hopefully capable of keeping Baru going. And this in a world where the dominant empire is so keen on literally carving itself into the brains of those it conquered, so that any idea of freedom or otherness becomes unthinkable. 

Favourite books I've read this year

Non-Fiction: 

Bruce Pascoe: Dark Emu. Black Seeds Agriculture Or Accident?.
Michelle Tea: Against Memoir.
Nicole Chung: All You Can Ever Know. A Memoir.

Fiction: 

Courtney S. Stevens: Dress Codes For Small Towns.
Min Jin Lee: Pachinko.
Ann Leckie: Ancillary Trilogy, Providence.
R.O. Kwon: The Incendiaries.
Kelly Quindlen: Her Name in the Sky.
Sally Rooney: Normal People.
Lauren Karcz: The Gallery of Unfinished Girls.
Courtney Summers: Sadie.
Florence Gonsalves: Love & Other Carnivorous Plants.
Meg Wolitzer: The Female Persuasion.
Kirstin Chen: Bury What We Cannot Take.
Claire G. Coleman: Terra Nullius.
Kim Fu: The Lost Girls of Camp Forevermore and For Today I Am A Boy.
Hsu-Ming Teo: Behind the Moon and Love and Vertigo.
Fiona Shaw: Tell it to the Bees.
Sharlene Teo: Ponti.
Becky Albertalli: Leah on the Offbeat.
Dana Mele: People Like Us.
Cristina Moracho: A Good Idea.

My favourite novel this year, Courtney S. Stevens' Dress Codes for Small Towns, is about a tightly-knit group of friends who are about to leave high school, and enter an after-school life that may tear them apart - Steven's protagonist Billie McCaffrey, is eager to preserve her beloved friends group, but what happens when individual desires interfere and people start falling in love? And what happens when the pastor's daughter just keeps getting herself, and by association, her dad, into trouble, in this small town that has narrow ideas about how girls are allowed to behave? (also, in the year in which Emily M. Danforth's The Miseducation of Cameron Post has finally become a film, it was even more awesome to find a similarly distinctive voice as Cameron in Billie McCaffrey).

And where Dress Codes for Small Towns is in part about religion and what happens when parents' religion clashes with their daughter's attempt to understand her own desires, which don't fit neatly into any category (both in terms of gender representation and maybe being in love with both of her best friends), Kelly Quindlen's Her Name in the Sky has two deeply religious protagonists who try to fit their queerness into their faith, while also trying to maintain friendships that are threatening to fall apart. 
I read both these novels very closely to Becky Albertalli's Leah on the Offbeat, a sequel to Love, Simon, which was turned into a film this year, and the two novels share a concern about what happens to tightly-knit groups of friends just before college changes everything, and when individual members of the group develop feelings for each other that threaten to tear the fabric apart. At the same time, both novels have a shared endless love for that kind of friendship, and how it creates people, how it defines them within their communities. (and also, Claire Messud's The Burning Girl, about the falling apart through circumstances and identity, choices and things that seem inescapable).

So this year I caught up with all the YA that I never read as an actual youth, but it was an absolutely amazing experience to see how many beautifully written non-straight protagonists are ready to be discovered - in Lauren Karcz's The Gallery of Unfinished Girl, which again combines a strong voice in Mercedes, an artist who is struggling to find inspiration in her complicated life (an absent mother who is caring for her dying mother abroad, being responsible for her little sister, being in love with her best friend), with the magical realism of a building that brings forth perfect artistic creations, directly from the mind to the canvas, but doesn't allow the artist to take any of that into the real world. In Florence Gonsalves' Love & Other Carnivorous Plants, a friendship between two girls flails when their experiences start diverging, and individual traumas aren't shared anymore. And then, a surprising late entry, glimmering with so much heart and humour, J.C. Lillies' A&B which construes a world in which a wronged music competition show reject fights her evil side only to realise that this side may be more successful than her carefully cultivated facade of niceness is, at least until she falls in love with a former rival. 

Dana Mele's People Like Us and Cristina Moracho's A Good Idea are two more or less hard-boiled crime novels that I came to having my mood set by a mixture of the above-mentioned novels about complicated friendships and romantic relationships and the television adaptation of Gillian Flynn's Sharp Objects (in short, a love for protagonists with strong voices, and a not-too slight terror of small towns and communities that harbour secrets). People Like Us is located somewhere between The Secret History and Pretty Little Liars. Set in a prep school, Kay tries to solve a murder but also gets caught up in an intricate game that is set to make her pay for the crimes that she and her popular friends committed against less socially connected students. In A Good Idea, Fin returns to her small hometown from New York after her best friend has gone missing and discovers true horrors under the surface that is eating away at the lives of the kids left behind - a mixture of adults' carelessness and boredom, and emptiness that Fin doesn't seem to grasp now that she is an outsider, until it is almost too late.

In Courtney Summers' Sadie, there is barely anything left to beat back the darkness except for the love that the titular protagonist had for her sister, who has died, and the rage that she now carries against the man she thinks is responsible. In a novel constructed in different perspectives, one of which a fictional true crime podcast, Sadie pursues her goal without hesitation, with the limited resources of a teenager, and as the plot slowly reveals the horrors of her childhood, and the scars that she and her younger sister both suffered, it becomes increasingly clearer that this novel will not have a happy end for anyone. After Summers' other dark novels (especially All the Rage and Fall for Anything) - eloquently written, driven forward by strong young women who have suffered terribly, Sadie is the one that haunts me the most.

And a new Tana French - The Witch Elm, far away for the first time from the Dublin Murder Squad, or rather, still Dublin Murder Squad, but seen from the perspective of a suspect. A novel that is a marvel for somehow following around an insufferable protagonist, who has for all his life profited from the privilege of being white, straight and able-bodied but now comes to realise how hungry the world out there is without the safe protection of the things he has always taken for granted (and, arrogantly, dubbed "luck"). As a body is discovered in the old elm on his dying uncle's property, he has to examine what and how he remembers his youth - battering his own failing memory along with the pink glasses his particular privilege has put on him, while those less fortunate surrounding him point out to him how he's always got it wrong. Since we're trapped in Toby's mind, it's hard to figure out what's happening. As much as I love the Dublin Murder Squad, and especially Broken Harbour, I think this is a quiet favourite. 

Moving on to college, as much The Female Persuasion by Meg Wolitzer is about Greer's ambition, her travels through feminist movements via writing for magazines after a momentous encounter as a student (and the question of how to be authentic between personal ambition and loyalty to friends), the story here that captured me was that of her boyfriend Cory, who puts all of his own ambitions aside to move back in and care for his mother after a family tragedy (it's little bits of that story that will stay with me more than Faith Frank and Greer will, like towards the end, when Cory attempts to express his grief for his dead brother by creating a computer game that deals with grief - an odd coincidence, a concept that resembles what Cameron was trying to do with her unwinnable game in Halt and Catch Fire).
In R.O. Kwon's The Incendiaries, Phoebe, a college student, becomes increasingly radicalised by an evangelical Christian group, led by an enigmatic extremist, and her boyfriend Will (who reminded me of Donna Tartt's Richard Papen, to cycle back to The Secret History) utterly fails at finding a way to save her.


Families through historic events, charting histories and individual ambitions versus mutual responsibilities, failing each other terribly, betraying each other, struggling with expectations - Min Jin Lee's Pachinko charts a family history from early 1900 Korea, through the difficult experience of being a Korean migrant to Japan, to the present day, through generations, through changing fortunes and tragedies.

The characters in Kirstin Chen's Bury What We Cannot Take are asked to make an impossible decision between their two children as they attempt to flee communist China - a novel that maps out the interior landscape of both children perfectly, as each of them reacts differently to the pressures of living in an authoritarian regime, without much help from the adults in their lives.

The trans protagonist in Kim Fu's For Today I am A Boy is as at odds with her traditional family as she is with a progressive community in Montreal, struggling to form a coherent self between the expectations of others and her own identity.

Sharlene Teo's Ponti is about a monstrous woman - a character in a film, the sole starring role of someone's mother, the starting point of an obsession and a family history of two girls in early 2000s Singapore, as the novel tells their story forward and the story of the actress in the film, backwards.

Vanessa Hua's A River of Stars, a different migration story, about making a life, about an unlikely friendship, about utterly unexpected bootstraps and motherhood.

And others - I finally got around to reading Ann Leckie's The Ancillary Trilogy, just as Providence, which is set in the same universe, was released, and beyond the world- and character-building, the ambitious way in which Leckie writes characters who do not comprehend conventionally gendered language is amazing.

Fiona Shaw's Tell it to the Bees, which has been turned into a film this year, is a beautiful novel about love between two women in a small village in 1950s Scotland, one that does not end tragically.

Sally Rooney's Normal People surprised me, because I did not expect for a story about the complicated friendship and love between its two main characters, eager-to-not-stand-out Connell and odd Marianne to affect me as much as it did - they change each other profoundly, but the best parts of the novel are Connell trying, and often failing, to express his feelings, to make sense of himself.

(and then there is my ongoing attempt to make sense of Australia, but as affecting as Hsu-Ming Teo's two novels Love and Vertigo and especially Behind the Moon, which is about three friends growing up together in Sydney, were, I don't think I'm any nearer than I was before. Claire G. Coleman's Terra Nullius is a dazzling science fiction story that starts with the brutality and terror of the invasion and ends in an invasion of a different sort.


the Denial of Old White Men, September 28, 2018
Fader: Yaeji, June 5, 2018
GQ: What Ever Happened to Brendan Fraser, February 22, 2018
Believer: The End Of Evil, February 1, 2018
n+1: On Liking Women, January 2018
Meanjin: To Those Who Come from Volcanoes: Reflecting on the Legacy of Ursula K. Le Guin, January 25, 2018

The Miseducation of Cameron Post

�The afternoon my parents died, I was out shoplifting with Irene Klauson.�
This is how Emily M. Danforth�s novel starts. Cameron at this stage is just out of childhood, and she loses her parents the same day that a dare with her best friend Irene opens up a whole new world to her. It�s an unfortunate coincidence that Cameron�s first kiss with another girl ends with the trauma of losing her parents, as the guilt of that moment, and the question of whether her parents� death was somehow a punishment by god for her behaviour, haunts her for the rest of her youth. 
Desiree Akhavan�s adaptation never shows us this moment. In fact, nearly all of the details of Cameron�s youth in Montana�s Miles City, which take up about two thirds of the novel, are missing from the film. 
What Desiree Akhavan does achieve, in spite of only focusing on a narrow part of Danforth�s novel, is still remarkable. She creates a foundational trauma that happens in a flash of quickly-paced scenes, Cameron (Chlo� Grace Moretz, somehow perfectly cast for this) and Coley (Quinn Shephard, a few years ago very impressive with a short but memorable stint on Person of Interest) stumbling, kissing against walls, stealing moments away together, in secret, until they are finally discovered by Cameron�s homecoming-date and best friend Jamie after having sex in a car. There�s no need to really hear what happens after, because we can guess, even without having read the book: Jamie, making horrified noises while Cam tries to put her clothes back on and Coley weeps in the car, inconsolable, ashamed, Cam being sat down by her Aunt Ruth, and then, Cam being taken away to God�s Promise, an evangelical conversion therapy centre. 

We don�t really know much about Cam at this point in the film, while she is well-established in the book, and it�s hard to judge how this moment of horror would play out for someone who isn�t familiar with Cameron Post from Danforth�s writing. In the book, it�s the culmination of her low-key struggle with Aunt Ruth, who comes to raise her after her parents� death because her grandmother isn�t really able to do it by herself, as kind and gentle as she is with Cameron�s identity and grief. Aunt Ruth means well, which is probably the worst part of it, because Cameron prior to that point has been raised in an agnostic household and now has to cope with a re-born evangelical Christian who thinks she is saving her niece�s soul by making her go to Church, church group, and eventually, the conversion camp. There is no ill-intent in this, or even hatred, just an utterly and horribly misguided love. 
Cameron herself is � sarcastic, stubborn, questioning. She takes what she�s learned about herself with first best friend Irene Klauson to the same place that so many other queer kids have taken their questions � film -  and educates herself via her small town�s videostore (because the book, and the film for that matter, are set in the early Nineties), sharpening her sense on classic film Personal Best. She runs wild with her best friends (so many scenes in the book are memorably set in an abandoned hospital building, and some of the allure of it comes from how free these kids are to do with their days more or less as they wish, without much parental supervision). She swims competitively and meets a gay girl who is about to move to the Pacific Northwest, and will send her dispatches in the form of letters, phone calls and riot grrrl mixtapes from a world where it seems so much easier to be gay. Cam soaks all of it up, and tries to find meaning, in a way, between her attempts to comprehend how it relates to her parents� death and to being in a small town, trying to shape an identity, until she falls in love with Coley. 

I think it�s worth knowing all of this while watching the film, I think it adds to the layers and layers, as much as the film works on its own. It adds to know how falling in love with Coley feels to Cameron like a bomb going off, an inevitable time bomb that will blow everything apart. Lindsey, her gay friend, from far away cautions her not to go after a straight girl, but Cam can�t help herself (plus Coley isn�t exactly straight, just scared out of her mind). In the book, she seduces her by using The Hunger (in the film, it�s Donna Deitch's beautiful drama Desert Hearts, in both cases it�s good they never make it to the end). Like in the film, they get caught, and Cam is the one paying the price, the one carrying the burden, the one sent off to the conversion camp. 

A lot of the complexities of Cameron at this point are hard to convey in a film that mostly relies on sparse and predominantly sarcastic dialogue between its main characters as well as facial expressions to tell its story. In the novel, Cameron narrates her own story, and she is particularly good at capturing how seasons, weather and landscape play into people�s behaviour � especially kids who are still in school, who come to life during summer holidays. When she arrives at God�s Promise she is shell-shocked � the moment when she and Coley got caught in the car replays a few times, in particular Coley�s refusal to be comforted, and Cameron�s guilt because she thinks that she made her do something she didn�t want to. Since the film doesn�t have the connection between Cameron�s realisation that she is gay and the death of her parents, it uses the guilt over having seduced Coley to turn Cameron into a character who isn�t entirely opposed to the teachings of God�s Promise. It�s the same position the occupies in the book � somewhere between the kids who are there believing deeply and profoundly that they are wrong, and require healing, and the kids who know they are only there because their parents are wrong and misguided, that they only have to survive long enough, or play the game, to be free again. It would be much easier to watch a character interrogate the teachings of God�s Promise from the start, refusing the buy into it entirely � like Cameron�s soon-to-be friends Jane Fonda (Sasha Lane, as perfectly aloof and cool as Jane Fonda is in the book) and Adam do, who have created their own little community of ditch-weed smoking survivors of Dr. Lydia�s heinous teachings. We don�t see too much of that teaching on the screen, the main part is the theory of the iceberg, according to which gayness is only the part of the problem that is obvious to the eye, whereas the majority of the kids� issues remain buried under the sea, and require (for the most part, profoundly traumatising) inspection before they can hope to overcome their SSA. Cameron is curious enough about that part that she investigates everyone else�s iceberg, trying to understand everyone along the lines of Rick and Lydia�s interpretation of their identity, trying to fill in her own iceberg to understand herself. In the novel, the iceberg fits in well with Cameron�s previous attempt at finding a metaphor for her complex inner life � after her parents� death, she starts to decorate a dollhouse from her childhood with found and stolen objects, but maybe in 2018, after Sharp Objects, it�s for the better that this detail didn�t make it into Akhavan�s film. 

Since this is 1993, Cameron doesn�t really have the same luxury of being able to just refute the claims of Reverend Rick and his much easier to hate sister Dr. Lydia from the start. As much as Jane and Adam attempt to make her understand that there are other villains in her story � Coley, for one, once she figures out that she was the one who ratted her out, not her friend Jamie � there is still a part of Cameron driven by guilt that buys into some of the thing that God�s Promise is selling, even if she isn�t as completely convinced by it as her room-mate Erin and some of the other kids are. It�s so easy for Rick and Lydia to sell the idea that being gay is wrong because it matches what the kids have heard from the people who�ve sent them there � who are meant to love them unconditionally, and care for them � and because in 1993, it would�ve been easier to argue that having a family, and living a life not burdened with adversity and conflict, is easier when you�re straight. 
It takes a while for Cameron to catch on to the fact that Rick and Lydia have absolutely no idea what they are doing, that their hack-psychology isn�t cut out to deal with actual crises, that their limited conception of self and personhood creates an atmosphere in which someone will inevitably break, even more so because some of these children weren�t sent there by loving parents or guardians who wanted the best for them, but hateful and despicable irresponsible people who want what they think is evil cut out of their children, with no regard to their mental and physical well-being. The most horrible moment in the film is taken directly from the book � it�s when Mark (Owen Campbell, absolutely remarkable in the role), the poster boy for the camp�s success, a kid who passionately quotes scripture, believes profoundly in the teachings, and is so lovable and compassionate on the phone that he brings in most of the donations finds out that his father is still refusing to let him come home because he remains too effeminate. Distressed, he quotes scripture in group therapy that makes it clear how much he has been made to hate himself. Rick and Lydia, utterly incompetent, leave him alone, and he severely hurts himself. 

It�s a horrible moment in which Cameron finally realises that these people who are meant to be responsible for the children under their care are not capable of caring for them, that these amateurs do not know what they are doing. Ironically, an investigator is sent to question the kids about the conditions in the camp (the man tells her, point-blank, that he is there to investigate practices, not judge the intent behind it). He asks if she trusts the Rick and Lydia, if she believes that they have her best interest at heart, and Cameron can�t even begin to put into words how impossible that question is to answer in the affirmative. Rick and Lydia and the culture their represent are tasked with destroying any sense of self-possession and self-knowledge, any sense of true identity, that the kids have, and Mark�s fate is only the most jarring example of what happens when those things are taken away from a person. 

A more quiet moment, and one that I�m so glad has made it from the page into the film, is between Erin and Cameron. The film, like the book, very intentionally plays Erin the Viking (Emily Skeggs doing perfect magic) up for laughs � her obsession with a sports team, her narrative of herself as being gay because she is too much into sports, and bonded with her dad over it, her earnestness in trying to become straight, her attempts to become more fit to hilarious �Blesserzise� videotapes. Cameron is so caught up in her blooming friendship with Adam and Jane Fonda and trying to make sense of her remaining feelings for Coley that she completely misses the many moments where it�s pretty clear how much Erin cares for her � until Erin literally leaps on her, after Cam has a vivid sex dream, to try and save her from having evil thoughts until she changes her mind and makes her come instead. She still insists, after, that she wants to become straight, that she wants a �normal� life, except it�s so clear, in everything she does, that she likes Cameron too much. It�s like a transformation happens in those few minutes, where Erin goes from a character played for laughs to turning into a whole complex sexual being (who responds to Cameron, after she says that she really didn�t see it coming, that it is because she didn�t think of her that way � and she sounds like she deeply wants to be thought of that way), where she gloriously triumphs over all the moments where anyone would�ve made fun of her for being too much into God. The fact that God�s Promise is trying to eradicate this spirit and passion out of her is as much proof of its failings at basic humanity as Mark�s horrible act of self-destruction is. 

This is why The Miseducation of Cameron Post is at its best when it reminds us that the kids trapped at God�s Promise are exactly that, teenagers who are trying to make sense of themselves, who become gloriously themselves when they are finally able to turn a radio to a non-Christian-rock radio station and sing �What�s Going On� together (perfect, in a way, after Sense8 two years ago). God�s Promise is trying to break them down so it can more successfully instil its hideous ideology � another horrible moment is when Lydia cuts off Adam�s (Forrest Goodluck) beautiful hair, an act of pure hatred against his identity that refuses to be shaped into evangelical Christian shapes. Rick and Lydia�s agenda ultimately has to fail because the sheer amount of life, of passion, of desire for freedom that refuses to be beaten or prayed out of Adam, Jane Fonda and Cam will carry them into a life far away from this horror. At least that�s the note the film ends on � the three of them, riding away from God�s Promise in the back of a pick-up truck, playfully and freely flirting with a real life of their own. 
It�s a much less ambiguous ending than Danforth�s novel, which, because it starts the way it does, ends with Cameron swimming the lake in which her parents perished, attempting to make sense of how her loss and her grief connect to how and whom she loves. In both cases, it would have been wasted time to prosecute the institutions we already know are evil, and it is glorious to see instead a celebration of those who successfully overcome, simply by being free. 

2018, directed by Desiree Akhavan, starring Chlo� Grace Moretz, Sasha Lane, Forrest Goodluck, Emily Skeggs, Owen Campbell, John Gallagher Jr., Quinn Shephard, Jennifer Ehle.

Favourite books I've read this year

Non-Fiction: 

Audre Lorde: Zami. A New Spelling of My Name.
James Baldwin: The Fire Next Time.
James Gleick: Time Travel.
Olivia Laing: Lonely City.
Olivia Laing: To the River. A Journey Beneath the Surface.

Fiction:

Octavia E. Butler: The Parable of the Talents.
Octavia E. Butler: Fledgling
Octavia E. Butler: Lilith's Brood
Octavia E. Butler: Kindred.
N.K. Jemisin: The Stone Sky.
Carmen Maria Machado: Her Body and Other Parties.
Emily Fridlund: A History of Wolves.
James S.A. Corey: Expanse Series.
James VanderMeer: Southern Reach Trilogy.
James VanderMeer: Borne.
Lidia Yuknavitch: The Small Backs of Children.
Celeste Ng: Everything I Never Told You.
Celeste Ng: Little Fires Everywhere.
Roxane Gay: Difficult Women.
Megan Abbott: You Will Know Me.
John Darnielle: Universal Harvester.
Becky Chambers: A Closed and Common Orbit.
Paolo Bacigalupi: The Water Knife.
Naomi Alderman: The Power.

Essays: 

Technically 2016 but the most accurate "welcome to 2017"
THIS
TIME Magazine: TIME Person of the Year - The Silence Breakers, December 2017
The New York Times: Inside Trump's Hour-By-Hour Battle for Self-Preservation, December 9, 2017
The Monthly: A victory for equality, December 7, 2017
The New York Times: Weinstein's Complicity Machine, December 5, 2017
The Daily Beast: Bryan Singer: The Epitome of Hollywood�s White Male Privilege Problem, December 5, 2017
The Guardian: �This is hell out here�: how Behrouz Boochani's diaries expose Australia�s refugee shame, December 4, 2017
Kill Your Darlings: We Fight On, November 30, 2017
London Review of Books: Against Passion, November 30, 2017
Meanjin: Human Rights and Political Wrongs, November 23, 2017
The Atlantic: The Nationalist's Delusion, November 20, 2017
The Guardian: I'm glad Australia has voted yes, but I'll never take my equality for granted again, November 15, 2017
The New Yorker: Harvey Weinstein's Army of Spies, November 6, 2017
The Atlantic: The First White President, October 2017
The Daily Beast: How Kevin Spacey�s �Coming Out� Grossly Conflates Pedophilia and Homosexuality, October 30, 2017
Vulture: Star Trek: Discovery Recap: Be Seeing You, October 30, 2017
Buzzfeed: Actor Anthony Rapp: Kevin Spacey Made A Sexual Advance Toward Me When I Was 14, October 30, 2017
The Paris Review: On Basquiat, the Black Body, and a Strange Sensation in My Neck, October 26, 2017
The New Yorker: The Danger of President Pence, October 23, 2017
The New York Times: Lupita Nyong'o: Speaking Out About Harvey Weinstein, October 19, 2017
The Washington Post: Inside the �adult day-care center�: How aides try to control and coerce Trump, October 16, 2017
The New Yorker: From Aggressive Overtures to Sexual Assault. Harvey Weinstein's Accusers Tell Their Stories, October 10, 2017
Buzzfeed: Here's How Breitbart And Milo Smuggled Nazi and White Nationalist Ideas Into The Mainstream, October 6, 2017
Nicole Chung for Longreads: On American Identity, the Election, and Family Members Who Support Trump, September 2017
Bright Wall/Dark Room: Fix Your Heart or Die: The Startling Empathy of David Lynch, September 25, 2017
Slate: It�s Not a Problem When Cashiers Say �No Problem� to You, September 18, 2017
The New York Times: How Big Business Got Brazil Hooked on Junk Food, September 16, 2017
Politico: The great nutrient collapse, September 13 2017.
The New York Times: Was Charlottesville the Exception or the Rule?, September 13, 2017
Paste: Horizon Zero Dawn, Joss Whedon and the Problem with "Strong Female Characters", August 21, 2017
Dazed: Joss Whedon and the problem with �male feminists�, August 21, 2017
Spiegel Online: The Unforgivable Disgrace of an American President, August 19, 2017
Eater: The White Lies of Craft Culture, August 17, 2017
The New Yorker: Charlottesville and the Effort to Downplay Racism in America, August 13, 2017
Wired: Ehtereum is Coding's New Wild West, August 11, 2017
The Atlantic: Hunting for Antibiotics in the World�s Dirtiest Places, July 2017
Autostraddle: Pretty Little Liars Episode 720 Recap: Act Hetero-Normal, Bitch!, July 9, 2017
The Monthly: A job half undone, June 2017
Wired: How An Entire Nation Became Russia's Test Lab for Cyberwar, June 20th, 2017.
Vulture: In Its First Season, The Handmaid�s Tale�s Greatest Failing Is How It Handles Race, June 14, 2017
Jacobin: A Very Political Tragedy, June 14, 2017
Motherboard: Mallory Ortberg's Internet, June 13, 2017
The New York Times: The Long, Lonely Road of Chelsea Manning, June 12, 2017
The New Yorker: Comey's Revenge. Measuring Obstruction, June 8, 2017
Lawfare: Initial Comments on James Comey�s Written Testimony, June 7, 2017
Autostraddle: Pretty Little Liars Episode 717 Recap: Jealous or Crazy?, June 7, 2017
Literary Hub: Rebecca Solnit. The Loneliness of Donald Trump, May 30, 2017
Politico: Trump�s Worst Nightmare Comes True, May 18, 2017
Politico: What Donald Trump Needs to Know About Bob Mueller and Jim Comey, May 18, 2017
Elle: Her Eyes Were Watching the Stars. How Missy Elliott Became an Icon, May 16, 2017
Data & Society: Media Manipulation and Disinformation Online, May 15, 2017
Literary Hub: Claudia Rankine: I Think We Need to Be Frightened, May 11, 2017
Paste: A Time to Be Born and A Time to Kill on Underground's Season Two Finale, "Soldier", May 10, 2017
The Atlantic: Trump Fires FBI Director James Comey, May 9, 2017
Teen Vogue: Trump's First 100 Days Have Completely Undermined America's Political Standards, April 28, 2017
Munchies: The Struggles of Writing About Chinese Food as a Chinese Person, April 25, 2017
Jacob Clifton on 'The Handmaid's Tale', April 18, 2017
The Atlantic: Trump's Action in Syria Is 'Just the Latest Blip on a Deeper Story', April 11, 2017
The Atlantic: The U.S. Strikes in Syria, April 6, 2017
Birth, Movies, Death: Nevertheless, She Persisted: A Look Back At BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, April 4, 2017
The Atlantic: Red State, Blue City, March 2017
The Atlantic: Brexit: So What Now?, March 29, 2017
The Verge: Exploring The Expanse: the series�s latest arc covers a refugee crisis with painful real-world connections, March 17, 2017
Paste: The Uncomfortable Legacy of Buffy's Xander Harris, March 7, 2017
Columbia Journalism Review: Study: Breitbart-led right-wing media ecosystem altered broader media agenda, March 3, 2017
Politico: �The Conservative Movement Is Donald Trump�, February 26, 2017
The New Yorker: Donald Trump Through a Loudspeaker Darkly, February 2, 2017
The Atlantic: The Betrayal of Legal Immigrants Who Followed the Rules, January 29, 2017
Lawfare: Malevolence Tempered by Incompetence: Trump�s Horrifying Executive Order on Refugees and Visas, January 28, 2017
After a week, January 27, 2017
London Review of Books: From Lying to Leering. Rebecca Solnit on Donald Trump�s fear of women, January 19, 2017.
The New York Times: What Intelligence Agencies Concluded About the Russian Attack on the U.S. Election, January 6, 2017
Quartz: Michelle Obama brought herself and everyone around her to tears with her final speech as First Lady, January 6, 2017
The Atlantic: The Growing Urban-Rural Divide Around the World, January 4, 2017

Reading Notes: Naomi Alderman's The Power

It took a few days after finishing this novel to come to grasps with how I felt about it, in particular because there was a point, maybe 150 pages in, where I felt like I would end up enjoying this a lot more than I eventually did. Which isn't a reflection on the novel per se, just that Alderman chose a completely different path than I expected. Specifically, there is a moment where Roxy first meets Allie (who is on her way to consolidate her power as Mother Eve, with her community growing and just to demonstrate its true potential to the small town nearby - but they have not become the transformative movement that they will be later on). Roxy has just escaped the UK after killing a crime boss to revenge her mother. They meet by the water, at night, Roxy demonstrating her power with an act that is both amazing and horrifying (awesome, in the classical sense of the world rather than the popcultural). The ever-present voice in Eve's mind (a voice that -  we do not know who it is, we know that it speaks in biblical terms but uses very non-biblical language, we know that it wants, that it might as well be an expression of Allie's inherent ambition rather than something truly god-like, but the fact is that the distinction increasingly becomes irrelevant, considering the kind of methods and tools that Allie has at her command) tells her to use Roxy as a soldier, but not to become friends with her. But Allie can't help but connect with Roxy over their shared histories, their lost families, their shared experience of killing abusive men, their shared drive for a world that belongs to them. 

I think, deep down at this point I expected the novel to go somewhere entirely different, and I expected that connection between the two to go to a different place as well. They remain deeply and profoundly connected until the end, when Roxy is wounded and has lost all her power, while Eve is on the verge of transforming hers into something truly awesome, in the apocalyptic sense. But the novel is less interested in their intimate feelings, the way that their individual traumas play out to determine their paths, and how that may connect them - instead its starts to transform into something entirely different, something with geopolitical ambitions, a worldwide perspective. Which works in the novel - because obviously, Alderman is interested in the religious, political and cultural implications (and how all of this is mediated, through the outside perspective of Tunde, so hungry for story and context) of the very interesting biological twist of fate that begins everything. But maybe I would have felt more strongly about the individual tragic fates of the protagonists if the focus hadn't blown so wide open into a story about the entire world, changing, tumbling towards an apocalypse. (and this is an odd thought - but even though these two novels on the surface have barely anything in common, apart from The Power having a bit of storyline about London crime, and both being about a cast of characters connecting and disconnecting, the first part of the book reminded me of Kate Tempest' The Bricks That Built the Houses, and I missed that in the second part).

At points throughout I felt like this novel could have something else, and probably, at an earlier stage, was (apparently Alderman had 200,000 words at some point, but maybe even a whole other book here from which this one spun off). 

One approach maybe doesn't go anywhere, and that is to investigate whether her assumption about how the entire world would change if women were physically stronger than men is correct. It's the presumption of the novel and it falls apart if we don't buy it, so there isn't much point to debating it. Here, it takes ten years between teenage girls showing first symptoms of the skein - a genetic mutation that allows them to use energy to defend themselves and attack - to a part of Moldova spinning off into a women-led dystopia that intends to kill most men and subjects them to severe human rights abuses (the twist of which, at any point throughout the book, is that all of these things have happened and are still happening to women all over the world, and the shocking newness only exists because Alderman switches the genders of victims and oppressors). It only takes ten years for Allie, a foster child who escapes a physically and sexually abusive foster family (killing the man before she leaves with her newfound powers) to transform into Mother Eve, the figurehead of a new version of Christianity that only edits ancient texts a little bit, only gently twists the perspective, to build an entirely new female-centric religion on the base of the old ones (one of the great thoughts here, that all of these stories already exist, but have been read in a deliberately patriarchal way - for a very specific reason - this whole time).  

Alderman shows us how a democracy like the United States would grapple with the change, first following the old instinct of trying to preserve the old order, trying to find a cure to reinstate the status quo, trying to protect boys from girls by separating them, before realising that the biological advance is permanent, cannot be healed or reversed, and will require a profound change within the society. That change happens quickly, once women realise that their physical strength now puts them in the position to argue against all the ancient gender stereotypes that have held them back. News anchors who used to be only ancillaries to their straight white men co-hosts suddenly become the serious stars of the show. The mayor of a major metropolitan area, Margot, makes a swift career progression once she realises that her powers are an advantage, not a dirty secret, that she can use them to demonstrate her strength in difficult times. Inadvertently, she also becomes a tool for Mother Eve, as the voice in her head puts all the pawns into place. 

Tunde, the Nigerian journalist, watches all of this, realises the unique opportunity to become the media voice of the change, someone who does not hesitate to go into dangerous situations for the good stories, someone who aspires to write the definite book that provides context for this historic change in human society. He documents women rising up against their oppressors, political systems changing, but he also realises, very soon, that the gender switch does not lead to a more peaceful and gentle society - instead, the same extremes of violence start to appear. Fuelled by anger, ambition and a drug that Roxy brings into the world, women in war zones start to commit war crimes. The very close-to-home (as in - 2017, here) men's right activists that gather in internet forums and eventually use bombs to express how frustrated they are by the new world justify severe responses. Old patriarchal structures try to reassert themselves, as those who have always been in power refuse to accept the new reality. 

These are the in-between sections of the novel, after Mother Eve sets herself up and then allows her belief to find fertile ground in the still-religious world out there (the interesting question here is how much of Mother Eve is really in Allie, who asks if the voice in her head is God, but seems to consider scripture a very useful tool rather than something that she genuinely believes in - in the beginning, there is only the wish to make the world hers, to carve out a place for herself). The matriarchal new country that split from Moldova, led by the former wife of the authoritarian ruler, becomes an expression of her own insecurities and vanity (some of the most shocking scenes of the book happen in close succession here - the great leader punishes a waiter for speaking over her and makes him lick up alcohol and glass shards from the ground, while groups of women soldiers in the outskirts of the country prepare for war by raping and pillaging the citizens), becomes the festering wound that soon makes it clear to Mother Eve that her attempts at a tabula rasa have failed utterly. 

It's interesting that Margaret Atwood mentored this book, considering that there are so many parallels here to The Handmaid's Tale: In both, a biological event triggers a severe societal change, in both cases, religion plays a central role to cement a new regime. Alderman merely switches the genders (and again, the novel only really works if you believe that the timeline she marks out for all of this is realistic, so there's not much point in debating if this would be enough to undo thousands of years of the patriarchy). Also, in both, the story is framed in a very subversive way. In The Handmaid's Tale, the epilogue is the meeting of an anthropological congress, debating Gilead as it is seen through the tale of the (in the novel, unnamed) handmaid. The framing device here is that this whole story was written by a male writer (whose name is an anagram of Naomi Alderman), sending his novel to a woman (Naomi Alderman) for review - in a world, as we found out in the end, that is finally the complete utopia, the new place, that Mother Eve imagined. It is the culmination of everything that the novel works towards, the attempts at building a new society, the realisation that this will be impossible for as long as there is even a root of patriarchy, even the faintest memory of it, and the eventual shocking decision that the only way to move forward is a complete nuclear apocalypse that will wipe out any record of humanity. Like in Gilead, the only way to truly begin a new society is to destroy any record, or memory, of the old one, except here, in Alderman's world, that annihilation is complete, as is the rewriting of history. This is a very interesting idea (one that I would still trade, very much, for a story about Roxy and Allie).  It makes fun of every single biologically essentialist argument about the differences between men and women, it creates a historic record of artefacts that document a society in which women having this power has always been a reality, it maps out an alternative history of the world with only one minor detail altered. The world that results is very likely not better than our current world - individuals are still limited by cliched  gender models and the lies of a constructed history that justifies subjugation -  which is the point here, considering that this is titled The Power. Why does it happen? There isn't an attempt at an answer here, really, as multiple personal dramas and deeply wounded characters stumble forward, instinctually attempting to create a safe space for themselves, to reassert themselves, to find a shape and form for their ambition. 

Random thoughts: 
  • When Alderman did give Margot's daughter Jos space - a girl with a broken skein, attracted to the few boys who have them, but don't quite know what to do with them - it felt like a sad lost opportunity to maybe address how this whole dichotomy between having and not having this power would play out in a world where trans people exist. Another criticism - there is still a very clear sense here that the US and the UK are the known world and most of the places that Tunde goes to are the strange other that are perceived through the eyes of characters thoroughly rooted in the West. 
  • Just to reiterate here that I really, really wanted this story to be about Roxy and Allie's complicated feelings for each other and for a second I thought that's what I would get, so everything after made me a bit sad. 
  • One thing that I will give this novel though is that it succeeds through its different perspectives, the way that the whole situation escalates through the views of these diverse voices (some privileged, some slowly realising they are very much no longer privileged, as happens to Tunde once he reads his own obituaries and the stories that his ex-girlfriend stole from him). After all, the best episode of The Handmaid's Tale is one that could have never happened in the book, as June isn't even in it. 
  • I also want to reiterate that the book gets the most horror out of the thought of "what if this happened... TO MEN", not unlike The Handmaid's Tale (mostly, but not exclusively) does "what if this happened.... TO STRAIGHT WHITE AMERICAN WOMEN".

That Girl is Forever.

�That�s what parenthood was about, wasn�t it? Slowly understanding your child less and less until she wasn�t yours anymore but herself.�
In an interview with Megan Abbott in Entertainment Weekly, the writer explains that the driving force behind her novels, which centre on the experiences of teenage girls, was allowing them more complexity - aggression, desire, and ambition. She says "I think women are always trying to figure out their own adolescence. We never stop.", which I think is a perfect way to preface both Raw, directed by Julia Ducournau (her first full-length film) and Abbott's own You Will Know Me. 
Part of why we do constantly try to figure out our own adolescence is, I think because we are always working with limited information and skewed perspectives - the former maybe a deliberate exercise of power that tries to control what teenage girls can be and do in their lives, and the later wilful ignorance that finds comfort in cliches. The parents in both stories are guilty of both, even though the motives are different. 

In Raw, we meet Justine's parents as they stop on the way to dropping off their daughter at a prestigious veterinary University (where their other daughter is already studying), grabbing some food for the road. In a scene that gains a different meaning later, Justine's mother is horrified to find that her daughter has been served a piece of meat with her potatoes, even though the whole family is vegetarian. She goes and complains loudly to the staff, and the viewers assume that she is just a particularly outspoken vegetarian, making a scene - an overbearing parent, still controlling what her daughter can and can't eat now that she is old enough to go to University. Later, we find out that the control that she exercises in the family is overbearing, but for an entirely different reason. 

In You Will Know Me, the protagonists are the parents - it's the story of Devon, a gymnastics prodigy on a highly competitive track that is meant to eventually lead to the Olympic team, but we follow Devon's parents, Katie and Eric Knox, and the way that their lives are revolving around Devon's schedule of endless training sessions, booster meetings and injuries. As much as Raw is defined by something that happened before Justine's birth, the seed from which everyone grows in You Will Know me - a terrible accident in which a very young Devon lost two toes due to Eric's carelessness, is something that inevitably charts Devon's life now. The book circles back to the question of how Devon became the prodigy, which takes as much talent as it does focused, complete ambition, which the parents and her teachers feel comes from her (while the other kids around her, the mediocre ones, are constantly driven by their parents, require encouragement and discipline, Devon does all of this to herself, single-minded). Is it because or in spite of her deformed foot? Does the foot hold her back, a constant reminder of Eric's guilt and shortcomings as a parent, or is it somehow imbued with the ability to give her a certain edge, an opinion that Eric voices throughout the narrative? 

In both cases, the control at the beginning of the story - the mother taking care that Justine sticks to her vegetarian diet, Eric and Katie presiding over Devon's schedule (while often forgetting their other child, Drew, how starts to become a prescient, constant observer in part because their parents don't let him be anything else) - falls apart, which leads to a catastrophe. At veterinary school, Justine is immediately thrown into the chaos of a complex hazing ritual that new students have to survive to be accepted, during which she is forced, both by the older students and her own sister, to eat a raw rabbit kidney. Her first contact with meat first leads to a terrible rash all over her body but then seems to trigger something much worse, a craving for raw meat that, in the course of the film, turns into cannibalism. 

Raw is unflinching body horror, but the way that it uses the images to chart Justine's transformation from a shy student trying to disappear in the masses, to not stand out, to a predator who deliberately transforms herself so that she may attract prey (in a central scene, taking the lyrics of plus putes que toutes les putes literally, as an education), is magnificent. Like Ginger Snaps, the bloodlust is profoundly connected to Justine's sexuality, her awakening cannibalism tied to her sexual desire, with the threat of mauling hanging over every encounter she has. Eventually, her sister reveals the family secret: Alex has transformed as well (and found a brilliant way to capture prey - running into traffic to cause accidents, then devouring the victims), and we start to realise that the mother's attempts to keep her children away from meat was a very insufficient way to try and control a genetic predisposition to cannibalism. 

This twist: that the helicopter parent has a very good reason for what she is doing, but that the decision to keep vital information from her daughter backfires dramatically, leading to a lot of bloodshed and victims wheeled away on stretchers with pieces missing. The transformation of the meek girl that we meet in the beginning into the predator desperately attempting to keep her best friend safe from her own cravings seems inevitable, especially once Justine leaves her parents' control into the very different environment of the veterinary school, one that demands exactly the kind of transformation that Justine just takes to the next level. After the siren sounds three times to indicate the end of rush week, not everyone has survived. 

Justine's parents assuming she will still follow their guidance, that she can be kept from this simply through the rules that have been established in her childhood, speak to neither of them realising what it means when children become their own people. The same happens to Eric and Katie in You Will Know Me - they start out with seeing Devon as this single-minded, driven girl, who needs nobody else to feed her own ambition, even though she is the hope of the entire community. They see her as an extension of the community's ambitions, and while they focus entirely on that goal and lose themselves in the sheer finance- and time-consuming schedule of raising a star athlete, Devon becomes a person of her own. The book shows this perfectly in what Katie encounters when she secretly reads Devon's diary, at first only finding a detailed chart of her athletic progress, then later completely misinterpreting more personal entries because she cannot even think of her daughter as a person with desires beyond the Olympic team. The single-mindedness of that goal works like a parasite, constantly drawing resources out of the family, attention, care, time. Everybody is constantly too tired to pay attention to changes (while in the background, Drew develops Scarlet fever, and that fever becomes a weird sort of heat source for the entire novel, "we are a sick house" Katie says at one point, wondering about her own phrasing almost immediately after). Then, a boy is killed in a car accident and the entire community is shaken up, the routine is disturbed, a rock is thrown into the so tightly wound mechanism, and everything starts falling apart. As much as Devon is the focus point of the story, she suddenly turns into a stranger, someone who has developed into a complex person while everyone else was just focused on that one aspect of her. She is grappling with that as much as her parents are, but since the book focuses on Katie's experience over everyone else's, the main feeling that remains is one of an unsettling, disturbing strangeness, the unknowability of a teenage girl who has started to have secrets. 

Grave/Raw (directed by Julia Ducournau, starring Garance Marillier, Ella Rumpf, Rabah Nait Oufella, Laurent Lucas, Joana Preiss).

You Will Know Me, written by Megan Abbott.

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