I reviewed this as part of the shortlist for a new UK literary award, the Barbellion Prize, which will be given annually “to an author whose work has best represented the experience of chronic illness and/or disability.”) An imposing, isolated getaway spot high up in the Swiss Alps is the last place Elin Warner wants to be. But Elin's taken time off from her job as a detective, so when her estranged brother, Isaac, and his fiancée, Laure, invite her to celebrate their engagement at the hotel, Elin really has no reason not to accept. DI Alex Finn, still mourning the death of his wife, Karin, from a brain tumour, investigates with DC Mattie Paulsen, who is also grappling with family issues. The Killing Choice is the second in a series that opened with The Burning Men, and is another adept police procedural, building the sense of dread to breaking point as Finn and Paulsen rush to uncover any links between the victims. This is a thoroughly immersive read which leaves the reader wondering how they would react if faced with such an unimaginable choice. As Paulsen says: “If you thought that was the only way we’d both walk away, wouldn’t you?” You go through life as a chronically ill person with so many different people who have so many different opinions about how your treatment should be. They’re not always useful or right. You have to build your own narrative and your own sense of what feels appropriate. You have to learn to trust your body to tell you what’s working. But that’s hard too, when your body keeps changing the rules.

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We are all currently trapped within our own four walls, but Sarah Pearse’s first novel shows us how much worse things could be. Elin Warner is a detective, but has taken time off after a traumatic experience. She has been invited to her brother Isaac’s engagement party in a remote hotel in the Swiss Alps. Arriving as the snow billows, she immediately feels unease – not helped by the fact that the building used to be a sanatorium (“This place… people don’t like it… superstition, I suppose,” she is told), or the acres of glass that let the mountains loom in. “Ever since she’s stepped out of the transfer bus she’s felt it – that creeping sense of something dark, threatening.” I have absolutely no idea what I’ve just read in Abi Palmer’s Sanatorium. It’s part memoir, part flash fiction, part fantasy, part lucid explanation of illness and pain, part metaphor for life, frequently written with the fabulous intensity of a narrative poem and always with luminous, beautiful, and occasionally stark, prose. However Sanatorium might be defined, it is written with incredible imagination, intelligence and beauty. There’s both sadness and humour so that Sanatorium feels perfectly balanced even while the narrator herself can feel slightly unhinged. Other thoughts/things to love: the idiosyncratic description of the sanatorium in Budapest; the awkwardness of those orchestra encounters; how the book doesn't gloss over the messy and often indefinite nature of medical diagnosis; the ironic (imo) rendering of The Lightning Process; the soft, slight way she details other parts of her life (and people in her life) in the book.

I felt very aware that this was a book by someone who works visually as well as word, and it felt perhaps like part of something (a something I'd like to see), a text to be chopped up and projected onto walls with photographs or installations or read out to visitors wearing headphones. It veers between dream-like sequences and down to earth realities - mould on bathtubs, especially in the inflatable she has at home, features heavily. I found the inclusion of the little figures, so typical of rehabilitation leaflets, by way of punctuation between many of the pieces effective and disturbing. She has much to say about the approach and attitudes of those who define themselves as helping professionally and shows how patients are constantly wrong-footed, not listened to and made to doubt themselves, to no good end. She includes a chilling piece which I was not surprised to learn at the end of the book comes from Phil Parker's secretive and money-raking Lightning Process, which oddly seems to appeal to medics and researchers when similar schemes are rightly derided. Conversely I kept finding images from the film A Cure for Wellness popping into my mind as I read (there are no eels this book, thank goodness) A young woman spends a month taking the waters at a thermal water-based rehabilitation facility in Budapest. On her return to London, she attempts to continue her recovery using an 80 pound inflatable blue bathtub. The tub becomes a metaphor for the intrusion of disability; a trip hazard in the middle of an unsuitable room, slowly deflating and in constant danger of falling apart. This was really great and a good example of a more surreal book told in vignettes that really worked for me. Half-hidden by forest and overshadowed by threatening peaks, Le Sommet has always been a sinister place. Long plagued by troubling rumors, the former abandoned sanatorium has since been renovated into a five-star minimalist hotel.

Book Review: THE SANATORIUM by Sarah Pearse - Crime by the Book Book Review: THE SANATORIUM by Sarah Pearse - Crime by the Book

Arriving in the midst of a threatening storm, Elin immediately feels on edge--there's something about the hotel that makes her nervous. And when they wake the following morning to discover Laure is missing, Elin must trust her instincts if they hope to find her. With the storm closing off all access to the hotel, the longer Laure stays missing, the more the remaining guests start to panic. I am reading through the Good Reads list of eligible books for the 2020 Goldsmiths Prize. https://www.gold.ac.uk/goldsmiths-prize/ This prize seeks to reward “creative daring and fiction that breaks the mould or extends the possibilities of the novel form” The shortlist of 6 books will be announced on Sept 30. Let’s see how many of them I can have read in advance! Water plays a big part in that her therapy consists largely of being immersed in a sulphuric bath which “smells like rotten eggs” but seems to help. When she gets home, where there is no bathtub, she obtains a large inflatable plastic tub which sits in the middle of her living room. It’s presence almost becomes a symbol for her illness in that it is always there and in the way.When I look at that sculpture, the folds of her marble dress, I can feel her lightness. Breathing life into stone. That is exactly what it means to float." I wonder if what I’ve learned about chronic illness, more than anything, is that it’s a constant cycle. You fall apart, then you try your best to rebuild again. I wonder what would happen if I stopped trying. A raw, beautiful, haunting, and flowing mix of diary entries, poetry, and creative non-fiction. The book chronicles the author's experience with chronic illness, pain, water, and the seemingly never-ending cycle between being unwell and (almost) well, and believed and questioned about the validity of one's disability. She includes the beautiful and the ugly. It's strange and hypnotic, but I'm into that kind of thing.

The Sanatorium Summary and Study Guide | SuperSummary

A book that breaks genre, that break the flimsy lines of 'reality' and which speaks a hot and steamy truth. I love the way it plays with image, both in its words and illustrations. Abi's descriptions are visceral and right there with you. Tense and disturbing, Lightseekers draws on the real-life lynching and burning of four undergraduates at the University of Port Harcourt in 2012, and is Kayode’s attempt to “honour them and the victims of vigilantes across the world”. An impressive debut. The Sanatorium Sanatorium is a fascinating work – matter-of-fact, playful and sensual – that vividly conveys the reality of life with a chronic illness. It was already on my wish list, but I’m so glad that this shortlisting gave me a chance to read it. Though I haven’t read the other nominees yet, the passages below are proof that this would be a deserving Barbellion Prize winner. In an ideal world that rating would be 4.5 stars, but there's no room for nuance in rating here, right? And that's actually fine, I wish Abi Palmer and this book all good things so let's go with 5. I am one of the more privileged ones and still I’m screaming. God, it would be so nice just to dissolve into nothing and wash up onto a lonely beach.I ask a nurse about the side effects listed on my medication, such as nausea and liver failure. She says that side effects only happen to people who are worried about the side effects. The conversational tone is so convincing that it is as if Abi Palmer is on the phone, telling the reader about her month in the sanatorium in Budapest. This had the effect of drawing me in completely.

The Sanatorium by Sarah Pearse | Waterstones

The book is in snippets, often of just a paragraph or even one sentence, and cycles through its several strands: Abi’s time in Budapest and how she captures it in an audio diary; ongoing therapy at her London flat, custom-designed for disabled tenants (except “I was the only cripple who could afford it”); the haunted house she grew up in in Surrey; and notes on plus prayers to St. Teresa of Ávila, accompanied by diagrams of a female figure in yoga poses. I found this book when I was browsing the Penned in the Margins catalogue after starting Elizabeth-Jane Burnett's recent poetry book Swims, and I thought it sounded intriguing. Sometimes books or lyrics are described as "honest" and I have never really known what that means, but this book is honest. It is a very raw account of living with painful disabilities during a visit to a health spar, and it certainly made me think again about how I approach people. That said Abi Palmer manages to stay humorous and this book is funny, perhaps mre so because of the subject matter.