review // this census-taker, china miéville

“He said, you’ll write it not because there’s no possibility it’ll be found, but because it costs too much not to write it.”




Among my many disgraceful bookish habits, I hoard books by authors I’ve never read. Zadie Smith, Marilynne Robinson, Don DeLillo, Jonathan Franzen –lauded and loved cornerstones of contemporary fiction, so I know I should read them. They’re bound to be good. And I know I’ll get to Ursula le Guin’s Hainish Cycle one day, so I should have them all on hand at once for when I’m ready, right? China Miéville is been another of those authors for me – I have had The City & The City and Kraken sitting on my shelves for years, untouched, and so, when I saw Miéville’s Hugo-nominated novella, This Census-Taker in a discount store, I couldn’t help but add it to the pile. But it didn’t stay there for long. In my bid to read as many Hugo nominees as I can before the prize is announced, I tossed the slim, 140 page book into my beach-bag for a midweek getaway.


When we arrived at the beach, we had a few, blissful hours of sunshine before the weather turned. Dark skies heavy with rainclouds, a cutting wind that all but swept our feet from under us as we climbed the path to the lighthouse, the grim weather and craggy cliff-sides echoing the bleak, gothic atmosphere of Miéville’s novel. I read it nestled under blankets, in coffee shops, curled on the couch and illuminated by the thin, grey whispers of sunlight that broke through the rain.


So much of this story is built around its atmosphere, which evokes the bleak, Scottish island of Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory, a bridge-town that could be lifted from the pages of Calvino’s Invisible Cities, tempred by an undercurrent of Lovecraftian terror not quite visible on the surface but lurking in the shadows of the novel’s dark palette. For a novel so slender, it was paced at a crawl, with each page drenched in mystery and secrets, keeping answers just out of reach. How Miéville managed to construct such an intricate and probing story in so short a space is a mystery in itself. It begins with the Boy, the novel’s protagonist and narrator, who runs down the mountain to the town below with the breathless accusation, “My mother killed my father!”. The rest of the novel leads readers through his unreliable memory as the Boy tries to gain a sense of what he actually saw – was it his father killing his mother, or did he witness something else entirely? He is returned to his father, from whom he tries unsuccessfully to escape, until he is visited by a mysterious Census-Taker, who has come to find the truth in his story. In the Boy’s telling of his story, he shifts between past-present-future and memories, occupying different points of view as he distances or draws himself further from the story. An instruction from the Census-Taker as he teaches the Boy to write his book alludes to this aspect of the story’s construction: “You can tell it any way you want, he said, you can be I or he or she or we or they or you and you won’t be lying, though you might be telling two stories at once.” The reader is alerted to the construction of the story, a story-within-a-story, and its part in a much bigger picture that we don’t see. Miéville gives us exposition only in snatches, making it difficult to pin the story to any particular time or place. The Boy’s orphan friend Drobe gives readers the closest thing to a history of their world, brief and in passing, as he mentions the wars that have left the villages in ruins, the machinery destroyed, and sent the census-takers into the world to take count of foreigners. Focalised on the Boy’s perceptions of his own childhood terror, we are privy only to what he shows us, and larger aspects of the story are wholly ignored, raising more questions than answers. There are secrets hidden in this book – the Boy alludes to them, as his line-manager tells him, “you can still use it to tell secrets and send messages. Even so. You could say them right out, but you can hide them in the words, too; in their letters, in the ordering on the lines, the arrangements and rhythms.”


This Census-Taker has so many things I love in a novel: an ambiguous and unreliable narrator, experimental language and structure, a gothic, fairy-tale-like setting, and an eerie, nascent darkness at its core. It begs a second read. Maybe then will some of its secrets be uncovered.


🎂Happy Birthday, Harry Potter!🎂

IMG_0063I finished work at midnight, kept awake when I got home by a little buzz of excitement. As each Harry Potter book was released, it became tradition for me to take the day off school, race to the book store as soon as it opened and spend the rest of the day in bed devouring it as quickly as I could. And so today, nine years after the Deathly Hallows was published, I revived that tradition. On Harry’s birthday, of all days – it seemed like a wonderfully apt way to celebrate! I took the day off work and arrived at Dymocks just as the doors opened, feeling very underdressed amongst the host of witches and wizards eagerly awaiting the unboxing of the books. We counted down the seconds until 9:00, when the boxes could be opened, and with the book in my hands I experienced a blissful rush of nostalgia, the anticipation of re-visiting a world that inspired my childhood. Ever since The Cursed Child was announced, I was curious to know how the story would read as a play, and what kind of world readers would be invited to step into nineteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts. With only the snippets revealed by blurbs on the internet to go by, I looked forward to a story that would combine the adult concerns of Harry, Ron and Hermione with the sense of childhood adventure that I grew up with.

I won’t spoil anything about the book, as I appreciated the secrecy surrounding the plot leading up to its release. Needless to say, I could not put it down, and consumed it in one sitting. It was equal parts surprising and familiar, the unexpected built on the foundations of the earlier books: the strength and loyalty of friends and family. I fervently hope that the play comes to Australia – I can only imagine how spectacularly it would translate to the stage. (There are a few spoiler-free photos on the official website for the curious.) I can’t wait until more people have read it so that I can gush over it with them!


Has anyone else bought The Cursed Child today? Were there celebrations at your local bookshop? Did you find it as un-put-downable as I did? Please share your experiences!

june book haul

outlander coverThis month, I have been completely absorbed in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander. After a semester of reading 18th-19th century literature for uni, it has been a breath of fresh air to indulge in something a little lighter – in content rather than physical weight, as my shoulders are aching from slugging this hefty, 864 page tome around! A glorious romp through the Scottish Highlands, with time travel, a feisty female lead, a self-sacrificing hero, a nefarious villain and plenty of sex, all set against the historical back-drop of the Jacobite uprising. How could I go wrong? I’ve been a captivated fan of the TV series for the past two seasons, but I’ve been reluctant to commit to the books for fear of becoming completely overtaken by the eight door-stops of novels that make up the series so far. And lo and behold, as soon as I finished it, I wanted to dive straight into the next one. But, I have been a horrendous book-buyer this month despite my slow progress with Outlander, and I thought it would be best to make some progress on my newest acquisitions before they gather too much dust.

shelter jung yunShelter, by Jung Yun, has been one of my most anticipated new releases of 2016. Following in the vein of my love for dark Asian literature, Shelter is a melancholy and thrilling suburban family drama exploring the changing dynamics between generations forced to live together after an act of violence. I have kept myself blissfully ignorant about it, avoiding reviews and synopses, and I’m looking forward to diving in.

In a moment of weakness, I succubeyond the deepwoods paul stewartmbed to a book-buying binge and ordered the first six books in the Edge Chronicles, by Paul Stewart and illustrated by Chris Riddell. Oops. These were some of my favourite books in primary school, and inspired so many of my early short stories and novel attempts. Such a wonderfully fleshed-out and imaginative young adult fantasy world, and it will be interesting to revisit it with adult eyes.

I picked up Consider Phlebas and The Left Hand of Darkness to sate my craving for classic science fiction. Two very different books – the first, an intergalactic space opera, the secondthe left hand of darkness ursula le guin, a staple of sci-fi cconsider phlebas iain m banksanon exploring humanity, society and gender on an alien planet. I read and loved Ian Banks’ The Wasp Factory and never realised that he wrote science fiction as well, so I’ll be interested to see how his bleak voice translates to the genre.

The Natural Way of Things, by Charlotte Wood, winner the natural way of things charlotte woodof the 2016 Stella Prize and nominated for the Miles Franklin Award. A dystopian allegory in which two women awake, drugged, to find themselves imprisoned in an isolated property with no idea of how they came to be there. It criticises a culture of misogyny, echoing Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale.

Another new release, Mark Z. Danielewski’s The Familiar Vol. 3: Honeysuckle and Pain. I’ve not yet read volumes one and two, which I ran out and bought post-House of Leaves hangover, but I’m starting the first now. So many different story-lines, and I can’t wait to see where and how they converge. The first three books are just the beginning of an ambitious, planned 27 books in the Familiar series.

the familiar 123

And finally, one last, monstrous, doorstop of a book – barkskins annie proulxAnnie Proulx’s latest release, Barkskins. It follows the descendants of two families over the course of three hundred years, from New France, to China, to New Zealand, raising the question of the finiteness of Earth’s natural resources and the possibility of ecological collapse.

In happy, happy, news, I recently turned on ABC iView to discover that The Book Club has now become a weekly show! It is such a wonderful programme, showcasing a mix of new releases and classics, and more often than not, the debate becomes very heated! It is joined by a new sister show, Bookish, which provides bite-sized snippets about the latest bookish trends, bookish culture, and bookish people. So many books! So many authors! So much discussion! I fear that my teetering TBR pile will not be able to handle the extra influx of recommendations.

june tbr

happy towel day, you hoopy froods

I wish I had more time to write about this, but alas, I have two assignments due over the next couple of days and I’ve barely had time to squeeze in a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster before breakfast!

towel day 2016

Today marks the 15th annual Towel Day, celebrating the life and works of Douglas Adams, most renowned for his foremost guide to inter-galactic hitch-hiking. I read and fell in love with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when I was in high school. Over ten years later, the trilogy of five still holds a very dear place in my bookshelves. There’s something timeless, and – dare I say – universal, about Adams’ humour, warm and very aware of humanity’s foibles, that keeps it relevant and beloved by so many after all these years.

So, wherever you are in the galaxy, don’t panic, make sure you know where your towel is, and have a Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters or two (but never three, unless you are a thirty ton mega elephant with bronchial pneumonia) for the great Douglas Adams. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Is anyone else celebrating Towel Day? If so, please share!

review // the vegetarian, han kang

After reading just the first fifty pages of The Vegetarian, I’d filled almost two pages with notes about this meaty little book. When I picked it up, I wondered how such a slim volume, only 183 pages, could contain the brevity of a Booker prize winning novel. But, it had me spell bound from the first toe I dipped between its covers. Han Kang gives us her first English translation , translated from the Korean into sparse and ethereal prose by Deborah Smith. Dark, dream-like and evocative, it blends the surrealism and ambiguity of a Murakami novel with the grotesque eroticism of Elfriede Jelinek’s The Piano Teacher.

Yeong-hye’s husband comes home in the dark hours of the morning to find his wife standing, trance-like, in the glow of the open refrigerator. A disturbing, blood-drenched dream drives her to pursue a vegetarian diet in order to assume a more plant-like existence. The resulting narrative follows her Kafkaesque descent through the spectrum of human cruelty and obsession

As I was reading, I was struck firstly by how important point of view was in telling the story. For such a seemingly private story, concerning itself with one woman’s psychological transformation, it is told exclusively from the point of view of others, albeit for a handful of dream-like interruptions in the first section. Given such a limited insight into her innermost experience, we witness her from the point of view of three outsiders: her husband, her brother-in-law, and her sister, each given a separate section of the text. This conscious decision to exclude Yeong-hye’s narration only serves to heighten the mystery and ambiguity surrounding her character, the inexplicable and dreamlike world that she inhabits that others strive to repress, possess, understand.

The text speaks to me both of the restrictions of living as a woman in a patriarchal society, and also to a larger extent perhaps simply of living as a human in a society dominated by conservative social protocols. We first encounter intolerance in Yeong-hye’s husband, who regards her subversion of the societal norm to eat meat with disgust and embarrassment. Both he and her family use her non-conformity as justification for violence towards her, which leads to her psychological breakdown. No longer the dutiful wife he married, her husband abandons her. Her brother-in-law becomes obsessed with her, fixating on a petal-like birthmark on her buttocks that becomes the muse for his erotic art films. The floral paintings he covers her body with become a talisman for her, guarding herself against the violence of her nightmares and fulfilling her fantasies of transformation. In Yeong-hye’s pursuit for a plant-like existence, and in her brother-in-law’s films, they both seek to be searching for something wilder, something free.

“Covered with flowers and leaves and twisting green stems, those bodies were so altered it was as though they no longer belonged to human beings. The writhing movements of those bodies made it seem as though they were trying to shuck off the human.”

Her sister, In-Hye, perseveres alone in her care for Yeong-Hye, and is haunted by her mental and physical deterioration as she strives to transcend her human body and its physical needs to become a tree. However, she begins to understand the significance of her sister’s rebellion, as draws further away from the limitations of society:

“She’d been unable to forgive her for soaring alone over a boundary she herself could never bring herself to cross, unable to forgive that magnificent irresponsibility that had enabled Yeong-hye to shuck off social constraints and leave her behind, still a prisoner.”

The Vegetarian was inspired in part by Han Kang’s memories of the Gwanju uprising when she moved to Seoul as a child, where hundreds of pro-democracy protesters were attacked and killed by government soldiers. Contrasting imagery of the constraints of civilisation against the dark purity of nature, the text weaves an allegory of Korea’s political climate. It explores the contradiction inherent in human nature, with its capacity both for violence and innocence. In-hye’s long, rainy bus-rides through the Ch’ukseong mountains give us a glimpse of the “undulating forests which blanket the continents like a heartless sea”, the dark, primeval forests battened against humanity, suggesting something wild and untouchable. Yeong-hye’s transformation reverts her to a primal state of being, connecting her to this sacred wilderness and incorruptible by human callousness.

In The Vegetarian, Han Kang creates a lyrical fable about one woman’s abandonment of self as she seeks to transcend her being to become a tree. It throws into question the nature of our identities and what it means to be human, and binds it all together with swirling, hypnotic prose. It leaves me so much to think about – even now, a day after finishing the book, I’m not sure I’ve digested everything it has to offer.


bookish updates // the man booker international prize and an almost-half-yearly-recap


Congratulations, Han Kang!

I had every intention of reading The Vegetarian, as well as several of the other short-listed novels, before the announcement of the Booker International Prize. But, lo and behold, time slipped away on me. Serendipitously, I went to the Booker website this morning to check the date that the prize would be awarded only to realise that it was yesterday! So, The Vegetarian has been bumped to the top of my reading pile. It’s a book I’ve really been looking forward to reading – the kind of book that blends all of the dark, surreal, unsettling, dream-like imagery that I love in Asian literature.


We’re nearly half-way through 2016 (where does time go!) so I thought now would be as good a time as any to share a recap of my year in books. In between work and university, I’m falling a little short in my ambitious target to read seventy books this year, but there’s still plenty of time to go, right? More importantly, after a realisation that the majority of books I read are by white male authors, my goal for 2016 was to read as diversely as possible. More authors of different nationalities, more translated works, a greater diversity in gender, unfamiliar genres and more classics. And I think I am definitely on track. Of the 23 books I’ve read (or am reading) so far, six have been translations and fourteen have been by non-American authors. Only eight have been female writers, but that’s a good step up from the four I read last year. Uni has given me an excuse to finally dust off a few of those classics that everyone should have read, but I never got around to (Frankenstein, Jane Eyre). I have strayed outside my comfort zone and read two fantastic young adult books (Lost Stars, Half World), which snapped me out of my literary snobbery and reminded me to enjoy not taking myself too seriously, and I’ve jumped back into the -pages of favourite authors (Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World). I have fallen head-over-heels in love with the dreamy, poetic, visceral prose of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando and Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, and I am currently savouring every last morsel of David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men before moving on to Consider the Lobster.

As for the rest of the year? My book hoarding has been out of control, to the extent that I no longer have room on my bookshelves and stacks of books are slowly taking over my office, my bedroom, my coffee table. (Help!) While I keep telling myself that there are books I will definitely finish before the year is done (Infinite Jest, Outlander, The Dune Trilogy), I know how likely I am to become distracted by the next shiny new thing to come along.


What about you, reader? How is your reading year shaping up so far? Have you set goals? Are you sticking to them? Or are you simply reading whatever the wind blows your way?


-now on Bloglovin-

house of leaves / / the first 120 pages

house of leaves coverI’m finding myself struggling through Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. I’m not sure why. It’s utterly beautiful, intriguing; a dark, labyrinthine story within a story within a story. And yet still I find myself struggling, barely getting through more than a couple of pages at a time. The structure of the book is a challenge, sending me up and down, forwards and backwards through a maze of footnotes, endnotes, translations, appendices and exhibits… most of which turn out to lead nowhere at all, like wrong turns in a maze. It moves between segments of critical analysis, and stream-of-consciousness interior monologue as it alternates narration. One quote in particular resonated with my slow progress:

        “Si on lit trop vite oú trop doucement, on n’entend.”

(If one reads too quickly or too slowly, one understands nothing.)

So, time to pick up the pace. This is a book that deserves study, journaling. Every time I open it, I find something new – a beautiful turn of phrase, an unfamiliar word, a literary allusion to be explored, or a clue to the book’s interwoven layers of mystery. I’ve only made it through 120 odd pages, but already I have so many thoughts on the text as it draws me deeper and deeper into it.

The story itself embodies a trope common to many horror films: husband and wife with a strained marriage and two young children move into a new house in the suburbs that hides a sinister secret. However, it is made unique by the framing of the text. House of Leaves is three stories in one. The main body of the text concerns a fictional film, The Navidson Record, produced by photojournalist Will Navidson and his wife, Karen Green, to document their experiences in their new house. The documentary is described through the lens of a critical analysis by the academic, Zampanó, which is in turn found in the deceased author’s house by waylaid tattooist Johnny Truant, who provides his own parallel narration in the footnotes as he pieces together Zampanó’s text. (It’s hard to make this sound less convoluted.) A story within a story within a story.the house on ash tree lane

As the characters begin to explore their unusual house, the horror creeps up on the reader slowly, quietly, both momentarily redirected and foreshadowed by Zampanó’s segues. In one of my favourite chapters so far, Zampanó discusses acoustic theory alongside the myth of Echo and Narcissus.

“Myth makes Echo the subject of longing and desire. Physics makes Echo the subject of distance and design. Where emotion and reason are concerned both claims are accurate.

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.

There is only silence.”

This evokes both the distance and silence in Navidson’s relationship with his wife, and the limitless, silent space that the house occupies: a space outside of regular space and time, impenetrable by light and sound. The house presents a domestic horror, one that threatens mundane and ordinarily comforting institutions like “family” and “home” as it throws its walls between them.

spiral staircase

The structure of the text is disruptive, sending the reader through a web of footnotes that break up paragraphs, interrupt sentences with Johnny Truant’s narration of the strange happenings in his own life as he uncovers the mysteries of Zampanó’s manifesto, text that reads upside down, back to front, diagonally, occupies only the edges of the pages, or paragraphs that become smaller and smaller and smaller from page to page to mimic the psychological experience of the characters. This structure throws the reader into the strange dimensions of the house, into the confusion of the book’s subjects as they try to piece together this spatial enigma.

This is a story about so many things. It is a metaphysical horror, a rumination on existential philosophy, classic literature and Greek mythology. It is a story about a family, a marriage, a love. A house that is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, and a journey into unknown places. Most of all, this is a novel about space, both interior and exterior, both physical and spiritual, occupying the dark, secret ambages that within the walls of our selves.

“This desire for exteriority is no doubt further amplified by the utter blackness found within.”

I’ll update as I work my way further through the text. If anyone else has read this incredible book, I would love to hear your thoughts. And if you haven’t, read it!

ash tree lane




This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after the other until it’s done. It’s that easy, and that hard.

– Neil Gaiman


I’ve spent a fair bit of time today thinking (ie. trawling the archives of Writer’s Digest, 43Folders and Zen Habits) about what I need to do to get my writing career moving. And while the most effective practice that I can put into place is to actually write more, I’ve realised that the best way to progress is to set myself goals.

I write every day. Whether it’s a diary entry, checklist, an idea, a blog post, research for a story or a story itself, I write something every day. The problem is that very little of it amounts to anything tangible, usable. I lack focus. I know that I write best when I have a goal, something specific to work towards, a deadline, and it just so happened that this morning, my writer friend Dan (of Pen Wizard) linked me to a publishing house seeking submissions for anthologies. That got me wondering why the heck I haven’t been looking for those sorts of opportunities for myself, because chances are I’m not going to get published sitting at home, watching my laptop screen and waiting for the right person to stumble across my blog. A quick Google search returned quite an extensive list of anthologies looking for writing, many of them themed in genres I enjoy writing, and many of them paid. I ask myself again, why haven’t I done this sooner?? 

So, I’ve narrowed down three anthologies I want to submit to, that open submissions in July. Two are 7,500 words and one is 5,000 words. On top of that, I’m setting myself a goal of a chapter a week for my novel, which has been slowly steeping in the research/ procrastinating phase. I want to post here more frequently. And, I have a submission due for the next issue of The Brisbane Collective’s mag in a month or less, so I am going to be a busy little bee!

If you see me in the real world or on Facebook, or stumble upon my blog, harass me about my writing, what I’m working on, how close to finishing I am, how many words I’ve written that day. Make me feel bad if I haven’t written any. Lord knows I need a kick up the butt.




The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost


Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Strange Fruit, Billie Holiday


Aokigahara Forest, at the base of Mount Fuji in Japan, and the setting for my newest project. Wild, overgrown and haunted. Apparently the trees are so dense that parts of the forest are in total darkness, even when the sun is at its peak. The wind cannot breathe through the canopy, and the forest is eerily vacant of birds and animals. In the 19th century, it was said that those stricken by poverty and famine practiced ubasute, leaving their elderly relatives and children in the woods to die. Aokigahara is populated by their spirits. It is also the location of over one hundred suicides each year, giving it the second highest rate of suicides after San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. The boughs of the trees are strung with nooses, and signs mark the pathways urging those who wander them to consider their lives before taking them. There is something poetic, a sad kind of beauty, about this verdant, primeval paradise marked by centuries of human tragedy.


This is the story that has been keeping me awake at night, urging me to put it down on paper, and it’s the first time for a while that I’ve had such a clear idea of where I want a project to go. I will have a snippet up for y’all to read in the next couple of days :)




(Photos from

habits of highly effective writers


Haruki Murakami wakes each morning at 4:00 to write, and I’m starting to think that I should too.


Inspiration strikes at the most inconvenient times, and, more often than not, I find myself waking in the wee hours of the morning with ideas begging to be written. I scrawl them down, illegibly, in the dark, to be deciphered when the day breaks. But, the warmth of bed wins over the insistence of inspiration, and I stay snug under the covers while I lay awake running ideas over in my mind.

Haruki Murakami wakes at 4:00 to write, and continues until 10:00. That’s six hours of writing done by a time that many people would still be tarrying into the office, sipping on their first double-shot-soy-caramel-latte of the day. With my work hours, I could manage two hours of writing before my shift starts, which is two more hours of writing than I tend to do after work. (Murakami then goes on to train for ultra-marathons, but I don’t think that’s a practice that I will be incorporating into my daily schedule.)

As Murakami explains in his book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, the three most important qualities for a novelist to possess are talent, focus and endurance. I like to hope that I have the first quality, however infant in its incarnation it may be, but the second two need a lot of work. My writing schedule is entirely erratic, squeezed into half-hour lunch breaks, notes idly written over afternoon beers or during dinner preparation, and sometimes, rare hours of productivity early in the mornings of my days off. Which is why my muse is keeping me awake at all hours of the night. It isn’t getting the attention that it deserves. Most writing advice that I’ve read suggests that writers need routine, a writing schedule, time set aside during the day for the sole purpose of writing without interruption. So, starting tomorrow, I am going to begin my day as Haruki Murakami does. In the cold, dark hours of a winter morning. Alone and undisturbed, in front of my laptop, or typewriter, or a spiral-bound notebook with pen in hand.

Do you keep a writing schedule? Do you write whenever the fancy takes you, or does having a sense of routine, fixed hours, suit you better? How best do you appease your nagging muse?