Caleb Azumah Nelson

The highly anticipated new novel from the author of OPEN WATER - available for pre-order now 'A world can be two people, occupying a space where they don't have to explain. Where they can feel beautiful. Where they might feel free.' Praise for OPEN WATER: 'A tender and touching love story, beautifully told' Observer 10 Best Debut Novelists of 2021 'A beautiful and powerful novel about the true and sometimes painful depths of love' Candice Carty-Williams, bestselling author of QUEENIE 'An unforgettable debut... it's Sally Rooney meets Michaela Coel meets Teju Cole' New York Times 'A love song to Black art and thought' Yaa Gyasi, bestselling author of HOMEGOING and TRANSCENDENT KINGDOM 'An amazing debut novel. You should read this book. Let's hear it for Caleb Azumah Nelson, also known as the future' Benjamin Zephaniah 'A very touching and heartfelt book' Diana Evans, award-winning author of ORDINARY PEOPLE 'A lyrical modern love story, brilliant on music and art, race and London life, I enjoyed it hugely' David Nicholls, author of ONE DAY and SWEET SORROW 'Caleb is a star in the making' Nikesh Shukla, editor of THE GOOD IMMIGRANT and BROWN BABY 'A stunning piece of art' Bolu Babalola, bestselling author of LOVE IN COLOUR 'For those that are missing the tentative depiction of love in Normal People, Caleb Azumah Nelson's Open Water is set to become one of 2021's unmissable books. Utterly transporting, it'll leave you weeping and in awe.' Stylist 'An exhilarating new voice in British fiction' Vogue 'A poetic novel about Black identity and first love in the capital from one of Britain's most exciting young voices' Harper's Bazaar 'An intense, elegant debut' Guardian

Small Worlds

Alexander Stelzhammer

Maybe this is all we need sometimes, for someone else to believe in the possibilities you see for yourself.

Grief never ends, but we find a way to walk in the light someone has left behind, rather than living in pain's shadow.

Lindsay

Nii hears a song which moves something in him and gestures for us to dance, and since the alcohol is dizzying around my body, I’m bold and audacious, flinging my limbs with what I mistake for freedom, all my dance moves my father’s, and his father’s before that, because the dead never leave.

And while anger is a necessary emotion, it feels more frequently misdirected; this misdirection how the death we know in multitudes multiplies further, and much of this misdirection emerges from not having space, from feeling like this city is closing in, trying to magic us away, encouraging our disappearance.

I leave, walking out into the late afternoon of an early summer, when everything should be blossoming, everything should feel new and beautiful. I pray then, like I’ve never prayed before, asking not for money, or a job, but that this new world I’m walking out into, this new world I’m building for myself, I ask that it be constructed from peace.

Grief never ends, but we find a way to walk in the light someone has left behind, rather than living in pain’s shadow.

Tonight, out means acknowledging that, for a sound to resonate, for us to hear it, it has to make physical contact with us, which is perhaps why the deep rumble of a bassline moves us so. Tonight, I might slap an open palm against the wall, might let my body bend to the bassline, like prostrating to something Godlike, something honest. Tonight, I might find my faith again, I might believe. And if it’s going to happen, it will be where I know myself best: in the moments just before a beat drops, having been teased slowly for what feels like hours, beautiful chords sneaking through the mud of percussion, anticipation at its height, my eyes closed in reverence of this moment, gratitude that I could be taken that high, that I might scrape heaven with my outstretched hands. And it’s not just me; catching another in the same motion, we might be drawn together, drawing so close our heads might touch, two Black crowns in the dim light of this ecstasy. Tonight, out means I’m content to stay in that space, just before the drums drop, in that moment where anything might be possible.

Koby’s voice falters to a halt when he tries to say just what it means to love, tries to say everything in a few sentences, and the weight of it undoes him, like the way love might unspool our tightly wound selves, the way love might encourage looseness, might encourage us to be free, and since the one thing which might solve our problems is dancing, it only makes sense that here, long after Ife has reached a gentle hand to Koby’s face and they have spoken aloud what they already knew, long after we’ve had to wipe the tears streaking our faces for photos, long after confetti showers and restless children racing up and down a patch of concrete, one of them falling, a scrape of a knee, tears, a sharp word from his mother followed by a warm embrace, long after the food has been served, the buffet piled on to plates, me and Ray marvelling at the miracle of party jollof– It’s just better, bro, don’t ask me how– long after the speeches, during which Koby describes the day he met Ife, in those first few weeks of college when they were awkward and aimless, not knowing the days they were spending– long, gentle days full of laughter and arguments and closeness– were the days they might grow to know what love might be, where they might grow to feel beautiful, to feel free, Ife and Koby take to the floor for their first dance, D’Angelo’s ‘The Root’ moving them across the space.

I’ll hide my desire away. I’ll hide away my solitude, how its enormity has turned it into something I don’t know how to wrangle with, something thick and heavy and suffocating. Rather than tell him of the loneliness, I’ll tell him it’s all OK, everything is OK.

‘Sometimes you just gotta do stuff for yourself. You can’t please everyone.’ He shakes his head again. ‘That’s my problem. That’s all our problems, all the men in our family. Why you think Pops is like he is. It’s like we’re all haunted by the same thing.’

‘We’re all scared. That we might offend someone, or we might do what we want to do, and it gets snatched away from us. And I hear it! The world’s a scary place. But fuck all that, Stephen.’ His eyes glitter in the sunshine, the sadness in his voice competing with the spark I see. ‘Don’t be scared of being honest, being yourself. Or you’ll end up like me.’

Her life is informed by loss but because she’s lost, she loves and loves freely, openly, with all she can.

To go back home is to wrangle with who you are against who everyone thinks you should be.

‘Feel like I’m just floating. Like I’m in an ocean and just floating. I just want it to take me away, to take me somewhere. Tired of just . . . floating. Etomi, Stephen. Etomi.’ We both laugh, sadly, knowing in Ga this word means tired. But not the kind which sleep might solve, no; the translation is to be tired to the depths of your being.

I want to build a place where there’s a sense of freedom which isn’t attached to anything else, that doesn’t come as part of a transaction.

I think of how the track I can hear playing was recorded in one take, and what faith this would’ve taken, what it might mean to fall forwards into the vastness of possibility. How it might feel like the fear I feel now, but what beauty might lie on the other side.

It’s here, when I’m with her, I know that a world can be two people, occupying a space where we don’t have to explain. Where we can feel beautiful. Where we might feel free.

carolreadabook

thx to netgalley and the authors plublisher for the eARC :)

um dos livros mais lindos e doloridos que eu já li na minha vida, mas tbm um dos mais necessários! eu nem sei como descrever a escrita do Caleb e o quao perfeita ela foi. 

O livro acompanha o menino Stephen em três fases da sua vida e como a presença da musica é um dos motivos para ele continuar a sonhar a ponto de ela tbm ser o motivo de ele se afastar dos pai e tbm a maneira como ele se reconectam. 

além de falar sobre o assunto super delicado que é a imagraçao e como eles estao sempre tentando criar um lugar para si... e infelizmente sobre a violencia policial que eles sofrem. 

simplesmente, perfeito e eu amei a oportunidade de le-lo.


ps, se é branco e deu menos que nota 3 pra esse livro, automaticamente side eye, criminal ofensive side eye

"So instead, we build each other a small world, our solos swelling, rising like a chorus, forward as he goes back, back as he goes forward, our hands to our chests in reverence, building a church with our rhythm, a place we don't have to explain, a place where we can be honest and true; Godlike, even. A place we can both surrender." 

Small Worlds follows Stephen over three consecutive and transformative summers of his life. Its summers of love and friendship, music and dance, family and food, the small worlds we create for ourselves to try and hide from the harder topics of racism, migration, loss and grief touched on through its pages. 

As with Open Water, the lyrical prose throughout creates not just a novel but a playlist, a poem, a song, its own dance. This helps draw to the main focus of dance and rhythm throughout, the ebb and flow of words creating a symphony on the page. Added to this is also a tracklist of Stephen's summers, ones you want to listen to and savour as you read, to embrace the songs beating a rhythm through his head which he responds to in movement and action. Music weaves its way throughout these pages, giving an extra pulse, an extra life, a sound of Stephen's small world. 

The exploration of depression and also father and son relationships and the difficulties of expressing these more intimate thoughts within ourselves was done so beautifully, so heartfelt, so honest and pure. There were sections within these moments that made me want to pause, catch my breath, and reflect on these innermost feelings and habits built within ourselves and those we're closest to. 

Another fantastic novel, firmly supplanting Caleb Azumah Nelson on my auto-buy list. 

Thank you to Netgalley and Penguin for this eARC in exchange for my honest review.

Victoria Justice

"So instead, we build each other a small world, our solos swelling, rising like a chorus, forward as he goes back, back as he goes forward, our hands to our chests in reverence, building a church with our rhythm, a place we don't have to explain, a place where we can be honest and true; Godlike, even. A place we can both surrender." 

Small Worlds follows Stephen over three consecutive and transformative summers of his life. Its summers of love and friendship, music and dance, family and food, the small worlds we create for ourselves to try and hide from the harder topics of racism, migration, loss and grief touched on through its pages. 

As with Open Water, the lyrical prose throughout creates not just a novel but a playlist, a poem, a song, its own dance. This helps draw to the main focus of dance and rhythm throughout, the ebb and flow of words creating a symphony on the page. Added to this is also a tracklist of Stephen's summers, ones you want to listen to and savour as you read, to embrace the songs beating a rhythm through his head which he responds to in movement and action. Music weaves its way throughout these pages, giving an extra pulse, an extra life, a sound of Stephen's small world. 

The exploration of depression and also father and son relationships and the difficulties of expressing these more intimate thoughts within ourselves was done so beautifully, so heartfelt, so honest and pure. There were sections within these moments that made me want to pause, catch my breath, and reflect on these innermost feelings and habits built within ourselves and those we're closest to. 

Another fantastic novel, firmly supplanting Caleb Azumah Nelson on my auto-buy list. 

Thank you to Netgalley and Penguin for this eARC in exchange for my honest review.

Small Worlds

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