Anthony Joseph’s previous book, Kitch, was shortlisted for last year’s Republic of Consciousness Prize (followers will know how much I rate this literary award, which I was delighted to help judge in 2017). Kitch was the only book on the list that I wasn’t sent, which is fine; publishers choose who they wish to review their books based on differing criteria. In the run-up to the winners’ announcement I heard the author read from his work and was intrigued. However, time moves on, more books arrive, and I never did manage to pick up Kitch.
Recently I was asked if I would be interested in reviewing Joseph’s forthcoming release, The Frequency of Magic, and was happy to accept a copy to find out what I thought of the author’s writing. Unfortunately, if this book is typical, it turns out it is not for me. It is rare for me to DNF any title – the only other one I have reviewed is Infinite Jest (I mention this to demonstrate that me disliking a book does not mean other readers will feel the same).
I read one hundred pages – thirty-one chapters – of The Frequency of Magic before deciding to call it a day. Despite starting out well, reading became too much of a chore. Please bear in mind that it is possible the story becomes more compelling than this first third suggests.
At the centre of the tale is a butcher named Raphael who lives on Million Hills in rural Trinidad. For the past forty-one years he has been writing a book. It is to be one hundred chapters long with each chapter containing one thousand words. The characters all have connections to where he lives.
The Frequency of Magic is divided into one hundred chapters. Each could be one thousand words long – I didn’t count but in length that feels about right. This should make the book easier to read – chapters are short and each contains a vignette about a character whose experiences are returned to subsequently. Plot progression is not linear but names recur. The characters know they are being written about and some want to know what Raphael has planned for them. There are also occasional references to Anthony Joseph. It is all very meta.
This structure works fine, as does the use of local vernacular. Nothing of these aspects appears overdone even if it was framed this way for the sake of it.
I was pleased to be learning more about life in rural Trinidad, amongst those who have little materially. Their houses are basic. Ablutions occur outside within view of neighbours. Many of the families are related.
Amongst the cast are a musician and an actor who have left the island to work in America. Mostly though the events described occur on or around Million Hills. It remained unclear to me if the characters were based on Raphael’s neighbours or were figments of his imagination – this didn’t matter for the story to work.
So, we have here a story about a man writing a story and the story he is writing. Ordinary lives are depicted. The voice and evocative setting are interesting. What killed my engagement was the continual references to base thinking and living.
Women are described as possessors of thighs, breasts and private parts whose smell and use is repeatedly referenced. There are regular descriptions of: physical desire, sex, hardness and ejaculations. I would have welcomed some relief with evocations of the beauty of the place. Instead, the residents focus on: their cars, fights, and other forms of violence. Drugs are taken, animals killed. There is thoughtless injury and frequent death.
Husbands leave wives who then have to service old men with decrepit bodies in order to put food on the table for their children (I wondered why no other options were considered – female cooperatives? creative endeavours? – perhaps I am too naive for the reality of the area). Husbands who stay beat their wives and visit prostitutes. Use of pornography and triple X rated films are mentioned. Animals suffer; there is an explosion in a pet shop.
I found it hard to feel sympathy, even for the murdered, given how they lived. When certain characters realise how their lives are being written they blame others, as if hurting them can force a change of personal trajectory.
The vivid descriptions of bloody encounters alongside other bodily excretions became too much for this reader.
There was mention in the publisher’s blurb of a love story. Few of the couplings appeared to be based on love.
Occasional nuggets exist. Children playing on the hills relish their freedom and observe how those in wealthier areas are kept behind walls and gates. One female character manages to deflect the attention of the men who try to have sex with her – although her promising beginning was not sustained.
The novel is described as offering gritty realism, and perhaps this is how men in this part of the world think and live. The depiction led to me suffering a severe failure of empathy. I hope that other readers prove less sensitive to the habits detailed.
My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Peepal Tree Press.