"Halsey Street," by Naima Coster

Gentrification is a big topic in many U.S. cities, and Naima Coster’s novel “Halsey Street” (Little A., 2017), is set in the context of, and preoccupied with, that topic. It is an important one, and should be addressed; the problem is that the gentrification of parts of Brooklyn is portrayed in a rather heavyhanded manner, especially for the first part of the novel, at which point the topic is more or less dropped, except for an occasional mention. But the more overriding topic or theme of this book is family, and the ways in which even loving families can somehow find their members have become disassociated from, even alienated from, each other. Even when they are together, they somehow look past each other, misunderstand each other, and find that what they thought was a loving foundation has weakened, or perhaps never was what they thought it was. The main character here is Penelope, the late-twenties daughter of an African-American father, Ralph, and a Dominican-American mother, Mirella. Penelope loves her father, yet sometimes resents having had to return to Brooklyn to help take care of him. She had gone to art school in Rhode Island for a while, then moved to Pittsburgh, needing to get away, but now is “home” in Brooklyn. She lives in an elegant attic in the home of a white family who has moved into the neighborhood (representing, among other such symbolic people and institutions, the gentrification of Brooklyn, specifically the Bed-Stuy area) and her relationship with her landlords goes predictably awry. As for her relationship with her mother: it has never been a good one. Mirella took care of Penelope’s basic needs, but never knew how to be a real mother emotionally. Penelope’s biggest attachment and true love was her grandmother Ramona back in the Dominican Republic, and Ramona’s death devastated her. At one point in the story, Mirella, who has moved back to the Dominican Republic, reaches out to Penelope, but the results are not happy. Throughout, we sense that Penelope is directionless, lost, and sad. Yes, she teaches art to schoolchildren, and yes, she still draws (but only small objects). Yes, she has plenty of relationships with men, but nothing seems to be enough to address her feelings of emptiness. She also doesn’t take the initiative to change anything much about her life. Does Coster imply that because Penelope didn’t get the kind of attention and unconditional love that all children need (and I agree that this is extremely important), she is doomed to a meaningless life? In any case, she is a depressed (as well as judgmental) character with what sometimes seems to be a dreary life. The novel ends with a sad event, but also a small note of hope. This novel wrestles with issues of race, gender, family, parenting, urban life, gentrification, and millenials’ trying to find their way.

"Fire Sermon," by Jamie Quatro

Jamie Quatro’s intense new novel, “Fire Sermon” (Grove Press, 2018) has received high praise for its depiction of extramarital desire and longing, mixed with desire and longing for God. The cover of the book is bright red, and there is much talk about burning. The main character, Maggie, is a professor and writer and in a marriage of some years to Thomas; they have two children. She meets an also-married poet/professor whom she only sees at academic conferences, but with whom she carries out an intense ongoing conversation, replete with poetry and various literary talk, by phone and email. They agonize about being unfaithful to their spouses, and about wanting to but not being able to stay away from each other. They try to rationalize their relationship as just an intense friendship. All of this is, of course, self-delusion. It's not an unusual plot. But what makes it different than the usual such novel is the way the story, relationship, and correspondence are all enmeshed in the adulterous couple’s feverish, high-flown, theologically/poetically-inflected interchanges. Forgive me if this makes me sound like a philistine, but this over-the-top, self-involved, self-important ongoing conversation smacks of literary/metaphysical self-indulgence, and I found myself getting quite impatient with it.

"Mrs. Osmond," by John Banville

Henry James fans: I hope and believe that John Banville’s novel “Mrs. Osmond” (Knopf, 2017) will be a great treat and pleasure for you, as it was for me. However, I know what high standards James connoisseurs have, so it is possible that some of you will not appreciate or enjoy this “sequel” to James’s “The Portrait of a Lady.” I am no James expert, but I have read many of his novels, and studied his work during my English major college years. With that limited expertise, I find Banville’s novel, style, character portrayal, and plot admirably compatible with, though of course not as great as (which would be impossible!), James’s. I am particularly impressed by the language, which manages to sound authentically similar to that of James. The plot developments appear seamless, and – spoiler alert? – take a slight but definite feminist turn. Without giving too much away, I can say that the story delineates what happens to Isabel, and what Isabel causes to happen, in the months after her visit (against the wishes of her despicable husband Gilbert) to her dying cousin Ralph. She finds out new information about her husband and about Madame Merle, meets new people, takes new trips, faces up to her situation, and makes decisions, in some cases surprising ones. I, for one, was completely caught up in this “sequel,” a worthy one in my opinion.