UK

Responses include:
1. ENGLISH: Fiona Campbell's Death of a Salaryman
2. ENGLISH: Christopher Priest's Inverted world 
3. IRISH: DBC Pierre's Lights out in Wonderland
4. SCOTTISH: Alex Gray's Five ways to kill a man
5. ENGLISH: Sarah Winman's When god was a rabbit

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English.  Campbell, Fiona. (2007). Death of a salaryman. London: Chatto & Windus.

I don't know what education they have in England, but, in the USA, you study both American and English literatures. Arthur Miller (c. 1949)'s Death of a salesman is a classic American play, which is why Campbell (2007)'s Death of a salaryman interested me; the title suggested a modern adaptation. So I was lucky that I found the original on the same day, as I hadn't yet read the play.[1]

However, the two stories have hardly anything in common. In Miller (c. 1949)'s story, a salesman never gets to advance in his job (see pp. 57-58) and then, when his skills outdate the modern world (see pp. 24-26, 59), is let go (see pp. 41, 55-61) to face his sons' recrimination (see pp. 53, 88-90) – and only through one son do we learn the secret (see pp. 83-88) that makes that son and father behave as they do (see pp. 14, 40, 42, 68-69, 77-82, 93-97)[2] – and, ultimately, kills himself (see pp. 99-100; for references to his suicidal state of mind see pp. 42-44) to give them the opportunity he never had (see pp. 46-47, 97). Of course, his wife, the only one who offers him unconditional love (see pp. 40, 89-91, 98, 101), isn't enough for him, this man of dreams and big talk (see pp. 100-101). Oh, and let's not forget that he has another job offer, but refuses it (see pp. 70-71).

Campbell (2007)'s version, on the other hand, introduces a much younger salaryman (for specific references to this term see pp. 41, 45, 114, 218, 354-355, 358; for Salaryman see pp. 52, 337; for salarymen see pp. 66; for “salaried man” see pp. 100, 224; for “The Salaryman’s Story” see p. 355) who loses his job (see pp. 12-16, 77) because of a specific failure (see pp. 6, 9-11) – we have nothing else to go on – and then comes the fairytale where the man finally gets “the job he had always dreamed of” (p. 343; cf pp. 10, 14, 114-115, 118), but as a result of lying and the help of another person (see pp. 159-170, 195-199), as well as other circumstances (see pp. 183-189); later, he decides to freelance (see p. 354). His children, moreover, stay children (see pp. 20, 353), and his relationship with his wife is nothing substantial (see pp. 67-68, 118-120, 139-145, 171, 223-224, 297-298, 346-350, 353) which makes the dissolution of their marriage (see pp. 346-350, 353) an expected outcome. He also has a mother-in-law with the magic touch (see pp. 28, 82, 115, 155-156, 327, 334), though we don't know what happens to her winnings when she dies (see pp. 344-345, 355). Most importantly, he does not die!

Are you asking, then: What are the commonalities? Well, Miller (c. 1949)'s salesman and Campbell (2007)'s salaryman both start in dead end jobs and accumulate decades' worth of experience that mean nothing to the people they work for. They also have major ambitions that they can't reach by themselves, and financial obligations to their families. Finally, they both experience mental decline when they lose their jobs.

But it's annoying to read a book that claims a title suggesting a connection to a classic solely for the purpose of getting more money. Fiona Campbell clearly never read Miller (c. 1949)'s story – or, if she did, didn't read it all the way through – which makes Death of a salaryman (2007) a wash for me; if not for the title, I wouldn't have bothered with it. Or, had it a different title, my reaction would've been focused on other aspects; the title's association with a major work is what made me focus on the differences of specific attributes.

[1] Of course, I knew of the play and Arthur Miller. It was just never assigned reading.

[2] It also reflects another key difference between Miller (c. 1949)'s salesman and Campbell (2007)'s salaryman: the first has sex with another woman (see pp. 82-88; cf pp. 14, 94-97), the second doesn't though he's tempted to (see pp. 92-95, 102-105, 148-151; cf pp. 130-131, 171-172, 255-262, 268, 331-332). Infidelity, however, isn't always a sign of a bad marriage, though, with Campbell (2007), we know that there's no love between the salaryman and his wife. As for Miller (c. 1949), while he doesn't give us enough info. about the salesman's marriage, he does suggest that the wife never knew about the affair given the pleadings on his behalf that she makes to her sons (see pp. 40-44) and her later confrontation with them (see pp. 89-91; cf p. 94).

References

Miller, Arthur. (c. 1949). Death of a salesman. New York, NY: Dramatists Play Service Inc.

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English.  Priest, Christopher. (2010/1974). Inverted world. Intro. by Adam Roberts. SF Masterworks series. London: Gallancz.

To start with, I think Adam Roberts' 'Introduction' (pp. vii-ix) builds up Priest (2010/1974)'s novel too much without addressing any of the problems that begin to appear about halfway through the book (starting about midway through 'Part 3'). While, in general, Priest (2010/1974) writes exceptionally well, he fails with the actual science fiction part of the story (setting, concept, etc.) and is sloppy (see below). Specific points:

First, the main character Helward (first mention p. 8) Mann (first mention p. 9) starts out at “the age of six hundred and fifty miles” (pp. 7; cf pp. 10, 42, 92). So, taking the reference that ““half a mile’s time”” is “five days” (p. 119) – rather, that “ten days [is] one mile” (p. 123; cf p. 202) – one could derive his approximate age at the opening of the novel with the following math: (1) multiply 10 by 650 which is 6,500, then, (2) divide 6,500 by 365 which, rounded up, equals 18.  Yet, though he frets about losing up to 3 years with his wife to take up a task (see pp. 118-119)[1], he’s still around 18 when he encounters Kellen Li-Chen (first mention p. 166) on the way back (see pp. 165-168). Yet, by the time Elizabeth Khan (first mention p. 1) sees him, he’s “somewhere in the middle thirties” (p. 239) when the most he would’ve been, by his calculation, is 22-24 (see p. 230). Hence, the concept of “miles-time” (p. 202) isn’t consistently thought out in Priest (2010/1974).[2]

Secondly, Priest (2010/1974) gives the reader a clear hint through Gelman Jase (first mention p. 8) about where they are: ““Helward, listen, it is a city like the cities we learnt about in the crèche . . . the ones on Earth planet” (p. 174; dialogue starts p. 173); but gives it away with Elizabeth (see pp. 253-255, 270-273, 279-280, 296-299, 302).[3] Gelman’s comment, though, appears before we see the text on “Destaine’s Directive” (pp. 210-213) which imagines a different planet (see p. 210; for references to “Destaine’s Directive” see pp. 13, 202, 206, 209, 268; for the major precepts of “Destaine’s Directive,” as discussed between Helward and Future Blayne [first mention p. 206], see pp. 207-209; for an overview on Destaine see pp. 298-299; for general references to Destaine see pp. 202-203, 209, 268, 271-273, 291, 302; for references to hyperbolas see pp. 209, 213, 228, 269, 272; for references to the sun’s shape see pp. 22, 30-31, 66-67, 157 [cf pp. 196, 303], 192-193, 196-197 [cf pp. 245, 255], 207 [cf p. 272], 302-303; for references to optimum see pp. 41-42, 70-71, 84, 91, 103-104, 113, 115, 124, 164, 167, 184, 187, 190, 194, 198, 200-202, 207-208, 214-215, 218, 225-226, 278, 285-286, 291) with no explanation for how that might’ve happened; more, nothing in Elizabeth’s explanation (see pp.  296-299) accounts for it – because “a mobile research station” (p. 299) is not a spaceship, and doesn’t exclude the likelihood that they flew by airplane to reach “the Kuantang province of southern China.” The problem here, though, is that Priest (2010/1974) cripples the story by rushing the ending without having everything thought out.

Thirdly, Elizabeth’s explanation (see pp. 296-299) raises an important question: Why is she never affected by the “translateration window” (pp. 298-299) even when in close proximity to it (see pp. 238-246, 252-256, 264-280, 291-300)? After all, “she said the world on which we existed was Earth planet, that our perception of it was distorted by the translateration generator” (p. 299)[4]. But how could they have gotten from China (see p. 299) to Portugal (see p. 279) if they’ve never “actually moved,” concerned more with “how much it should have moved” (p. 41; see p. 42; for Elizabeth’s normal view of the city see pp. 265-266 [cf p. 34])? Finally, what about the “permanently affect distortion” (p. 299) part, which would appear more likely in the younger generations? Consider, for example, that Helward’s immediately cured (see pp. 301-303). I mean, none of Elizabeth's explanation toward the end (see pp. 296-299) makes sense. I mean, we just get cursory hints about “the Crash” (see pp. 259, 265, 276, 298), Destaine (see pp. 298-299), etc. But: Why do others instantly accept her info. (see p. 299)?

Finally, how does Elizabeth end up with the Terminators (see pp. 227-228, 265, 273, 287-289, 291-294) in the first place? So what I’m really addressing here are the POV shifts in the ‘Prologue’ (pp. 1-3) and ‘Part Four’ (pp. 233-280). Like, why give her a voice at all when she doesn’t give us additional info. that we couldn’t learn about from Helward? I mean, the storyline wouldn’t be impacted by the absence of her voice; in fact, I think the second POV should’ve been for Victoria Lerouex (first mention p. 8). After all, Victoria’s a Terminator (see p. 227) whose earlier criticisms which she voices to Helward (see pp. 52-68, 89-94; for her criticisms after they’re divorced [see pp. 176, 205] see pp. 219-224) anticipate her participation with this group that we know little about; more, she’s the one who lends Elizabeth credibility (see p. 296). This begs the question: Why is Elizabeth more important?

So, in general, I think that if you’re going to write science fiction, you should have a big enough imagination to fully visualize the world you’re creating. Because, for me, Priest (2010/1974)’s Inverted World is an example of a cop-out.

[1] Yet what of his children “with a girl named Dorita” (p. 230; cf pp. 102, 109, 117-123, 131; for references to his and Victoria’s deceased son see pp. 176, 221-222)? Priest (2010/1974) makes no mention of them again after that – whether or not, for example, she takes her son with her (see pp.  100, 128), if Helward thinks about his daughter (see p. 230), etc. Then again, once Helward gets ready to go “down past” (see pp. 122-128, fn [4]), he hardly thinks about his son (see pp. 131) or Victoria (see p. 140) while he’s away (see pp. 128-175) – not  until after he makes it back (see p. 176).

[2] The problem resurfaces when Helward talks to Kellen (see p. 167). From the numbers given, they’re both around 18, yet Helward “remembered distinctly: Kellen had been two grades below him” (Ibid). However, my original calculation checks out against Helward’s wife’s pregnancy when she’s “more than 18 miles” (p. 117) – about five months rounded up – which leaves ““about nine miles”” (p. 118) – about three months rounded up. It also checks against the calculation Helward suggests, as 5 multiplied by 10 is 50 (see p. 229). Finally, it checks out against Elizabeth who says: “You have survived in this city for nearly two hundred years, or seven thousand miles by your way of measuring time” (p. 296; cf how she dates the artifact she finds on pp. 267-268; Helward, though, gives her the years on p. 254, and validates the miles – as well as identifying the source material – on p. 291), as 7,000 multiplied by 10 is 70,000 which, divided by 365 and rounded up, is 192 years.

[3] This in response to Adam Roberts’ ‘Introduction’ (pp. vii-ix). Specifically, he claims: “It follows … that its ending will be an inversion, a twist and a surprise … the effect of upending everything that has gone before” (p. vii). Except the revelation of Earth isn’t new (see pp. 296-297). More, there’s almost nothing extraordinary in Priest (2010/1974)’s story that actually answers the question Roberts’s poses: “What would existence be like on an infinite planet located within a finite universe?” (p. vii). The closest we get to that is “Helward’s experiences of ‘down past’” (see fn[4]). I mean, Priest (2010/1974) makes no real effort to really imagine that kind of world (see Roberts’s ‘Introduction’ p. vii) – obviously because that’s not the story here despite any suggestions otherwise (e.g. see pp. 193, 208)!

[4] Helward’s trip “down past” (see pp.  116-164 [cf pp. 166, 172, 189, 200, 301]; for his experience of “the lateral distortion” [pp. 159, 164; cf pp. 173] see pp. 148-164 [cf pp. 208, 301]; for his experience of “southwards pressure” [p. 155, 158; as “the worst zone of pressure” p. 159; as “the zone of maximum pressure” p. 160; as “zone of pressure” pp. 159, 162-164; as “zone of amazing pressure” p. 194; as ““the centrifugal force”” pp. 190, 207, 286; cf p. 166, 173; cf context of optimum pp. 189-190, 201-202, 207; cf Destaine’s notes p. 210]] see pp. 153-159; for other mentions of “down past” see pp. 49, 84, 99, 207-208, 217, 265) can be partly explained by what Torrold Pelham (first mention p. 136) shares about  it: ““Perhaps you can’t recognize it yet. It builds up further south”” (p. 137; cf Helward p. 166) and ““Take a tip, Helward . . . if you’re going to [have sex], do it soon. Otherwise it’ll be too late”” (p. 138; cf Helward p. 168). What we don’t have is enough perspective and history that explains what’s happening.

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Irish.  Pierre, DBC. (2010). Lights out in Wonderland. London: Faber and Faber Ltd.

“As well as a ravenous hunger, I now yearn for some kind of home.”

– Gabriel, p. 251 (cf p. 135, on the topic of disconnection)

 

So the first thing you should know is that Gabriel Brockwell (first mention p. 5; for confirmation that he’s the narrator see p. 11) is a drug addict (for a general reference to his drug use see p. 25; for specific references to his cocaine use see pp. 54, 61, 72, 80-81, 84, 92, 160, 178-180, 190). Because, before his dad defines the setting as a drug rehab center (p. 25), Gabriel comes across as a mental patient (for mention of ““bipolar issues”” see p. 16; for reference to “the Mental Health Act” see p. 21).

In fact, over the four courses of Pierre (2010)’s novel – ‘London’ (pp. 3-58); ‘Tokyo’ (pp. 61-109); ‘Berlin’ (pp. 113-274); ‘Wonderland’ (pp. 277-315) – it’s only in the last chapter that Gabriel begins to show any sense of self-actualization with no suggestions of illicit drug use. Until then, we’re simply waiting for him to kill himself. Though he tries to (see pp. 268-270), in choosing to grow up (pp. 272, 309, 312-313; for Smuts’s reference to growing up see p. 72), suicide simply loses its appeal (see p. 315).

Yet there are so many contradictions and continuing crises (for his escape from the rehab center which involves a criminal action on his part see pp. 22, 28-29, 46; for his problems with “‘the action group’” which involves a criminal action on his part see pp. 37, 52-58; for why he goes to jail which involve criminal actions on the part of Smuts (first mention of Nelson Smuts p. 10) see pp. 90-91, 97-100; for his predicament to save Smuts see pp. 106-109, 115-117, 125-126, 144-146, 158-159, 163-164, 174-176, 201-203, 231-232, 251, 253; for his deception over keys with Gerd Specht (first mention p. 27) see pp. 176, 182, 201, 206, 208-214; for his involvement with the Galapagos turtle see pp. 224, 255, 294-295, 297, 299, 306-307; for his solipsism on his behaviors see p. 269) that Gabriel’s articulations are suspect. For example, if he left with “five grand” (p. 56), a ticket to Tokyo from London cost “nearly three grand” (p. 61), and he stayed in a hotel in Tokyo (see pp. 62, 69, 81), where’d he get the money to fly to Berlin from Tokyo (pp. 115) and pay for cabs (pp. 118-120), hotels (pp. 120-121; for references to his hotel stay in Tokyo see pp. 62, 109), clothes (pp. 138-139), and drinks (pp. 123-124, 131, 143-144, 148-150)? (For references to his financial state see pp. 107, 115.)

Interestingly, too, Pierre (2012) didn’t let readers in on what city Gabriel starts from, only that London (p. 32) is “the second nearest town to rehab” (p. 29); this alone opens an interpretation that he has never left the rehab center or, in fact, may actually be in a mental institution. Yet one of the words that continuously reappears throughout the novel is: Whoosh (pp. 3-6, 22, 28, 32, 36, 56, 62, 66, 72, 75-76, 80-81, 88, 99, 103, 105, 144, 146, 148, 151, 164, 176, 185, 189, 200, 208, 217, 232, 242-244, 256, 267-269, 299, 307, 315); this, then, introduces the possibility that Gabriel is on life support.

So what I really like about the novel is that it’s not static; things are happening on a regular basis to push the story forward. The reader, too, has greater freedom of interpretation because of the various outlandish acts that appear in Pierre (2012)’s story, including Gabriel’s witnessing of and participation in decadent sexual acts (see pp. 97-99, 290, 302; 179-180). Also, Pierre (2012) makes good use of echoes (for references to lead-in words “ethical model” see pp. 26-27, 116-117 (cf pp. 225, 272-273, 312); for recollections of mouse Frederick see pp. 19-20, 119-120, 152, 187; for mentions of “the action group” see pp. 23-24, 37, 48-58, 269; for the story involving winemaker Pike see pp. 73-75, 247-249, 315, 302; for discussions on the fish poisoning see pp. 90-94, 102, 144-145, 202-203; for buildup of Wonderland in chapter 3 see pp. 200, 214, 227).

However, I’m not really sure what audience Pierre (2012) intended to address, though I think he meant readers to be educated, what with his footnotes (pp. 4-5, 8, 10-12, 15-16, 20, 22, 24-25, 30-31, 34, 36, 43-45, 47, 53, 55, 65, 67, 80-81, 85, 88, 101, 103, 115, 117, 137, 147, 160, 165, 188, 190, 192, 194, 223, 262, 272), stylization of language, etc . So, while Gabriel’s perambulations can be a little boring at times, they’re also kind of interesting; fortunately, though, they don’t take up every piece of the narrative.

On the other hand, even if you readily accept his inchoateness as the thought processes of a drug addict, you still have to recognize that Gabriel’s an unreliable narrator; we know nothing, really, of who he is, how he came to be at this particular time and place in his mid-twenties (pp. 25, 152) and what exactly is happening (e.g. if the events he describes are in his mind). That is, I think, one of the strengths of Pierre (2012)’s novel (the other being the dialogue): It offers a bizarre entry into what is essentially a piecemeal vignette; the reader, thus, gets to decide for him- or herself what’s going on in the story. But this story isn’t for everyone. 

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Scottish. Gray, Alex. (2010). Five ways to kill a man. London: Sphere.

Oh, if this book doesn’t read like the product of a first time writer – but Gray published six other books before Five ways to kill a man. As for the first page’s promise of fast paced writing, that, too, was a disappointment; I found the novel turgid, especially chapter 2 (pp. 9-17), though it was easy to read in many places. Here are my main gripes:

·      In chapter 1, the killer’s thoughts – those of Serena Jackson (see pp. 395-396; first mention of first name p. 35; first mention of last name p. 36) – intrude on a prior crime (pp. 5-7) that has nothing to do with the current murder, her “first one” (p. 16); yet the prior crime (pp. 5-7) involves her first actual participation in a crime (see pp. 5, 408). A similar contradistinction appears in chapter 10 (pp. 70-71). However, she only claims three chapters for herself (pp. 101, 349-342, 375-376).

The major problem, thus, is a lack of overall consistency in Serena’s thinking, which – along with her actual participation in the novel (pp. 2-5, 20-21, 27-28, 36-41, 136-138, 172-181, 288-289, 359-361, 367-368, 393-398, 410-415; for references to her see pp. 103-104, 117-119, 130, 146-147, 154, 161, 171, 182-184, 186, 190-191, 194-198, 204, 214, 223-226, 228, 232, 276-278, 282, 285, 287, 292, 324-331, 333, 338, 343, 355-356, 358, 372-373, 377, 383-385, 390-392, 399-401, 408-409; for psychologist Solly Brightman (first mention p. 10)’s characterization of her see pp. 273-275, 298, 302-304, 345-347, 379-378, 380-382, 412-413; for evidence of the car that connects her to the murders see pp. 287-288, 359, 382-383, 389, 395-397; for evidence of the bike that connects her to the murders see pp. 285, 398) – plays only a minor yet significant role that isn’t as well developed as it could’ve been (see pp. 5-7, 16-17, 25-26, 101, 134-135, 204-205, 212, 349-350, 375-376, 384, 415). Also, of every murder she commits (pp. 2-5, 20-21, 25), her thoughts on her parents’ deaths in the fire she started (for the tire evidence see pp. 284-285, 333-334, 398) never materialize except once – and obliquely at that (p. 101; for her verbal explanation see pp. 413-414; for other references to the mom’s affair see pp. 252-254, 321-323). Finally, there are two instances when Gray (2010) slipped the killer into the narrative without letting the reader in on it – that is, without italics or saying it’s the killer doing the action (pp. 287-289).

·      Chapter 2 (pp. 9-17) is a good example where extraneous details appear that stunt the narrative. Specifically, Gray (2012)’s repeated naming of people who aren’t central to the storyline. For example, Alistair Wilson (p. 9), Niall Cameron (p. 10) and “Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison” (p. 11). In chapter 3 (15-17), she twice names the first victim unnecessarily (pp. 15-16). Chapter 4 (19-21) introduces the unnamed second victim, but there’s nothing about whether or not the police were involved; so, in this case, we aren’t given enough info. Chapter 6 (27-41) mentions Mike Reynolds (p. 27), who’s nothing more than an unreliable witness (pp. 27-28, 195-197); in fact, I forgot about him when he was named for a second time (p. 196) – yet “the local taxi driver” who also saw Serena wasn’t named (see p. 195).

However, starting with chapter 19 (pp. 207-214), the narrative began to smooth out; but it wasn’t until chapter 25 (pp. 281-291) that the narrative stopped bumping me away from it. Still, I was annoyed that so much effort was wasted on Alice Finlay (pp. 55-60, 65-70, 74-75, 94-99, 122-125, 150-152, 163, 165-172, 203, 207-212, 229, 268-273, 289, 307-314, 330, 338-342, 347-348, 359-375, 379-381, 383, 390-391, 396-398, 400-405, 415-416; first mention of first name p. 69; first mention of last name p. 55) for her to end up dead (pp. 415-416) as a result of Serena’s actions (see pp. 360-361, 367-375).

·      Gray (2010) sometimes failed to give additional details to events or people in the novel, as if expecting readers to already know them. For example, she made several references to “forensic pathologist” (p. 10) Rosie Fergusson (first mention of first name p. 9; first mention of last name p. 36; for reference to her with married last name see p. 29)’s car accident (pp. 12, 31, 88, 344), yet we don’t know when or where it happens, how long she was in the hospital, etc. As for people, there are references to Aileen Wuornos (p. 202), ““Bonnie and Clyde”” and ““Fred and Rosemary West”” (p. 275); though they’re introduced in the context of Solly’s research ““on female serial killers”” (p. 201), other than their being real serial killers, we’re given no clue about the numbers of people they killed, when they killed, etc.

·      Finally, I was annoyed that Gray (2010) only mentioned DI Rhoda Martin (first mention p. 43)’s blonde hair later in the novel (see pp. 223, 232, 239, 276, 378, 389; see also pp. 381-382) as a ploy to deflect suspicion from Serena (for Rhoda’s participation see pp. 58-60, 103, 108, 121-131, 142-144, 146-147, 153-154, 224, 226-228, 231-232, 238-242, 258-264, 278-279, 281-283, 301-304, 326-333, 342-343, 388-389; for references to Rhoda see pp. 43, 52, 60-61, 141-142, 152, 161-164, 224-225, 228, 233, 238-240, 245, 257, 264-265, 283, 296-297, 304-305, 330, 353-355, 358, 370-371, 387; for the context of female serial killers see pp. 201-202, 204, 302, 380, 382; for examples of Rhoda’s hostility to Lorimer see pp. 131, 143, 279; for Lorimer’s characterization of Rhoda see pp. 378; for references to Rhoda as a cyclist see pp. 193-194, 333, 342, 381, 384; for the suggestion that a cyclist is involved in the murders see pp. 136-137, 147, 154, 194-198, 285, 334, 356; for forensic evidence of the bike see pp. 284-285, 333; for references to Serena on a bike before p. 223 see pp. 20-21, 25, 27-28, 70, 101; for evidence showing Serena’s implication of Rhoda see pp. 361, 382-383). This point because Serena’s blonde hair was talked about when meeting with Rosie and Lorimer (pp. 38, 172; see also pp. 381-382). This is especially relevant when considering Rhoda’s attempt at seducing Lorimer (pp. 128-131) and when Lorimer identifies Rhoda on her bike (p. 193).

The novel doesn’t end on p. 389, however. I’m just pointing out why the timing of the first mention of Rhoda’s hair color (p. 223) was a stupid ploy on the part of Gray (2010). That is, there was no reason to wait so long to share that info.

As a red herring, though, Gray (2010) offers David Jonathan McGroary (first mention p. 238; see pp. 238-243, 254-265, 281-282; for proof of his innocence see pp. 284-285; for dismissal of his involvement in the fire see p. 328). Later suspicion falls on Serena (see pp. 326-329) after Lorimer figures out the fire was an inside job (see pp. 324-329) and she’s discovered to be part of the same cycle club as Rhoda (p. 356; for earlier references to Rhoda in the cycle club see pp. 223-224). However, I knew it wasn’t Rhoda when she talks about Serena’s party (pp. 327, 329-339, 358), then prepares for it (pp. 332-333, 342).

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English. Winman, Sarah. (2011). When god was a rabbit. London: Headline Publishing Group.

Here's what Sarah Winman wrote about her novel: "In the same implausible way that a rabbit speaks in the first half of the book, there is an element of magic and make-believe that weaves its way through the storyline and calls for the suspension of disbelief" ('Author's Note' insert, p. 331). Let me guess: Sarah Winman has never been sexually abused, doesn't know anyone who has, and hasn't done her research.

So what's happened by the point the "rabbit speaks"?[1] Well, we're led to believe that little girl Elly (p. 63) Portman (p. 90)'s been sexually abused by her neighbor (pp. 17, 30) Abraham Golan (p. 11). We don't know if she just saw ""Mr. Golan's penis"" (p. 17) or had to touch or suck it, much less if it happened once or several times. This wouldn't be relevant at all if Winman (2011) hadn't gone to the trouble of explicitly describing Elly's one night stand after 9/11 when she's an adult (pp. 266-267). So why don't we know the details of Elly's early trauma when it's so central to the storyline?

I mean, the secret of Elly's sexual encounter with Abraham out and out fucks up her brother Joe (p. 62) and her, though Joe's the most burdened by it (pp. 17, 274, 298-299). That experience is what bounds her to her friend Jenny Penny (p. 25), though Elly doesn't know of Jenny's ongonig sexual abuse until much later (p. 221). More, it explains why Elly's so pissed off at Joe when he's recovering from amnesia (pp. 299, 306-309). On the other hand, Joe's unburdening of the secret (p. 315) is what makes it possible for him and his love Charlie Hunter (p. 63)[2] to make another go of it (pp.  317-318).

But, more, why don't we ever get to read Elly's "last letter" sharing her secret (p. 220) with inmate Jenny? I mean, why are we never allowed to know what actually happened between Elly and Abraham, even when Elly talks to her parents about it  (pp. 315-316)?

What else do we know about Elly, though? She prostitutes herself (p. 314), has one night stands (pp. 265-267), is almost 30 years old and can't keep jobs (p. 165), at that time in "Nancy's flat ... where I was temporarily staying" (p. 166). When she's younger she opts for the isolation of home study (pp. 138-140), and her significant male relations include Joe and Arthur Henry (p. 132), while her only female friend is Jenny and she appears closer to Aunt Nancy (p. 33) than her mom. In terms of Elly's parents, why does it take almost 20 years later for them to find out about her sexual abuse (p. 315)?[3]

Yet another significant slip in the book is the unnamed prologue (pp. 1-2) which is, in my opinion, Winman (2011)'s failed attempt to follow the Twilight series writer's lead. While I don't remember the Twilight series writer's name, it seemed to me that her lead-ins were designed to anticipate the central tension in her individual books; Winman (2011), however, misleads her readers since the moment she expands on (p. 78) isn't significant or magical.[4]

I have one more issue with Winman (2011), though. While she talks about how "violence - and therefore the senselessness of violence - is also a theme that punctuates the book" ('Author's Note', p. 329), there are only two relevant moments of violence in her novel.

The first violent episode happens when Charlie's kidnapped (pp. 126-130) - and I do remember reading a real life story years ago that was the likely inspiration - and the second follows Joe's disappearance during 9/11 and his physical trauma afterwards (pp. 252-320). Why do these matter? Because they're relevant to Elly in the story, the first because Charlie's important to Joe, and the second because Joe's her brother and the carrier of her secret since childhood (p. 17); everything else is just backdrop.

So let's wrap this up. I had a hard time not wanting to call Sarah Winman out, especially after reading the 'Bonus Material' (pp. 327-341) - because she doesn't once mention the sexual abuse there, while at the same time not giving enough weight to it in her novel when it's so obviously important. Since Winman (2011) shares that her "book [is] textured by real moments and real places of my childhood" ('The Inspiration for When God was a Rabbit insert, p. 333), I can also suggest that her novel reflects a normalization of sexual abuse because she knows nothing about it. But I don't really care that this was her "first book" (white page), we should be more critical of Winman (2011) - but if you, like Sarah Winman, are ignorant about sexual abuse[5], you'll miss the significance entirely.

[1] In terms of the rabbit, it can only be read as the younger Elly needing affirmation that she's okay, this kind of projection being common for sexually abused children - why child therapists use dolls and such. Similarly, the second rabbit talks to the older Elly because she needs to believe that Joe's alive (p. 280); but it's not just the rabbit she projects on (see p. 276).

That Winman (2011) has no concept of sexual abuse, however, is reinforced in her comment about how she wanted to capture the "joy and magic of childhood, where secrets are cast and rabbits speak" ('The Inspiration for When God was a Rabbit' insert, p. 333). So, Sarah Winman, you think sexual abuse is "magic"? You can't imagine the guilt of "secrets" like that?

[2] Though Joe keeps an important secret for Elly (p. 17), and Elly an important one for him - his homosexuality - though she hints at it (p. 79), once disclosed, they both face acceptance rather than rejection from their parents (pp. 127*, 315-316).

* His mother knows at this point, but his homosexuality is never an actual topic of discussion like Elly's secret is (pp. 315-316). However, his parents are never untoward to him, which is what I base their acceptance on, as well as their relationship to Nancy, "also a lesbian"  (p. 33).

[2] Several suggestions for this: bad parenting; the parents are selfish people (this is suggested in pp. 72-74, 78, 89, 97, 99-100, 116); the parents are just ignorant of any changes in Elly's behavior - and consider that Elly's mom doesn't find out Joe's a homosexual until she overhears him with Nancy following news of Charlie's kidnapping (p. 127).

[3] My impressions were that the girl is Elly's daughter, later that Jenny's going to die and be reborn as Elly's child. In the end I was, like, WTF?; but then I remembered the Twilight series.

[4] If you haven't experienced sexual abuse, you can find information about it in the media or other sources of literature (psychological, sociological, etc.). My formal and informal education has included art psychotherapy, grief studies, trauma, etc.