Who knew the apocalypse could be so dreamy?: my thoughts on Master of Poisons
This novel's protagonist might be a Master of Poisons, but Andrea Hairston has mastered prose. Every word she writes begs for attention. It's magnetic. The book is so lyrical, especially when it comes to natural imagery, that it sometimes becomes distracting. The prose threatens to sweep readers off their feet without later offering good opportunities to find solid ground again. Interruptions in dialogue and action repeatedly occur as characters stare out across the landscapes, examine the unique plants and animals around them, and ponder the weather. Some may find it difficult not to get lost in the dreamy surrealism of it all, and when the book did return to the actual plot, no one is going to be there to remind readers what was going on before the interruption.
The good news is that this imagery is sometimes more important than everything else. In fantasy, it's common for the setting itself to be central, and Master of Poisons, despite taking a more literary approach that keeps a couple of worldbuilding questions left unanswered, is no different. The book positions itself as fantasy climate fiction. It is about how a poisonous desert is spreading across an empire, causing apocalyptic blight and famine. It is therefore understandable how much time the text devotes itself to describing farms, dunes, and other relevant landscapes. Since the entire story revolves around how the environment has the power to wipe out a civilization, it's actually rather fitting that the vivid natural imagery can overpower everything else in the novel.
To hammer the point home, the book plays around with language in a way that gives nature agency, while simultaneously emphasizing that humans are a part of the environment. For example, by cutting out possessive pronouns when possible, the writing itself offers insights into the notions of possession, property, ownership, and belonging, all pertinent subjects in a story about whether humanity can truly own and control nature (and each other). Additionally, since the book's prose removes many of the definite and indefinite articles, it is hard to distinguish between characters, objects, and their environments. They all blend, slip, and blur beautifully together into one complex tapestry. In this tapestry, things like plants, stones, and streams are often the subjects of a sentences, even when most English speakers would have instinctively made them the direct objects, and the strongest and most active verbs are usually juxtaposed to nouns associated with nature. As a result, the natural world is as active a participant in the story as possible. The atmosphere is essentially its own character.
Other active characters also embody the environment. In the very first scene, a man has a “craggy” face that resembles the caves in which he lives. Awa, one of the protagonists, has bees living inside her hair. Animals sometimes serve as important characters, and a handful of chapters are narrated from their perspectives. A river also gets a perspective chapter. It's clear that in this book, nature is pushing at the boundaries between humanity and the environment; humans can do little to stop it. All they can do is prove they deserve to survive it.
Underneath the intoxicating and overpowering natural imagery, the book does have other compelling elements. The setting and premise -- based on African folklore and history -- are original and imaginative, the story is epic and sprawling, and there are sharp and resonating observations about idealism, climate change, and the ways different people respond to both. It also has feminist and queer themes. The purple prose sometimes makes these messages hard to digest, but it's worth it to try. The writing is just too delicious not to. It forces you to chew slowly and thoughtfully, and if you have the patience to do so, you shouldn't miss anything important. Once understanding does come, the payoff is satisfying.