Happy 10th Birthday to JacquiWine’s Journal!

I don’t usually mark my blog’s birthdays, but as JacquiWine’s Journal is 10 years old today, I couldn’t resist this post as a celebration of sorts! It seems such a long time since I first dipped my toe in the blogging world with some reviews of books longlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in 2014. I was part of a Shadow Panel back then, and initially, the other shadowers kindly posted my reviews on their blogs as I didn’t have one of my own – not until I set up the Journal in May 2014, and the rest as they say is history.

Much has changed since I started blogging, but the bookish community on various sites and social media platforms continues to be a joy. I’ve had so many lovely conversations with readers over the years, so thank you for reading, engaging with and commenting on my reviews – I really do appreciate it.

To mark this milestone, I’ve selected a favourite book reviewed during each year of my blog, up to and including 2023. (My favourite reads of 2024 will have to wait till later this year!) Happy reading – as ever, you can read the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (reviewed in 2014)

Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, drives home to her family’s ranch for the wedding of her identical twin sister, Judith, where she seems all set to derail the proceedings. This is a brilliant novel featuring one of my favourite women in literature. Cassandra is intelligent, precise and at times witty, charming and loving. But she can also be manipulative, reckless, domineering, self-absorbed and cruel.  She’s a mass of contradictions and behaves abominably at times, and yet it’s very hard not to feel for her. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (reviewed in 2015)

Taylor’s 1971 novel follows a recently widowed elderly lady, Mrs Palfrey, as she moves into the Claremont Hotel, joining a group of residents in similar positions – each one is likely to remain there until a move to a nursing home or hospital can no longer be avoided. This beautiful, bittersweet, thought-provoking novel prompts readers to consider the emotional and physical challenges of old age: the need to participate in life, the importance of small acts of kindness and the desire to feel valued, to name just a few. Taylor’s observations of social situations are spot-on – there are some very funny moments here alongside the undoubted poignancy. Probably my favourite book by Elizabeth Taylor in a remarkably strong field!

In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (reviewed in 2016)

A superb noir which excels in the creation of atmosphere and mood. As a reader, you really feel as though you are walking the Los Angeles streets at night, moving through the fog with only the dim and distant city lights to guide you. Hughes’ focus is on the mindset of her central character, the washed-up ex-pilot Dix Steele, a deeply damaged and vulnerable man who finds himself tormented by events from his past. The storyline is too complex to summarise here, but Hughes maintains the suspense throughout. (This was a big hit with my book group, and we went on to read The Expendable Man, too!)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (reviewed in 2017)

A beautiful and compelling portrayal of forbidden love, characterised by Wharton’s trademark ability to expose the underhand workings of a repressive world. Set within the upper echelons of New York society in the 1870s, the novel exposes a culture that seems so refined on the surface, and yet, once the protective veneer of respectability is stripped away, the reality is brutal, intolerant and hypocritical. There is a real sense of depth and subtlety in the characterisation here. A novel to read and revisit at different stages in life.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore (reviewed in 2018)

This achingly sad novel is a tragic tale of grief, delusion and eternal loneliness set amidst the shabby surroundings of a tawdry boarding house in 1950s Belfast. Moore’s focus is Judith Hearne, a plain, unmarried woman in her early forties who finds herself shuttling from one dismal bedsit to another in an effort to find a suitable place to live. When Judith’s dreams of a hopeful future start to unravel, the true nature of her troubled inner life is revealed, characterised as it is by a shameful secret. The humiliation that follows is swift, unambiguous and utterly devastating, but to say any more would spoil the story. An outstanding, beautifully written novel – a heartbreaking paean to a life without love.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell (reviewed in 2019)

I’m cheating a little by including this twelve-novel sequence exploring the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes, but it’s too good to leave out. Impossible to summarise in just a few sentences, Powell’s masterpiece features one of literature’s finest creations, the odious Kenneth Widmerpool. It’s fascinating to follow Widmerpool, Jenkins and many other individuals over several years in the early-mid 20^th century, observing their development as they flit in and out of one another’s lives. The author’s ability to convey a clear picture of a character – their appearance, their disposition, even their way of moving around a room – is second to none. Quite simply one of the highlights of my reading life!

The Children of Dynmouth by William Trevor (reviewed in 2020)

Probably my favourite William Trevor to date, The Children of Dynmouth tells the story of a malevolent teenager and the havoc he wreaks on the residents of a sleepy seaside town in the mid-1970s. It’s an excellent book, veering between the darkly comic, the deeply tragic and the downright unnerving. What Trevor does so well here is to expose the darkness and sadness that lurks beneath the veneer of respectable society. The rhythms and preoccupations of small-town life are beautifully captured too, from the desolate views of the windswept promenade, to the sleepy matinees at the down-at-heel cinema, to the much-anticipated return of the travelling fair for the summer season. One for Muriel Spark fans, particularly those with a fondness for The Ballad of Peckham Rye.  

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff (reviewed in 2021)

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise seems simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magical charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for, a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (reviewed in 2022)

First published in 1977, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel of loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. Now that I’ve read it twice, I think it might be my favourite Pym! The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. While that might not sound terribly exciting as a premise, Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, showing us that life can still offer new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (reviewed in 2023)

A remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, I adored this 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.

If you’ve read any of these books, do let me know your thoughts!

Remembering Laughter by Wallace Stegner

Last week, I wrote about some of my recommended reads for Karen and Simon’s #1937Club, which has been running all this week. The event finishes today, giving me just enough time to post this review of Wallace Stegner’s 1937 novelette Remembering Laughter before the Club closes its doors!

I’ve written about Stegner before, with this review of his 1987 novel Crossing to Safety, back in the early days of the blog. While Crossing to Safety was Stegner’s final novel, Remembering Laughter was his first – a brief, beautifully written story of marital infidelity, intense bitterness and the refusal to forgive. All the early signs of Stegner’s skills are here, from his attention to characterisation and ability to craft a compelling story to his lyrical prose style and a clear sense of place. It’s a quiet, heartbreaking story, beautifully told.

Central to the novelette are two sisters, twenty-nine-year-old Margaret Stuart and her younger sister, Elspeth. Hailing from Scotland, Margaret is married to a prosperous, fun-loving farmer, Alec, who owns several farms in his native Iowa. While Margaret is a respectable woman with standards to maintain, the Stuarts have a comfortable life together, hosting occasional parties for their friends and acquaintances. The only fly in the ointment is Alec’s fondness for drink, a habit Margeret dislikes as she tries to look away.

When the sisters’ father dies, Elspeth travels from Scotland to live with Margaret and Alec, leaving her role as a teacher to begin a new life on the farm. At twenty-two, Elspeth – who has her whole future to look forward to – is captivated by her new surroundings and the beauty of the natural world. Alec, too, is captivated by Elspeth, responding to her youthful vigour and interest in the farm. In turn, Elspeth is delighted by her brother-in-law’s antics, from his tall tales and stories to his frequent horsing around.

As summer turns to autumn, the inevitable happens – friendliness gives way to intimacy and passion between Alec and Elspeth, two sensations sorely lacking from Alec’s marriage to Margaret. While Elspeth finds her trysts with Alec pleasurable and exciting, she is not without remorse. Consequently, her transgressions are tinged with a sense of guilt.

…stumbling over the rough clods beside Alec she [Elspeth] studied him furtively until he turned and smiled down at her, a wavering smile that made his mouth seem suddenly weak. She bent her eyes to the ground again, ashamed of him and of herself, choking back the frantic thought of Margaret and pushing away with numb defensive caution any visions of the future. (p. 83)

One evening, the second inevitability happens. Margaret catches Alec and Elspeth together in a comprising position, shattering her world in an instant as the pair’s intentions are clear. 

Through the long sleepless night she [Margaret] lay revolving the bitter cycle from passionate protest to puritan judgement, fumbling for a way out, for a pattern of action, trying to imagine what the others would do, furiously crying that it didn’t matter what they did, she could never forgive them. (p. 94–95)

From this moment onwards, everything in the house changes. The two women are no longer sisters to one another, so while Margaret adopts a cold, stern attitude born out of bitterness, Elspeth is reduced to timidness, wracked with guilt over her shameful actions.

On those days, Margaret would be grimmer than usual, and Elspeth, creeping timidly about the house with dustpan and broom, would see her sitting motionless in the hard mahogany rocker in the darkened parlor, stiff, unmoving, her face showing bonily and her eyes cavernous in the wintry gloom… (p. 101)

Moreover, Alec and Margaret are no longer husband and wife, avoiding contact with one another where possible. In the presence of others, Margaret maintains the semblance of a normal life, largely for the sake of appearances. But inside, she is devastated, unable to forgive Elspeth and Alec for their betrayals – ‘neither her jealousy nor her religion would allow that’.

In short, Margaret condemns Elspeth to a life of loveless, unforgiving repression, a bleak, hollow existence as the years stretch out ahead of them. All traces of Elspeth’s former gaiety disappear, lost to the consequences of her terrible transgressions. Alec, too, is condemned for his actions, to the point where Margaret actively seeks additional reasons to penalise him out of spite.

She was waiting for Alec with some need to know that he had been drinking again, some positive necessity to find him guilty of more and more and yet more crimes against her and God. In his further damnation was the justification of her vindictiveness… (p. 102)

Meanwhile, the house is steeped in a frigid atmosphere devoid of love – a place where laughter is but a memory, a cruel reminder of a distant, irretrievable past.

I don’t want to reveal how this excellent novelette plays out; that would spoil things, I think. Nevertheless, this simple, deeply affecting story is beautifully expressed, showing all the early hallmarks of Stegner’s elegant, lyrical prose. The turning of the seasons and the rhythms of farm life are vividly conveyed, giving the narrative a gorgeous sense of place.

The perfect weather of Indian Summer lengthened and lingered, warm sunny days were followed by brisk nights with Halloween a presentiment in the air. In the afternoons the smoke of straw fires was blue on the horizon, and the lawn before the house was thick with crisp leaves. (p. 78)

The characterisation is excellent, too – poignant, well developed and highly believable, despite the tragic nature of the scenario Stegner has created here. I couldn’t help but think of the Derdon stories from Maeve Brennan’s The Springs of Affection as I read this book, another insightful depiction of a marriage destroyed by an emotional gulf shrouded in bitterness, albeit for very different reasons.

In an afterword to this edition, Stegner’s wife, Mary, reveals that Remembering Laughter was inspired by the story of her ‘two gaunt aunts’ who lived together in western Iowa, partly explaining why the tale feels so truthful. In some respects, the story highlights how bitterness and an inability to forgive others for their transgressions can be more corrosive than the misdemeanours themselves, especially when pushed to the extreme. In summary, a salutary tale with hints of Edith Wharton’s Summer and Ethan Frome – highly recommended as an introduction to Wallace Stegner’s work.

(My edition of Remembering Laughter was published by Penguin Books; personal copy.)

The Garrick Year by Margaret Drabble

First published in 1964, The Garrick Year was Margaret Drabble’s second novel, nicely placed between her debut A Summer Bird-Cage (which I loved) and The Millstone (which I have in my TBR). It’s a brilliant, sharply observed book which explores how women’s lives in this era were frequently dictated by the demands of marriage and motherhood, irrespective of any personal ambitions and desires these individuals may have held. We are firmly in the early ‘60s here, when young women were beginning to question these traditional societal expectations while still feeling the pressure to conform.

Drabble’s heroine and narrator is Emma Evans, a spiky, city-loving mother and former model in her mid-twenties. Emma has been married to David, a self-centred young actor, for three years, and they have two children together – Flora, still a toddler, and baby Joe. From the outset, the couple’s relationship has been characterised by ‘provocation and bargaining for domination’, with barbed, wryly amusing exchanges being the order of the day.

Just as Emma is contemplating a return to work in a pioneering, part-time role as TV newsreader – a job she would dearly love to do – David announces a new opportunity of his own. The respected theatre director Wyndham Farrar has approached him to appear in a season of plays at Hereford’s Garrick Theatre. Naturally, David wishes to accept, expecting Emma to put her needs and ambitions aside in favour of his own.

I could hardly believe that marriage was going to deprive me of this too. It had already deprived me of so many things which I had childishly overvalued: my independence, my income, my twenty-two inch waist, my sleep, most of my friends who had deserted on account of David’s insults, a whole string of finite things, and many more indefinite attributes like hope and expectation. (p. 10)

So, while David prattles on about the charms of country living – green fields, cows, peace and quiet, etc. – Emma foresees a year of boredom, frustration and domesticity ahead. She will be lost out there in the wilds – isolated and insignificant.  

Drabble is great on the nitty-gritty of daily life, capturing just how patronising a man can be to his wife or partner. So much of this dialogue rings true to me – especially the last line, which is a killer.

[David:] ‘You can get another job. Someone like you can get any number of jobs.’

[Emma:] ‘In Hereford?’

‘Well, I’m sure there’s something you could find to do there.’

‘You think so? Perhaps I could apply to be an usherette at your theatre, you mean?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, my love. There must be something you can do.’

‘I’m sure, on the contrary,’ I said, ‘that there would be simply, literally nothing that I could do.’

‘You could look after the children.’ (p. 16)

So, reluctant to split up the family while her husband pursues his ambitions, Emma has little option but to up sticks and move to Hereford for the season, leaving her broadcasting opportunity behind. Naturally, she expresses her frustration over the situation, but it’s of little use – after all, the man’s career must come first.

While David would naturally gravitate towards a modern house for comfort and convenience, Emma shuns anything new, opting instead for an older, characterful property despite its impractical nature. It’s a choice that illustrates their different personalities, partly explaining why they match relatively well as a couple irrespective of their bickering!

With David busy in rehearsals all day, Emma sees very little of him, especially when his work spills into the evenings. Moreover, everyone that Emma meets in Hereford assumes she must be an actress or something to do with the theatre. Otherwise, why else would she be there?

Consequently, she finds herself drawn into a dalliance with the director, Wyndham Farrar, who is well into his forties. In truth, only the ‘dark and wanting part’ of Emma responds to Wyndham’s advances, hijacking the rest of her to submit to its whims. Deep down, she knows the affair is ill-judged, but somehow, she cannot stop herself from succumbing, despite recognising it as a sign of her ‘own inadequacy and inability to grow’. 

There would have been no point in saying no, and yet I felt that I had involved myself in disaster by saying yes. It was not merely that our appointment had a distinct flavour of the clandestine, nor that Wyndham Farrar himself seemed to be a dangerous undertaking, though both these factors were involved. It was more that the way I had said yes, the helpless, rash, needing way I had been unable to refuse, laid me open to all sorts of conjectures about myself and my position. (p. 90)

In short, the responsibilities of marriage and motherhood, of constantly caring for two small children, have subsumed Emma’s own personal ambitions. All her social, cerebral and emotional needs have been suppressed – hence Emma’s craving for recognition and self-validation, which Wyndham taps into with his advances, albeit superficially.

I don’t want to reveal too much about how this story plays out, other than to say that Emma comes to a realisation. She is neither the self-pitying type nor the romantic, self-indulgent type who would feel satisfied by an affair with Wyndham. Rather, she is not cut out for it at all.

While there are several novels about the limitations of marriage, motherhood and the desire to feel valued, the sharpness of Drabble’s writing gives The Garrick Year an edge. The novel is laced with wry, pointed humour – partly from Emma’s lively narrative voice, which feels spiky and true. 

I stared hard at people to stop them staring at me: this is one of my amusements. (p. 46)

Drabble’s flair for a cutting observation also comes through in her descriptions of the supporting characters – not least with Sophy, the young, talkative actress fresh out of drama school, who catches David’s eye. She is glossy, well-dressed and a little dim – perfect fodder for the local press and their eager photographers.

She was clearly in her element: she was made, one could tell, for that gluttonous negative machine. (p. 47)

The respected actress, Natalie Winter – a woman with no dress sense whatsoever – also falls under Emma’s penetrating gaze. 

She was wearing a cocktail dress in emerald green, a colour better left to emeralds, with a black satin evening bag and white satin shoes (p. 46)

Drabble is also terrific on the world of reparatory theatre and the people within it – an environment she knew well through her marriage to the classically trained actor Clive Swift.

I like watching rehearsals: they are far more interesting than performances. One can see in a rehearsal every detail of what has preceded: who loves whom, who is nervous, who is confident, who is vain, who has been bullied by the director, who is admired by the rest of the cast, who is on the verge of tearful disaster. (p. 83)

The novel’s 1960s setting – a time of pivotal social change – also makes it feel distinctive. Even though I’ve yet to read The Pumpkin Eater, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Penelope Mortimer’s brilliant, incisive short stories, Saturday Lunch with the Brownings, as I was reading this book.

So, in summary then, The Garrick Year is another excellent novel by Margaret Drabble – a perceptive exploration of the frustrations of putting aside one’s own career and life ambitions for the sake of one’s partner. It’s also very insightful on the minutiae of daily life for a young mother with small children, how you can never take your eyes off a toddler for more than a couple of seconds when out and about. Very highly recommended, especially for readers interested in women’s lives in the mid-20^th century.

Thousand Cranes by Yasunari Kawabata (tr. Edward G. Seidensticker)

The Japanese writer Yasunari Kawabata is perhaps best known for Snow Country, the story of a doomed love affair between a wealthy city-based man and an innocent young geisha who lives in a remote area by the mountains. It is a work of great poetic beauty and subtlety – and yet there is something strange and unsettling about this novella, a quality that makes it hard to pin down. The same could be said of Thousand Cranes, in which a young man, Kikuji Mitani, becomes entangled with two of his deceased father’s former mistresses with tragic results.

As the novel opens, Kikuji is en route to a tea ceremony being hosted by one of his father’s mistresses, Chikako, a poisonous woman intent on meddling with his life. In fact, Chikako is determined to introduce Kikuji to one of her pupils, Yukiko Inamura, as a potential marriage partner. He just needs to give his approval and all the arrangements will be made. However, the occasion evokes disturbing memories for Kikuji, who once saw a large birthmark, the size of a palm, on Chikako’s left breast during an unguarded moment with his father several years ago.

Chikako had drifted away after his father’s death. Did she mean to use the Inamura girl as bait to draw him near again? Was he again to become entangled with her? (p. 28)

To complicate matters further, Mrs Ota – another of Kikuji’s father’s mistresses – and her daughter, Fumiko, are also present at the tea ceremony, adding to the tension. While Mr Mitani’s affair with Chikako had been short-lived, his subsequent relationship with Mrs Ota lasted until his death, much to Chikako’s annoyance.

Chikako of course became his mother’s ally – indeed a too hard-working ally. She prowled after his father, she frequently went to threaten Mrs Ota. All her own latent jealousy seemed to explode. (p. 8)

One of the most striking things about this novel is the juxtaposition of beauty and savagery as the serene nature of the tea ceremony becomes tainted with Chikako’s petty jealousies. It is no coincidence that Chikako makes us of a tea bowl that once belonged to the Otas during the event, emphasising her former bond with Kikuji’s father in a public display of spite.

Kikuji remembered the tea bowl Chikako had placed before the girl. It had indeed belonged to his father, and his father had received it from Mrs Ota.

And what of Mrs Ota, seeing at the ceremony today a bowl that had been treasured by her dead husband and passed from Kikuji’s father to Chikako? Kikuji was astounded at Chikako’s tactlessness. (p. 11)

Wary of becoming a pawn in a manipulative game, Kikuji dismisses Chikako’s attempts at matchmaking despite Yukiko Inamura’s elegance. Instead, he becomes embroiled in a strange love triangle with the guilt-ridden Mrs Ota and her vulnerable daughter, Fumiko. It would be unfair of me to reveal how this story plays out, save to say that it’s subtly told.

This is a novel in which every gesture is meaningful, drawing the reader into a world where longing and regret mingle with jealousy and resentment. Central to the story is the notion that the sins of the parents are visited upon their children, highlighting the potential challenges in breaking this cycle in a conventional country such as Japan. The traditional tea bowls are also highly symbolic here, having passed from one owner to the next through the generations – and, in some instances, from one family to another, mirroring the various extramarital affairs that have taken place. As ever with Kawabata, the prose is wonderfully poetic, delicately conveying the story like the brushstrokes of a watercolour taking shape on the page.

The light was really too bright for a tea cottage, but it made the girl’s youth glow. The tea napkin, as became a young girl, was red, and it impressed one less with its softness than with its freshness, as if the girl’s hand were bringing a red flower into bloom. (p. 13)

This haunting, elegant story first appeared in serialised form between 1949 and 1951, with the book following in 1952. Interestingly, Kawabata did not view the novella as an evocation of the formal and spiritual beauty of the tea ceremony. Rather, he considered it ‘an expression of doubt about and warning against the vulgarity into which the tea ceremony has fallen’. A reflection of his views on Japanese society, perhaps, as the country grappled with the balance between tradition and modernity in the post-war period.

Thousand Cranes is published by Penguin Modern Classics; personal copy.

Hangsaman by Shirley Jackson

I have long been fascinated by Shirley Jackson’s unnerving fiction, from the creeping sense of dread running through her short stories to the magical but disturbing world of We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Jackson excels at stripping back the surface veneer of seemingly polite society, exposing the darkness and cruelty lurking beneath. These qualities are also present in Hangsaman – Jackson’s second novel – a twisted coming-of-age story of sorts, refracted through the lens of the filmmaker David Lynch. At least, that’s how I imagine it playing out in my mind as the story unfolds. Think Mulholland Drive set in a girls’ college back in the early ‘50s, and you won’t be far off.

The novel is divided into three sections, the first showing us Natalie Waite – Jackson’s seventeen-year-old protagonist – at home with her parents and younger brother, Bud. Natalie’s self-important father, Arnold Waite, is an emotional and intellectual bully, constantly setting writing tasks to develop his daughter’s skills. While Natalie submits to these tests relatively willingly, admiring her father’s intellect, we also sense she is becoming conscious of these bullying tactics as a cover for his underlying inadequacies. Natalie’s mother, on the other hand, is a neurotic alcoholic, only at home in the kitchen, a room over which her pompous husband has no control. In many respects, both parents are trying to live their lives through Natalie, correcting past failures and bemoaning societal constraints.

It seemed that perhaps her father was trying to cure his failures in Natalie, and her mother was perhaps trying to avoid, through Natalie, doing over again those things she now believed to have been mistaken. (pp. 163-164)

Jackson has always been interested in exploring themes of domestic confinement and entrapment in her fiction, and that’s certainly the case here. She writes brilliantly about the numbing reality of marriage – how quickly women are hoodwinked and trapped by the promise of marital bliss.

“First they tell you lies,” said Mrs Waite, “and they make you believe them. Then they give you a little of what they promised, just a little, enough to keep you thinking you’ve got your hands on it. Then you find out that you’re tricked, just like everyone else, just like everyone, and instead of being different and powerful and giving the orders, you’ve been tricked just like everyone else…” (p. 35)

There’s also a terrific set piece here, one of Arnold’s regular Sunday parties – essentially a platform for the patriarch to hold court. It’s a scene that wouldn’t feel out of place in one of Richard Yates’ novels, complete with a drunken hostess in the shape of Natalie’s mother.

As is often the case with Jackson’s fiction, Hangsaman is more concerned with character and mood than plot and easy resolutions. Right from the very start, it’s clear that Natalie is destabilised in some way, conscious of her existence while also operating outside of it.

For the past two years—since, in fact, she had turned around suddenly one bright morning and seen from the corner of her eye a person called Natalie, existing, charted, inexplicably located on a spot of ground, favoured with sense and feet, and a bright-red sweater, and most obscurely alive—she had lived completely by herself, allowing not even her father access to the farther places of her mind. (pp. 3–4)

She hears voices in her head – sometimes a policeman who appears to be interrogating her, other times a kind of projection or alter ego, reflecting perhaps a different side of her personality, a darker, more dangerous one.

This first section of the novel ends with a disturbing incident involving a male guest at the party – and while Jackson doesn’t show us exactly what happens here, it’s abundantly clear from Natalie’s reaction that she is left traumatised as a result. As Natalie determines to block out the horror of this experience, we fear for her state of mind, particularly as she is unlikely to confide in her parents. 

In part two, we find Natalie living at an all-girls college, which Arnold has selected for her. Jackson writes brilliantly about the terrifying nature of stating college as a fresher, the awkwardness and fear of being pitched into an unfamiliar – and potentially unfriendly – environment with minimal support. Moreover, she excels in portraying the cruelty of college cliques, especially groups of teenage girls, ‘this ring of placid, masked girls, with their calm futures ahead and their regular pasts proven beyond a doubt…’ Any newcomer might lose their place in the group through the merest hint of a challenge or rebellion, ‘anything except a cheerful smile and the resolution to hurt other people’.

They sat around the living room of the house, the girls who were to live in it, eyeing one another, each one wondering, perhaps which of the others was to be her particular friend, sought out hereafter at such meetings, joined in the terrible sacred friendship of these years. Each one wondering, perhaps, who it was just and right to be afraid of in the room: who, for instance, was to be the belle of the house, superior and embarrassing with her greater knowledge, her secrets? (p. 52)

In precise, incisive prose, Jackson nails all the familiar ‘types’ in the freshers’ group, from the precious beauty queens and those likely to fall in love with their professors to the hangers-on and failures. Naturally, there are various studious types here too, the learners of facts and aspiring writers dabbling in poetry.

Thrust into this cut-throat environment, Natalie becomes increasingly destabilised, unsure of her own name, existence and identity. Moreover, she is disdainful of her fellow students and their cruel initiation rituals. Even the faculty establishment and staff fail to hold much interest for her, prompting a kind of withdrawal as she distances herself even further from reality. A natural reaction, perhaps, especially given the poisonous nature of her fellow students, like the manipulative Anne and Vicki. While Vicki oozes nonchalance and confidence, Anne seems more muted, at least at first.

Anne—had these girls become friends on purpose? —was sweet and subdued; like something out of Little Women, Natalie thought with scorn, thinking almost at the same minute that she would not be wise to underestimate Anne, who smiled shyly and almost curtseyed, who looked sweetly at Natalie and at Elizabeth and at Vicki and at Arthur Langdon, as though in this pretty world it was incredible that everyone should be so kind to shy Anne; who would never, it was perfectly clear, give away an inch of anything she had once gotten hold of. (p. 86–87)

Anne is determined to get her claws into Arthur Langdon, Natalie’s English tutor, who often encourages students to call at his house. Interestingly, Arthur is married to one of his former students, Elizabeth, who at twenty-one is not much older than Natalie and her contemporaries. In many respects, Elizabeth Langdon is caught between two worlds without fitting neatly into either – too distanced from her former peers for them to feel comfortable in her presence and too young and girlish to be accepted by the other faculty wives. Consequently, Elizabeth is lonely and dependent on drink, mirroring perhaps the early trajectory of Natalie’s mother. Seeing something of a kindred spirit in Natalie, Elizabeth befriends the newcomer, hoping she will be an ally in her alienation from the campus.

Jackson is a master at blurring the boundaries between the real and the imaginary, which she draws on to excellent effect as Natalie’s state of mind unravels. In effect, Natalie retreats into the relative safety (or otherwise) of her imagination, creating a kind of doppelganger or alter ego onto which she can project some of her thoughts and fantasies.

I suppose that any mind like mine, which is so close, actually, to the irrational and so tempted by it, is able easily to pass the dividing line between rational and irrational and communicate with someone drunk, or insane, or asleep. (p. 130)

As the novel moves towards its otherworldly third act, several disturbing events occur at the college, especially at night. Various items go missing from girls’ bedrooms: a dress, a cigarette lighter, money, letters and jewellery. Theft is suspected, and a strange man – possibly a Peeping Tom – is spotted in a corridor. Two girls in another house try to kill themselves while rumours circulate that another has died from an abortion. All this adds to the novel’s unnerving atmosphere – a surreal, dreamlike mood that Jackson dials up in the unhinged final section. I won’t reveal what takes place here, but comparisons with Angela Carter’s dark and twisted fairy tales feel entirely spot on.

It’s a testament to Jackson’s skills as a writer that this is such a puzzling yet powerful book. While several sections are clear and lucid, others seem unfathomable and surreal. And yet, everything here feels part of the same story, highlighting the fractured nature of Natalie’s psyche and her search for an identity. An unsettling, endlessly fascinating book that deserves a second reading – I still don’t know quite what to make of it two or three weeks on!

Hangsaman is published by Penguin Books; personal copy. 

Comfort reads – a few favourites from the shelves

For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, January really is the longest month. Here we are, not even halfway through, and it already feels as though it’s been dragging on for weeks…

As Johanna Thomas-Corr said in her recent piece in The Sunday Times, ‘if ever there were a month to hibernate with a stack of books it would be January‘. Books are a source of solace for many of us, helping us through the coldest, darkest months of the year, both seasonally and more personally. So, if you’re in need of a little brightness to cut through the gloom, here are my favourite comfort reads – ten books to savour to banish the blues.

Crampton Hodnet by Barbara Pym

No self-respecting list of comfort reads would be complete without Barbara Pym and her perceptive, wryly amusing observations on the foibles of village life, especially for spinsters. She excels in the type of book where characters worry about offending someone at the church jumble sale and what to serve the vicar when he comes over for tea. Published posthumously in 1985, Pym wrote this delightful comedy of manners in the late 1930s, just after the outbreak of WW2, but it never saw the light of day until after her death. Set in the respectable circles of North Oxford, the novel introduces us to a world of charming curates, mildly ridiculous academics, amorous students, and gossipy women. Probably the funniest Pym I’ve read to date, it’s a novel that deserves to be much better known.

Crossed Skis by Carol Carnac

This delightful mystery, written by Edith Caroline Rivett – who also published books under the pen name E. C. R. Lorac – has to be one of the most enjoyable entrants in the British Library’s Crime Classics series so far. Set in the snowy Austrian resort of Lech am Arlberg and a foggy central London in the middle of winter, Crossed Skis weaves together two connected narratives to very compelling effect. The novel opens with a party of sixteen holidaymakers – eight men and eight women – journeying from London’s Victoria Station to the Austrian Alps for a combination of skiing, mountain walking and dancing. There’s a lovely ‘jolly-hockey-sticks’ boarding-school-style atmosphere within the group as the travellers bunk up alongside one another in their couchettes on the train. This enjoyable mystery has just the right amount of intrigue, and the winter holiday setting is perfect for January.

The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim

Johanna included this novel on her list, and rightly – it’s a classic comfort read!  The premise is wonderfully simple but full of potential.  Four very different English women who barely know one another come together to rent a medieval castle on the Italian Riviera for the month of April. Each woman is looking for an escape of some sort, whether it’s from the drabness of London life, a stifling marriage, ghosts from the past or a plethora of dashing suitors. 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

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. A charming novel, full of warmth, wit and a certain joie de vivre – one to read or revisit if you’re in need of a treat. The dialogue is particularly sharp and witty, very reminiscent of the Hollywood screwball comedies of the 1930s and ‘40s. 

Tea is so Intoxicating by Mary Essex

Ostensibly the story of a couple’s troublesome quest to open a tea garden in an insular English village, this delightful novel touches on various areas of British life in the years immediately following WW2. More specifically, it is a book about class, social attitudes, the pettiness of village life, and perhaps most importantly, the failure to recognise one’s own limitations. The couple in question are David and Germayne Tompkins, who are relative newcomers to Wellhurst in Kent, the sort of village where everyone knows everyone else’s business. David is one of those men with big ambitions but precious little skill or knowledge to put his grand ideas into practice. Naturally, the tea garden is doomed from the start; the villagers are opposed to the idea, viewing the Tompkinses as outsiders who have no right to be opening a commercial venture in their back garden, especially one with the potential to attract all manner of hikers and bikers to the village. As the novel plays out, we see just how much of a mess David gets himself into as preparations for the ‘Cherry Tree Cot’ tea garden lurch from one catastrophe to another. Another novel that deserves to be much better known!

How to Cook a Wolf by M. F. K. Fisher

Initially published in 1942 and subsequently updated in the 1950s, How to Cook a Wolf is a terrifically witty discourse on how to eat as well (or as decently) as possible on limited resources. The ‘wolf’ of the book’s title is the one at the door – a metaphor for hunger, particularly when money and other supplies are very tight. In her characteristically engaging style, Fisher encourages us to savour the pleasures of simple dishes: the delights of a carefully cooked omelette; the heartiness of a well-flavoured soup; and the comforting taste of a baked apple with cinnamon milk at the end of a good meal.  The writing is spirited and full of intelligence, a style that seems to reflect Fisher’s personality as well as her approach to cooking, making this guide to keeping appetites sated a joy to read.

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise may seem simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something truly remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. It’s a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for – a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times. Kazuo Ishiguro has cited this as a favourite life-affirming read, and it’s easy to see why.

Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

First published in 1926 to great success, Lolly Willowes is now regarded as something of an early feminist classic. The novel tells the story of Laura (Lolly) Willowes, an unmarried woman of semi-independent means who struggles to break free from her conservative family to create a life of her own in the lush and seductive countryside of Buckinghamshire. While the story starts out in relatively conventional territory, about halfway through it morphs into something more magical, subverting the reader’s expectations with elements of fantasy and wonder. I’m trying to keep my description of this one reasonably brief to avoid any spoilers, but it’s a lovely story of a woman’s need for independence, to carve out a life of her own without the interference of those who think they know better.

Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum (tr. Basil Creighton)

Regular readers of this blog will know how much I love a good hotel novel, and Vicki Baum’s Grand Hotel is probably the quintessential example. This engaging, cleverly crafted story revolves around the experiences of six central characters as they brush up against one another in this glamorous Berlin setting. There are moments of significant darkness amid the lightness as Baum skilfully weaves her narrative together, moving from one individual to another with consummate ease – her characterisation is particularly strong. At the novel’s centre is the idea that sometimes our lives can change direction in surprising ways as we interact with others. As these characters come and go from the hotel, we see fragments of their lives – some are on their way up and are altered for the better, while others are less fortunate and emerge diminished. A thoroughly captivating gem with an evocative Weimar-era setting!

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

Another entry from Johanna’s list, but it’s such a classic comfort read that it would be remiss of me to overlook it here. In this utterly charming, quintessentially English novel, we follow the highs and lows of six months in the life of seventeen-year-old Cassandra Mortmain, one of the most delightful narrators you are ever likely to encounter in literature. In essence, the novel is a coming-of-age story, complete with plenty of agonising over various romantic entanglements along the way. Cassandra’s eccentric but penniless family provide much of the novel’s humour, living as they do in a dilapidated country castle in the mid-1930s, while two dashing Americans provide a touch of glamour. This captivating, slightly bittersweet novel might seem frothy on the surface, but it’s deeper and more insightful than the initial levity suggests.

So, there we are. Do let me know your thoughts on these choices, and feel free to suggest a favourite comfort read of your own – I’m sure there are many more for us to discover!

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!

Two Lives: Reading Turgenev by William Trevor

I adore William Trevor. He writes beautifully about small-town Irish life, often focusing on the quiet moments other writers might overlook. His stories are spellbinding – humane, compassionate, and suffused with melancholy. In particular, he has an innate ability to see 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 the Booker-shortlisted novel Reading Turgenev, the first of two works of fiction included in this Penguin edition, Two Lives.

First published in 1991, Reading Turgenev tells the achingly sad story of a young woman’s decline into grief, alienation and depression, cruelly precipitated by a loveless, isolating marriage and the sudden loss of a childhood sweetheart at the worst possible moment. The bulk of the story takes place in the late 1950s, but Trevor skilfully inserts brief reflections from thirty years on, showing us the devastating impact of these events on his protagonist and the life she has been left with.

As the story opens, we find Mary Louise Dallon – at twenty-one, the youngest of three siblings – living at home on the family farm. With no opening for sales assistants at the town’s pharmacy or other stores, Mary Louise contents herself with helping her parents on the farm. Nevertheless, she dreams of a more interesting life in town should an opportunity arise.

When local draper Elmer Quarry invites Mary Louise to the cinema one evening, she duly accepts. Despite the age difference between them – Elmer is fourteen years her senior – a respectable period of courtship follows, largely conducted through sedate Sunday afternoon walks.

While both families are Protestants, they differ somewhat in financial stability. The Dallons are struggling to make ends meet – money is very tight, and the farmhouse in need of repair. As such, Mary Louise’s parents are positively disposed to the match with Elmer, keen to see their daughter settled with a man of some standing in the town. Nevertheless, when Elmer proposes marriage, Mary Louise’s older sister, the practical, down-to-earth Letty, argues vehemently against it, urging her sister to reconsider.

Also opposed to the marriage are Elmer’s spinster sisters, Rose and Matilda, who share the Quarry family home above the shop with their brother. While Elmer focuses mainly on the accounts, the embittered sisters serve in the shop, privately passing judgement on everyone they encounter. On the eve of the wedding, Rose and Matilda harangue their brother, pleading with him to call off the marriage. In their eyes, Mary Louise is only marrying Elmer for his money – she will lead him a merry dance, and he will live to regret it. Meanwhile, Letty is similarly determined to lobby Mary Louise, fearful of the horrors that await her sister should she marry Elmer…

A picture was painted of her [Mary Louise’s] future in the house above the shop, the two sisters critical of every move she made, the man she was to marry never taking her side. She’d be no more than a maid in the household and a counter girl in the shop. There would be smells and intimacies no girl would care for in the bedroom she’d have to share with the heavily-made draper; her reluctance to meet his demands would be overruled. The three Quarrys would beadily eye her at mealtimes. Dried-up spinsters were always the worst. (pp. 23–24)

But despite these various protestations, the wedding goes ahead, with Elmer and Mary Louise duly departing for their honeymoon by the sea. It’s a marriage of convenience rather than love, and as Mary Louise unpacks her case at the hotel, the doubts begin to kick in…

But in the bedroom of the Strand Hotel, with the lace curtains flapping on either side of the open window, Mary Louise wanted suddenly to be in the farmhouse, to be laying the plates at the kitchen table or feeding the fowls with Letty. Somehow, later on, she was going to have to get her nightdress on to her and get into that bed with the bulky man whose wife she had agreed to be. Somehow she was going to have to accept the presence of his naked feet, the rest of him covered only in the brown and blue pyjamas he was lifting out of his suitcase. (p. 34)

As you’ll have guessed by now, the newlyweds’ holiday is something of an anti-climax, but I’ll leave you to discover the painful details for yourself should you decide to read the book. More troublesome for Mary Louise are Elmer’s beady-eyed sisters, who never miss an opportunity to criticise their brother’s wife. Rose and Matilda are monstrous women of the highest order, choosing to complain to Elmer about Mary Louise when she is out of the room but still within earshot, fully aware that this will undermine the girl’s confidence and state of mind. Moreover, they never miss an opportunity to share gossip with regular customers, highlighting their sister-in-law’s peculiar behaviour and instability.

Rose and her sister passed on to certain of their customers their belief that their sister-in-law was not in her right mind. There was something queer in that family, they said, James Dallon, far from the full shilling… (p.126)

Gradually, over the course of a few years, Mary Louise withdraws into herself, no longer serving in the draper’s shop, taking meals alone to avoid Elmer and his sisters, and neglecting her regular Sunday visits to the Dallons’ farmhouse to avoid prying questions at home. Instead, she spends large chunks of time in the Quarry’s attic, reflecting on her fading hopes and lonely life. The marriage has never been consummated – and with Mary Louise spending hours on end in the attic, Elmer turns to drink, often visiting Hogan’s bar where he covertly eyes up Bridget, the hotel’s manageress. Meanwhile, Mary Louise’s parents wonder why there’s no sign of a baby on the way – surely things will settle down between their daughter and Elmer once they start a family? If only things were that simple for this mismatched pair…

What follows for Mary Louise is so painful to observe. One day, she finally finds some solace with her cousin, Robert, who despite his chronic ill health, briefly captured her heart as a child. Rather than visiting her parents on Sunday afternoons, Mary Louise takes to calling on Aunt Emmeline, primarily to see Robert, who in turn is delighted by the presence of his cousin. As Robert shares passages of Turgenev with Mary Louise, she reveals her unhappiness and the true state of her marriage to Elmer. But the respite is short-lived, and tragedy strikes at the worst possible moment, plunging Mary Louise into a deep-seated depression – a situation exacerbated by the lack of anyone else for her to confide in.

Meanwhile, back at the Quarry’s house, the vultures are circling as Rose and Matilda plot various ways to dispatch Mary Louise. If only the girl’s family would take her back, then Elmer would be his old self again – or better still, she might benefit from a spell in a mental institution, especially given her strange behaviour and regression into childhood…

Trevor is working in familiar emotional territory here – for a male author, he writes lonely, unfulfilled women remarkably well, subtly portraying their private apprehensions, dashed dreams and crushing disappointments. (The awfulness of Rose’s wedding night is carefully signalled, leaving the reader to fill in the gaps.) As ever, the prose is simple yet beautifully judged; each character feels realistic and fully fleshed out. Moreover, he perfectly captures the claustrophobic atmosphere of small-town life where nothing untoward goes unnoticed and damaging gossip is rife.

There is something timeless about this heartbreaking story, almost as if it could have taken place at any point in the 20^th century – and while the overall tone is sad and melancholy, there are brief moments of beauty, too. I’ll finish with a final quote that seems to capture something of the novel’s mood as the autumn mists roll in.

The mists of autumn came, clinging to the houses of Bridge Street, smudging the shop windows with drips and rivulets. The smell of the town was of turf smoke mainly, acrid in the damp air. The shortening days were caught between the seasons until November arrived, claiming them for winter. (p. 117)

Very highly recommended, especially for fans of character-driven fiction.

Brief Lives by Anita Brookner

Since October 2016, I’ve been making my way through Anita Brookner’s novels slowly but surely at a measured pace. Next in the sequence is Brief Lives, which feels like a classic Brookner character study, easily one of her best.

First published in 1990 but rooted firmly in the world of the past, the novel revolves around a demanding, codependent relationship between two women, Fay and Julia, thrown together by the business partnership between their respective husbands, Owen and Charlie.

As the story opens, Fay, now in old age, reads about Julia’s death in The Times, the obituary ushering in a sequence of memories from her younger days. There are glimpses of Fay’s childhood, her subsequent role singing romantic songs on the radio, a career she gives up on marrying Owen, a junior partner in a London-based solicitors. Fay, who narrates the novel, meets Julia when Owen invites his business partner, Charlie, over for dinner, and the various relationships develop from there.

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.

Julia was a dedicated woman. She was dedicated principally to herself, but that did not seem to lessen her charm, which was powerful if capricious. (p. 41)

She would say, ‘Let’s have a discussion,’ when what she meant was, ‘Let’s have an argument,’ for she was restless most of the time. And she liked danger, which was why I found her alarming. Although I had known her for so long I was a little afraid of her, never at ease in her company. And in the end there was every reason why I should feel this way. (p. 3)

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. Julia seems to have a powerful effect on everyone in her orbit, prompting people to abandon any plans they might have for their own lives in favour of tending to her desires. Nothing less than a full quota of compliments will do for Julia, who is ten years older than Fay. And yet, for someone who will not lift a finger for anyone else, Julia inspires such devotion and attentiveness from others, while humbler, quieter people like Fay and Julia’s former dresser, Pearl Chesney, must do without. Julia also exaggerates her arthritis, using this as a lever to make demands on her attendants.

In essence, the novel follows Fay as she reflects on various aspects of her life, many of which involve this tortured entanglement with Julia, a bond she attempts to sever at various points in the relationship. We sense the loneliness and lack of fulfilment Fay experiences in her marriage to Owen with intimacy soon giving way to domesticity in support of her husband’s work.

Owen’s behaviour towards me became perfunctory, as I suppose it always does when a man’s work is more important than his wife’s peace of mind. Orders would be given for the week’s entertaining, telephone calls would be made and received all the time, when we were eating, frequently when we were in bed, and love became purely functional. The strangest thing was that this kept him perfectly happy (pp. 33 – 34)

We see how unhappy Fay feels in her marital home, a dark, oppressive house hideously decorated by Owen’s first wife, Hermione, an atmosphere that perfectly complements the novel’s chilly mood. And there are greater tragedies, too – first the loss of her mother, then the sudden death of Owen in an accident aboard – two traumatic losses leaving her deep in the throes of grief, keen to cut ties with Julia for a quiet life on her own.

Julia was essentially a creature of insinuation, the eyelids lowered and then flying open, request and accusation mingling, retribution to follow. None of this bothered me, or rather my irritation was tempered by the knowledge that after this visit I could withdraw from her little circle of acolytes and live my own small life somewhere out of reach. I had no time for her tragic attitudes, for I knew that whatever pain she felt was always confined to her own preoccupations…(p. 89)

While other developments occur – a brief affair between Fay and Julia’s patient husband, Charlie, and another sudden tragedy that destabilises these women’s worlds – this is not a plot-driven narrative. Instead, the novel delves deep into character, painting such insightful, richly textured portraits of Fay and Julia and the complexities of their fraught, insidious bond.

She had become futile, and she knew it. She saved her pride by undermining my own loss of status, but was further annoyed by the fact that I was quite comfortable without it. Indeed, I seemed to be settling down into a state which was mysteriously denied to her. (p. 97)

With no partner or love interest on the scene, Fay fears the long, lonely days stretching out ahead of her. Now in her sixties, she longs for marriage again, a more permanent, fulfilling relationship like her old friend, Millie, has experienced. The only likely option is Dr Carter, an active, self-centred divorcee Fay meets through her cousin, Caroline. Nevertheless, while Dr Carter appreciates Fay’s attractiveness and independence, he is too fond of his own freedom to give it up. In truth, Fay knows that if Carter does marry, it will be to someone more prized than herself.

As ever with Brookner, the prose is superb. There’s some beautiful, incisive writing here, particularly about grief, loneliness, and a lack of fulfilment in life. The novel also comes with a virtuoso chapter that reminded a little of one of Brookner’s most memorable passages – Frances’ long, ghostly walk home in the middle of the night in the brilliant Look at Me. After hearing of Owen’s sudden death, Fay makes a traumatic journey to France to deal with the aftermath – a surreal nightmare played out in the grip of shock and debilitating headaches, another subject Brookner writes about so vividly.

Alongside the leading players, the secondary characters are also beautifully drawn, from the sickly-looking Maureen, one of Julia’s strangely devoted helpers, to Fay’s mother-in-law, Vinnie, a rather touchy, lazy woman who spends her days drinking gin, smoking cigarettes and playing bridge. Naturally, Fay is just not good enough for Owen, who remains the apple of his mother’s eye.

Vinnie herself had something of the same glitter and dustiness. She was a small, very thin woman with a blatantly made-up face; lustreless dark curls were confined under one of those little spotted veils which were so fashionable in the 50s, and lipstick seeped from her pursed mouth to the deep, bitterly indented lines at the corners. (p 20)

As the novel draws to a close and Fay’s relationship with Julia comes to a head, we glimpse some insights into Julia’s childhood, shedding light on some of the underlying drivers of her obsessive behaviour. It’s a fitting ending to a superb character study, easily one of my favourite Brookners so far. This quiet, introspective novel, elegantly conveys the recollections of a mature, solitary woman reflecting on her former years, while the subtleties of Fay’s tangled relationships with Julia and her oddly dutiful followers are brilliantly portrayed. Highly recommended.

My edition of Brief Lives was published by Jonathan Cape; personal copy.