Reviews and Comments

On the surface, this book seems like it would unlock a fascinating perspective on the oceans of the world. It is pitched from the first chapter as considering how the ocean is the largest machine on earth, a perspective I thought fascinating and also one that matches with a lot of social theory. Yet as the writing unravels, the machinic element seems to go out the window, replaced with quite disconnected anecdotes of the ocean that draw from history, geology and personal experience.

It is worth mentioning that I think Helen Czerski is probably an excellent scientist, and a thoughtful one too. But the writing was put down as if narrating a BBC television programme (which is her day-job). The paragraphs are full of intrigue that is missing the visual information to make it coherent, leading you into a paragraph with hints and clues only to reveal several pages later what the writing is about. This does not suit the medium of print at all. Also, the chapters are far too long and often meander wildly into different themes from where they start out. And if you are familiar with postcolonial theory there are quite a few clangers, such as sections where non-western historical scientists are described first by their features rather than their achievements (a Chinese eunuch stands out in my memory) while western scientists are introduced to sections where they have no role to play (captain Cook is mentioned at the beginning of a section about Hawai'i referencing geological activity thousands of years before he landed there, and is then never referenced again in the whole chapter – did he need to be mentioned at all?!). While some sections were interesting, they were mostly scientific history that were quite matter-of-fact, such as how the currents work or how discoveries had been made. In the end, I just found this a frustrating slog, and wished it had been what it had promised.

This is an odd book, classified by many as science fiction, but maybe more aligned with posthuman philosophy. The basic gist is that there is an epidemic across Australia, and people can hear the animals speak. They don't speak literally, but more through the parts of their bodies that communicate differing desires. This idea is very well considered, although at times the animal thoughts seem a little too human-oriented. Despite this, there is a wonderful disconnect between the hopes of one young protagonist (who wants to hear the animals tell her how much they love her) and the reality (terror of the human, for example).

The book is full of moments, one with a crocodile, another with some fleas, that are memorable. It speaks to our disconnection from a nonhuman world in a very unique way, leading through a protagonist who is coping with her alcoholism and how it contrasts with her love of animals. Although imperfect and a little long, the book does hold together and finishes on an amazing, heartbreaking, and poignant note.

It's often said that Herman Melville's Moby Dick has the perfect opening sentence, setting the scene for what is to come: "Call me Ishmael". In these three words, the narrator is revealed as a first person narrator, and as an unreliable source, giving a fake name. In By The Sea Abdulrazak Gurnah references Melville regularly through a short story Bartleby the Scrivener, which we learn at a poignant moment in this book also has different ways it can be interpreted.

By The Sea is an incredible tapestry. It has two first-person narrators. We meet the first as an old man, having arrived from Zanzibar to England, claiming asylum and pretending he does not speak English. Later, we meet the second, a younger man who arrived for refuge many years before who is now a successful academic. They once knew each other, and were entangled in family feud at home, but the complexity of this is only slowly teased out to us as readers. A short way into the book, you feel you have a complete narrative; by the end, you wonder if you even have a fraction of the truth.

Within the family and personal reflections, there is a clear consideration of the complexity of perspective in a post-colonial space. Regularly referencing Burton's translations of the stories of The Arabian Nights, it positions itself as a story that cannot escape its colonisation. This creates vitriol and paranoia in place and people, with different views on what can be interpreted as the truth always competing. Even as the book draws to a close, there is a hint that the first narrator is manipulating us and his colleague, but nothing is revealed.