Genre Fiction
![Karen Jennings - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00GSH75OI.jpg)
An Island: A Novel
LONGLISTED FOR THE BOOKER PRIZE • "A ferocious, swift chess game of a novel" (Paul Yoon, author of Run Me to Earth) about a lighthouse keeper with a mysterious past, and the stranger who washes up on his shores-the American debut of a major voice in world literature.
"[A] heartrending psychological portrait of trauma and xenophobia, and the scars left by successive corrupt governments on the people forced to endure them."-Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett, The Guardian
Samuel has lived alone on a small island off the coast of an unnamed African country for more than two decades. He tends to his garden, his lighthouse, and his chickens, content with a solitary life. Routinely, the nameless bodies of refugees wash ashore, but Samuel-who understands that the government only values certain lives, certain deaths-always buries them himself.
One day, though, he finds that one of these bodies is still breathing. As he nurses the stranger back to life, Samuel-feeling strangely threatened-is soon swept up in memories of his former life as a political prisoner on the mainland. This was a life that saw his country exploited under colonial rule, followed by a period of revolution and a brief, hard-won independence-only for the cycle of suffering to continue under a cruel dictator. And he can't help but recall his own shameful role in that history. In this stranger's presence, he begins to consider, as he did in his youth: What does it mean to own land, or to belong to it? And what does it cost to have, and lose, a home?
A timeless and gripping portrait of regret, terror, and the extraordinary stakes of companionship, An Island is a story as page-turning as it is profound.
"[A] heartrending psychological portrait of trauma and xenophobia, and the scars left by successive corrupt governments on the people forced to endure them."-Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett, The Guardian
Samuel has lived alone on a small island off the coast of an unnamed African country for more than two decades. He tends to his garden, his lighthouse, and his chickens, content with a solitary life. Routinely, the nameless bodies of refugees wash ashore, but Samuel-who understands that the government only values certain lives, certain deaths-always buries them himself.
One day, though, he finds that one of these bodies is still breathing. As he nurses the stranger back to life, Samuel-feeling strangely threatened-is soon swept up in memories of his former life as a political prisoner on the mainland. This was a life that saw his country exploited under colonial rule, followed by a period of revolution and a brief, hard-won independence-only for the cycle of suffering to continue under a cruel dictator. And he can't help but recall his own shameful role in that history. In this stranger's presence, he begins to consider, as he did in his youth: What does it mean to own land, or to belong to it? And what does it cost to have, and lose, a home?
A timeless and gripping portrait of regret, terror, and the extraordinary stakes of companionship, An Island is a story as page-turning as it is profound.
Editorial Reviews
"An Island by Karen Jennings, is quite simply a revelation-a ferocious, swift chess game of a novel that urgently asks us: What will we be held responsible for in the end? This is a story of hauntings, of the unraveling of secrets and the self, and I couldn't put it down."-Paul Yoon, author of Run Me to Earth
"Centuries of colonialism, post-colonialism, refugee crises, political upheavals: Rare is the author who can start with such complex material and relentlessly pare it back to its essentials, as Karen Jennings does. Beginning with the arrival of a stranger on Samuel's island, and then over the course of four tense days, we feel the weight of each decision he makes, as well as the unease, the paranoia, the ever-present threat of violence. Humble may the characters be, and rocky and windswept their island, but even here, in such unseen places, are terrible battles played out. Honest and unflinching."-Claire Adam, author of Golden Child
"Through carefully crafted prose and keen political observations, Karen Jennings's An Island captures history and its consequences in a narrative of quiet violence, displacement, and isolation. This compact book carries the punch of a much larger work, and it does what a good book should: It compels the reader to read on and on until the end, and then to restart once more."-Rémy Ngamije, author of The Eternal Audience of One
"Allegorical and yet profoundly concrete, An Island is an insightful meditation on the illusion of isolation and the possibility of redemption, gracefully told and terrifically moving."-Alexandra Kleeman, author of Something New Under the Sun
"Jennings adroitly weaves Samuel's painful past into a disquieting present and through her characters captures universal human truths."-Booklist
"Centuries of colonialism, post-colonialism, refugee crises, political upheavals: Rare is the author who can start with such complex material and relentlessly pare it back to its essentials, as Karen Jennings does. Beginning with the arrival of a stranger on Samuel's island, and then over the course of four tense days, we feel the weight of each decision he makes, as well as the unease, the paranoia, the ever-present threat of violence. Humble may the characters be, and rocky and windswept their island, but even here, in such unseen places, are terrible battles played out. Honest and unflinching."-Claire Adam, author of Golden Child
"Through carefully crafted prose and keen political observations, Karen Jennings's An Island captures history and its consequences in a narrative of quiet violence, displacement, and isolation. This compact book carries the punch of a much larger work, and it does what a good book should: It compels the reader to read on and on until the end, and then to restart once more."-Rémy Ngamije, author of The Eternal Audience of One
"Allegorical and yet profoundly concrete, An Island is an insightful meditation on the illusion of isolation and the possibility of redemption, gracefully told and terrifically moving."-Alexandra Kleeman, author of Something New Under the Sun
"Jennings adroitly weaves Samuel's painful past into a disquieting present and through her characters captures universal human truths."-Booklist
Readers Top Reviews
NinaminacatRyan H
Karen Jennings' "An Island" is not a long book by any means, but short books such as "Chronicle of a Death Foretold" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and "The Outsider" by Albert Camus often have an impact well above their weight. In one sense it is the simple tale of a lighthouse keeper, the sole inhabitant of a small island off the coast of an unspecified African country, confronting the difficulties of sharing his home and his land with a person with whom he has no common language. However this is, quite literally, only half the story. His interactions with the stranger remind him of the past - both his country's past with its change from rule by colonials to a freedom which, "Animal Farm" style, soon becomes another form of oppression - and his own past of political activism, the very factor which has brought him to this lonely existence. The present on the island and the past on the mainland are cleverly interleaved, so that lighthouse keeper's former life is only slowly revealed and the sense of the tension between the two men (only intensified by the lack of language) builds unremittingly until the superb ending. I am so disappointed that "An Island" hasn't made it from the 2021 Man Booker Prize long list to the shortlist. An unreserved 5 stars - and I shall be searching for Karen Jennings' earlier works.
C.Campbell
Devastating fable of a life lived in conditions of extreme precarity, violence and continual trauma in an unnamed African country. After years of suffering, abuse and imprisonment, and his ill-fated participation in futile attempts to overthrow a cruel dictator, Samuel ends up as a lighthouse keeper on an isolated and deserted island. His fragile peace is interrupted when a body is washed ashore, and he gradually unravels.
Catmandu
This is a remarkable novel, packing a huge amount into under 200 pages. The premise is a tiny island, a simple existence, a man washing up on shore. The echoes of Robinson Crusoe are surely deliberate, but this is a contemporary version, with political turbulence and the refugee crisis at its heart. Over 4 days the men develop a wary relationship and we learn Samuel's history. It works both as story and as a meditation on humanity. Every sentence adds something and the whole is absolutely engrossing.
Sally Ann Melia
This is a deep and dark read, that explores the themes of loneliness and dispossession. Once started it is difficult to put down and it is a chilling take of how political corruption and profiteering ruins the lives of the powerless many
Sonpoppie
An Island by Karen Jennings — everyone is talking about this book. There are other reviews but had to add mine! It’s a small gem but also a great masterpiece. Very Coetzeesque. It reminded me of Disgrace. Just brilliant and by one so young. Her observation of human life and behavior is acute. I can’t get it out of my mind. The author wanted to explore certain complexities relating to the history of the African continent and how that history continues to influence the lives of individuals to this day but the island could be anywhere — off Africa, off South or Central America, off the US, off Australia. Samuel, the lighthouse keeper, lives a solitary life. He has been on the island for 23 years, a mirror of the 23 years he was in jail on the mainland. There are many mirrors here. Samuel isn’t involved with anyone except when deliveries are brought twice monthly. Then too he contains himself. But no man is an island. A body washes up on shore and Samuel will do what he has done with the others — he’ll bury it in the wall under stones. Won’t say anything, think anything. That is until this body moves and he realises it is alive. It’s a stranger, a refugee, who can’t speak his language. Now Samuel is confronted by his fears, his humanity, his history. Violence was a great part of his history as he watched the great promise of freedom and equality fade as corruption and greed followed the dream of democracy and rainbows. It could be SA after 1994, it could be Brazil, it could be America under the tyranny of consumerism and control or Australia fearing the refugees, keeping them on Nauru. It doesn’t matter. The story is about our humanity, about losing it or keeping it. But as we know the abused becomes the abuser. Even as Samuel revisits his past in flashbacks, the awful things done to him and others, he struggles to find a way to be kind and humane to this stranger. All the stereotypes of “the other” raise their heads and engage with his fear and discrimination. The stranger is dirty, stinks, is stupid because he can’t talk his language, is dangerous, will kill him. He struggles to lay down his fears and see the stranger as a human needing support and help and kindness. There’s little kindness except toward the little red hen. She’s a victim too, she is persecuted by the other fowls but Samuel can’t see that he’s behaving towards the stranger like the other hens are to the red hen. The stranger is like any refugee trying to survive. He helps Samuel, giving his skills and strength, fixing things, providing companionship. There are moments we see Samuel in touch with his humanity, but they are fleeting. Ultimately he holds onto what he believes are the only things that give him meaning — his island and his red hen. “It’s my island,” he says. When he thinks he’s under danger he projects all his fears onto the stranger as he...
Short Excerpt Teaser
It was the first time that an oil drum had washed up on the scattered pebbles of the island shore. Other items had arrived over the years-ragged shirts, bits of rope, cracked lids from plastic lunch boxes, braids of synthetic material made to resemble hair. There had been bodies, too, as there was today. The length of it stretched out beside the drum, one hand reaching forward as though to indicate that they had made the journey together and did not now wish to be parted.
Samuel saw the drum first, through one of the small windows as he made his way down the inside of the lighthouse tower that morning. He had to walk with care. The stone steps were ancient, worn smooth, their valleyed centers ready to trip him up. He had inserted metal handholds into those places where the cement had allowed, but the rest of the descent was done with arms outstretched, fingers brushing the rough sides in support.
The drum was plastic, the blue of workers' overalls, and remained in sight, bobbing in the flow, during his hastening to the shore. The body he saw only once he arrived. He sidestepped it, walking a tight circle around the drum. It was fat as a president, without any visible cracks or punctures.
He lifted it carefully. It was empty; the seal had held. Yet despite being light, the thing was unwieldy. It would not be possible with his gnarled hands to grip that smooth surface and carry it across the jagged pebbles, over the boulders, and then up along the sandy track, through scrub and grasses, to the headland where the cottage sat alongside the tower. Perhaps if he fetched a rope and tied the drum to his back, he could avoid using the ancient wooden barrow with its wheel that splintered and caught on the craggy beach, often overturning as a result of its own weight.
Yes, carrying the drum on his back would be the best option. Afterward, in the yard, he would hunt out the old hacksaw that lived among sacking and rotting planks. He would rub the rust from the blade, sharpen it as best he could, and saw the top off the drum, then place it in an outside corner of the cottage where the guttering overflowed, so that it could catch rainwater for use in his vegetable garden.
Samuel let the drum fall. It lurched on the uneven surface, thudding against the arm of the corpse. He had forgotten about that. He sighed. All day it would take him to dispose of the body. All day. First moving it, then the burial, which was impossible anyway on the rocky island with its thin layer of sand. The only option was to cover it with stones, as he had done with others in the past. Yet it was such a large body. Not in breadth, but in its length. Twice as long as the drum, as though the swell and ebb of the sea had mangled it into this unnatural, elongated form.
The arms were strong, disproportionate to the naked torso's knuckled spine and sharp ribs. Small, fine black curls formed patches on each shoulder blade, and more colored the base of the back where it met his gray denim shorts. The same curls, small, too small for a man of his size, grew on his legs and toes, across his forearms and between the joins of his fingers. They unsettled Samuel. They were the hairs of a newborn animal or of a baby who had stayed too long in the womb. What had the sea birthed here on these stones?
Already, as the midmorning sun was rising, the curls were silvering with salt crystals. His hair, too, was gray where sand had settled in it. Grains adhered to the only portion of the man's face that was visible-part of his forehead, a closed eye. The rest of the face was pressed into his shoulder.
Samuel tutted. That would have to wait. First he would tend to the drum, then next morning, if the body hadn't drifted back into the sea, he would have to break some of the island's rocks, creating enough pieces to cover it.
There had been thirty-two of these washed-up corpses during the twenty-three years that he had been lighthouse keeper. All thirty-two nameless, unclaimed. In the beginning, when the government was new, crisp with promises, when all was still chaos, and the dead and missing of a quarter of a century under dictatorial rule were being sought, Samuel had reported the bodies. The first time officials had come out, with clipboards and a dozen body bags, combing the island for shallow graves, for remains lodged between boulders, for bones and teeth that had become part of the gravelly sand.
"You understand," the woman in charge had said, as she looked down at a scuff mark on her patent-leather heels, "we have made promises. We must find all those who suffered under the Dictator so that we can move forward, nationally. In a field outside the capital, my colleagues found a grave of at least fifty bodies. Another colleague discovered t...
Samuel saw the drum first, through one of the small windows as he made his way down the inside of the lighthouse tower that morning. He had to walk with care. The stone steps were ancient, worn smooth, their valleyed centers ready to trip him up. He had inserted metal handholds into those places where the cement had allowed, but the rest of the descent was done with arms outstretched, fingers brushing the rough sides in support.
The drum was plastic, the blue of workers' overalls, and remained in sight, bobbing in the flow, during his hastening to the shore. The body he saw only once he arrived. He sidestepped it, walking a tight circle around the drum. It was fat as a president, without any visible cracks or punctures.
He lifted it carefully. It was empty; the seal had held. Yet despite being light, the thing was unwieldy. It would not be possible with his gnarled hands to grip that smooth surface and carry it across the jagged pebbles, over the boulders, and then up along the sandy track, through scrub and grasses, to the headland where the cottage sat alongside the tower. Perhaps if he fetched a rope and tied the drum to his back, he could avoid using the ancient wooden barrow with its wheel that splintered and caught on the craggy beach, often overturning as a result of its own weight.
Yes, carrying the drum on his back would be the best option. Afterward, in the yard, he would hunt out the old hacksaw that lived among sacking and rotting planks. He would rub the rust from the blade, sharpen it as best he could, and saw the top off the drum, then place it in an outside corner of the cottage where the guttering overflowed, so that it could catch rainwater for use in his vegetable garden.
Samuel let the drum fall. It lurched on the uneven surface, thudding against the arm of the corpse. He had forgotten about that. He sighed. All day it would take him to dispose of the body. All day. First moving it, then the burial, which was impossible anyway on the rocky island with its thin layer of sand. The only option was to cover it with stones, as he had done with others in the past. Yet it was such a large body. Not in breadth, but in its length. Twice as long as the drum, as though the swell and ebb of the sea had mangled it into this unnatural, elongated form.
The arms were strong, disproportionate to the naked torso's knuckled spine and sharp ribs. Small, fine black curls formed patches on each shoulder blade, and more colored the base of the back where it met his gray denim shorts. The same curls, small, too small for a man of his size, grew on his legs and toes, across his forearms and between the joins of his fingers. They unsettled Samuel. They were the hairs of a newborn animal or of a baby who had stayed too long in the womb. What had the sea birthed here on these stones?
Already, as the midmorning sun was rising, the curls were silvering with salt crystals. His hair, too, was gray where sand had settled in it. Grains adhered to the only portion of the man's face that was visible-part of his forehead, a closed eye. The rest of the face was pressed into his shoulder.
Samuel tutted. That would have to wait. First he would tend to the drum, then next morning, if the body hadn't drifted back into the sea, he would have to break some of the island's rocks, creating enough pieces to cover it.
There had been thirty-two of these washed-up corpses during the twenty-three years that he had been lighthouse keeper. All thirty-two nameless, unclaimed. In the beginning, when the government was new, crisp with promises, when all was still chaos, and the dead and missing of a quarter of a century under dictatorial rule were being sought, Samuel had reported the bodies. The first time officials had come out, with clipboards and a dozen body bags, combing the island for shallow graves, for remains lodged between boulders, for bones and teeth that had become part of the gravelly sand.
"You understand," the woman in charge had said, as she looked down at a scuff mark on her patent-leather heels, "we have made promises. We must find all those who suffered under the Dictator so that we can move forward, nationally. In a field outside the capital, my colleagues found a grave of at least fifty bodies. Another colleague discovered t...
