Recommended May Releases: Adichie, Pavey and Unsworth

Three very different works of women’s life writing: heartfelt remarks on bereavement, a seasonal diary of stewarding four wooded acres in Somerset, and a look back at postnatal depression.


Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This slim hardback is an expanded version of an essay Adichie published in the New Yorker in the wake of her father’s death in June 2020. With her large family split across three continents and coronavirus lockdown precluding in-person get-togethers, they had a habit of frequent video calls. She had seen her father the day before on Zoom and knew he was feeling unwell and in need of rest, but the news of his death still came as a complete shock.

Adichie anticipates all the unhelpful platitudes people could and did send her way: he lived to a ripe old age (he was 88), he had a full life and was well respected (he was Nigeria’s first statistics professor), he had a mercifully swift end (kidney failure). Her logical mind knows all of these facts, and her writer’s imagination has depicted grief many times. Still, this loss blindsided her.

She’d always been a daddy’s girl, but the anecdotes she tells confirm how special he was: wise and unassuming; a liberal Catholic suspicious of materialism and with a dry humour. I marvelled at one such story: in 2015 he was kidnapped and held in the boot of a car for three days, his captors demanding a ransom from his famous daughter. What did he do? Correct their pronunciation of her name, and contradict them when they said that clearly his children didn’t love him. “Grief has, as one of its many egregious components, the onset of doubt. No, I am not imagining it. Yes, my father truly was lovely.” With her love of fashion, one way she dealt with her grief was by designing T-shirts with her father’s initials and the Igbo words for “her father’s daughter” on them.

I’ve read many a full-length bereavement memoir, and one might think there’s nothing new to say, but Adichie writes with a novelist’s eye for telling details and individual personalities. She has rapidly become one of my favourite authors: I binged on most of her oeuvre last year and now have just one more to read, Purple Hibiscus, which will be one of my 20 Books of Summer. I love her richly evocative prose and compassionate outlook, no matter the subject. At £10, this 85-pager is pricey, but I was lucky to get it free with Waterstones loyalty points.

Favourite lines:

“In the face of this inferno that is sorrow, I am callow and unformed.”

“How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering?”


Deeper Into the Wood by Ruth Pavey

In 1999 Ruth Pavey bought four acres of scrubland at auction, happy to be returning to her family’s roots in the Somerset Levels and hoping to work alongside nature to restore some of her land to orchard and maintain the rest in good health. Her account of the first two decades of this ongoing project, A Wood of One’s Own, was published in 2017.

In this sequel, she gives peaceful snapshots of the wood throughout 2019, from first snowdrops to final apple pressing, but also faces up to the environmental degradation that is visible even in this pocket of the countryside. “I am sure there has been a falling off in numbers of insects, smaller birds and rabbits on my patch,” she insists. Without baseline data, it is hard to support this intuition, but she has botanical and bird surveys done, and invites an expert in to do a moth-trapping evening. The resulting species lists are included as appendices. In addition, Pavey weaves a backstory for her land. She meets a daffodil breeder, investigates the source of her groundwater, and visits the head gardener at the Bishop’s Palace in Wells, where her American black walnut sapling came from. She also researches the Sugg family, associated with the land (“Sugg’s Orchard” on the deed) from the 1720s.

Pavey aims to treat this landscape holistically: using sheep to retain open areas instead of mowing the grass, and weighing up the benefits of the non-native species she has planted. She knows her efforts can only achieve so much; the pesticides standard to industrial-scale farming may still be reaching her trees on the wind, though she doesn’t apply them herself. “One sad aspect of worrying about the state of the natural world is that everything starts to look wrong,” she admits. Starting in that year’s abnormally warm January, it was easy for her to assume that the seasons can no longer be relied on.

Compared with her first memoir, this one is marked by its intellectual engagement with the principles and practicalities of rewilding. Clearly, her inner struggle is motivated less by the sense of ownership than by the call of stewardship. While this book is likely be of most interest to those with a local connection or a similar project underway, it offers a universal model of how to mitigate our environmental impact. Pavey’s black-and-white sketches of the flora and fauna on her patch, reminiscent of Quentin Blake, are a highlight.

With thanks to Duckworth for the proof copy for review. The book will be published tomorrow, the 27th of May.


After the Storm: Postnatal Depression and the Utter Weirdness of New Motherhood by Emma Jane Unsworth

The author’s son was born on the day Donald Trump won the U.S. presidential election. Six months later, she realized that she was deep into postnatal depression and finally agreed to get help. The breaking point came when, with her husband* away at a conference, she got frustrated with her son’s constant fussing and pushed him over on the bed. He was absolutely fine, but the guilty what-ifs proliferated, making this a wake-up call for her.

In this succinct, wry and hard-hitting memoir, Unsworth exposes the conspiracies of silence that lead new mothers to lie and pretend that everything is fine. Since her son’s traumatic birth (which I first read about in Dodo Ink’s Trauma anthology), she hadn’t been able to write and was losing her sense of self. To add insult to injury, her baby had teeth at 16 weeks and bit her as he breastfed. She couldn’t even admit her struggles to her fellow mum friends. But “if a woman is in pain for long enough, and denied sleep for long enough, and at the same time feels as though she has to keep going and put a ‘brave’ face on, she’s going to crack.”

The book’s titled mini-essays give snapshots into the before and after, but particularly the agonizing middle of things. I especially liked the chapter “The Weirdest Thing I’ve Ever Done in a Hotel Room,” in which she writes about borrowing her American editor’s room to pump breastmilk. Therapy, antidepressants and hiring a baby nurse helped her to ease back into her old life and regain some part of the party girl persona she once exuded – enough so that she was willing to give it all another go (her daughter was born late last year).

While Unsworth mostly writes from experience, she also incorporates recent research and makes bold statements of how cultural norms need to change. “You are not monsters,” she writes to depressed mums. “You need more support. … Motherhood is seismic. It cracks open your life, your relationship, your identity, your body. It features the loss, grief and hardship of any big life change.” I can imagine this being hugely helpful to anyone going through PND (see also my Three on a Theme post on the topic), but I’m not a mother and still found plenty to appreciate (especially “We have to smash the dichotomy of mums/non-mums … being maternal has nothing to do with actually physically being a mother”).

I’m attending a Wellcome Collection online event with Unsworth and midwife Leah Hazard (author of Hard Pushed) this evening and look forward to hearing more from both authors.

*It took me no time at all to identify him from the bare facts: Brighton + doctor + graphic novelist = Ian Williams (author of The Lady Doctor)! I had no idea. What a fun connection.

With thanks to Profile Books/Wellcome Collection for the free copy for review.


What recent releases can you recommend?

21 responses

  1. I have yet to get Pavey’s first book, though it’s on my list, and this looks excellent, too – although I am not rewilding myself or local, it still appeals to my interests! The Unsworth looks important, too – a friend just wrote an excellent article about her pre- and post-natal depression so it’s a bit close to home but vital to get out there.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. The Pavey is in the back row of your TBR shelf, yes? 🙂 I’ll save my proof copy of the sequel for you.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oh terrible me, yes, it is, you sent it to me! That’s why it inexplicably wasn’t on my Wish List! D’oh! And yes, please!

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I love the sound of Deeper into the Wood.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I found it to be quite a calming read, despite her increasing worry over species loss.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I’d like to read Unsworth (although I’ve yet to get to Inferno).

    Liked by 1 person

    1. They’re very different books. Inferno is more of an inside picture of an extreme mental state. If you’ve read Animals or Adults by Unsworth, the sense of humour is similar.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. ‘her baby had teeth at 16 weeks and bit her as he breastfed’ Oh no!!

    I’m really keen to read the Adichie, she’s such a great writer.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It’s definitely worth reading, even though it’s so short. That seems to be her way: big ol’ novels but tiny books of nonfiction. I can’t wait for the next novel!

      Liked by 1 person

  5. These all sound very good. I didn’t have PPD after my son’s birth, not clinically diagnosed anyway, but I remember feeling very much not like myself – wondering who I really was – it was really a seismic shift in identity. And I remember being very sad about not being pregnant anymore because people were SO incredibly nice and lovely to me during my pregnancy and then afterwards it’s like, “Well, good luck, you’re on your own!”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. That sounds really hard. It’s a common criticism of Republican policy, too — so concerned with the unborn, but then once women have those perhaps unplanned babies, there’s no social support.

      Liked by 1 person

  6. I like the sound of Notes on Grief and its brevity is appealing. I think I’ll skip the Unsworth though, a bit too close to home 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’d definitely recommend the Adichie for Novellas in November (if not before).

      I can understand not wanting to relive some experiences…


  7. buriedinprint | Reply

    I heard an interview with Adichie and thought, initially, like you, that I wouldn’t be pulled into this all-too-familiar territory, but the interview was brilliantly conducted too.

    For new releases, I think you might enjoy Gold Diggers (Sanjina Sathian). There’s a lot of gold mixed in to a most ordinary family story-I liked it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Sounds great, thanks! I somehow hadn’t heard of that one.

      Liked by 1 person

  8. Notes on Grief and After the Storm will both be added to my list – Notes for obvious reasons (the grief theme) and Storm because I have always enjoyed Unsworth’s writing, and will be particularly interested to see how much of Adults reflected her lived experience.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Both seem right up your street. I’ve read Adults and the protagonist’s experience didn’t seem very similar to me, apart from having had (a) miscarriage/s.


      1. Without knowing what’s covered in After the Storm, I’ll be keen to see how much her lived experience of ambiguous grief and disenfranchised grief informs her fiction.


  9. […] Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie […]


  10. […] this taste of her autobiographical writing but, unfortunately, it outshone her full-length memoir, After the Storm, which I read later in the year. Susanna Crossman tells of dressing up as a clown for her clinical […]


  11. […] restrictions were no longer a factor; they delayed his memorial service.) My original review is here. Cathy also reviewed it. If you wish, you can read the New Yorker piece it arose from […]


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