has reading become too easy?

on the safekeep + james, and why i hate them

the price of easy reading:

Have you ever read a book, expecting to love it because everyone else does, only to finish it with an immense disappointment, made all the worse by memories of the hope you began it with? I’ve felt this way at least ten times, if not more, in the past year. It happens the same way every time. I see a book all over the internet. Everyone and their mother’s talking about it. Most of the times, the book is on the longlist, and then the shortlist for some esteemed prize or the other. Every time— and I say this, with much bitterness, because I wish it wasn’t so— I clunk the book closed, wondering what on earth it was that merited such rave reviews, because I certainly didn’t find any of it within the pages I’d just read.

My main contention is always the same— the hype around the book promises a lot. A story about identity, perhaps. Belonging. An incisive commentary on race, gender, sexuality. You name it.

Now at this point a critical reader may pause. I know what you’re thinking. Is this just another essay arguing for the depoliticisation of literature? Let me put you at ease. No. If you wish to know where I stand on the are-books-political debate I’ll tell you. They are. Everything’s political. I don’t really think there’s much room for debate here. The problem I face with the aforementioned books—and don’t worry, I’m not above name-dropping specific examples— is less to do with their content and more to do with the fact that they’re just not very good in terms of their art.

In short?

They’re too easy. Un-nuanced. There’s no bite to them. Everything in them lies at the surface, within the reader’s reach. It’s waiting for you, even if you don’t want to grasp it. Even if you don’t want to see it. I’ll give you specific examples in a moment, but what I mean to say is— they’re all theme, and no heart.

A bold claim. I know. So, in the tradition of showing and not telling, let me show you what I’m talking about. Beware, though: the rest of this post contains SPOILERS.

the safekeep by yael van der wouden

I’d been seeing this book around for the better part of a year now, but had resisted reading it till last month when I finally caved— the result being that I ordered a copy and finished it in two days. What merited this decision, you ask?

Why, none other than the Women’s Prize announcement for 2025, of course.

Though I had an inkling I wouldn’t like the book when I saw it floating around post the Booker shortlist announcement of 2024, by the time 2025 rolled around, I’ll admit I gave way when I realised the book was still being laurelled as a must-read. Well, you know me. If someone tells me I must read something, then I suppose I haven’t much choice.

The story of the The Safekeep is as follows (this is the second and final spoiler warning I’m giving by the way, if you want to read the book and don’t like knowing the end STOP READING NOW): Isabel is a 30-something year old, living in a house that belongs to her in every way except for on paper. This is the house where she grew up (from the age of 11, at least), it is the house which saw her mother’s last days, and it is the house where Isabel has determined she’ll live out her life. She spends her time obsessing over the details of her home, counting the spoons and silverware, even though technically none of it belongs to her. The house belongs to her brother Louis, but since he has no desire to live there, Isabel is welcome to call it her own on tacit agreement that if Louis would so wish, the house would one day be turned over to him. This is what you need to know about Louis: he’s a bit of a serial monogamist. The plot takes off when Louis asks Isabel and their third sibling, Hendrik, to meet his latest girlfriend— a peroxided blonde named Eva. Isabel takes an instant dislike to her, and so begins an enemies to lovers romance between the two women, which is made possible by Louis suddenly leaving town and asking Isabel to take in Eva till he’s back.

For Eva has nowhere to go. Unlike Isabel, who has a home. Something we’re reminded of repeatedly.

Now, Eva’s intrusion into the rhythmic procession of Isabel’s days, is problematic on several fronts. 1. Isabel hates everything about her while simultaneously being attracted to her. 2. Things around the house are going missing, and Isabel believes that Eva is responsible.

Honestly, I could narrate the whole plot to you, but it’s taking too long so I’ll get to the central premise of the book. Isabel and her family may own the house, but it doesn’t truly belong to them. Turns out that during WW2, Isabel’s mother moved herself and her kids into an empty, vacant house, fully furnished and ready to be someone’s home— only it wasn’t empty, not really. The house belonged to Eva and her family, who were turned out of their home due to the simple crime of being Jewish in a political climate that did not allow for this. And so, though adult Eva is technically stealing items from what is now Isabel’s home, is she really? In a world where so much is appropriated and displaced, who really decides to whom anything belongs?

This is what the book tries to get at— unsuccessfully. And this is where I segue into the central conceit of this essay by exposing the common thread uniting all four books I’m talking about today. They’re what I call Big Idea Novels, where the theme is larger than the book itself. What do I mean by this? Let me explain.

When you set out to write a novel, there are several ways to begin the journey. You may be inspired by a feeling or the fleeting glimpse of a character in a particular setting. A perfect beginning or, an ending with no path to it. Essentially, you begin with a puzzle piece and the singular hope that once the pieces are put together, the puzzle is coherent and tells a story. If there’s Truth to that story, all the better.

But sometimes, you read a book and are left with the feeling that the writer didn’t begin with the shard of a story, but that of an idea. How can you tell? Well, the story feels inorganic, as if it was manufactured to frame the edges of a theme, almost as if it plays a supporting role in the final product that is the novel.

But is that such a bad thing? Shouldn’t a book be about something? Isn’t the whole conceit of literary fiction that it’s more than just a tightly threaded plot?

Well, yes. But I believe that a book learns what it’s about as it is written. The story exposes the themes and vice versa. They are because the other exists— they don’t exist in isolation. They can’t. Not in a well-written book. And what this looks like from the perspective of a reader, is a book that contains multitudes, where each intricacy of plot and theme is peeled away to reveal another. Reading is a dynamic activity, as is writing, in this lies it’s appeal. And a good book— a book worthy of acclaim and awards— is a dynamic book. It is in conversation with the reader, but also with itself.

The Safekeep is not a dynamic book. It falls flat. Nor is it possible to read it for the love story alone, because the book insists on taking up the gauntlet of themes it doesn’t have the internal infrastructure to do justice to. The question of ownership and possession, especially of land, is fraught with tension. Hypothetically, the book should work. Who owns the house? Eva or Isabel? And once that’s been decided, what is to be done about the crisscross of memories and childhoods attached to the house? Isabel’s childhood comfort toy is also Eva’s— surely, in some strange, twisted way it belongs to both? The central premise of the book rests on an impossible question, and if it had been treated as such, the book would have fared better.

Instead, Yael van der Wouden does the last thing she should be doing as an author of fiction— she attempts to solve the problem, not merely on a character level which would have been fine, but on a thematic one. There are certain questions of ethics, morals and the human condition, that are made all the more poignant by the fact that there’s no easy answer. That is why we are drawn to books like The Grapes of Wrath, The Mill on the Floss, and, by the way, to Shakespeare! These texts offer entertainment, sure. But they do something more. They hold a light to the unbelievable torment and mystery of being human. They bear witness, and in doing so, they don’t offer solutions but instead draw the reader into conversations that are centuries old, yet, still relevant today. After all, the question of who really holds claim to land is relevant to us all. The housing society in which I live was once a village of people who were displaced due to the urabnisation project of my city. America is stolen land. And yet, stolen land can become a home too, as we all know too well.

The Safekeep, on the other hand, attempts to offer a cheap and easy solution to a problem that cannot be solved quite so easily and cheaply. Isabel, upon realising the house was never hers, begs her brother, Louis, to transfer ownership to her. And, once that has happened, she simply gives the house to Eva. Happily. With absolutely no build-up to this resolution. She goes from being possessive of the only place she calls home, to giving up that home at a moment’s notice. The reader, thus, is spared the work of thinking too much about the questions this book raises— because, spoiler alert, it doesn’t raise any. It tells you what it is about, and then tells you how it has solved the problem.

But should reading— especially the reading of literary fiction— be that easy? Surely, it shouldn’t be that straightforward of a path to the point?

Alternate Book Recommendation: i read this a while back, but when i thought of a book that deals with similar themes (better, in my opinion), this came to mind— All the Rivers by Dorit Rabinyan

james by percival everett

You’ve seen this book around. It has been on the Booker shortlist, it’s won the Pulitzer, and if you don’t know about it I can guarantee you’re living under a rock. Don’t worry, though. I’d much rather live under a rock than out here where a book like this one can win the Pulitzer.

I’m being harsh, you say? Let me justify myself.

James is touted as a retelling of the All-American favourite, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It positions itself in the shoes of the character Jim, Huck’s companion in the original novel, thus centering him and pushing Huck to a supporting role. All of which is fine— great, even. It gives voice to James, who is known as Jim in the original, while having a few laughs at Huckleberry’s expense. And, (this is what I’ve seen most reviewers applaud), it offers a takedown on the politics of language. What we say versus how it is heard.

Similar to The Safekeep, James is a quick read.

And, similar to The Safekeep, I reached the end with a sense of emptiness that wasn’t there when I started.

Though the book was clearly about something— in this case race and racism— it was… nothing. There was nothing I encountered within it’s pages that made me stop and think, that made me gasp and say ‘what a great way to put that thought into words’, that made me remember the book long after I had parted ways with it. You see, the theme was once more larger than the story, but in this case, the theme also suffered by being too simple— racism is bad and there’s more to the black characters than the white characters are willing to see. Case in point: the language element. The black characters speak two ways— in the dialect white texts have historically attributed to them, and in normal English. I get why Everett does this. He’s trying to say something powerful about race, but, like, is he though? He’s simply stating the obvious and trying to hide that behind a high-concept novel that reads more like a gimmick.

Again, the reader doesn’t have to do anything to find meaning, it’s all there for the taking. Call me old-fashioned, but if you want a reader to walk away actually having learnt something (and no, a novel doesn’t have to teach you anything but Percival Everett is definitely trying to make a point with this one) maybe allow them to do the work of learning. A sentence is not merely a means to an end. It is a journey, and a good sentence allows for a bit of mystery. Take this paragraph by none other than Her Majesty, the only true Queen, Toni Morrison:

He grew up thinking that, of all the Blacks in Kentucky, only the five of them were men. Allowed, encouraged to correct Garner, even defy him. To invent ways of doing things; to see what was needed and attack it without permission. To buy a mother, choose a horse or wife, handle guns, even learn reading if they wanted to— but they didn’t want to since nothing important to them could be put down on paper.

Was that it? Is that where manhood lay? In the naming done by a whiteman who was supposed to know?

Firstly, wow. This is a paragraph pulled randomly from one of my favourite books ever, Beloved. I chose a random passage because I want us to look at the sentences without context, to see what we feel just by what is in front of us right now. The passage ends in three questions, that the book never answers. The characters don’t have those answers, it is impossible that they do. And, if Morrison has them she doesn’t let on. She trusts the reader to get it. She leads the reader so far, and then steps back. She knows that a book is a conversation between the person who wrote it and the one reading it, and so when she probes into the question of manhood, she allows for the possibility of no easy answer. The ability to question, and to sit in the aftermath of that question, gives the reader more than if Toni Morrison wrote a paragraph explaining her thoughts on masculinity.

Compare this to the following passage from James:

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

Again, completely random. Unlike the earlier passage, this one tells you exactly what to think. There’s no room between the sentences for the reader— we are told what to think, i.e. that reading is subversive because it is a private act. There’s no room for discourse because the book simply is what it is. Now, it’s a bit unfair to take a book like James and compare it to a book that’s completely different such as Beloved. My aim, however, is to show through example why one passage captures me and the other repels me.

I want to be invited into the world I’m reading about, not told what that world is, but shown. This is very interesting to me, because while books like The Safekeep and James rely very much on showing the mechanics of the plot to the reader, they resort to telling you how to feel about it. In the age of the maxim ‘show don’t tell’, this is very strange to me, not least because if you must restrain yourself from telling the reader how to feel it should be in terms of theme. The reader must be trusted, but more importantly, the writer must trust the fabric of the world they’ve built— the infrastructure of the text that offers shelter to the ideas.

Alternate Book Recommendation: honestly, if you want a book that says a little more than ‘racism is wrong’, put down James and pick up The Known World by Edward P. Jones instead!

it’s time to say goodbye

This post has gotten very long, and while I certainly have more to say, I’ll save it for later! Please do leave a comment telling me what you think of the books and my analysis of them, I promise I won’t cry if you disagree with my takes.

(Okay, maybe I will…)

Until next time!