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Two new Aotearoa books hit the list
Two new Aotearoa books hit the list

BooksJune 14, 2024

The Unity Books bestseller chart for the week ending June 14

Two new Aotearoa books hit the list
Two new Aotearoa books hit the list

The only published and available best-selling indie book chart in New Zealand is the top 10 sales list recorded every week at Unity Books’ stores in High St, Auckland, and Willis St, Wellington.

First, a quick PSA: Unity Books has a flash new website that lets you search and purchase from both Unity Books Auckland and Wellington – and the search function is impeccable!

AUCKLAND

1 Lioness by Emily Perkins (Bloomsbury Circus, $25)

Roaring back into number one for the second week in a row is the story of Therese and her midlife reckoning.

2 Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck (Granta, $28)

The international Booker Prize winner 2024.

3 Long Island by Colm Tóibín (Picador, $38)

The sequel to Brooklyn from an author who once said he’d never write a sequel. We’re delighted that he has. 

4 Prophet Song by Paul Lynch (One World Publications, $25)

The Booker Prize winner 2024.

5 Before the Coffee Gets Cold by Toshikazu Kawaguchi (Picador, $25)

Time travel with a tick tocking mug of coffee.

6 Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors (Fourth Estate, $38)

From one five-star review on GoodReads: “This was such an incredible book wowowowoww. Can not stop crying. The author is so good at taking you into the characters’ world and showing their feelings and thoughts and story like WOWWWW. I seriously feel connected to all of these characters in some way, little aspects about them were huge aspects about me. The writing is also brilliant and the prose is so perfect to me. I’ll be thinking about this book for a long time.”

7 All Fours by Miranda July (Canongate, $37)

From a New Yorker profile on Miranda July: “’If a book is really working, you’re in a narrow channel, and the water is going really fast,’ the writer George Saunders, a friend of July’s, told me. That is what reading “All Fours” is like: being swept, paddleless, down a coursing river, submitting to the thrill of the rapids. July’s narrator is ecstatically trapped by a plot that she has no choice but to set in motion, even as it upends her life. July knows how this feels. When a character serves as an alter ego for her author, it is natural to wonder if the things that befall her are taken from reality. But what of the reverse? When you mold an avatar in your own image, then send her on bold and outrageous adventures, you may find that you have opened a portal from the invented world into the real one — that what you have dared to imagine on the page may enlarge your imagination for what can happen beyond it.”

8 James by Percival Everett (Mantle, $38)

From the Guardian: “Percival Everett’s new novel lures the reader in with the brilliant simplicity of its central conceit. James is the retelling of Mark Twain’s 1884 classic, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, from the point of view of Jim, the runaway slave who joins Huck on his journey down the Mississippi river.

While it would be possible to enjoy James without knowing the original, its power derives from its engagement with Twain’s book. For British readers, it also helps to know something about the centrality of Huckleberry Finn in American literature – and African American discomfort with that centrality.”

9 Table for Two by Amor Towles (Random House, $38)

“Towles sometimes lays on the philosophical wisdom and historical knowledge a bit, but the novella and all the stories are treated to his understated (and occasionally mischievous) irony. A sneakily entertaining assortment of tales.” Read more at Kirkus Reviews.

10 Question 7 by Richard Flanagan (Knopf $40)

One of Australia’s most acclaimed writers might well have written his best book yet. Here’s the publisher’s blurb:

“Beginning at a love hotel by Japan’s Inland Sea and ending by a river in Tasmania, Question 7 is about the choices we make about love and the chain reaction that follows.

By way of H. G. Wells and Rebecca West’s affair through 1930s nuclear physics to Flanagan’s father working as a slave labourer near Hiroshima when the atom bomb is dropped, this genre-defying daisy chain of events reaches fission when Flanagan as a young man finds himself trapped in a rapid on a wild river not knowing if he is to live or to die.

At once a love song to his island home and to his parents, this hypnotic melding of dream, history, literature, place and memory is about how reality is never made by realists and how our lives so often arise out of the stories of others and the stories we invent about ourselves.”

‘If you regularly enjoy The Spinoff, and want it to continue, become a member today.’
Toby Manhire
— Editor-at-large

WELLINGTON

1 Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors (Fourth Estate, $38)

2 Lioness by Emily Perkins (Bloomsbury, $25)

3 Long Island by Colm Tóibín (Picador, $38)

4 Marrow & Other Stories by Sloane Hong (Aporo Press, $35)

A beautifully produced collection of comics by Korean tauiwi artist Sloane Hong, and published by indie publisher of Spoiled Fruit, Āporo Press. Here’s the blurb: “Although varied in content, each story explores how we relate to each other and the world around us—through grief, love and our innate curiosity of the unknown. Plagued with intrigue and often unsettling, these gloriously stylish panels peel back layers of the human psyche, exposing them, throbbing and pulsating, for all to see.”

5 Old Black Cloud: A Cultural History of Mental Depression in Aotearoa NZ by Jacqueline Leckie (Massey University Press, $50)

The first cultural history of mental depression in Aotearoa is a well-researched, beautifully written exploration of depression across different cultures, at different times. Here’s the publisher’s blurb: “Mental depression is a serious issue in contemporary New Zealand, and it has an increasingly high profile. But during our history, depression has often been hidden under a long black cloud of denial that we have not always lived up to the Kiwi ideal of being pragmatic and have not always coped.

Using historic patient records as a starting place, and informed by her own experience of depression, academic Jacqueline Leckie’s timely social history of depression in Aotearoa analyses its medical, cultural and social contexts through an historical lens. From detailing its links to melancholia and explaining its expression within Indigenous and migrant communities, this engrossing book interrogates how depression was medicalised and has been treated, and how New Zealanders have lived with it.”

6 Energy: Get It. Guard It. Give It. by Lisa O’Neill (Major Street Publishing, $38)

“Author, leadership mentor and sought-after speaker Lisa O’Neill has been called a ‘Human Berocca’!” Find out more on the publisher’s website.

7 The Invisible Doctrine: The Secret History of Neoliberalism (& How It Came to Control Your Life) by George Monbiot (Allen Lane, $39)

Do you know what neoliberalism is? Either way, this book is for you.

8 The Financial Colonisation of Aotearoa by Catherine Comyn (Economic & Social Research Aotearoa, $30)

One of the most recurrent books on this here list: a groundbreaking, revelatory piece of research that you can read about in this interview on The Spinoff.

9 All Fours by Miranda July (Canongate, $37)

10 Economic Possibilities of Decolonisation by Matthew Scobie & Anna Struman (Bridget Williams Books, $18)

Best purchased along with item 8 on this list.

Keep going!
Houseplant pals (Image: Tina Tiller)
Houseplant pals (Image: Tina Tiller)

BooksJune 14, 2024

How to read a poem: Houseplants by Megan Kitching

Houseplant pals (Image: Tina Tiller)
Houseplant pals (Image: Tina Tiller)

The latest in a semi-regular series that breaks down a poem to analyse what it’s really trying to tell us.

Megan Kitching won the Jessie Mackay Prize for Poetry (best first book award) in this year’s Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. But I’d heard about her poetry long before that. Her collection – At the Point of Seeing – is a wonder-filled immersion in nature. But not the wilds: it’s the close, domestic variety of nature that draws Kitching’s exceptional eye. The result is a startling and intimate series of revelations that build, line-by-line, a relationship between the narrator and their daily environment. 

I chose this poem to read closely because there’s an underlying humour that is charming but also eerie. It reminded me of the way houseplant ownership boomed during the pandemic as we sought distraction and turned our focus to the domestic; and those articles about how millennials are obsessed with them. As I read this poem I couldn’t help but think of Little Shop of Horrors, and my own aversion to houseplants on account of a suspicion that they would be happier outside, growing beyond the rim of the pot, getting all the sun and rain they want, listening to the birds.

I also love this poem because houseplants are ubiquitous which makes turning a poetic focus on them an adventure: what can be said about houseplants that feels new and revelatory? 

Let’s find out.

Houseplants by Megan Kitching

The fern fronds its dinky table, epiphyllum sprawls in a chair
pulled up to the window. The aspidistra has the floor.
The plants of this lounge are sturdy with abiding; they sit
astride the banal hours and feed like mussels on any
light that washes in. When you come home some are waxen,
tight-lipped, admonitory. Others are curved, coy, uplifted in a wave
yet unmoved: your whatever mood like your talk merely
brushes past, a puzzling draught. The plants have engaged
this room for a long smoke of a dusty thought. You catch
the murmur of their wry, cross-stemmed turning round the pot.
Stymied at times, stunted at the tongue for missing the water
you dole out but tending to love whenever sun sidles over.
How it mottles leaves to blush, raises their pitch of bristling
stillness until time drips from their epidermis sweet as liquorice.

Reading notes:

The fern fronds its dinky table, epiphyllum sprawls in a chair
pulled up to the window. The aspidistra has the floor.

Within the first three words we have a stunning twist: the word “fronds” is used as a verb. “The fern fronds its dinky table”: it sounds cheeky, with the word “dinky” inspiring a vision of a low formica coffee table; and the word “frond” sounding a bit like “fondle”. The word “epiphyllum” though, lands us firmly in the world of the plant. Somehow the latin name (for Orchard Cacti, so Google tells me) rings serious, gives it that label of “science”. Only that too is upended with “sprawls in a chair pulled up to the window”. Crikey, this is brilliant: who pulled the chair up to the window? The epiphyllum? All of this gives the image of a cheeky fern, and a pining (?) or disaffected (sprawling, gazing out the window to the outside?) epiphyllum.

“The aspidistra has the floor,” ends this first couplet with a grand statement: is the aspidistra about to speak? Is it lecturing the fern and the cacti? What are these plants up to?

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Joel MacManus
— Wellington editor

The plants of this lounge are sturdy with abiding; they sit astride the banal hours and feed like mussels on any light that washes in. 

Here the view zooms out as the voice of the narrator tells us more about the state of these characters: they are “sturdy with abiding”. A curious phrase! It sounds like Stoicism: that the plants are resigned to waiting, existing where they are put. Then more: “they sit astride the banal hours” – this gives the plant-characters will, and dominance. They own the long hours, riding them like time bandits. At this stage we still don’t know what they’re waiting for, what might break this banality. But we’re given this incredible image: “and feed like mussels on any light that washes in.” I love this so much. It tilts the world until houseplants slide into the sea: that static, waiting state is far from inactive. All the time they’re sucking what they can out of the world around them. They feed on the light like shellfish sieve the sea, even as they appear so motionless, and so stuck.

When you come home some are waxen, tight-lipped, admonitory. Others are curved, coy, uplifted in a wave yet unmoved: your whatever mood like your talk merely brushes past, a puzzling draught. 

A ha. Here we have the suspected re-entry. The plants are sulking. For some reason this makes me think of the mother in the Cat in the Hat: those scenes where she’s on the threshold of the house, about to step back into a her home, oblivious to the chaos that’s gone on there (the cat in the hat causing mayhem for the two kids left home alone with the long-suffering goldfish). The beauty of this is the irony. We’ve been let into the life of the lonely, bored plants so we know they’ve been fronding, and sprawling and maybe even dragging chairs to windows. But the “you” of the poem enters into the aftermath to greet them “waxen”, “tight-lipped,” and “admonitory”. The plants are infused with deeply human states of being which heightens the drama, makes it relatable, but also makes it awkwardly funny, too. Funny because the idea of plants sulking while you’re out is funny; awkward because if they can sulk, perceive absence and get bored, then what else are they capable of? 

The plants have engaged this room for a long smoke of a dusty thought. 

This line is chef’s kiss. Just wow. “A long smoke of dusty thought” evokes a trio of disaffected characters, lingering in the close air of the room, ruminating. Moody, atmospheric, filmic. The word “engaged” is just perfect: unusual and yet so right. The plants have changed the atmosphere of the room with their wiltings and tickles and sprawls. 

You catch the murmur of their wry, cross-stemmed turning round the pot. Stymied at times, stunted at the tongue for missing the water you dole out but tending to love whenever sun sidles over.

Here our sense of hearing is engaged with the word “murmur”. We’ve suspected by now that these plants might speak as well as display human attitudes. This is the set of lines that satisfy and extend the anthropomorphism (applying human traits to non-human things). But it’s subtle and gentle. There’s a sense of a relationship between human carer and plant: “stunted at the tongue for missing the water you dole out”. A person watering a plant is exactly we think when we think about houseplants, but in this poem it’s about the experience for the plant (not enough water renders the plant less articulate). The line “but tending to love whenever sun sidles over” captures the slide of sunlight over a room as the day goes on, and how much the plant’s behaviour changes when it gets a fix of photosynthesis.

How it mottles leaves to blush, raises their pitch of bristling stillness until time drips from their epidermis sweet as liquorice.

These final lines are so precise they explode the poem out: the same way that a microscope explodes tiny matter into enormity. “How it mottles leaves to blush”: in my reading I apply the sun to the “it” as this sentence is an extension of the one before. So the meaning I make is: “how the sunlight mottles leaves to blush”. I might be wrong, but to me it makes sense of the mottling and blushing: light changes the way something looks, it can pick up variations in colour and the heat causes blushing. But here, as we’ve come to expect, this idea is pushed beyond vision and into sound, too: “raises their pitch of bristling stillness”. The sun hitting the plants intensifies that state of active inactivity (like the earlier “feed like muscles”) so much that it is sensed as an absence of sound, a heavy, moody silence.

The final fragment is the explosive part: “until time drips from their epidermis sweet as liquorice”. Now, what can that mean? I think this is about leaves falling, fronds degrading until they peel. The reason is: a classic symbol of time is the autumnal drop of leaves. But this is of course not restricted to outside trees. Our indoor plants mark time every day as leaves curl, colour and drop; or fronds wilt and colour. The “sweet as liquorice” is another surprise and one that brings in the sense of taste which completes the multi-sensory experience of this poem. Liquorice is associated with dark colours and roots (it’s the root of the plant that gets used) as well as with sweetness. So all together there’s a sense of time passing sweetly, without bitterness: that the cycle of time as witnessed in the shifting state of the houseplants is a comfort, a treat.

A final fun exercise for this beautiful, startling poem is to read the last word of every line: “Chair floor, sit any waxen, wave merely engaged catch pot. water, over. bristling liquorice.” Like another hidden world: an abstract portrait of a room.

At the Point of Seeing (Otago University Press, $25) is available from Unity Books Wellington and Auckland.