This book wasn’t for me. It is very much a character study and there isn’t a lot of plot. I felt bored in places.
There are many storylines which never seemed to be pulled together

This was a bizarre book that follows a young woman who becomes obsessed with a crime that happened in Mexico in the past. The style reminded me of Rooney and Dolan, in the vein of apathetic young women who move like ghost through their own lives.

Nothing happens in this book, so don't expect a plot-heavy book, but rather one centred on portraying a cast of characters, connections and lifestyle of the early 21st century. The protagonist is with a man she's not sure she likes and is friends with people she isn't sure she liked either, so it was difficult to care at times.

All she cared about was this crime, with this she has no connections and yet is obsessed with. It felt absurd at times, but I liked that there was criticism of this obsession and by the end the author and protagonist seem to run with that. Don't know what to really think of it: it was an easy read that won't leave its mark.

strange! culturally mixed up i think, with its characters and central tension, seems a bit autobiographical to me. but in general it was fine, prose wasn't bad

I really liked the idea of this book and it is well written, but I struggled with the story at times. I felt the pace was too slow d so one times snd the character was not u derstood enough by me. I would however read another book by this author.

This was well-written and ambitious but I feel like its meaning and beauty went over my head a lot of the time. This was like a critically-lauded innovative movie that I can appreciate but wouldn't be my choice for escapist fun.

The crux of Christy Edwall’s novel, “History Keeps Me Awake at Night”, is encapsulated in a quote the protagonist refers to suggesting that “investigation should be as experimental and intuitive as it is rational and practical”.

In this sense, it is essential reading for anyone with a passion for journalism, as Edwall takes readers on a deep philosophical and psychological dive into the motions that an investigative journalist might go through whenever they set their sights on uncovering inexplecable or unsolved mysteries.

The narrative focuses on Margit, a former student of art history and journalism, who unexpectedly finds herself compelled to investigate the still-unsolved real-life case of the “forced disappearance” of forty-three students from Ayotzinapa. Her ensuing quest finds her navigating Google Maps, brushing up her rudimentary Spanish with the help of an app, picking the brains of new acquaintances she meets through chance (or are they?) encounters, and even enlisting the services of a psychic. All these efforts, when strung together to provide a bigger picture – no matter how irrelevant and coincidental they may all seem, even to Margit, provide a head-scratching but relatable meditation on the philosophy and psychology of chance, coincidence and contingency.

As Edwall weaves historic facts and culture into the Margit’s journey, often resorting to copious amounts of exposition, bombarding the reading with a flood of information that oftentimes feels somewhat superfluous or irrelevant, the underlying genesis of the novel gradually shines through: Margit’s investigative journalistic hunches and gut instincts are revealed to be analogous to the kinds of intuitions and inspirations that might prompt an author or artist to create a particular piece of work.

The characters are developed exceptionally well, and whenever Edwall turns her attention to Margit’s interactions with the book’s disparate characters, or to flashbacks that come to mind, the writing gains a new level of fascination, emphasising just how different we all are, particularly in the ways in which we are hardwired to read and intuit events in such widely contrasting ways.

And whilst Edwall focuses so extensively on the ins-and-outs of artistic and journalistic circles, the most resonant portions of the book came when all of Margit’s aforementioned intellectual entourage and sheer dedication towards solving the case take her on a journey of self-discovery, as all of Margit’s sleuthing ultimately helps her find her bearings in her immediate surroundings.

Though it took me a little while to settle into this book, given the sheer amount of exposition, once I did find my footing, Edwall delivers a unique and fascinating glimpse into the psyche of a journalist determined to unearth a mystery, albeit with, as she puts it, “blunt spades”, and how, despite her dedication overshadowing everything and everyone around her, all the rabbit holes and cul-de-sacs she explores are anything but dead ends: her quest to try and locate something that has been lost ultimately serves as a means of opening her eyes to the true purpose and meaning of life.

It's not my kind of novel: I didn't know what to expect and I think other will surely love it. On my side I was confused and didn't care for the characters.
Not my cup of tea.
Many thanks to the publisher for this arc, all opinions are mine

I've enjoyed a couple of Granta books recently, but this didn't have the distinctive voice I've come to expect. It's heavy on exposition and reads more like long-form journalism than fiction. I feel like I've read a lot of books lately about interns exploited in supposedly glamorous settings and for me it needed something more. DNF

Another reviewer on Goodreads wrote: "this book is simultaneously all and none of the things it's been described as" - which sums up my thoughts exactly. I don't know how else to phrase it.

Its a fabulous title and a beautifully written character study, which definitely falls into the literary fiction genre - rather than squarely into crime or thriller as you may expect from the synopsis. Margit's childhood and study of art are woven into the story as she becomes increasingly more obsessed with looking at the case of the missing 43 students (a real case). Ultimately, it is more about Margit's obsession with the case than her attempt to look at it from a different perspective or get to the bottom of it.

It felt like A LOT was thrown into the mix - there are many strands, some of which don't feel like they are quite pulled out enough - a bit like the fevered board that Margit makes to track her notes about the crime. It's complex and intelligent - there were moments where I probably lost a number of references, but on the whole, enjoyable and compelling.

I struggled to get into the novel but powered through and ultimately it was worth it. Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for an advanced copy of this book in exchange for a review.

2.5 rounded up

Reading this novel felt to me like looking at some kind of abstract contemporary art: whilst I could admire the skill and technical know-how to create it, I felt all deeper meaning it wanted to convey was utterly lost on me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the ride - the writing was accomplished and it accurately pinpointed how it feels to be a lost millennial post-university - but I'm not sure what to take away from the novel (particularly Margit's obsession with the 'desaparecidos').

Thank you Netgalley and Gramta for the advance copy, which was provided in exchange for an honest review.

History Keeps Me Awake at Night to me reads like a non-fiction memoir. Reading it is like reading a travel book, where you know the facts and places are real, but accept some of the characters and situations may be embellished, although this is not a travel book. It reads like a real narrative. It is an easy read in a good way, it rattles along nicely, its engaging, and time passes. There is a lot to think about inside the book, and it’s a book I can see myself reading again in the future. Definitely a book I would recommend.

When you pick up a book titled History Keeps Me Awake At Night, you know right from the outset that this is going to be some unapologetically literary fiction.

The story riffs off art criticism (particularly Berger's Ways of Seeing), playing with the idea of perspective. It's a bold debut, unafraid of dense symbolism, stark metaphors and the odd bit of deliberately aimless posturing. Sometimes it could have benefitted from a bit more narrative grounding. The characters are a little too transparent (more figurative than fully-realised human beings), and several of the scenes lack subtlety. It needs just a little bit more real to balance out the cerebral.

Caustic and complex, History Keeps Me Awake At Night is an ambitious literary debut that's almost too smart for its own good.

Although I was completely absorbed by Christy Edwall’s dense, ambitious debut, I’m not entirely sure what to make of it Narrated in the first person by Margit, a former student of art history and journalism, it’s centred on disappearances, both personal and internal and public and physical. Ever since her childhood Margit’s been a fan of unsolved true crimes that involve some form of vanishing like the Lord Lucan case. Now married to the increasingly-successful Nat, Margit’s stuck in a dead-end job, rootless and dissatisfied she’s part of a circle of friends and acquaintances who seem enviably certain of themselves and their surroundings. Margit’s also fixated on the work of Roberto Bolano, in particular <i>2666</i> which she keeps with her like some kind of talisman. Her latest obsession stems from her reading of Bolano and a chance encounter with an article concerning the possible fate of the Ayotzinapa 43, the real-life Mexican students who disappeared, or rather were disappeared, in 2014 - since the subject of numerous articles, forensic reconstructions, and extensive speculation. Margit steeps herself in the known facts of the case, retracing the students’ last hours via Google images and starts to view herself as a unique type of amateur detective, whose inexperience and idiosyncratic methods may enable her to uncover angles others have missed – she even consults a psychic in the hope of contacting the 43 beyond the grave. But her quest is also tied to her fascination with the nature or potential of modern art – hinted at in the title which is taken from an iconic David Wojnarowicz piece. For Margit her fascination with the “desaparecidos” feels like the basis for an artwork. The kind she associates with Sophie Calle’s particular brand of art as part actual, part existential, detection, a process through which the artist may uncover as much about their own identity as they do their subjects.

Edwall blends historical fact with fragments of art history to explore difficult questions about art and the act of seeing, perception versus voyeurism, and the ways in which the suffering of others can become a spurious source of identification and vicarious pleasures. But she’s also, building on Bolano, Enriquez here, attempting an examination of storytelling itself, fiction as reflection, fiction as a means of thinking about the world. However, typically for a first novel, Edwall has a tendency to throw too much into the mix: anecdotes from literary and art history; comments on gender and imagination; questions of cultural appropriation and the ethics of writing about incidents from which the writer’s both ethnically and geographically removed. Edwall’s ideas and preoccupations flow thick and fast. Margit too is a puzzling character. I really wasn’t sure what Edwall expected readers to make of her, she’s neither classically unlikeable and unreliable nor is she straightforwardly sympathetic; her tendency to trivialise the brutal circumstances of the disappearance of the Ayotzinapa 43 by using their case to pinpoint aspects of her own discontent, the loss of desire in her relationship, a growing longing to disappear, could be grating and uncomfortable. These kinds of uneven, politically dubious comparisons surface at various points in Margit’s narrative, so that her observations about art, and the detailed accounts of the Mexican students and what may have happened to them sometimes felt awkwardly grafted onto a more conventional, “zeitgeisty” lifestyle/relationship novel. Although there were instances where the juxtaposition could also be unexpectedly fertile. My thoughts about the style of the piece were similarly mixed, at various points this flowed really well, with arresting imagery, moments of biting humour, and extremely entertaining digs at various London literary and artistic subcultures; but at other points the characters were too stock and the imagery too forced or annoyingly overblown. Yet despite the flaws, and my reservations, I still found it intelligent and consistently intriguing.