In 2010 Granta included Sònia Hernández on their list of the best, young Spanish novelists but this is the first novel available in English – although at 85 pages it’s really a novella. This is one of those rare occasions where I ended up really liking a book despite actively disliking a lot of its features. Not only that, I quickly realised I’d approached this with a completely false set of expectations. I think part of that stemmed from the English-language title, lifted from the first of two sections. The Spanish title’s from part two and, I think, sets up an entirely different relationship between story and reader, adding a much-needed, element of dramatic irony, a level of suspense and scepticism that alters how the first half works. Prosopagnosia’s discussed but more as metaphor, tied to wider themes around perception/self-perception.

There are three main characters, a mother, daughter Berta and an older man Vicente Roja. Neither Berta or her mother are at ease with themselves or their surroundings, unmoored after the sudden departure of Pablo, Berta’s father. When a psychology class introduces the notion that reality’s shaped by learnt responses ordering how and what we see, Berta and her friends are so fascinated they invent the prosopagnosia game, desperate to see themselves in some radically different form. The mother becomes equally fascinated by meeting Vicente Roja, who seems to her a sage-like, “moral beacon,” holding the key to the truths she’s seeking. Initially I found the slightly stereotypical nature of Hernández’s characters frustrating, too literal, lacking nuance, but then I realised this piece only gestures towards psychological realism. It’s essentially a novel of ideas, in which the mannered prose, thinly-sketched characters and slender plot, are vehicles for Hernández’s exploration of the role of art and the artist, authenticity, identity, and the performance of the self.

It’s a highly referential piece, drawing on Hernández’s background as an art and literary critic and her interests in writers like Max Aub and Fernando Pessoa, as well as artists and critics, like Juan Garcia Ponce, and notably, Mexican artist Vicente Roja. Hernández ventures into debates that may be familiar from ongoing discussions surrounding literary and artistic hoaxes - which feature heavily here, from Poe to Pessoa. She’s interested in questions around authority, authorship, and identity, whether who speaks is more, or less, significant than what’s spoken; and the persona we may or may not adopt to negotiate the world. She teases out issues around fabrication as a creative act, rather than a negative - not so much about lying as a process of construction. She poses a series of complex, tantalising questions, although they’re also controversial ones in the light of recent anxieties around the Internet and fake news. It’s an uneven book, with some awkward, clumsy aspects but I frequently found it stimulating, thoughtful, and, above all, I liked its ambition. Translated here by Samuel Rutter.

Many thanks to Netgalley UK and publisher Scribe Publications for an arc

This is a tantalising book that shape-shifts playfully as it seems to start off as one type of story before metamorphosing into something unexpected and different. In fluent and accessible prose, Hernández (ably translated by Samuel Rutter) deals with big abstract, philosophical topics - the difference between truth and reality, authenticity in art and authority, subjectivity versus a 'reality' which is communally constructed and socially authorised, female self-abnegation versus empowerment - wrapped up in a story that, at first, seems to follow an art/fraud narrative before swerving into something far more challenging and unexpected. Along the way it isn't afraid to blend humour with more sombre elements so that the smart intellectual sharpness co-exists with a droll wittiness that won me over. Definitely a writer to watch.

It can feel quite hard to pin down this novella- as it flits between a mother and her daughter, our grip on reality blurs just as much as it does for the characters themselves. Characters appear and are not who they say they are, but just like the title (the inability to recognise faces, even familiar ones) the book shifts constantly and keeps you at an arm's length.

Whereas I can see how for many people that can be alienating and unenjoyable, I think it lent a kind of disquieting power to the book. It almost does not matter who is who and what is happening- the book instead feels like a surreal short film.

And just like many books from the brilliant publisher Scribe, this book is a shapeshifter that is not ever just one thing.

I received an advanced copy of this book from NetGalley and Scribe in exchange for an honest review.