Rediscovered literary gems – a few of my favourites from the shelves

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about A Silence Shared, a lovely rediscovered classic by the Italian writer and artist Lalla Romano (tr. Brian Robert Moore). First published in 1957, this haunting, dreamlike novella was recently reissued by Pushkin Press in a beautiful new edition for a whole new generation of readers to enjoy.

In many ways, that review reminded me of just how much interest there is in these rediscoveries from the past at the moment. Naturally, trailblazing publishers such as Virago Press and Persephone Books have been championing this area for several years; but other, more recent imprints are also contributing to the renaissance, enhancing the current demand for these fascinating rediscoveries. It’s certainly an area that chimes very strongly with my own reading interests, especially women writers from the mid-20^th century.  

So, to cut a long intro short, I thought it might be interesting to highlight some of my favourite rediscovered classics from recent years – I’ve deliberately avoided selecting anything from Virago or Persephone as they probably warrant posts of their own at some point!

Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks (1953)

Every now and again, a book comes along that captivates the reader with its elegant form and glittering prose. Maud Martha is one such book, painting an evocative portrait of the titular character’s life from childhood to early adulthood. Over the course of the novella, which is written as a series of short vignettes, we follow Maud Martha through childhood in Chicago’s South Side, her early romances as a teenager, to marriage and motherhood, moving seamlessly from the early 1920s to the mid-’40s. I loved this book for its gorgeous, poetic prose and beautiful use of imagery. A wonderful rediscovery courtesy of Faber Editions, a fascinating imprint dedicated to showcasing radical literary voices from around the world.

(Other Faber Editions to seek out include the captivating Mrs Caliban, a subversive feminist fable by Rachel Ingalls, and the excellent Termush, Sven Holm’s unnerving post-apocalyptic dystopia, still wildly relevant today.)

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

Recently reissued by Pushkin Press, Alba de Cespedes’ novel Forbidden Notebook is 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 Cossati, 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 confessional of sorts, 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. (Fans of this book might also appreciate Anna Maria Ortese’s stories and reportage, Evening Descends Upon the Hills, another superb reissue from Pushkin.)

O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker (1991)

First published in 1991 and more recently reissued by Weidenfeld & Nicolson as part of their W&N Essentials series, O Caledonia was Barker’s only novel. It’s a dazzling gem of a book, rich in a wealth of vivid imagery – clearly the product of a highly imaginative writer with a sharp eye for detail and an affinity for outsiders. Ostensibly a coming-of-age narrative, the novel blends elements from a range of literary traditions, from the Gothic novel to Classical Myths, skilfully weaving them into the fabric of the text. Andy Miller (of Backlisted fame) described it as Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, a description that certainly rings true. There’s also a dash of Barbara Comyns here – Barker’s prose is expressive and evocative, portraying a world that combines the sharply recognisable with the macabre and the surreal. A kaleidoscopic, jewel-like novel with a noticeably poignant touch.

Valentino and Sagittarius by Natalia Ginzburg (1957, tr. Avril Bardoni 1987)

The publishing arm of Daunt Books has been championing the critically-acclaimed Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg for the past five years, and rightly so – she is a marvel! Last year, I loved All Our Yesterdays, Ginzburg’s rich, multilayered novel following two very different neighbouring Italian families during the Second World War. It’s a truly remarkable book, a story of ordinary people living through extraordinary times.

Luckily for UK-based readers, Daunt has also just reissued two of my favourite Ginzburg novellas, Valentino and Sagittarius, in gorgeous new editions. Both stories deal with the messy business of family relationships, the tensions that arise when one person behaves selfishly at the expense of those around them. When viewed together, they highlight how foolhardy we can be, especially when investing all our hopes in a particular individual or venture – the fallout for the surrounding family members is often painful in the extreme. So, two brilliant novellas here, each representing an excellent introduction to Natalia Ginzburg, a writer whose insights into the minor tragedies in everyday life are remarkably astute.

The Caravaners by Elizabeth von Arnim (1909)

Over the past five years, Handheld Press has been reissuing forgotten gems from a variety of 20^th-century writers, including Rose Macaulay, Margaret Kennedy and Sylvia Townsend Warner.

Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Caravaners is a satire of the highest order, not least because the novel’s narrator – the German baron, Otto von Ottringel – is a colossal ass, a pompous, insufferable individual with absolutely no self-awareness. The novel focuses on a caravanning holiday through the countryside of Kent, ostensibly to mark the von Ottringels’ silver wedding anniversary. What von Arnim does so well here is to let the reader see how Otto is perceived by those around him, even though the novel is narrated entirely from the baron’s own viewpoint. In short, this is a brilliantly-written book, one that casts a sharply satirical eye over such subjects as misogyny, class differences, power dynamics in marriage and Anglo-German relations during the early 20^th century – not to mention the delights and follies of caravanning in the inclement British weather!

(Jane Oliver and Ann Stafford’s Business as Usual is another Handheld favourite, also warmly recommended here.)

More Was Lost by Eleanor Perényi (1946)

In many respects, the NYRB Classics imprint is the quintessential source of rediscovered gems. Their list is chock-full of literary gems from the past, beautifully recovered in their stylish trademark livery.

There are so many options to choose from here, but I’ve plumped for More Was Lost, a remarkable memoir by the American-born writer Eleanor Perényi. In essence, the memoir covers the early years of Eleanor’s marriage to Zsiga Perényi, a relatively poor Hungarian baron whom she meets while visiting Europe with her parents in 1937. It’s a gem of a book, both charming and poignant in its depiction of a vanishing and unstable world, all but swept away by the ravages of war. By turns beautiful, illuminating, elegiac and sad; a rare book that feels both expansive in scope yet intimate in detail.

(Dorothy Baker’s superb novel, Cassandra at the Wedding, and Olivia Manning’s equally brilliant School for Love would also be excellent choice from the NYRB Classics list.)

Territory of Light by Yuko Tsushima (late 1970s, tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

I loved this. A beautiful, dreamlike novella shot through with a strong sense of isolation that permeates the mind. Originally published as a series of short stories, Tsushima’s novella focuses on a year in the life of a young mother recently separated from her somewhat ambivalent husband. There is a sense of intimacy and honesty in the portrayal of the narrator’s feelings, something that adds to the undoubted power of the book. Themes of isolation, alienation and disassociation are heightened by the somewhat ghostly nature of the setting – an apartment located in a commercial building where the mother and child are the sole occupants at night. Reissued by Penguin in 2019 as part of their Modern Classics series, it’s a wonderful rediscovery – strangely unsettling in tone yet thoroughly compelling.

(Irmgard Keun’s evocative novella Gilgi, One of Us is another favourite PMC, a striking portrayal of a determined young woman set in Weimar-era Cologne.)

Chatterton Square by E. H. Young (1947)

Probably the richest, most satisfying entry in the British Library’s Women Writers series so far, Chatterton Square is a novel of contrasts, an exploration of lives – women’s lives in particular – in the run-up to the Second World War. On the surface, Chatterton appears to be a straightforward story of two neighbouring families – one relatively happy and functional, the other much more constrained. However, the degree of depth and nuance that Young brings to her portraits of the main characters makes it a particularly compelling read – more so than my description suggests. Set in Upper Radstowe’s Chatterton Square – a place modelled on Bristol’s Clifton – the novel features one of the most pompous fictional characters I’ve ever encountered: Herbert Blackett, a conceited, self-absorbed puritan who considers himself vastly superior to his more relaxed neighbours.

(The Home, Penelope Mortimer’s brilliant but painful exploration of life after a separation, and Tea is So Intoxicating, a delightful social comedy by Mary Essex, are also fully deserving of mentions here.)

So, there we have it – a lovely selection of literary gems for you to peruse!

Do let me know your thoughts if you’ve read any of these books. Or maybe you have a favourite rediscovered classic you’d like to share with others. If so, please feel free to mention it below.

They by Kay Dick

Having enjoyed Sven Holm’s Termush so much, I thought I would read another book from the Faber Editions list, a series dedicated to reviving radical literary voices from across the world. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the one that called out to me was Kay Dick’s 1977 novella, They, another classic piece of dystopian fiction in the speculative / slipstream vein. Think Anna Kavan’s brilliant novel Ice (a tense, nightmarish pursuit across a post-apocalyptic landscape), punctuated by moments of genuine beauty, largely stemming from Dick’s evocative descriptions of the natural world.

Like Termush, They is another fascinating, enigmatic rediscovery by Faber – a chilling vision of a society in the grip of a sinister force that seems all too relevant today. In some respects, it feels as if these two novellas are in conversation with one another, sending out distress signals in the faint hope of being rescued…

They depicts a world in which artistic expression, creative freedom and non-conformity are all under attack. The novella’s setting is deliberately sketchy, with the narrative unfolding through a series of short stories or vignettes which take place in unnamed locations (almost certainly in Britain) at unspecified times. Dick thrusts the reader into this world with the first vignette, Some Danger Ahead, which sets the novella’s alarming tone right from the very start. In some respects, this opening story could be viewed as the novella in miniature, with Dick setting out her stall for the horrors to come.

From sculptors and painters to writers and composers, Britain’s creative artists are being threatened by shadowy, malign forces – the ‘They’ of the book’s title. Through a sequence of rapid, ruthless actions, They roam the landscape in packs, destroying art, confiscating books, burning poetry – basically suffocating and snuffing out all forms of creativity in their sight. At first, They focus on cities, effectively pushing artists towards more rural and coastal areas where they gather in small groups or retreats.

Moreover, They mostly operate through stealth, targeting properties when residents are out or asleep at night, avoiding conflict where possible to conserve their resources. By stealing books, clearing galleries and destroying manuscripts, They aim to force artists into abandoning their creative pursuits, effectively outlawing any forms of artistic expression. Consequently, people must rely on their memories of various art forms once the originals have been destroyed.

They never came when one was in the house. In their view, confrontation was an unnecessary waste of energy, a luxury they withheld. Silent stealth was a greater pain to bear; it was their form of punishment. They only took sharper measures if one went beyond the accepted limit. (p. 9)

More draconian measures are reserved for rebels (at least at first), with the mob only turning on individuals if they decide to resist. Nevertheless, as the novella unfolds, violence against artists increases in frequency and intensity, particularly when those targeted refuse to comply. In some instances, offenders are imprisoned, tortured or maimed. Painters are blinded; writers have their hands amputated; poets have their arms burned. In short, They will do whatever it takes to stamp out creativity, cutting off its lifeblood at the source. As a result, it’s not uncommon for people to be desensitised or rendered ineffective, emptying them of their memories and the desire to create.

Infiltration and surveillance techniques are also rife, with undercover agents posing as members of artistic groups or staff, ultimately acting as spies to facilitate the raids. Surveys are another common tactic, with inspections frequently attracting sightseers; consequently, these onlookers feed on the horrific spectacle, carrying out acts of violence which add to the sense of destruction.

I was not surprised by the influx of sightseers. Like locusts, they migrated in the wake of a survey. They moved sluggishly about an area under surveillance, relieving their apathy, with small acts of vandalism, chucking their litter about the streets, staring at all him. They met with malicious, intent, pushing people out of their way. (…) Physically they presented a uniformity of ugliness, their movements suggested the grotesque. They were on the look-out: sightseers for a gleaning which a survey might always bring about. If nothing happened they became a shade more fractious, and let out their suppressed cruelty in mischievous violence…  (p. 90)

Dick doesn’t tell us whether They are officially sanctioned by the government or whatever authoritarian regime is in place here, but she does allude to the size of the group. At one point, a figure of 1-2 million members is mentioned, highlighting their prevalence across the county and the collective power of this movement.

While the reasons for the mob’s actions are not explicitly spelled out, the reader gains various insights into their motivations, mostly through conversations between the artists as the narrative unfolds. Unsurprisingly, these acts of destruction are largely driven by fear, envy and a general lack of empathy and understanding.

‘…We [artists] represent danger. Non-conformity is an illness. We’re possible sources of contagion. We’re offered opportunities to,’ he gave a slight chuckle, ‘integrate. Refusal as recorded as hostility.’ (p. 53)  

Indeed, creative artists are not the only individuals under attack here. They also target single people living alone, unconventional individuals and anyone who appears to be different from the norm or independently minded in their views. Individuality and non-conformity are considered ‘illnesses’ and potential sources of contamination across society, threatening the movement’s hold on the reins of power.

Moreover, any expressions of deeply-felt emotions must also be extinguished, from joyous declarations of love to the profound sadness of grief. In one of the most distressing vignettes in the book, we learn of mourners who are taken away to grief towers where they are stripped of their emotions, only to return like zombies devoid of any memories – ‘They emptied him, she whispered…Not a memory left.’

‘The grief towers for those who refuse to deny. Love is unsocial, inadmissible, contagious.’ He grinned. ‘It admits communication. Grief for lost love is the worse offence, indictable. It suggests love has value, understanding, generosity, happiness. Tessa is an extreme case. She flaunted her grief with pride.’ (p. 100)

We learn few details about the novella’s narrator as she (or possibly he?) moves from one artistic group to another in each subsequent vignette. In fact, at one point, I wondered whether the same person narrates each story or whether they change from one vignette to the next – any thoughts on that would be very interesting to hear in the comments. Occasionally, the narrator’s emotions break through, adding another, more psychological, dimension to the story.

I allowed myself the luxury of going utterly to pieces for forty-eight hours, moving like one demented through the hours, flooding my mind with old memories, metaphorically wailing at the wall of my loss. (…) Through such excess did I propel myself back to an appearance of remoteness. It was a form of subdued hysteria. (p. 104)

It’s an eerily chilling world the author conveys here – a timely reminder of the horrific dangers of censorship and restrictions on artistic expression. The book also highlights the importance of individual acts of resistance, often at enormous risks to freedom fighters themselves. While some readers might find the book’s minimalist approach a little too mysterious for their tastes, I loved the sense of ambiguity and space this creates, encouraging the reader to draw on their imagination to flesh out the gaps.

In her introduction to the novella, Carmen Maria Machado warns us against the temptation to view They as simply an allegory for the current political environment. Nevertheless, it’s hard not to draw parallels with the Conservative government’s strategy of stoking the Culture Wars on multiple fronts, including blatant attacks on specific arts organisations and the creative sector in general. Dick’s novella also raises important questions about the value of art, especially if it cannot be shared with others – most notably, its intended audience.

‘Can we go on creating for ourselves? Without any contact with the outside world?’ (p. 34)

And what remains when a work of art is destroyed? Will it endure in the memory, or might this be extinguished too? There are resonances here with Yoko Ogawa’s excellent novel, The Memory Police – a poignant, dreamlike book in which specific objects (and people’s memories of them) are systematically ‘disappeared’.

I’ll finish on a more hopeful note, a quote from one of the alluring descriptions of nature dotted through the book. There’s some gorgeous descriptive writing here, beautifully captured in Dick’s lucid, crystalline prose.

The January day had the pellucidity of a crystal. Unseasonal sun transformed the landscape. Winter bleakness acquired definition. Following weeks of rain the sharpness was invigorating. Downlands radiated colour. Brownish defoliated areas, glinted purple tones. Leafless bramble and thicket sparkles with renewal of bud. (p. 37)

This is a haunting, enigmatic, thought-provoking book – like a howl from the past and a warning for the future. (My thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a reading copy.)

Termush by Sven Holm (tr. Sylvia Clayton)

First published in 1967, Sven Holm’s speculative dystopian novella, Termush, is the latest release in the Faber Editions series, an expertly-curated selection of rediscovered gems dedicated to showcasing radical literary voices from around the world. It’s the third book I’ve read from this imprint, and I would thoroughly recommend all three: Mrs Caliban, a subversive feminist fable by the American writer Rachel Ingalls; Maud Martha, an exquisitely-crafted portrait of a young black American woman by the poet Gwendolyn Brooks; and now the brilliant Termush, a deeply unnerving slice of post-apocalyptic dystopia that still feels wildly relevant today.

The novella’s premise is a fascinating one. A nuclear apocalypse has decimated the country (and possibly the whole world), wiping out large swathes of the population. Nevertheless, an elite coastal hotel named Termush remains untouched by the disaster, complete with trained staff, an armed security team, radiation shelters, access to clean water, food and other luxury provisions. Medical support is also on hand, courtesy of two doctors and a supply of medicines. Moreover, there is access to a luxurious yacht, should the hotel guests and staff need to flee from the resort at some point.

Holed up at Termush are several wealthy guests, privileged individuals who paid for their reservations in advance – an insurance policy, so to speak, in case of a global catastrophe. Holm’s novella focuses on the aftermath of the apocalypse, reporting what happens within the Termush community once it is deemed ‘safe’ for the survivors to emerge from the resort’s radiation shelters, ready to occupy their tastefully decorated rooms. This account is relayed by an unnamed narrator in a cool, self-controlled style, a technique that gives the story a timeless, universal feel – almost as if it could be happening virtually anywhere in the world at any time in the last 80 years.

As the guests remain cocooned in the relative safety of the hotel, toxic dust swirls around the elaborate sculpture park in the resort’s gardens. Security men patrol the site, removing dead birds and other unpleasant sights from the guests’ field of vision while guarding the complex against outsiders, who increase in number and desperation as the story unfolds.

Holm seems particularly interested in the psychological impact of disasters; for instance, what happens to our moral codes, guiding values and behaviours towards others when familiar societal structures are destabilised or destroyed. Moreover, he illustrates quite brilliantly how specific societal constructs are designed to favour the privileged and the wealthy, often to the detriment of humanity as a whole – something that chimes all too horribly with many of our current government’s policies, from the balance of taxes across various social groups to the treatment of migrants and asylum seekers.

As the story unfolds, the hotel guests must grapple with various moral dilemmas, such as what to do with other injured survivors who turn up seeking food, medical treatment and shelter. Should they show compassion and allow these individuals to be admitted to the complex, even though they haven’t paid for the privilege, or should they turn them away? And if new members are allowed to join the group, will there be enough food and medicine to go around? Could they pose any risks to the existing guests, either medically (through potential contamination), physically (from their presence within the group) or emotionally (from any psychological impact)?

We expected to find a world completely annihilated. This was what we insured ourselves against when we enrolled at Termush.

No one thought about protecting himself against the survivors or their demands on us. We paid money to go on living in the same way that one once paid health insurance; we bought the commodity called survival, and according to all existing contracts no one has the right to take it from us or make demands upon it. (p. 39)

Soon, the hotel management starts withholding certain developments from the guests for fear of unsettling them. New arrivals are ushered in under cover and kept apart from the existing guests; reports of the dead are suppressed; and news of the hotel’s reconnaissance team is patchy at best. All of this adds to the narrator’s deep unease as he grapples with the changing shape of his world – a world that seems to be turning in on itself as the days drift by.

If the hotel management see themselves as a protective shield between the guests and the outside world, whenever that world is revealed as menacing, they are acting in direct contradiction of their terms of reference. To be a guarantee of help in a situation which may well turn out to be total chaos, according to the unhelpful wording of the brochure, does not mean that to conceal the true facts becomes a duty. (p. 16)

Holm excels in creating a sense of creeping dread, combining a tantalising blend of the frighteningly real and the enigmatically surreal. The narrator’s perceptive observations on developments at Termush are intertwined with a series of visions – haunting, dreamlike images that seem deeply unsettling, like harbingers from the future foreshadowing tragic events.

We see the turtle lay eggs and burrow into the earth, where it dies of thirst; birds fall out of their nests without using their wings; the foal licks stones while the mare’s udder is bursting with milk; the goat flays its kid and tries to chew its flesh; the bee turns its sting on itself; the corn starts to grow downwards and the roots of the trees rise up to search for water from the air. (p. 104)

It’s something that makes Holm’s novella seem terrifyingly prescient, chiming strongly with 21^st-century concerns surrounding climate change, global pandemics, biological weapons and other viable threats to our current existence.

Moreover, these feelings of tension and destabilisation are accentuated by the relentless march of fear. As the days slip by, various events affect the psychological well-being of the group, especially its most vulnerable members. For example, when the narrator learns that one of the guests has fled the complex, he reflects on the reasons behind this escape, clearly identifying a broader undercurrent of anxiety.

Without talking about it, perhaps without being conscious of it, he reacted against this enclave, this closed compartment cut off from the world. He had not wished to or had not been in a position to resume the interrupted game of make-believe that nothing had happened. He felt cramped by the restrictions of the place, the rhythm of the day, the petty bickering at the meetings and the unacknowledged fear which rears its head when we are down in the shelters, and which, like the nakedness, we conceal. (p. 54)

It would be unfair of me to reveal how the story plays out, but suffice it to say that the future looks bleak. While the narrator and the hotel’s chief medic show more humanity to the injured wanderers than other members of the group, thoughts of self-protection and preservation are rife, leading to acts of selfishness, differentiation/segregation, and a palpable fear of outsiders.

The novella comes with an excellent introduction by the critically-acclaimed science-fiction writer Jeff VanderMeer, who describes Termush as a bridge between the ‘return-to-normalcy’ of ‘disaster cosies’ by writers such as John Wyndham and the ‘extravagant, mind-bending dystopias of J. G. Ballard’ – an analysis that feels suitably astute.

In summary, then, Termush is a wildly prescient piece of speculative fiction, a deeply unsettling exploration of societal breakdown in the wake of a catastrophe. A fascinating addition to the Faber Editions list – an imprint that continues to explore a wide variety of styles, voices and genres to genuinely thrilling effect.

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

Spring reads – a few favourites from the shelves

A couple of years ago, I put together some themed posts showcasing a few of my favourite autumn and winter reads. They were interesting to compile, but for some reason the spring and summer equivalents never happened, possibly due to forgetfulness on my part or a lack of time.

So, as the weather begins to turn a little milder, I thought it might be fun to pick some of my favourite spring reads from the shelves. I always look forward to this season, seeing it as a time of renewal, recovery and transformation, especially after the crippling harshness of winter (my least favourite of the four). Hopefully my choices will reflect this!

The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim (1922)

No self-respecting list of spring reads would be complete without Elizabeth von Arnim’s utterly delightful novel The Enchanted April, in which four very different English women come together to rent a medieval castle on the Italian Riviera for the month. Without wishing to give away too much about the ending, this charming story has a touch of the fairy tale about it as the four women are transformed in various ways by their time at San Salvatore. A truly magical read, guaranteed to lift the spirits – an enchanting experience indeed!

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson (1938)

Another sparkling read that taps into the ‘transformation’ theme with plenty of humour and verve! Set in London in the 1930s, Watson’s book captures an extraordinary day in the life of Miss Guinevere Pettigrew, a rather timid, down-at-heel spinster who has fallen on hard times. It’s a lovely take on the classic Cinderella story as Miss Pettigrew finds herself drawn into a new world, a place of adventure, excitement and new experiences. This is a charming novel, full of warmth, wit and a certain joie de vivre. One to read or revisit if you ever need a treat.

Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks (1953)

Every now and again, a book comes along that captivates the reader with its elegant form and glittering prose. Maud Martha is one such book, painting an evocative portrait of the titular character’s life from childhood to early adulthood. Over the course of the novella (which is written as a series of short vignettes), we follow Maud Martha through childhood in Chicago’s South Side, her early romances as a teenager, to marriage and motherhood, moving seamlessly from the early 1920s to the mid-’40s. I loved this book for its gorgeous, poetic prose and beautiful use of imagery. A wonderful rediscovered gem courtesy of Faber Editions, a fascinating imprint that consistently delivers the goods.

The Beginning of Spring by Penelope Fitzgerald (1988)

We’re in darker territory with this one, set as it is in Moscow in 1913, a time of political and industrial change for Russia. Ostensibly, the novel tells the story of a marriage, but with Fitzgerald, there’s often something deeper or mysterious happening below the surface. It’s also a wonderfully evocative portrayal of early 20^th-century Russia, complete with bustling tea rooms and well-to-do houses. Towards the end of the book, there’s a beautiful extended passage covering the change and evolution of birch trees as the seasons pass from spring through to winter and back to spring again. In the space of two pages, Fitzgerald describes the lifecycle of the birch as we follow the trees from birth to decay – and ultimately to death. A quietly compelling book that leaves much unsaid, encouraging the reader to reflect, colouring in the gaps.

These Days by Lucy Caldwell (2022)

I loved this novel, an immersive portrayal of the WW2 bombing raids in the Belfast Blitz, seen through the eyes of a fictional middle-class family, the Bells. The story takes place in the spring of 1941, encompassing the Easter Raid – a devastating sequence of bombings that led to nine hundred deaths and multiple additional casualties. What Caldwell does so well here is to make us care about her characters, ensuring we feel invested in their respective hopes and dreams, their anxieties and concerns. It’s the depth of this emotional investment that makes her portrayal of the Belfast Blitz so powerful and affecting to read. A lyrical, exquisitely-written novel from one of my favourite contemporary writers.

The Springs of Affection by Maeve Brennan (stories from 1953 to 1973)

I’m bending the rules a little to include this sublime collection of short stories as it’s not very spring-like despite the title. In this instance, the word ‘spring’ has a different meaning. There is no rejuvenation or renewal here; instead, we find heartache, disappointment and resentment lurking in the rhythms of day-to-day life. All the stories are set in the same modest terraced house in the Ranelagh suburb of Dublin, opening with a sequence of seven short autobiographical pieces offering brief glimpses of Brennan’s childhood in the 1920s. Brennan then casts her eye on the Derdons (a middle-aged couple whose marriage is characterised by an intense emotional distance) and the Bagots (another couple experiencing difficulties in their marriage). What sets this collection apart from many others is the cumulative sense of disconnection conveyed through the stories, the layers of insight and meaning that gradually reveal themselves with each additional piece. (I’m currently rereading it for my book group, another timely reason for its inclusion here!)

How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won the FA Cup by J. L. Carr (1975)

We’re back to spring in earnest here with this charming, amusing novella which earns its slot because the FA Cup Final takes place in May. In short, the book charts the progress of a village football team who, through a combination of talent, discipline and determination, achieve their dream of going all the way to the cup final, snatching victory in the game’s closing minutes. (This isn’t a spoiler, by the way, as the novella’s title reveals the story’s outcome upfront.) I love this tale of the plucky underdogs – titular non-leaguers Steeple Sinderby Wanderers – overcoming all the odds to beat the mighty Glasgow Rangers, scooping the treasured Cup in the process. Although very different in style to Carr’s Booker-shortlisted A Month in the Country, Steeple Sinderby shares something of that sublime novella’s tone, an air of wistfulness and longing for halcyon times past.

Do let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re thinking of reading any of them in the future. Perhaps you have a favourite spring read or two? Please feel free to mention them in the comments below.