Stephenie Harrison

Imagine you had the power to make streetlights dim when you walked beneath them and could probe the innermost secrets of the human mind. This is what life is like for Julia Severn, a young psychic whose mother committed suicide when she was just an infant. Though Julia’s powers are impressive, all attempts to contact her mother beyond the grave have been unsuccessful. Instead, Julia latches onto her mentor, Madame Ackerman, as an interim mother. Alas, Madame Ackerman’s powers are waning and in a fit of jealousy, she metes out a devastating psychic punishment that cripples Julia and sends her on the run. Despite her resolve to lead a normal life, Julia finds herself fighting to regain her health and her mystical gifts so that she can assist in the search for a provocative and elusive artist who just happens to have known her mother. What results is a sinister game of cosmic hide-and-seek in which Julia will be forced to confront her most deadly and dogged pursuer: her own grief.

Heidi Julavits' fourth novel is bold and brazen, but it is also one hell of a headtrip.

In case the above synopsis does not make it abundantly clear, Heidi Julavits’ fourth novel, The Vanishers, is bold and brazen, but it is also one hell of a headtrip. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to liken it to the mind-bending movies of David Lynch, for this is truly a puzzle wrapped in pages. The plot is serpentine and surreal, facts are fluid and nothing is out of bounds; one must be on perpetual guard, as not even Julia can be trusted in this tale where nothing is as it seems.

Some readers will certainly balk at the unconventional narrative leaps that Julavits asks them to take, but to do so would be a mistake. More than a metaphysical mystery, at its core The Vanishers is a stunningly candid examination of the dark side of grief, female rivalries and the critical bond between mothers and daughters. Countless books have already been written on these topics, but by straddling the line between the otherworldly and harsh reality, Julavits manages to take mainstream notions and transform them into something truly unique.

Penelope Lively has built a career on pushing the boundaries of the novel; indeed, her books are usually a special alchemy of meta-fiction and provocative storytelling. How It All Began proves no exception. While the leading lady of her recent tale may be waging war against the pitfalls of growing old, at 78 years old, Lively herself shows no signs of slowing down and proves she is still a writer in her prime.

How It All Began is populated with striking and dynamic characters, but it is also a novel of ideas. Putting her own spin on the “Butterfly Effect” of chaos theory, Lively examines the notion that one small event can have dramatic, far-reaching ramifications. In the traditional example, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could ultimately result in a tornado in Texas, but here, the catalyst is retired schoolteacher Charlotte Rainsford getting mugged on the streets of London. The resulting tumult not only disrupts Charlotte’s life, but also wreaks havoc on an expansive cast of characters, many of whom are not even aware of Charlotte’s existence. Relationships will be tested, the economy will crash, some characters will realize their dreams while others will find them shattered—all because of one old woman.

In essence, How It All Began is the business of life scaled to fit within the pages of a novel. What sets it apart is the way Lively constantly prods her characters to reflect upon the sum of their choices and the random machinations of which people are generally unaware, in order to take stock of their lives. One recurring theme in Lively’s novels that reappears here is the idea that life is random. It is only in retrospect that the human desire for meaning prompts us to impose a narrative structure on events. We like clear-cut explanations for why things happen as they do and for events to hold meaning; this is why we crave stories and find them wherever we look. But here, Lively gamely demonstrates that in reality, the flow of cause and effect is gnarled and convoluted, and that we could all so easily be living another life. Heavy stuff for a slim novel, yet the tone is never overly philosophical and the narrative is spritely. This is a book so vital, you will feel its heart thrum alongside your own as you read, its spell lasting long after its close.

British author Ali Smith has never been what you’d call a conventional novelist. Whether she is using a hotel as a metaphor for the various stages of life, examining the impact of uninvited guests or re-envisioning a classic Greek myth, Smith has proved she isn’t afraid of taking chances or pushing boundaries.

Smith’s novels tend to begin with a slightly outlandish but irresistibly intriguing premise. Her latest novel, There But For The, is the story of Miles Garth, a man who attends a dinner party only to lock himself in his hosts’ spare bedroom partway through the meal and then refuses to leave. Leave it to Smith to take a seemingly simple and straightforward (and absurd!) idea and transform it into anything but.

A postmodern writer at her very core, Smith uses multiple narrators, ranging from a 10-year-old girl to a woman on her deathbed, to tell the story. Although the title of the novel is itself a frustratingly incomplete fragment, readers will find it fitting: Each of the narrators offers only a snippet of insight into Miles, none of them truly being privy to his entire person. It is only by sifting through and synthesizing these wisps that a larger picture begins to emerge.

This isn’t to say that by the end everything is made clear; this is one novel that will have you puzzling over it well after its final page has been turned. There But For The isn’t the kind of book you read in order to find answers, but rather to ponder questions. This is a novel that is deeply cerebral and is guaranteed to get your synapses firing. For those who relish a bit of an enigma and are looking for something extraordinary when it comes to fiction, There But For The delivers in spades.

When Mia Fredrickson’s husband of 30 years asks for a “pause” in their marriage while he pursues a relationship with a much younger colleague, Mia enters a tailspin that ends with her recovering in a psychiatric ward. Fleeing from a life that is no longer her own, she slinks back to her childhood hometown. Finding strength in the place where she first took root, Mia takes additional solace in the presence of her mother, who lives in a nearby extended care facility, and her young neighbor Lola, who juggles raising two young children with the demands of her fractious marriage, and in teaching poetry to a group of 13-year-old girls. As Mia slowly ensconces herself in the lives of those around her, she takes the time to reflect on where she has been and where she is headed; what results is a mesmerizing and powerful meditation on marriage, the differences between the sexes, aging and what it means to be a woman.

The Summer Without Men is Siri Hustvedt’s fifth novel, and a truly breathtaking one at that. Borrowing from science, philosophy, poetry and literature, Hustvedt boldly burrows deep into the feminine psyche, exposing the dark doubts and insecurities we all keep locked deep inside. Mia’s candid musings on the cruelty of young girls alongside the harsh reality of growing old are unflinchingly honest, and Hustvedt’s bravery in presenting an unvarnished portrait of the “fairer sex” is exhilarating.

Late in The Summer Without Men, Mia suggests that “there is no human subject outside the purview of literature,” a principle embodied by this very novel. Rich with both the pleasures and sorrows that make life complete, this is a powerful and provocative novel that will have astute readers reconsidering where exactly the boundaries between truth and fiction lie.