“Solita” by Vivien Rainn is one of the most arresting and engaging books I’ve read in some time. It’s utterly original in its demon lore with so many touchstones to the past, so many dark emotions, and captures a world of haunting melancholy. The atmosphere is a modern gothic dreamscape, a haunted house with demons beneath floorboards, but the setting in a resort on the beaches of the Philippines keeps it fresh and original. As a reader so familiar with European myth and legend, I was struck by how overlooked stories like Rainn's have been and what a lack that is in the canon.
It’s as if the suffering and history and lore of the Philippines, of that forgotten conquest, the generations of colonization, are buried as the demon central to this story once was. Asleep, untouched, but absorbing even still pain, tears, bloodshed. A grave dug by avarice and covered in the upturned soul of neglect. A beating heart beneath every floorboard in every island home. Those homes protecting buried hurt and loving its inhabitants in the warmth of a family. And family as faulty and tender and complex and loving.
Ultimately, that’s what this lush and mournful book is about: family. Not modern “found family.” No, Solita lives within the messy trauma of the ones we are born into. The grief that comes from losing family members, from losing ourselves and our own voices in the din, the tension of who we were, once embedded in a family, and who we will be once time has moved on and we are all alone. Though it is undeniably a story of a demon and a haunted house, the ghosts of the past might have the most frightening impact. And what is more haunting than the blood ties that bind?
No other scene was as touching to me as Sadie entering the church of her youth to speak of demons with the parish priest. There was a goodness to it, a sweet intimacy, that read so true to the experience of Catholics in their faith. Speaking of monsters in the walls of a church to a priest burdened by their weight. And it’s in that balance Rainn strikes so well that you see the sophistication of her talents. To hold many truths in her hand, to reflect on the goodness of man on the same page as his grief-begotten misery. When that discussion turns toward the endurance of suffering, of the heavy weight on young Sadie’s shoulders and the promise of heavenly reward for its bearing, it felt acutely Catholic in a way even Waugh was unable to capture. Solita is rooted in suffering, suffused with it, beginning and ending and each page in between.
I was halfway through reading when I was struck with the thought: I have something important in my hands. And that is my takeaway really. That Solita is just the beginning of this debut author’s story. I look forward to encountering her voice more often and reading endless lines like the ones she spins so expertly. “Hell is the canvas of your grief, painted in all the hues of your sin, your sorrow, your everlasting suffering… And your Hell, yours is stained the color of the sea.” Solita is worth your time, your regard, and your attention. It is also worth reading for how spellbindingly it wraps around your heart and threatens to take it into the grave.