Neighbors and Other Stories by Diane Oliver

The black American writer Diane Oliver had a promising career ahead of her when she died in a motorcycle accident in 1966 at the age of twenty-two. A graduate student at the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Oliver had published four short stories during her lifetime, with another two following posthumously. These six stories and eight previously unpublished pieces make up Neighbors and Other Stories, a remarkably striking collection recently issued as part of the uber-reliable Faber Editions series.

Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, Diane Oliver was writing at a time when racial segregation in America was being challenged through the civil rights movement, but longstanding prejudices remained entrenched. Much of her work portrays life for black women – frequently young black women – in 1960s America, complete with the abuse and microaggressions that characterised these people’s days. Nevertheless, despite the undeniably powerful nature of these themes, Oliver’s fiction is subtle, taking in a range of experiences that feel authentic and true. Here we see racial discrimination, both explicit and less overt, social exclusion, abandonment, exoticisation, activism, interracial relationships and much, much more, giving a rich insight into black lives in this crucial period of history.

Several stories depict the fear and anxiety present within the black community at the time. In the titular piece – one of my favourites in the collection – Oliver portrays a family’s conflicted emotions the night before the youngest son is due to start at a new school. But what makes this situation so unusual is that Tommy will be the first black child to attend a previously all-white facility. Unsurprisingly, opinions within the community are divided, with strong views being expressed on both sides. In fact, the family has already received threatening letters and abuse, and as the night unfolds, their home comes under attack.

No one heard her speak, and no one came over to see if they could help; she knew why and did not really blame them. They were afraid their house could be next. (p. 20)

Central to the story is the family’s moral dilemma. Should they send young Tommy to the newly integrated school, knowing that he will be bullied and ostracised for months, or do they relent and put his emotional well-being first? Someone must be the first for progress to be made, but does it have to be Tommy?

This theme is developed further in The Closet on the Top Floor, when Winifred – who is fed up of being ‘the Experiment’ – is sent by her civil rights activist father to a prestigious girls’ college where all the other pupils are white. Oliver is adept at illustrating the different forms of racial prejudice at play here, from social exclusion (in the first passage below) to more explicit slurs (in the second). For clarification, Norma is Winifred’s roommate, while Ellen is Norma’s friend.     

Everybody was in a sorority but Winifred. She didn’t mind. Somehow she had become used to not being invited and when she received an invitation to a sorority tea—by mistake, of course—she very casually threw the envelope into the wastepaper basket. (p. 31)

“Norma?” Ellen asked, her voice sounded puzzled. “Do you think all of them are like this, or just her?”

“I don’t know,” Norma answered. “Our maid takes food, but she never really tries to hide anything.” (p. 36)

As the weeks pass, Winifred withdraws from college society, hibernating in her room and stockpiling food before Norma moves out. This sad, unsettling story highlights the devastating impact of racism – both casual and more deliberate – on a young woman’s mental health.

The detrimental effect on health – both physical and mental – is a recurring theme in several of these stories, perhaps most overtly in Health Service, where an impoverished woman, Libby, and her four children must walk for hours to see a doctor. White authority figures, such as nurses, managers, employers and police officers, are particularly aggressive in their treatment of black women, as illustrated in the following scene. In short, the clinic nurse shows no appreciation of Libby’s personal circumstances and the challenges of caring for young kids.  

“Your kid’s in here raising sand,” the nurse said. “We ask you people not to deposit your children in the waiting room. When only one’s sick, why don’t you leave the rest at home?” (p. 71)

After a tiring journey and a long, frustrating wait (the children are tired and fidgety), Libby is told to come back another day as the doctors will be finishing early. But Libby will be working the rest of the week, and with no husband on the scene, it’ll be hard for her to return.

These heavy-handed authoritarian attitudes also come into play in Before Twilight, when Jenny and her three friends enter a whites-only tea room determined to be served. It’s one of several stories where Oliver subtly drops hints about her characters’ backstories, fleshing out the broader context in coolly nuanced ways.

Jenny looked down at her mother’s hands, seeing the knuckles swollen in the middle of each finger. She knew what she was thinking about. The father of one of her friends had found the charred body last spring. Since then she guessed everybody had just stopped talking about voting. (p. 43)

Jenny’s mother doesn’t want her girl getting mixed up in any trouble, fearful of what might happen, but Jenny is swayed by her friend Hank, a civil rights activist intent on making a stand. A thoroughly unsettling story laced with a sense of dread.

When the Apples are Ripe also features a character eager to take an active role in the civil rights movement, dividing opinion within his family. In contrast to some of these other pieces here, this is a hopeful, touching story with an unexpected ending.

In Mint Juleps Not Served Here, Oliver shows us just how far one family, the Macks, will go to protect their child from bullying and racial abuse.

The town with all of the pale faces that ruined her baby frightened and angered her. But she and Mr Mack knew better than to become angry in their town. (p. 79)

However, their off-the-grid existence in the depths of a large forest is threatened when an inquisitive young social worker comes looking for their house. This darkly unnerving story has the power to shock…

“No Brown Sugar in Anybody’s Milk” is a fascinating story that starts in familiar territory – a black maid being bossed about by her privileged white employer – only to end up somewhere different with a rug-pull at the end.

I’d also like to mention four stories as important illustrations of Oliver’s breadth. In Banago Kalt, three American friends from college, Millie, Rita and Karen, stay with a Swiss family for the summer as part of an educational trip. While Rita and Karen (both white) are warmly welcomed, it is Millie (black) who generates the most curiosity amongst the locals. Everyone wants a piece of Millie, and she is exoticised wherever she goes. While all this attention is well-intentioned, it doesn’t always feel that way for Millie, who often finds it funny and unnerving. There are shades of Nella Larsen’s excellent novella 1928 Quicksand here, highlighting the damaging fetishisation of black culture and individuals – an issue that remains in some segments of society today.

In The Visitor, Oliver focuses on the tensions between Alice, a well-to-do stepmother of high social standing, and her disdainful stepdaughter, Katie, when the latter comes to stay. This excellent story explores class conflicts, differences in aspirations, and the damaging effects of making assumptions about someone based on one’s own views.

Alice thought she detected a slight smirk on her face. The child was unnerving, she reminded her of a wizened old lady in a child’s body. (p. 118)

Spiders Cry Without Tears – one of the standout pieces here – explores an interracial relationship from a white woman’s perspective. When Meg, a divorced white woman with a teenage son, starts seeing a black doctor named Walt, she finds herself excluded from social events, even when she tries to keep the relationship under wraps. This beautifully developed story is far more layered than this brief description suggests.

While short story collections can often be mixed, all of Oliver’s stories hits their marks for me, which is quite a feat. Even the experimental Frozen Voices – a startling tale of the messy, entangled lives of four young friends – is wonderfully raw and evocative. It’s a dazzling example of Oliver’s potential as a writer.

Come on, Jenny, wanna dance? Soft as April rain, smooth as a quiet mountain lake, as mysterious as an ocean, as dangerous as white water in deep rivers, she drops from a white cloud and falls to a green, a raindrop on a leaf. Dark, bloody drops of beer and wafer chips of flesh, a communion of human love. (p. 218)

So, to summarise then, these excellent stories skilfully portray various aspects of life for the black community in 1960s America, just as the Civil Rights movement was gaining momentum. There is a richness of experience here, taking in a wide range of scenarios and moral questions, many of which remain relevant today. Oliver’s style – strong on the grinding horrors and microaggressions of daily life – has drawn comparisons with Shirley Jackson, Nella Larsen and Toni Morrison, highlighting her literary promise and skills. It’s always tragic when a talented writer dies young, but it seems especially cruel in this instance. Bravo to Faber for publishing this terrific collection, which I strongly urge you to read.

(My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.)

Molly Fox’s Birthday by Deirdre Madden

This excellent, beautifully observed novel about identity, friendship and private vs public selves is my first experience of Deirdre Madden’s work; but on the strength of its quiet, unshowy prose and deep insights into character, I will certainly be seeking out more.

Madden’s unnamed narrator – a successful playwright born in Northern Ireland but now living in London – is staying at the Dublin home of her close friend, Molly Fox, while Molly is in New York. The two women have been good friends for around twenty years, ever since Molly – a brilliant actress with a remarkable, distinctive voice – starred in the narrator’s first play, which propelled them both to fame.

As the narrator struggles to crystallise the vision for her new play, she reflects on her life and the relationships she has developed with Molly and others over the years – most notably, her old college friend, Andrew, now a successful art historian and TV presenter comfortable in his own skin; her eldest brother, Tom, a gentle Catholic priest who shares his sister’s interest in the arts; and Molly’s troubled brother, Fergus, who has long suffered intense periods of depression and alcoholism. Many of these memories are triggered by the myriad of possessions in Molly’s modest terraced house, tastefully furnished with interesting pieces acquired over the years. Tasteful that is apart from the absurd fibreglass cow installed in the back garden – a piece so out of kilter with the rest of Molly’s furnishings that the narrator begins to wonder if she knows her friend at all.

I realise that a certain school of thought says that who we are is something we construct for ourselves. We build our self out of what we think we remember, what we believe to be true about our life; and the possessions we gather around us are supposedly a part of this, that we are, to some extent, what we own. (pp. 37–38)

While the narrator has long resisted this idea of the self, partly due to her Catholic upbringing, the realisations that surface during the day challenge her previous beliefs, particularly around Molly – a woman who appears mousy and introverted in polite company but utterly compelling on stage. From her first visit to the theatre as a teenager, Molly understood that the key to being a great actor was to become the character – to inhabit them fully, rather than imitating them. A technique that requires the actor to distance themselves from their own personality and sense of self.

Central to the novel are questions about our private versus public selves. How well do we really know someone, even when we consider them to be a close friend? Who is Molly Fox when she is alone and unobserved, and how does this differ from the person others see when she is elsewhere, e.g. rehearsing in the theatre, meeting fans or socialising with friends? Through the novel’s elegant framework – which unfolds over one day, Molly’s birthday – Madden explores the often-contradictory personalities we adopt in public and private settings.

Madden is excellent on the limits of friendship, the rules of the game, the areas we keep protected and the things we reveal. As the narrator muses over her relationship with Molly, she comes to realise that friendship is not necessarily a clear insight into another person’s psyche but a more clouded vision through which only certain aspects of their world can be gleaned.

The closer you get to Molly, the more she seems to recede. Sometimes she seems to me like a figure in a painting, the true likeness of a woman, but as you approach the canvas the image breaks up, becomes fragmented into the colours, the brushstrokes and the daubs of paint from which the thing itself is constructed. Only by withdrawing can the illusion be effected again. Molly wants to remain remote. (p. 126)

Molly has an unnerving habit of dropping earth-shattering nuggets of information into general conversation as casual, throwaway remarks. Moreover, these bombshells – often covering her earlier life – are delivered when any follow-up discussion or questioning is nigh-on impossible to conduct, leaving the listener reeling as a result. In a fascinating scene, Molly reveals a pivotal event from her 7^th birthday, illuminating her fractured upbringing, the intense disdain she holds for her mother, and her fierce protectiveness towards Fergus.

While the narrator’s college friend, Andrew, has also distanced himself from his family, there is no hint of artifice about his personality now he has found his true self. Rather, it is the scruffy, disgruntled student the narrator recalls from her Trinity College days who seems unreal, not the successful TV presenter Andrew is today. If anything, his transformation feels entirely natural and unforced.

There was nothing fake about him, nothing false. It was instead as if he was at last becoming himself, becoming the kind of person he needed to be, the person he really was. It was the tense, prickly man I’d known at college who had been the fake. (p. 68)

The old Andrew was angry with his parents for favouring his brother, Billy, a loyalist paramilitary who was abducted and murdered in Belfast during a politically-motivated feud. In short, their mother never forgave Andrew for being the one left alive when Billy was killed, despite Andrew’s lack of involvement in The Troubles. Only years later, on becoming a father himself, could Andrew appreciate the depth of his parents’ grief over the loss of a much-loved son.

Interestingly, the narrator is also something of a misfit in her own family, although unlike the others, her familial relationships are warm and loving. She is closest to her brother, Tom, the Catholic priest, whom Molly also turns to for guidance – a private friendship which doesn’t include the narrator.

Perhaps most insightful of all is an unexpected encounter between the narrator and Molly’s brother, Fergus, who turns up unexpectedly at the house. As they sit in the garden and talk, the narrator discovers a whole new side to Fergus – a gentle, compassionate, witty and intelligent man, far from the helpless failure she had taken him for before.

Molly. I thought she had won through in life, whilst Fergus was defeated, broken. Now it seemed to me that things were perhaps quite the opposite, and her brother’s woes notwithstanding, Molly was the one who really hadn’t come to terms with the past, who was still bitter about it in a way that was corrosive and did more harm to her than to anyone else. (p.156)

Alongside identity, friendship, family and our private vs public selves, the novel also touches on a number of other topics, including the religious and political divisions within Northern Ireland, familial ties vs personal independence and walking away vs living a lie. Memorialisation is another significant theme. How, for instance, do we remember those who have died or moved on? What is the purpose of memorials, and who are they for – the living or the dead? It’s a topic of great relevance to Andrew, who now sees his brother’s signet ring as a treasured object of remembrance, not the gaudy, embarrassing object it once was.

In summary, this is a marvellous novel – the kind of book where nothing seems to happen, and yet everything is there, just waiting to be uncovered as the layers are peeled away. I’ll finish with a final quote about the tenuous nature of friendship. Here. the narrator reflects on a chance encounter with another old college friend, Marian, whom she hasn’t seen for several years.

Meeting her had been a dispiriting experience, as it so often can be when one meets old friends. The initial delight, the sense of connection, and then the distancing, the unravelling of that connection as information is exchanged and it becomes clear why one hasn’t stayed in touch. Defensiveness sets in, and it all ends in melancholy when one is alone again. (p. 106)

(Molly Fox’s Birthday is published by Faber and Faber; personal copy. This is my first review for Cathy’s Reading Ireland project, which runs throughout March.)

Hackenfeller’s Ape by Brigid Brophy

One of the most exciting literary developments in recent years is the emergence of new imprints specialising in rediscovered gems – lesser-known or neglected writers given a new lease of life through carefully curated reissues. The Faber Editions series is proving to be an excellent source of forgotten classics, championing voices from the past that speak to our present. I think I’ve read seven of these books now, and they’ve all had something thrilling and original to offer.

Hackenfeller’s Ape – the debut novel by the British writer, critic and political activist Brigid Brophy – is a recent addition to the list, and what a brilliant choice it is, too. By turns witty, playful, beautiful and sad, this highly original novella is a provocative exploration of man’s treatment of animals, particularly those closest to us on the evolutionary scale. Moreover, the book feels eerily prescient, particularly in a world where animal rights, sustainability and a variety of environmental issues have risen in importance in recent years.

‘When my species has destroyed itself, we may need yours to start it all again.’ (p. 27)

Brophy’s mischievous story revolves around Professor Clement Darrelhyde, a scientist specialising in the study of apes. As the novel opens, the professor is in the midst of a project at London Zoo where he hopes to observe the mating ritual of two Hackenfeller’s Apes, Percy and Edwina. These apes, which hail from Africa, rarely mate in captivity, and details of their courtship rituals are little known, hence Darrelhyde’s interest in the study. Percy, however, is not playing ball, spurning Edwina’s advances much to the latter’s (and the professor’s) dismay. Even Darrelhyde’s enthusiastic singing – he is a lover of Mozart’s operas – fails to do the trick.

If the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party, which sometimes took place on a nearby lawn, was a rollicking caricature of human social life, here was a satire on human marriage. Separated by the yard or two that was the extent of their cage, not looking at one another, tensed, and huffy, Percy and Edwina might have been sitting at a breakfast table. (p. 9)

The Hackenfeller, we learn, is the closest creature to man in evolutionary terms, and Brophy does an excellent job of giving us hints into Percy’s character – particularly his apparent confusion and suffering. At times, the ape seems almost human – to Darrelhyde at least.

Nonetheless, Percy’s rebuttal was more than an animal gesture. He disengaged himself with something the Professor could only call gentleness. He seemed to be perplexed by his own action, and imposed on his muscles a control and subtlety hardly proper to his kind. His own puzzling need to be fastidious appeared to distress him as much as Edwina’s importunity. After their entanglements he would turn his melancholy face towards her and seem to be breaking his heart over his inability to explain. (p. 13)

One day, the professor’s observations are rudely interrupted by the arrival of Kendrick, an ambitious, self-assured young man intent on commandeering Percy for a scientific mission. Percy, it seems, is to be propelled into space, destined to be a guinea pig for experimental purposes – a test case, if you like, for humans to follow. The professor, for his part, takes an instant dislike to Kendrick, determining to save Percy from this inhumane endeavour.

Brophy’s skills with witty, pithy dialogue are put to excellent use here, particularly in the exchanges between Darrelhyde and Kendrick, highlighting the absurdity of the situation to great effect.

‘What do you mean, Percy is going to go? Where’s he going? Who’s going to take him?’

‘Percy is being called to higher things.’

‘Called?’

‘Commandeered, if you like. Liberated.’ […]

‘And who is going to make off with Percy?’

‘The outfit I’m with.’

The Professor paused a minute, then asked: ‘By whose authority does your “outfit” propose to take Percy?’ He felt his question turned to ridicule by the mock-dignity of the animal’s name.

‘The powers that be’, Kendrick replied. ‘It’s pretty much top priority.’

‘What is?’

‘The whole project. Your Percy’s a V.I.P.’ (pp. 20–21)

What follows is a delightfully zany caper in which Darrelhyde enlists the help of a pickpocket, Gloria, in the hope of liberating Percy, thereby saving him from being blasted into space. Gloria too has experienced the cruelties of captivity, having been imprisoned for breaking and entering following an earlier spell in borstal. Furthermore, she also understands the indignities of being observed by others – in her instance, psychiatrists probing her upbringing and motives for stealing. It would be unfair of me to reveal how this unconventional story plays out, save to say that Brophy has a few surprises in store for Darrelhyde – and for Kendrick, too!

Naturally, there’s a degree of irony to all this, especially in the professor’s own motives for the project. While Darrelhyde seems to have Percy’s welfare in mind, why should his studies of animals’ mating rituals in captivity be any more acceptable than Kendrick’s space exploration plans? It’s a question that ran through my mind as I was reading this excellent, thought-provoking book.

This was, moreover, the only species which imprisoned other species not for any motive of economic parasitism, but for the dispassionate parasitism of indulging its curiosity. (p. 4)

Brophy was an active animal rights campaigner herself, championing pacifism, humanism and vegetarianism amongst other causes. As noted in the Faber Editions reissue, her 1965 Sunday Times manifesto, The Rights of Animals, catalysed the modern animal rights movement, establishing Brophy as a trailblazer in this respect. Central to the novel are questions about which species is more absurd: the human or the ape? And conversely, which of the two is more deserving of our sympathy? I doubt it will surprise you to hear that Brophy, through her razor-sharp intelligence and playful wit, shows man to be more dysfunctional, foolish and mercenary than his animal counterparts by quite some distance. It is the ape that emerges from this story with humanity and dignity, not the supposedly more evolved homo sapiens.

I love how this nimble, playful novella touches on some big themes in an amusing and engaging way. There’s a skill to achieving this feat without the story feeling preachy or heavy-handed, and Brophy manages this tension beautifully. There’s also some lovely descriptive writing here, with Brophy conjuring up the scorching, arid atmosphere of early September in a suitably evocative way. I’ll finish with a passage from the opening page, a scene-setter for this highly creative story, which I can thoroughly recommend. 

In the central meadow they were playing cricket. Westward, the shouts and splashes of the boating lake lingered, like gentle explosions, above the expense of shallow water. North-west, the canals stood black and transparent, like Indian Ink, between banks, mottled by sun. (p. 3)

(My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy. This review also contributes to Karen and Lizzy’s #ReadIndies project, which runs to the end of Feb.)

The Premonition by Banana Yoshimoto (tr. Asa Yoneda)

Over the past few years, I’ve developed a fondness for Japanese fiction, particularly books by women writers such as Yūko Tsushima, Mieko Kawakami and Sayaka Murata. Now I can add Banana Yoshimoto to this list courtesy of The Premonition, a haunting, enigmatic story of childhood, long-buried memories and the complex nature of family relationships. Although the novella was first published in Japan in 1988 – the same year as the author’s award-winning book, Kitchen appeared – it has only just made its way into English, beautifully translated by Asa Yoneda. I found this to be a very captivating, dreamlike read. Yoshimoto creates an alluring, melancholy mood here, exploring these themes with the lightest of touches. 

Our narrator is Yayoi, a nineteen-year-old girl who lives in Tokyo with her parents and younger brother, Tetsuo. On the surface, life for Yayoi seems perfect. Her father works as a doctor for a large corporation while her mother, a former nurse, looks after the newly refurbished house, a paragon of middle-class domesticity. Both children are surrounded by love and support, just like the family ‘in that Spielberg movie’. But deep down, Yayoi is haunted by the feeling that she has forgotten something crucial about the past. Her childhood remains a mystery, a troubling gap where treasured memories should exist. Sometimes, a strange feeling resurfaces, causing Yayoi to feel she is on the verge of recalling an important detail, but each time the memory itself remains tantalisingly out of reach.

Things come to a head one Sunday while Yayoi is helping her mother with the gardening. Suddenly, she is assailed by a vision, a rush of images flitting through her mind like scenes glimpsed from a speeding car. A woman’s hand places some flowers in a vase; a seemingly happy couple can be seen from behind; and a young girl, who appears to be Yayoi’s sister, looks up at a window calling Yayoi’s name. But the trouble is, Yayoi doesn’t have a sister – at least, not that she is aware of…

The same day, Yayoi also learns through a conversation with her mother that she experienced premonitions as a young child. Whenever the phone rang at home, Yayoi could predict who was calling, even when she didn’t know them personally. Sites of former tragedies proved another crucial trigger for the girl, prompting her to sense where fatal accidents or incidents had occurred. She could even tell when her parents had been fighting in secret, such was the power of her intuition – an unsettling sixth sense that waned over time.

Unsettled by these disturbing events, Yayoi decides to visit her Aunt Yukino, an eccentric thirty-year-old woman who lives a solitary, unstructured life in isolation from her family. Intriguingly, the novella opens with a description of Yukino’s house, setting the novella’s lush, dreamlike tone right from the very start – like a dark, unsettling fairy tale with an enigmatic aura.

I can see it now: The heavy door made of wood had a cloudy brass knob. The weeds in the neglected garden grew thick and lush, stretching tall among the dying trees, shutting out the sky. Vines carpeted the dark exterior walls, and the windows were patched haphazardly with tape. The dust covering the floor rose and danced translucent in the sunlight before settling again. A comfortable clutter reigned, and dead light bulbs were left in peace. Time had no foothold in that house. Until I turned up, my aunt had lived there quietly on her own, as though asleep, for years. (pp. 3–4)

In contrast to the rest of her family, Yukino lives an unconventional life, abandoning the normal routines that govern our daily existence. Time seems elastic here, expanding and contracting irrespective of the outside world and its 24-hour clock. Consequently, mealtimes are either irregular or non-existent, while drinks at 2 am seem a natural occurrence, contrary to conventional expectations. But despite this erratic lifestyle, Yayoi feels more at ease here than at home, bonding with her aunt in a natural, relaxed manner.

She was so much older, and when I was with her, I felt like I had nothing to fear. Not the dark of night, nor everything I still didn’t know about myself. Strange to think how I’d always felt anxious in my warm home, yet here, where daily life felt so precarious, I was fulfilled. (p. 48)

In due course, further revelations come to light, illuminating Yayoi’s relationships with her family and the source of her buried memories – but I’ll leave you to discover those for yourself, should you decide to read the book.

The elegant melody awakened a sweet feeling in me, as if I’d once spent long days just like that, watching sounds, somewhere in the distant past. Listening with my eyes closed, I felt as though I were at the bottom of a green ocean. All the world seemed to be lit up by shafts of light. The current moved limpidly, and in it, my troubles skimmed past me like schools of fish barely brushing against my skin. I had a premonition of setting out on a journey and getting lost inside a distant tide as the sun went down, ending up far, far away from where I started. (p. 16)

On the surface, Yoshimoto’s prose feels crystalline and precise, and yet this calm exterior acts as a cover for hidden depths. There’s something dreamlike and unsettling here, mirroring Yayoi’s unease about elusive memories from her past, a previous loss or trauma lurking beneath this veneer. It’s a style that allows the author to tackle some troublesome themes, from family secrets and unconventional life choices to isolation and love between siblings, in a gentle but meaningful way.

Like Yūko Tsushima, Yoshimoto writes beautifully about light, from the first rays of sun falling gently on the eyelids to the spectral glow of moonlight illuminating the dark.

The world outside the window seemed to be floating in bluish light that turned the trees into layered black paper cutouts. I could have watched their rustling outlines endlessly. (p. 64)

The narrative ends in a journey when Yukino disappears and Yayoi and her brother Tetsuo – a determined, enterprising young man, barely younger than his sister – set out to find her. For Yayoi, the need to fully understand the past proves crucial to her future development, finally cementing the foundations of her identity in place. Once again, Yoshimoto excels in creating atmosphere here, enveloping the reader in a magical, dreamlike mood.

In the pitch-black wood, between dark-windowed houses that rose like ghosts in the dark, through the faint rays of moonlight, we walked. Deep green air seemed to ripple out into the night sky every time the wind shook the trees’ leafy, slumbering branches. (p. 87)

In summary, then, The Premonition is a haunting, enigmatic story of identity, long-buried memories and blended, extended families. As I read this book, I couldn’t help but think of the Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda, whose tender portraits of complex, unconventional family dynamics have something in common with Yoshimoto’s themes. Highly recommended, especially for fans of haunting, dreamlike fiction with an elusive edge.

The Premonition is published by Faber; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Mistletoe Malice by Kathleen Farrell

While Christmas is often presented as the season of goodwill, it can be an incredibly stressful time for many, throwing us together with relatives we rarely see and may well dislike, encouraging us to stuff ourselves with food and drink, and generally disturbing our usual routines. It’s a set-up that Kathleen Farrell cleverly probes in her insightful novel Mistletoe Malice, a delightfully acerbic portrait of a dysfunctional family, newly reissued by Faber & Faber. The book was initially published in 1951 and will likely appeal to fans of Elizabeth Berridge, Alice Thomas Ellis, Mary Hocking and other women writers from the mid-20^th century.

Central to the story is Rachel, the rather malevolent matriarch and hostess of the Christmas festivities, which always take place in her cottage by the sea. Also in attendance are Rachel’s self-sacrificing niece, Bess, who shares her widowed aunt’s home; Rachel’s orderly, overbearing daughter, Marion, and ineffectual husband, Thomas; another niece, Kate, a nephew, Piers; and last but not least, errant son, Adrian, the black sheep of the family, back from Europe for the holiday season.

The book unfolds over four days, from Christmas Eve to the day after Boxing Day, with each family member bringing their own preoccupations, disappointments and grudges to the party. This all makes for a delightfully sharp mix as tensions simmer and fault lines emerge.

Farrell wastes no time in setting out her stall, highlighting the power dynamics between Rachel and her live-in companion, Bess – a niece, yes, but only by marriage.

Rachel smiled and nodded: an aloof acknowledgement that for the present she had no fault to find. The precarious balance of their relationship must be maintained. Bess must always remember that although she was treated as an adopted daughter, she was merely a niece by marriage. A relationship so remote, thought Rachel, that it is practically non-existent: a courtesy, nothing more. (p. 1)

Thoroughly put upon by her aunt, Bess seeks an escape from Rachel’s critical eye by fantasising about a romance with Piers, a fickle but alluring young man who blows hot and cold, especially where Bess is concerned.

He remembered that he had wanted to marry her [Bess] once, but that was a long time ago. Sometimes the idea repelled him, on other days such a marriage was a possibility to consider in general terms. He knew that he would continue to change his mind about this, as about everything else, several times an hour. (p. 160)

Nevertheless, despite Piers’ unreliability, Bess seems intent on running away with him should the opportunity arise. Piers, for his part, is more interested in himself. Content to flatter Aunt Rachel, he prefers ‘to behave as her favoured admirer’ rather than a nephew – a game that proves highly amusing to both players.

Kate – Rachel’s other niece – has relationship troubles of her own, having recently split from her fiancé, Alec. A relatively independent woman at heart, Kate is concerned that Aunt Rachel is taking advantage of Bess by discouraging any signs of a romance with Piers, mostly from a fear of being left on her own. In truth though, Rachel is assailed by worries about ageing and a growing awareness of her own mortality. No longer the carefree beauty who had a fling in her youth, she mourns the passing of time, her anxieties heightened by the threat of nuclear war rumbling away in the background.

Kate thought of the ceaseless yearning for happiness. A word which because of its infinite meanings is meaningless: a trick of light making an afternoon memorable; the healing tissue growing over the inflamed nerve; footsteps in the street; drab curtains in a familiar room; an occasional second when death does not exist. (p. 267)

Meanwhile, Rachel’s son-in-law, Thomas, exudes mid-life malaise, far from content in his marriage to Marion. In short, he feels constrained by his wife’s desire for routine and order, ultimately longing for a change – or, at the very least, something to look forward to. Most of all, he wants to be unmarried, for his marriage to Marion never to have happened. Why had his mother not warned him about Marion back then? Surely she could have predicted what would happen to them over time?

With the possible exception of Adrian, who arrives drunk and tips towards caricature with his exaggerated accent, these characters are relatable and well-drawn, each revealing their own shortcomings and failings. So, as the festivities begin, we see how they persist in rubbing one another up the wrong way – either by choice or by accident – all adding up to a barbed comedy of manners.

While the novel is more concerned with character than plot, Farrell introduces a few flash points to liven everything up. The Christmas tree explodes, plunging the house into darkness as the lights are fused; a punch is thrown, flooring one of the guests despite its innocuous nature; and a bid for freedom is launched, albeit with mixed results. All these developments and more are observed by Marion’s daily, Mrs Page – a classic charlady in the Elizabeth Taylor vein – and the source of some lovely humour dotted through the book.

Mrs. Page looked astounded as she muttered to herself: “They’re all alike. Potty, the lot of them”. She allowed herself the luxury of forbidden cigarette while she considered the mysterious ways of families who meet for the purpose of making each other miserable and bad-tempered. (p.144)

Farrell also has an eye for an amusing turn of phrase, peppering the text with revealing observations such as this insight into Marion and Thomas’ marriage.

Thomas stood by the foot of the staircase, one hand on the banisters, waiting for Marion to place him, or to send him on an errand. (p. 10)

In summary then, this is a delightful, perceptive comedy of manners, full of unlikeable characters forced to spend time together under the pretence of a celebration. It’s a slow burner, the narrative unfolding at a leisurely pace – nevertheless, fans of stories featuring dysfunctional families will find much to enjoy here. The book comes with an utterly charming afterword by Robert Cochrane, who knew Farrell in the final years of her life. It’s a very fitting tribute, capturing something of the essence of the author’s elegance and wit!

Books of the Year, 2023 – Part Two: my favourite ‘older’ books from a year of reading

This year, I’m spreading my 2023 reading highlights across a couple of posts. The first piece, on my favourite ‘recently published’ titles, is here, while this second piece puts the spotlight on the best ‘older’ books I read this year, including reissues of titles first published in the 20^th century.

These are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the ones I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. I’ve summarised each one in this post (in order of reading), but as before, you can find the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links. There are thirteen in total – a Baker’s Dozen of wonderful vintage books!

The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg (1962, tr. Dick Davis 1985)

I adored this thought-provoking collection of essays; it’s full of the wisdom of life. Ginzburg wrote these pieces individually between 1944 and 1962, and many were published in Italian journals before being grouped together here. In her characteristically lucid prose, Ginzburg writes of families and friendships, of virtues and parenthood, and of writing and relationships. Reading these pieces, we get a sense of how the author approaches her subjects obliquely or at an angle. In short, by writing about one aspect of a topic, Ginzburg triggers reverberations elsewhere – like an echo reverberating around the landscape or stone skimming across a pond – adding a broader resonance to her insights beyond their immediate sphere. It’s a fascinating collection, a keeper for the bedside table as a balm for the soul.

The Lowlife by Alexander Baron (1963)

Baron’s 1963 novella is an entertaining, picaresque story of a likeable Jewish charmer with a penchant for Emile Zola and a somewhat tortuous past. The anti-hero in question is forty-five-year-old Harryboy Boas, a lovable rogue with a conscience who feeds his gambling addiction with occasional stints as a Hofmann presser in the East End rag trade. Harryboy likes nothing more than a bit of peace and quiet, allowing him to read Zola novels all day in his room at Mr Siskin’s Hackney boarding house, preferably untroubled by the need to work. At night, he’s usually to be found at the local dog tracks, gambling away what little money he has, but everything changes when a new family, the Deaners, move in, a development that disturbs the relative calm and familiarity of Harryboy’s world. In short, this is a marvellous addition to the boarding house genre and a wonderful evocation of post-war London life.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Cespedes (1952, tr. Ann Goldstein 2023)

A remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele. I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands; it’s probably my favourite book of the year.

Nights at the Alexandra by William Trevor (1987)

William Trevor is frequently cited as a master of the short story, and rightly so. His stories are spellbinding – humane, compassionate and beautifully written. He has a way of getting into the hearts and minds of his characters with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations for the reader to see. These skills are very much in evidence in Nights at the Alexandra, a slim collection comprising the titular novella and two short stories. In the novella, fifty-eight-year-old Harry looks back on the days of his youth during WW2, when at the age of fifteen, he formed an unlikely but deeply touching friendship with Frau Messinger, a young Englishwoman who moved to Ireland with her much older German husband. This is a sad, melancholy story, but as Harry looks back at his life, he feels no regret. His memories of Frau Messinger are enough, shot through with happiness despite the spectre of loss. Likewise, the two short stories touch on broadly similar themes. These are quietly devastating tales of everyday country folk caught between the pull of their own desires and the familial duties that bind them to home. Trevor’s prose is exquisite and perfectly judged. 

The Home by Penelope Mortimer (1971)

This perceptive semi-autobiographical novel follows an attractive but vulnerable middle-aged woman, Eleanor Strathearn, in the months following the breakdown of her marriage as she attempts to establish some kind of life for herself, while also delving into the meaning of ‘home’ with all its various connotations. The story opens with Eleanor and her youngest child, fifteen-year-old Philip, moving from their longstanding family home in London to a smaller residence near St John’s Wood. As her other grown-up children have flown the nest, Eleanor approaches her new life with a strange mix of emotions, oscillating wildly between stoic optimism and crushing grief – the latter largely winning out. Alongside the sadness, this excellent, slightly off-kilter novel has flashes of darkly comic humour throughout. Fans of Muriel Spark would likely enjoy this one, and possibly Elizabeth Taylor, too.

The Sea Change by Elizabeth Jane Howard (1959)

The more I read Elizabeth Jane Howard, the more I enjoy her. Subtle, perceptive and elegantly written, her novels frequently delve into the complexities of troubled marriages, and that’s very much the case here. At first sight, this story may seem very familiar – a successful, married middle-aged man falls for a young, attractive ingénue. However, Howard creates such a fascinating set-up, featuring four distinctive, fully fleshed-out characters, that somehow this classic narrative seems fresh and alive. The story revolves around four central figures: Emmanuel Joyce, a successful playwright in his early sixties; his glamorous but fragile wife, Lillian, who is twenty years younger than her husband; Emmanuel’s long-suffering business manager/rescuer, Jimmy Sullivan; and nineteen-year-old Alberta, newly-appointed to the role of Emmanuel’s secretary. This richly textured ensemble piece encompasses the tensions between familial responsibility and personal desire, the dissection of a failing marriage, and the fallout from losing a child. The novel also demonstrates how our lives can turn in an instant, altering our future trajectories in significant and surprising ways.

A Wreath for the Enemy by Pamela Frankau (1954)

A thoroughly immersive coming-of-age novel, brilliantly described by Norah Perkins (on Backlisted) as the love child of Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night. Elements of Brideshead Revisited and Bonjour Tristesse also spring to mind, especially for their atmosphere and mood. Central to the story is Penelope Wells, a precocious teenager who spends the school holidays with her bohemian father, Francis, and stepmother, Jeanne, in their small hotel on the balmy French Riviera. When the prim, middle-class Bradley family rent the neighbouring villa, Penelope is fascinated by the new arrivals, but the friendship she develops with young Don Bradley soon comes crashing down. The writing sparkles with just the right balance of humanity, insight and wit, perfectly capturing the intensity of the characters’ emotions as the drama plays out. A wonderful summer read that takes some surprising turns.

A Summer Bird-Cage by Margaret Drabble (1963)

This thoughtful, witty debut novel features an intelligent, educated young woman trying to find her place in an evolving world. Drabble focuses on two well-educated sisters here – twenty-one-year-old Sarah Bennett and her older sister, Louise, both Oxford-educated – exploring their different values and preoccupations. While Louise opts for marriage to Stephen, a wealthy but snobbish writer, Sarah tries to figure out what to do with her life. The writing is marvellous, encompassing chic 1960s fashions, hairstyles, and lifestyles, plus glimpses of Louise’s honeymoon in Rome. Drabble also gives us some wonderfully evocative descriptions of London, from Sarah waiting in the pouring rain to catch a bus at Aldwych to the messy glamour of backstage life in the city’s West End. A witty, hugely enjoyable book, shot through with some amusing touches, always beautifully judged.

Uncle Paul by Celia Fremlin (1959)

A wonderfully clever portrayal of what can happen when we allow our imagination to run wild and unfettered, conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios from our fears and suspicions. On the surface, Uncle Paul could be the relatively innocent story of three sisters getting caught up in troublesome domestic matters during a seaside holiday. But in Fremlin’s hands, this narrative takes on a more sinister dimension, tapping into the siblings’ fears of murder and revenge. In short, this is an utterly brilliant novel, a clever, skilfully executed exploration of fear and suspicion, very much in the style of Patricia Highsmith’s and Shirley Jackson’s domestic noirs, laced with the social comedy of Barbara Pym. The seaside setting, complete with a creepy rundown holiday cottage, is beautifully evoked. 

The Mountain Lion by Jean Stafford (1947)

If Carson McCullers and Elspeth Barker (of O Caledonia fame) had run off to the Colorado mountains to work on a novel, this rediscovered gem might have been the result! It’s a haunting, unnerving portrayal of a close but volatile brother-sister relationship, laced with an undercurrent of menace as adolescence beckons on the horizon. Stafford has created such an evocative, relatable world here, instantly recognisable to anyone who recalls the pain and awkwardness of adolescence – from the disdain we have for our parents and elders to the discomfort we feel in our bodies as they develop, to the confusion and resentments that frequently surface as we grow apart from our soulmates. She also infuses the narrative with an ominous sense of mystery, something poisonous and unknowable, especially towards the end.

Sheep’s Clothing by Celia Dale (1988)

Last year, Celia Dale made my annual highlights with A Helping Hand, an icily compelling tale of greed and deception, stealthily executed amidst carefully orchestrated conversations and kindly cups of tea. This year, she’s back with another gripping novel in a very similar vein. The central protagonist is Grace, a merciless, well-organised con woman in her early sixties with a track record of larceny. As a trained nurse with experience of care homes, Grace is well versed in the habits and behaviours of the elderly – qualities that have enabled her to develop a seemingly watertight plan for fleecing some of society’s most vulnerable individuals, typically frail old women living on their own. To enact her plan, Grace teams up with Janice, a passive, malleable young woman she met in Holloway prison. Together, the two women trick their victims in a cruel, callous way, worming their way into people’s homes by posing as Social Services. Another masterful, sinister novel from Celia Dale – all the more terrifying for its grounding in normality. 

Brief Lives by Anita Brookner (1990)

In this penetrating character study novel, Brookner explores a demanding, codependent relationship between two women, Fay and Julia, thrown together by the business partnership between their respective husbands. Once a glamorous actress with Vogue features under her belt, Julia retains delusions of grandeur, thriving on an audience to pander to her whims. At heart, she is selfish, dismissive, cruel and sardonic, maintaining a hold over Fay (and other lonely, suggestible women) by manipulating them rather skilfully. While Fay dislikes Julia and her methods, she struggles to extricate herself from this woman’s grip, partly out of pity and partly from a strange sense of compulsion and duty. There’s a Bette Davis–Joan Crawford vibe to the toxic, codependent bond between Julia and Fay, reminiscent of the sisters’ relationship in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, albeit in a different context. I’m reading Brookner in publication order, and it’s one of my favourites to date.

The Glass Pearls by Emeric Pressburger (1966)

I loved this utterly gripping novel with a morally ambiguous German character at its heart. Central to the story, which is set in the mid-1960s, is Karl Braun, a cultured, mild-mannered German émigré working as a piano tuner in London. On the surface, Braun’s work colleagues and fellow lodgers assume their friend came to England to escape the Nazis. However, the more we read, the more we realise that Pressburger’s protagonist is haunted by the past. His wife and child perished in an Allied bombing raid over Hamburg – a tragic incident that might well have killed Braun himself had he not rushed to work that day to attend to pressing business. Soon, other more sinister details emerge, creating the impression that Braun is in hiding from something – or possibly someone – with a link to his past. As the narrative unfolds, this quiet story of an émigré trying to make his way in 1960s London morphs into a noirish thriller, the tension escalating with every turn of the page. A complex, deeply unnerving read that will test the reader’s sympathies in unexpected ways.

So, that’s it for my favourite books from another year of reading. Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

All that remains is for me to wish you a very Merry Christmas and all the best for the year ahead – may it be filled with lots of excellent books, old and new!

Books of the year 2023, my favourites from a year of reading – recently published books

Despite the political turmoil unfolding across the world, 2023 has been another great year of reading for me. I’ve read some excellent books over the past twelve months, the best of which feature in my reading highlights.

Just like last year, I’m spreading my books of the year across two posts – ‘recently published’ titles in this first piece, with older books (including reissues) to follow next week.

As many of you know, I read a lot of books from the mid-20^th century, so my books-of-the-year posts will reflect this. In fact at one point, I wondered whether I would have enough ‘new’ books to highlight in this first round-up, mainly because some of the contemporary fiction I read earlier this year left me feeling somewhat underwhelmed. However, three brilliant novels swooped in at the 11^th hour to rescue this post from the draft folder, much to my relief! (I’m also being quite liberal with my definition of ‘recently published’ books, as two of my favourites are a few years old.)

Anyway, enough of the preamble! Here are my favourite recently published books from a year of reading. These are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. I’ve summarised each one in this post (in order of reading), but you can find my full reviews by clicking on the titles.

The Young Accomplice by Benjamin Wood

It was the 1950s setting that first attracted me to Benjamin Wood’s The Young Accomplice, an immersive, slow-burning tale of opportunity, idealism and the possibility of breaking free from past misdemeanours. I’m often a little sceptical when contemporary authors try to recreate this era in their work, especially the dialogue and period detail. Luckily, there are no such problems here. The early 1950s are brilliantly evoked – from the stripped-back, smoke-laden pubs to the grubby underworld of petty crime, everything feels authentic and true. The novel follows two wayward siblings, Joyce and Charlie, from their time in borstal to life as apprentices at an idealistic architectural practice in the country – a collaborative project run by husband-and-wife team Arthur and Florence Mayhood at their Surrey farm. The four central characters are brilliantly drawn, while the central story unfurls with a noticeable sense of unease. A graceful, slow-burning novel that gradually reveals its hand, rewarding patient readers for their time and investment.

A Chill in the Air by Iris Origo

The British-born writer, and biographer Iris Origo is perhaps best known for War in Val d’Orcia: An Italian War Diary, 1943–1944 – a remarkable account of the impact of WW2 on a small rural community in Tuscany, published in 1947 to great success. Prior to this, Origo kept another diary, a private record of developments leading up to Italy’s entry into the war in 1940. This earlier journal — A Chill in the Air — covers the period from March 1939 to July 1940, ending with the birth of Origo’s second child, Benedetta. First published in 2017, long after the author’s death, A Chill in the Air is a truly fascinating text, an intelligent, clear-eyed account of Origo’s reading of political and diplomatic events across Europe from her viewpoint in Italy. While her overriding aim was to document events as simply and truthfully as possible, Origo also captures the prevailing moods of the various circles she moves in, giving the text a richness and vitality that really brings it to life. Both diaries are remarkable books, but A Chill in the Air, with its illuminating insights into Italy’s inexorable slide into war, edges it for me. I learned so much from this one.

Kick the Latch by Kathryn Scanlan

Based on a series of interviews the author conducted with Sonia, an American horse trainer, this taut novella feels so authentic, bringing the sights and sounds of the racetrack to life – a male-dominated world where resilience and determination are necessary attributes for survival. Through a series of short vignettes (mostly around a page in length), Scanlan skilfully builds up a composite picture of Sonia’s life from childhood to middle age – spare in terms of prose style but rich in visual imagery. It feels as if Scanlan has compressed a whole life within the pages of this slim book – the sense of economy and precision is remarkable, calling to mind Denis Johnson’s novella Train Dreams, which captures the life of a railroad construction worker in the early 20^th century. There is also something of Chloé Zhao’s films here, particularly The Rider, in subject matter and style. Yet, irrespective of these comparisons, Scanlan has crafted something extraordinary with this book – a powerful portrait of a woman’s life, illuminated with grace, stoicism, openness and humanity. I found it utterly compelling – a window into a world I knew nothing about.

Voyager by Nona Fernández (tr. Natasha Wimmer)

Last year, I read and loved Space Invaders, a dazzling, shapeshifting novella by the Chilean writer and actress Nona Fernández. These qualities are also very much in evidence in the author’s captivating memoir, Voyager, Constellations of Memory, a beguiling meditation on memory, family history, neurology and astronomy. This exquisitely-written book also weaves together elements of the personal with the political, delving into the dark heart of Chilean history – specifically the atrocities perpetuated under General Pinochet’s dictatorship in the early 1970s. It’s a tricky book to describe, partly because it’s unlike anything else I’ve read, but hopefully I can give you a flavour of it here. By weaving together these threads, Fernández seems to be highlighting the importance of the past to our present and future direction – how light from the past can illuminate our current situation. Only by remembering and preserving these stories, by learning from our history and previous experiences can we hope to move forward, shaping the decisions and constellations of the future as positively as possible. A luminous one-sitting read, full of fascinating observations, connections and ideas; another gem from the publishing arm of Daunt Books.

Real Estate by Deborah Levy

A couple of years ago, Levy made my best-of-the-year round-up with The Cost of Living, the second part of her living autobiography trilogy. Now she’s back on the list with Real Estate, the third book in this thoughtful, beautifully-crafted series. Here we find Levy on the cusp of turning sixty, about to enter a new phase of her life. With her youngest daughter due to flee the nest to study in the North East, Levy will be living alone in her flat in a crumbling London apartment block. Alone, yes, but certainly not lonely. Over the course of this thoroughly engaging book, we follow Levy as she considers various aspects of life, encompassing motherhood, her friendships with others, her writing (frequently taking inspiration from other writers’ work), and property – both physical and emotional. Moreover, we also accompany the author geographically as she moves between various places, taking in London, New York, Mumbai, Belin, Paris and Greece, each location illuminated by Levy’s personal stories and vignettes. Like its predecessor, Real Estate is concerned with various social constructs, particularly those that touch on the perception and suppression of women. Consequently, Levy uses the concept of ‘real estate’ as a springboard, seeing it as a metaphor for man’s control over women in a patriarchal society. In short, a perceptive, intelligent meditation on the preoccupations of mid-life, like a balm for the soul in a turbulent world.

Orbital by Samantha Harvey

There’s a wonderful hypnotic quality to this stunning, elliptical novella. One could describe it as a thought-provoking exploration of our position in the universe – like a prose poem on the fragility of life, the beauty and vulnerability of planet earth and the power of human connection in a rapidly evolving world. Central to the novella is a six-man spaceship continuously orbiting the earth during its nine-month mission in space. We follow the spaceship’s crew – 4 astronauts of different nationalities and 2 Russian cosmonauts – for a single day, during which their craft will circle the planet 16 times, passing through 16 sunrises and 16 sunsets over a wide range of trajectories. Something that Harvey does so brilliantly here is to move seamlessly between the micro and the macro throughout the narrative, cycling from the ‘smallness’ and mundanity of the astronauts’ daily routines to the immense, mind-blowing nature of their position in the universe. In the hands of a less accomplished writer, this technique could seem rather clunky or confusing, but somehow Harvey manages these transitions beautifully, weaving a beguiling tapestry that feels both intimate and expansive. A luminous, poetic book touching on aspects of science, philosophy and geography in a highly compelling way.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

An intense, visceral novel, not dissimilar in impact to Gwendoline Riley’s phenomenal My Phantoms, which some of you will remember from 2021. We are in the early months of motherhood here, an unrelenting fug of exhausting, mindless days and fraught, sleep-deprived nights. The novel is conveyed through an extraordinary monologue as the mother, Soldier, addresses her four-year-old son, Sailor, almost in the form of a confessional. (I couldn’t help but be reminded of Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes here.) What Kilroy does so brilliantly is to immerse the reader in Soldier’s life as a new mother, laying bare her struggles with parenting and hopes for the future while peppering these revelations with flashes of dark humour. It’s a cutting, razor-sharp wit born out of desperation, raw with the pain of frustration from the challenges she’s been facing. In short, Soldier’s life has become so small, a world of stupid, meaningless ‘stuff’ from changing nappies and peeling veg to trying to manage the supermarket shop with a cranky baby in tow. A lethal combination of sleep deprivation and a lack of mental stimulation has kicked in, leaving Soldier lonely, exhausted and lost, subsumed with resentment for the person she has been forced to become – a person she doesn’t like or recognise, a distortion of her former self. An outstanding powerhouse of a novel, probably the best new book I’ve read this year.

Cheri by Jo Ann Beard

Described by the author as ‘a merging of fact with fiction’, Cheri is a fascinating book, a remarkably affecting portrayal of a woman’s final months in the face of a terminal cancer diagnosis. This novella is devastating, humane and beautifully written; yet, despite the painful subject matter, there is something cathartic about this narrative too, a universality that will likely resonate with many readers. Cheri gives us a window into the life of Cheri Tremble, a train conductor from Iowa, who is diagnosed with breast cancer after a routine mammogram. In short, the novella paints a picture of Cheri’s journey with cancer, informed by Beard’s discussions with Cheri’s friends and family following her death. While the details of Cheri’s condition are informed by facts, her thoughts and memories are luminously imagined by Beard – a fictional layering over actual events. The writing is gorgeous – eloquent, radiant and beautifully judged, flecked with memorable details that bring Cheri’s story to life. It’s a knockout read. A critically acclaimed American essayist, Beard is a new writer to me, definitely someone to investigate further next year.

So that’s it for my favourite ‘recently published’ titles from a year of reading – I’d love to hear your thoughts below. Do join me again next week when I’ll be sharing the best older books I read this year – still plenty of literary treasures to come!

The Glass Pearls by Emeric Pressburger

The Hungarian émigré Emeric Pressburger is, of course, best known as one half of the legendary filmmaking partnership Powell and Pressburger, whose iconic films are currently the subject of a major retrospective at the BFI. (Those of you who follow me on social media will know of my love for this duo’s work, from the charm and romanticism of I Know Where I’m Going! to the lush headiness and repressed desires of Black Narcissus.)

As the screenwriter in the partnership, Pressburger was known for his nuanced portrayals of complex characters, and these qualities flowed through to The Glass Pearls, one of two novels he wrote after parting company with Powell in the late 1950s. Having worked in the film industry in Berlin before fleeing Germany in 1933, Pressburger retained an affinity for the German people, recognising their humanity despite the heinous political regime sweeping the nation. These sensibilities can be seen in some of the duo’s wartime films, especially 49^th Parallel and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, where German figures are depicted in shades of grey, not the stereotypical black portrayed in other propaganda films at the time. I mention this because it’s valuable background to The Glass Pearls, a brilliant, utterly gripping novel with a morally ambiguous German at its heart.

Central to the novel, which is set in the mid-1960s, is Karl Braun, a cultured, mild-mannered German émigré working as a piano tuner in London. When the story opens, Braun has just moved into new lodgings in Pimlico, where he meets fellow European emigres, the friendly wheeler-dealer Leslie Strohmayer and the quiet pharmacist Jaroslav Kolm. Having established this setting, Pressburger shows us Braun going about his quiet, respectable life, courting Helen – a young mother separated from her husband – largely by attending concerts and other cultural activities that deepen her appreciation of the arts.

On the surface, Braun’s work colleagues and fellow lodgers assume their friend came to England to escape the Nazis. However, the more we read, the more we realise that Pressburger’s protagonist is haunted by his past. His wife and child perished in an Allied bombing raid over Hamburg – a tragic incident that might well have killed Braun himself had he not rushed to work that day to attend to pressing business. Soon, other more sinister details emerge, creating the impression that Braun is in hiding from something – or possibly someone – with a link to his past. He constantly checks himself when probed about his background, carefully sticking to his story of a spell spent in Paris, mindful of not mentioning things that might reveal his identity.

‘Have you ever had any children?’

He almost told her. He checked himself just in time. Nothing is more inviting to disclose your secrets than to be told by others of their own. Hein used to lecture him: ‘When somebody is asking you straight questions, it’s easy to be on your guard. But when somebody is telling you his own life story, that’s the time to watch your tongue.’

‘No,’ he said. (p. 53)

By the end of the first chapter, it becomes clear that Braun used to work as a brain surgeon in a hospital attached to a Nazi concentration camp. As such, he is now wanted for war crimes, having carried out gruesome experiments on some of the camp’s inmates. With his overactive imagination, Braun treats almost everyone he meets as a potential spy, sent by the war crimes commissions to ferret him out of hiding, ready and waiting for any slip.

They could get Kolm to spy on him because of his hatred for anything connected with the Third Reich. Strohmayer would do it for money. They were offering 10,000 marks – nine hundred and ten pounds! Strohmayer had never seen that much money in his whole life. He would probably denounce his own brother for ninety pounds and he would inform on anybody for nine. (p. 81)

As the narrative unfolds, Braun’s paranoia increases, threatening to destabilise his life and everything he has sought to protect. In a scene worthy of a Hitchcock film, our protagonist descends into a vortex of fear and hallucination, a state heightened by the frenzied atmosphere of a dance club during a night out with Helen.  

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He used to think that he had surrounded himself with a strong armour. For years he had toiled to harden this armour, until he believed it to be impregnable. Now, in his ears, the bombs were falling and he realized that no tempered steel and no thickness of reinforced concrete would withstand direct hits. The jukebox screamed, the women screamed, the babies screamed, and he passed out. (p. 110)

As the narrative unfolds, this quiet story of an ordinary émigré trying to make his way in 1960s London morphs into a noirish thriller, the tension escalating with every turn of the page. What Pressburger does so brilliantly here is to present Braun as a likeable, humane character from the start, so much so that the reader cannot help but feel sympathetic towards him. We sense his grief over the loss of his family, his loneliness in a foreign country and yearning for female companionship. This cultured mild-mannered piano tuner seems a world away from the infamous doctor conducting gruesome brain surgery in the Nazi camps; nevertheless, as more of Braun’s past actions are revealed, the reader must grapple with the moral complexities at the novel’s heart.

Who is a “criminal”? What is “duty”? If the majority of the people elect a government and a leader, this elected government, this elected leader, are the proper authorities to define where the citizens’ duty lies. You have got to obey, or you are an enemy of the state with the obvious consequences. Now assume: a few years later the government is defeated – they all are, sooner or later – you’re told you shouldn’t have obeyed them. What you did was not “doing your duty” but you have committed a crime for which you’ll be hounded and, if caught, tried like a criminal […] If the accused here is a criminal, so are we all. (p. 16)

With the novel racing towards its conclusion, the reader is torn between hoping Braun will evade his pursuers and knowing he deserves to be caught. The ending, when it comes, is gripping and shocking, investing the story with a note of poignancy the protagonist has earned. In some respects, we come to realise that Braun – or Dr Reitmüller as he was back then – believed his brain research was furthering the cause of scientific progress, failing to appreciate his part in the murderous Nazi machine.

It’s a complex, deeply unnerving read, even more so when we learn that Pressburger’s mother and other family members perished at Auschwitz. As the author’s grandson Kevin Macdonald – a highly respected filmmaker in his own right – notes in his excellent afterword to the book, Pressburger went as far as reflecting some of his own traits and cultural interests in Braun, making him a kind of darker alter-ego, an expression perhaps of survivor’s guilt. (Throughout his life, Pressburger was haunted by deep-seated regrets for not having brought his mother to England while he still could.)

When The Glass Pearls was first published in 1966, it sank virtually without a trace, a poor review in the TLS quickly sealing its fate. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s possible to see why this fascinating novel bombed. Britain was still recovering from the traumas of war, the brutality of German atrocities still raw in many people’s minds – as such, critics and the general public were perhaps less willing to accept nuanced portrayals of complex, morally ambiguous characters than they are today.

Nevertheless, almost sixty years later, it’s great to see this remarkable novel back in print, particularly as part of the wonderful Faber Editions series, an imprint that consistently delivers the goods. All we need now is a film adaptation, ideally directed by Kevin Macdonald, a fervent champion of his grandfather’s legacy. As one might expect from a screenwriter of Pressburger’s calibre, this gripping story is conveyed in an evocative, cinematic manner, full of visual details and memorable scenes. I for one would love to see it on the big screen!

More summer reads – another selection of favourites from the shelves

Back in early July, when I posted a piece on some of my favourite summer reads, it soon became clear from your comments that there would be more than enough potential for another round-up of recommendations. So, here I am with part two of my favourite summer books, featuring illicit affairs, heady coming-of-age stories and nightmare summer holidays steeped in fear and paranoia. There’s something for virtually every reader here. (As usual, I’ve summarised each book, but you can read my reviews in full by clicking on the relevant links.)

One Fine Day by Mollie Panter-Downes

In this beautifully written novel, we follow a day in the life of the Marshalls, an upper-middle-class family struggling to find a new way to live in an England altered irrevocably by WW2. Set on a blisteringly hot day in the summer of 1946, the novel captures a moment of great social change as thousands of families find themselves having to adapt to significant shifts in circumstances. For some inhabitants of Wealding, a picturesque village in the home counties, the war has opened up fresh opportunities and pastures new; but for others like Laura Marshall and her husband Stephen, it has led to a marked decline in living standards compared to the glory days of the late 1930s. Several threads and encounters come together to form a vivid picture of a nation trying to come to terms with new ways of life and the accompanying changes to its social fabric. A little like a cross between Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway and an Elizabeth Taylor novel, this was a wonderful discovery for me back in 2017.  

A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr

A sublime, deeply affecting book about love, loss and the restorative power of art. Set in small Yorkshire village in the heady summer of 1920, Carr’s novella is narrated by Tom Birkin, a young man still dealing with the effects of shell shock following the traumas of WW1. A Southerner by nature, Birkin has come to Oxgodby to restore a Medieval wall painting in the local church – much to the annoyance of the vicar, Reverend Keach, who resents the restorer’s presence in his domain. However, there is another purpose to Birkin’s visit: to find an escape or haven of sorts, an immersive distraction from the emotional scars of the past. Above all, this is an elegant novella imbued with a strong sense of longing, a nostalgia for an idyllic world. It also perfectly captures the ephemeral nature of time – the idea that our lives can turn on the tiniest of moments, the most fleeting of chances to be grasped before they are lost forever. A masterpiece in miniature, full of yearning and desire.  

Three Summers by Margarita Liberaki (tr. Karen Van Dyck)

First published in 1946, Three Summers is something of a classic of Greek literature, a languid coming-of-age novel featuring three sisters set over three consecutive summer seasons. At first sight, it might appear that the book presents a simple story, one of three very different young women growing up in the idyllic Greek countryside. However, there are darker, more complex issues bubbling away under the surface as the sisters must learn to navigate the choices that will shape the future directions of their lives. Sexual awakening is a major theme, with the novel’s lush and sensual tone echoing the rhythms of the natural world. Ultimately though, it is the portrait of the three sisters that really shines through – the opportunities open to them and the limitations society may wish to dictate. This a novel about working out who you are as a person and finding your place in the world; of being aware of the consequences of certain life choices and everything these decisions entail. 

Heat Wave by Penelope Lively

If you like Tessa Hadley’s fiction (especially her excellent novel, The Past), chances are this book will also suit you. Fifty-five-year-old Pauline – a freelance editor – is spending the summer at World’s End, her cottage in the English countryside. Residing in the adjacent cottage are Pauline’s daughter, Teresa, Teresa’s husband, Maurice, and their baby, Luke. Ostensibly, the family is there to enable Maurice – a writer of some promise – to complete his book on the history of tourism. What follows is a character-driven story of jealousy, betrayal and frustration, all unfolding over a dry, claustrophobic summer underscored by a growing sense of pressure. Lively’s descriptions of the natural world are so evocative, clearly reflecting the novel’s simmering tension through images of the scorched landscape withering in the blistering heat.

In a Summer Season by Elizabeth Taylor

An excellent novel about love, family tensions and the fragile nature of changing relationships, all conveyed in Taylor’s precise, insightful style. The story revolves around Kate Heron, previously widowed and now married to Dermot, ten years her junior. Also living with the Herons are Kate’s children from her first marriage: twenty-two-year-old Tom, struggling to please his punctilious grandfather in the family business, and sixteen-year-old Louisa, a slightly awkward teenager home from boarding school for the holidays. Completing the immediate family are Kate’s elderly aunt, Ethel, a kindly, sharp-eyed woman who delights in noting the smallest of developments in the Herons’ marital relationship, and the cook, Mrs Meacock, who longs to travel and compile an anthology of sayings. The novel is full of perceptive observations about the evolving nature of relationships, the differences in attitudes between the generations, how productively (or not) we spend our time, and the challenges or fears of ageing. The heat and sensuality of an English summer are beautifully evoked.

The Pachinko Parlour by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr. Aneesa Abbas Higgins)

A few years ago, I read and loved Winter in Sokcho, a beautiful, dreamlike novella that touched on themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to societal norms. In 2022, Elisa Shua Dusapin returned with her second book, The Pachinko Parlour, another wonderfully enigmatic novella that shares many qualities with its predecessor. As in her previous work, Dusapin draws on her French-Korean heritage for Pachinko, crafting an elegantly expressed story of family, displacement, fractured identity and the search for belonging. Here we see people caught in the hinterland between different countries, complete with their respective cultures and preferred languages. It’s a novel that exists in the liminal spaces between states, the borders or crossover points from one community to the next and from one family unit to another. A wonderfully layered exploration of displacement, belonging and unspoken tragedies from times past, all played out in a claustrophobic atmosphere from the suffocating heat.

Uncle Paul by Celia Fremlin

First published in 1959 and recently reissued by Faber, Uncle Paul was Fremlin’s second book, and what a brilliant novel it is – a wonderfully clever exploration of what can happen when we allow our imagination to run wild and unfettered, conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios from our fears and suspicions. On the surface, Uncle Paul could be the relatively innocent story of three sisters getting caught up in troublesome domestic matters during a seaside holiday. But in Fremlin’s hands, the story takes on a more sinister dimension, tapping into the siblings’ fears of murder and revenge. Fremlin is so adept at capturing the challenges of holidaying in the temperamental British summer, from the tension of being cooped up in a caravan with family members, to squabbles over what to do next, to the sense of pressure we feel to be outside enjoying ourselves at every moment, even if the weather is dreadful and all we want to do is to stay indoors. I loved this clever, skilfully executed exploration of fear and suspicion, very much in the style of Patricia Highsmith’s and Shirley Jackson’s domestic noirs laced with the social comedy of Barbara Pym. A shoo-in for my 2023 reading highlights.

The Venice Train by Georges Simenon (tr. Ros Schwartz)

There’s a touch of Patricia Highsmith about this highly compelling novella in which an ordinary man gets sucked into a nightmare scenario by a stranger on a train. When we first meet Justin Calmar, he is travelling home to Paris from his family holiday in Venice, having been called back early by his boss. During the journey, Justin falls into a conversation with an unknown man, who subsequently asks for a favour. Will Justin deliver a suitcase for this man while he waits for his connecting train in Lausanne? – a task that signals no end of trouble for Simenon’s protagonist. I won’t reveal how this compulsive novella plays out, other than to say it’s a very gripping read with a striking, unexpected conclusion. This is classic Simenon, complete with a brilliant premise and the author’s trademark internal psychological conflict. The oppressive August heat adds to Justin’s discomfort, dialling up the tension in this atmospheric book.

So, there we are. Let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them or are considering reading any of them in the future. Perhaps you have a favourite summer book or two? Please feel free to mention them in the comments below.

Uncle Paul by Celia Fremlin

Celia Fremlin has long been on my list of writers to read. In my mind, she is bracketed with Celia Dale, whose marvellously sinister domestic noir, A Helping Hand, was one of my favourite reads from last year.

First published in 1959 and recently reissued by Faber, Uncle Paul was Fremlin’s second book, and what a brilliant novel it is – a wonderfully clever exploration of what can happen when we allow our imagination to run wild and unfettered, conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios from our fears and suspicions. On the surface, Uncle Paul could be the relatively innocent story of three sisters getting caught up in troublesome domestic matters during a seaside holiday. But in Fremlin’s hands, the story takes on a more sinister dimension, tapping into the siblings’ fears of murder and revenge. 

The central protagonist is Meg, who, despite being the youngest sister is easily the most level-headed of the three. An independent young woman living alone in a London flat, Meg is in the throes of a new relationship with Freddy, a charming, witty pianist with a relaxed attitude to life. Meanwhile, middle sister Isabel is trying to settle into her second marriage, having been widowed some years earlier following the birth of her two boys. Isabel’s new husband, Philip – an ex-Army type and a stickler for discipline – is easily riled by his stepsons’ behaviour, clearly a source of worry for Isabel as she embarks on her new life. Finally, we have Meg and Isabel’s much older half-sister, Mildred, also on her second marriage; but despite being financially comfortable, her relationship with husband Hubert is somewhat unstable to say the least.

As the novel opens, Meg receives a telegram summoning her to the seaside resort where Isabel and her family are holidaying in a caravan. It seems that Mildred has left Hubert and ended up at a nearby cottage – the very same cottage where she honeymooned with her first husband, Paul, some fifteen years earlier. However, Uncle Paul (as Meg and Isabel used to call him back then) turned out to be on the run for attempted murder when he hooked up with Mildred – a fact that Mildred subsequently discovered with a little help from Meg. Now, fifteen years on, Mildred is worried that Paul may be out of prison and looking to take his revenge – especially when she hears strange footsteps scuffling around the cottage in the middle of the night! So, with the hapless Isabel struggling to calm Mildred down, Meg feels pressured into making the trip to the coast to sort everything out.

At heart, Meg thinks it’s all a load of nonsense. What on earth would compel Uncle Paul to return to the cottage after fifteen years? Surely, he’d be looking to start a new life elsewhere, keen to put the past behind him following his release from jail? However, the more Meg listens to Isabel’s fears for Mildred’s safety, not to mention Mildred’s own convictions that Paul is on the loose, the more she begins to worry that they might have a point…

For a moment Meg felt horribly credulous; helpless in the grip of possibility. For she seemed to be looking once again into Uncle Paul’s queer dark eyes, so melancholy, and yet so alert. (p. 30)

In the belief that Mildred would be far better off virtually anywhere else than in an isolated cottage with no amenities, Meg persuades her half-sister to move into a local hotel, a delightfully old-fashioned place with an odd assortment of guests. All seems well for a while, especially with the potential for Mildred to indulge in some minor dramas with the other residents…

“Oh, she’s fine.” Meg was cheerfully confident. “I left her in the best armchair, eyeing the other inhabitants in quite her old style. It’s exactly what I said—now she’s back in the comforts of civilisation, she can’t be bothered any more with footsteps and shadows from the past. Besides, she’s got a promising feud lined up already. About the armchair. That ought to give her all the drama she wants for days to come…” (pp. 40–41)

Nevertheless, Mildred just can’t leave well alone and insists on returning to the cottage at the most unsuitable times of day – developments that Fremlin uses to dial up the tension in the story as it progresses. Meanwhile, Meg herself is forced to spend a few nights at the ominous cottage as Isabel’s caravan is full. Once again, this allows Fremlin to prey on her protagonists’ anxieties as Meg oscillates between fearing for her life and thinking the whole Mildred situation is absurd!

It was odd how infectious they were, these fancies of Mildred’s. Meg recalled the moments of suspense—no, of real, quaking fear—that she had shared with Mildred last night. And all to no purpose, for nothing had happened—nothing had ever been going to happen; it had all been in Mildred’s imagination. It was as if Mildred had a special gift of dragging others with her into silliness. (p. 142)

Something that Fremlin does so brilliantly here is to exploit the individual fears of each of the three sisters, showing how their imagination can easily run amok. For Mildred, clearly the main worry is that Paul is out and intent on taking revenge for her betrayal in exposing his identity. Meanwhile, Isabel is terrified that her exacting husband, Philip, might be Uncle Paul in disguise as her concerns over his intolerance of the children spiral out of control. Even Meg is affected by the situation, especially when she begins to wonder about the similarities between Uncle Paul and her boyfriend, Freddy, whose past is something of a mystery – to her at least. Fremlin also very cleverly seeds at an early stage many of the themes she goes on to explore later in the novel, including family likenesses, the difficulty of guessing a man’s age, and whether a woman would betray her husband if she discovered he had committed a dreadful crime. The battle between love/loyalty vs integrity/common sense is a pertinent theme here.

Fremlin is so adept at capturing the challenges of holidaying in the temperamental British summer, from the tension of being cooped up in a caravan with family members, to squabbles over what to do next, to the sense of pressure we feel to be outside enjoying ourselves at every moment, even if the weather is dreadful and all we want to do is to stay indoors. There’s some marvellous humour here too, especially from the interactions between the various guests at the hotel, from the gallant Captain Cockerill to the stoic Mrs Forrester and her young son, Cedric – one of those insufferable little boys who knows everything and insists on getting his own way. To Fremlin’s great credit, she manages to make the reader feel sympathetic towards the fatherless Cedric by the end, despite his rather annoying habits! 

Captain Cockerill was gallantly anxious that Mildred and her two sisters should accompany him for a walk along the promenade; and Meg could only hope that the poor little man was prepared for the way in which this simple proposal, in the hands of Mildred and Isabel, at once took on the character of a large-scale manoeuvre. First, Mildred had to change into an entirely new outfit, including a different shade of nail varnish which took a quarter of an hour to dry. After this, Isabel had to decide whether or not to take her raincoat. This exhausting topic, which was apt at the best of times to reduce Isabel to quivering uncertainty, seemed on this occasion to be straining her powers of decision almost to the point of paralysis. (p.72)

Fremlin manages the tension extremely well here, dialling it up and down a few times as the story unfolds. The scenes at the cottage are wonderfully atmospheric, a place fraught with actual dangers from the lack of running water and electricity to a partially uncovered well.  All augmented by sinister happenings that might be real or imaginary: the sound of footsteps outside; the creaking of a wardrobe within; the brush of something unknown against the cheek. Moreover, the story builds to a dramatic (and unexpected!) denouement, the sort of ending the reader is unlikely to guess.

In summary, Uncle Paul is an utterly brilliant novel, a very clever and skilfully executed exploration of fear and suspicion, very much in the style of Patricia Highsmith’s and Shirley Jackson’s domestic noirs laced with the social comedy of Barbara Pym. It’s a shoo-in for my end-of-year highlights – very highly recommended indeed!