The books I bought in Canada!

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Back-to-back haul posts! Though there was quite a gap between the book-buying excursions – and this one was all the way to Canada. I’ve just come back from a couple of weeks visiting Calgary, Banff, and Vancouver, which were really fun. Some lows along the way (emergency dental trip; heavy rain and storms in apparently-usually-sunny Calgary) but lots of highs (beautiful Lake Louise and Moraine Lake; aquabusing in Vancouver; having lunch with Claire the Captive Reader; strolling through parks and eating a lot of pancakes, poutine and Dairy Queen). And our flat in Vancouver was so beautiful, with the most extraordinary views out over the city.

 

And, of course, the bookshops. We didn’t have any hold luggage, so I decided that I would be very abstemious with the books I bought.

Reader, I was deluding myself.

I bought plenty of books, relying on the fact that they don’t weigh cabin bags, and throwing out a pair of jeans that had a well-timed hole in them. I also left behind the plaid worn above, which was an emergency thrifted item when we realised that Banff was going to be about 20 degrees colder than originally forecast.

As on my previous trip, I was trying to buy only books that are hard to find here – and I stuck even better to my resolve to buy Canadian authors, with only one American author sneaking in alongside them. Here are the books I bought, divided into categories of why I bought them…

THE BOOKS I WENT HOPING TO FIND

There were a handful of books on my wishlist for this trip, and I found pretty much all of them! I don’t think any of them are very hard to track down in Canada, but they’re all pretty unusual in the UK.

The Innocent Traveller by Ethel Wilson
My Golightly and Other Stories by Ethel Wilson
I think I have everything by Wilson now. And had the happy bonus of the man in the bookshop telling me that Mr Golightly and Other Stories was one of his favourite books – I was looking for both of these throughout my trip, and eventually located them in the enormous MacLeod’s in Vancouver. It thankfully had a section devoted to Canadian authors.

Crackpot by Adele Wiseman
I didn’t know anything about this before, but when I saw it listed in the back of This Side Jordan by Margaret Laurence (which I read on the trip) and saw it had an afterword by Laurence herself, I was keen to stumble upon a copy – and stumble I did.

Wild Dogs by Helen Humphreys
And A Dog Called Fig by Helen Humphreys
Humpheys’ novels are usually historical and usually set outside Canada, and neither of those things were what I wanted – but I knew that she had an early novel, Wild Dogs, set in modern-day Canada. Not only did I find it in the basement of a shop in Inglewood, Calgary, but it was signed by her! Staying on the dog theme, I was also keen to read her newish non-fiction that traces her writing life alongside the dogs she has loved.

THE BOOKS I WAS RECOMMENDED

When I was in the lovely Pages, Books bookshop in Kensington, Calgary, I asked a couple of people for recommendations – firstly one of my fellow shoppers, who recommended the Urquhart, and then the people behind the desk. It was really fun. All I said was that I wanted Canadians writing about Canada, so I didn’t tell them a lot about my actual tastes, but fingers crossed.

Prairie Edge by Connor Kerr
I’ve already finished this novel, about a couple of disaffected young Métis people releasing Bisons into downtown Edmonton, Alberta, and I thought it was excellent. Good recommendation!

River Mumma by Zalika Reid-Benta
A New Season by Terry Fallis
The Whirlpool by Jane Urquhart
I don’t know much about these, other than that Fallis is apparently funny and Urquhart’s novel is set in late-19th-century Niagara Falls, but the enthusiasm of the recommendations won me over.

THE OTHER BOOKS THAT TEMPTED ME

The Irrational Season by Madeleine L’Engle
The Summer of the Great-Grandmother by Madeleine L’Engle
Here is my sole non-Canadian. I’ve already enjoyed the fourth of her autobiographical books, Two-Part Invention, so now I can read some of the others.

Ordinary Wonder Tales by Emily Urquhart
No relation to Jane, so far as I can tell. A new-books bookshop in Calgary had a little slip inside all books by Canadian authors or Canadian presses (or, as in this case, both) and I went through every single one of them. None were crying out to me, until I got to the very last one in the shop – and I was very intrigued by this essay collection. I’ve finished it already, and it’s a brilliant combination of folklore with Urquhart’s (and other women’s) everyday experiences. Really well done.

Deep Hollow Creek by Sheila Wilson
A Canadian classic, according to the blurb, and written in the 1930s about a woman taking up a teaching post in a one-room schoolhouse in a frontier settlement. Yes please!

The Student by Cary Fagan
I can’t remember why I picked this one up, but fingers crossed!

The Book of Eve by Constance Beresford-Howe
Another one picked from shelves dedicated to Canadian authors (in Fair’s Fair in Calgary, possessors of the excellent sign at the top of this post) – I was tempted by the story of a 65-year-old woman walking out of her stagnant marriage and setting up in a boarding house. I read it on the plane on the way home, and really enjoyed it.

So far, I’ve read five of my new purchases already, and they’ve all been very good – watch this space for full thoughts on them all… anything that particular catches your eye?

A great big pile of books from Hay-on-Wye

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I went to Hay-on-Wye at the beginning of the month, but it’s taken me a good while to get around to listing all my spoils. And, goodness, I bought a lot of books. I was actually really encouraged by my trip this time. Usually, there are slightly fewer bookshops and over the past 20 years, there has been a creeping sense that Hay’s identity is slipping away. But not this time! A couple of new bookshops have arrived since I last went (including the excellently named Christie and Doyle), and I’m pleased to report that Richard Booths had a lot more fiction on the shelves than the last couple of times I’ve been there – the sad, half-empty shelves are no more.

Anyway, I certainly didn’t come away empty-handed. Here’s what I came home with…

Sunwise Turn by Madge Jenison
Subtitled ‘a human comedy of bookselling’, I couldn’t resist this one – seems in the same style as Shaun Bythell’s books, but 100 years earlier.

Autobiopsy by Bernice Rubens
I Sent A Letter to My Love by Bernice Rubens
The Ponsonby Post by Bernice Rubens
One day I’ll stop adding Rubens books to my shelves, but today is not that day (though I did leave two behind – one because it was enormously long, and the other because it had the most unsettling TV tie-in cover image.)

The Unforgiving Minute by Beverley Nichols
Always time to grab a Bev.

Two and Two Made Twenty-Two by Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning
Loved their The Invisible Host, so was pleased to come across a lovely edition of another of their murder mysteries.

Butcher’s Crossing by John Williams
The theme of this one put me off a bit – cattle ranching, maybe? – but I thought Stoner was excellent, so why not.

Crescendo by Phyllis Bentley
One of those interwar women novelists whose name I see, but have yet to read…

Common Sense About Drama by L.A.G. Strong
I love any book about the theatre, but perhaps particularly this sort of mid-century ‘everyman’s’ guide.

The Evening of the Holiday by Shirley Hazzard
Hazzard seems like one of the biggest omissions from my reading life. This isn’t one I hear talked about the most, but I decided it’s the one I’ll be giving a go.

The Whiskered Footman by Edgar Jepson
I don’t know anything about Jepson, but flicking through this one it reminded me of Wodehouse, perhaps via Herbert Jenkins, so decided to give it a go.

I Knew A Phoenix by May Sarton
At Seventy by May Sarton
Adding another couple of Sarton’s autobiographies to my heaving bookcases, so I can continue to read them all out of order.

Vice Versa by F. Anstey
This body-swap comedy is probably more talked about than read, but I should really give it a go.

Our Town; The Skin of Our Teeth; The Matchmaker by Thornton Wilder
As I mentioned in May, I started reading Tom Lake by Ann Patchett and it assumed knowledge of Our Town, so I grabbed a copy.

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett
Speaking of Patchett – having loved this novel when I took it out of the library, I knew it had to be on my shelves at some point.

The L-Shaped Room by Lynne Reid Banks
My copy is falling apart, and I know it might fall apart completely on another read or two. So when I stumbled across a first edition in Hay’s charity shop, I had to have it – I don’t really care about first editions, but I love this one on its own merits.

Explorers of the New Century by Magnus Mills
This is one of the few Mills novels I didn’t have, so I was really pleased to stumble across it.

Travels With Alice by Calvin Trillin
Whenever I find a Trillin in the UK, I grab it.

Teresa of Watling Street by Arnold Bennett
I haven’t read an Arnold Bennett for a while, and need to rectify – this one looked good fun, and I have my policy of assuming books with character names in the title are probably up my street.

The Dancing Bear by Frances Faviell
I’ll pick up any Furrowed Middlebrow books in the wild, even if I haven’t yet read the Faviell I already had.

The Triple Echo by H.E. Bates
Truth be told, this is because Addyman Annexe has a £2 card limit, so I picked up a £1 book that could be interesting.

Harpole & Foxberrow by J.L. Carr
Ending with my most exciting find – a signed copy of a Carr book I didn’t have. Not only signed, but dedicated to the person who organised the book signing!

A slightly chaotic end to #ABookADayInMay

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I always knew I wouldn’t be able to post for the final days of A Book A Day In May, but entered into it optimistically anyway. Frankly, I’m amazed that I have managed to post every day for almost the whole month, rather than my usual round-ups. It definitely helped that I went for shorter books than usual this year – I didn’t feel the need to go for a 180-pager on a day with more opportunities to read, and it made the whole thing easier. When I get to #ABookADayInMay2027, I may regret having used up all the short books on my shelves…

Not quite rounding things out, but nearly, here are some very quick thoughts on a couple of audiobooks that I’ll be finishing off at some point in the final days. And thanks for being along for the ride!

Our Endless Numbered Days (2015) by Claire Fuller

I must have bought this is an Audible sale at some point. It’s Fuller’s debut novel, about an eight-year-old called Peggy who, during the 1976 heatwave, is taken by her Dad to the wilderness. He tells her that everyone else in the world has died, and they must fend for themselves. There is a parallel story in 1985, where Peggy has been reunited with the outside world, and is reflecting on her experiences.

It’s an interesting idea, and I sort of enjoyed the book, but I was frustrated by the strange structure. The actual interesting part of the book – the survivalist period – comes quite late in the book, and the years flit past without really getting to grips with how they’re surviving. I loved some details, like a makeshift piano, but I thought the novel was weaker than the premise made me think. And don’t get me started on the Shock Twist Ending that doesn’t make much sense if you think about it for more than half a second. A serviceable novel, but I’m surprised it was lauded the way it was.

Coming to Our Senses (2021) by Susan R. Barry

I came across Susan Barry from her book about her friendship with Oliver Sacks, and she wrote a lot about Coming to Our Senses in that. She had her own experience of gaining stereovision late in life, and is fascinating – particularly in Dear Oliver – about that, and indeed wrote another book about it that I haven’t read. It inspired her to write this book, about other people who have gained senses later – chiefly Liam McCoy (who gained sight aged 15) and Zohra Damji (who gained hearing aged 12), but there are plenty of other examples along the way.

It’s an enjoyable, sympathetic and very thought-provoking book. There is much that is gained when a sense is gained, but there are also things that are lost, and a great deal of disorientation. Barry makes no sweeping conclusions, and is very keen to honour her subjects – you can certainly see the influence of Sacks in her writing. If she isn’t as brilliant as Sacks – well, who is?

Ordeal By Innocence by Agatha Christie – #ABookADayInMay – Day 28

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I read all of Ordeal By Innocence (1958) on a long coach journey, and what better way to make the hours go by than with Agatha?

I didn’t know anything about this Christie, nor had I seen the TV adaptation from a few years ago, so it was quite fun to go in totally blind.

It opens with a man called Arthur Calgary going to visit a family in a house called Sunny Point (though built on land traditionally called Viper’s Point). He has a strange mission. He has come to tell them that Jack, one of the sons of the house, is not a murderer. He is just a couple of year’s late.

There is some convoluted backstory that we can swallow in order to get on with the story. Essentially, Calgary could have given Jack an alibi for a murder he was jailed for – and where he died of pneumonia, a few months into his sentence. The murder? Jack’s mother, blugeoned to death in her study.

Calgary thinks he is bringing good news by clearing Jack’s name – but really he has thrown the cat among the pigeons. Now they know the murderer is still among them. And everyone suspects each other.

I’m not even going to go through the characters in detail, because really it’s that central idea that sets the novel apart. We have a family of adopted children, now adults, all of whom seem to resent their murdered mother for her benificence. There is her widower – and the secretary he is close to. There are various other in-laws and staff milling about to complete the picture, though Christie considerately left most characters unmarried, to limit our canvas.

But it is that idea that really strikes through the novel – that, actually, the ones who suffer most are the innocents who are under suspicion, and who suspect others. It could be true in almost any of her novels, but it’s here that she really explores the idea, and I think she does it well. Perhaps it is this psychological angle that made it one of Christie’s own favourites.

Without Poirot or Marple at the helm, it helps that Calgary is enjoyable company – resolute on finding the culprit of this cold case, perhaps to atone for his inadvertent opening of old wounds. There are a lot of red herrings and directions the story could go in that it doesn’t. The ultimate solution is satisfying enough, but – perhaps unusually for Christie – I found the journey more interesting than the denouement.

I wonder why it isn’t more popular. Perhaps the lack of her superstar detectives, or perhaps some rather dated language and use of race, disability and adoption along the way. But, with those misgivings acknowledged, I think this is one of the more interesting Christies I’ve read, and an excellent accompaniment to a long journey.

The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street by Helene Hanff: #ABookADayInMay – Day 27

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Today’s book is a re-read. I recently re-read 84, Charing Cross Road for my book group, and I’ve read it umpteen times over the years – as well as seeing the stage play, the film etc. But I haven’t re-read The Duchess of Bloomsbury Group (1973) since I first read it many years ago.

Hanff’s name had been made, at least to an extent, by the publication of 84, Charing Cross Road three years earlier. In that collection of letters between Hanff and Frank Doel, a bookseller in London, Hanff always promises that she will come and visit her beloved London – but she never manages it during Frank’s lifetime. I got the feeling she never fully intended to – but The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street proves me wrong, because she takes advantage of a significant cheque and some press opportunities to come to London – with no real view to a return date. She won’t let a little thing like recovering from an operation stand in her way.

The night before I left, two friends gave me a farewell party. I’d spent the day packing, to the indignant fury of all my vital organs, and I left the party early and was in bed and asleep by midnight. At 3 A.M. I came staring awake, with my insides slamming around and a voice in my head demanding:

“What are you doing, going three thousand miles from home by yourself you’re not even HEALTHY!”

I got out of bed, had hysterics, a martini and two cigarettes, got back in bed, and whiled away the rest of the night composing cables saying I wasn’t coming.

The book takes the form of her diary of her trip. She meets Frank’s widow and family; she spends time with various fans who take her under their wing, and has a fun time caricaturing them – including a man she constantly refers to as the Colonel. Along the way, she even spends time with Joyce Grenfell. You get the impression that she tolerates the company that flocks to her, rather than cherishes them – including poor Nora Doel who, reading between the lines, perhaps hoped for more from Hanff’s visit than she received. Or perhaps that’s just the bluff New Yorker coming through, who knows.

I remember not warming to Hanff the first time I read it. Perhaps her boistrous humour and sharp-speaking needed Frank Doel’s gentle kindness to offset it? I particularly recall the scene in Oxford where she has a tantrum because her guides are showing her their favourite haunts, rather than Oriel and Trinity Colleges. But this time around, I am clearly more tolerant – or perhaps have aged to match her level of intolerance. Either way, she felt like more of a kindred spirit, and I found it warm and enjoyable, even if she keeps human connection at arm’s length a bit.

But she is unbridled in her affection for England. That was rather touching to read about – particularly as someone who takes Oxford and London and the Cotswolds for granted.

I walked slowly along the street staring across it at the houses. I came to the corner, to a dark little park called Bedford Square. On three sides of it, more rows of neat, narrow brick houses, these much more beautiful and beautifully cared for. I sat on a park bench and stared at the houses. I was shaking. And I’d never in my life been so happy.

All my life I’ve wanted to see London. I used to go to English movies just to look at streets with houses like those. Staring at the screen in a dark theatre, I wanted to walk down those streets so badly it gnawed at me like hunger. Sometimes, at home in the evening, reading a casual description of London, I’d put the book down suddenly, engulfed by a wave of longing that was like homesickness. I wanted to see London the way old people want to see home before they die. 

If you’re looking for a sequel to 84, Charing Cross Road, I’d always recommend Q’s Legacy instead, which looks at the success of the book and the process of it being adapted as a play. But this is a delight too. Frank is missed on every page, and it does require a bit of sympathy wth Hanff’s bombastic approach to the world – but this time around, I could very much get on board with her style, her humour, and her undisguised enthusiasm for the experience.

The Propeller Man and Other Stories by Gerard Lewis and Lizzie Shannon-Little – #ABookADayInMay – Day 26

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A quick post today about a book my friend and her partner wrote – The Propeller Man and Other Stories by Gerard Lewis and Lizzie Shannon-Little, illustrated by Alexandra Ricketts. A bit of a cheat for A Book A Day In May, because it is very short, but I’ve been meaning to read and write about it for ages.

It’s a collection of poems in the time-honoured style of Roald Dahl or Hilaire Belloc – i.e. cautionary tales about misbehaving children and the violent ends their misdeeds will fittingly lead to. Whether an untidy bedroom consuming a child or an octopus retaliating to urine in a pool, it’s all pretty macabre but will delight an older child who has a stomach for that sort of thing. And we know that children are often pretty open to the grisly! Each is fittingly illustrated by Ricketts – you can see her work on the cover too:

I’m a more sensitive soul, but I still enjoyed it – certainly a quick read, but one I suspect some children will love to revisit. And, who knows, it might even help improve their behaviour!

As a taste of the writing style, here’s a poem from the book’s website, inviting you in to read… You can also order on the website, if you’d like to get a copy.

Take heed, dear children — have a care,
For many dangers lurk out there.
Stay sharp of mind, but kind of heart,
And fortune’s hand will play its part.
But those who leap before they look,
May find their fates within this book.
Here the foolish, cruel, and cold — 
Their lives are tales that must be told.

A Bookshop in Algiers by Kaouther Adimi – #ABookADayInMay – Day 25

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Holding up A Bookshop in Algiers in the garden on a summer afternoon

The heatwave continues, and I spent some time in the garden reading A Bookshop in Algiers (2017) by Kaouther Adimi. It was originally published as Nos richesses and translated by Chris Andrews as Our Riches, so I’m not sure why the title changed when it appeared in the UK – but I have to admit that ‘bookshop’ in the title is what made me pick it up in a secondhand bookshop a few years ago. So perhaps the marketing folk know what they’re doing.

The novella is about Edmond Charlot, a publisher and bookseller in Algiers, Algeria. As I kept reading the book, and seeing so many real French authors, I began to wonder if Charlot were a real person… and of course he is. Which does raise the issue of novels about real people – particular in Adimi’s case, where she tells his story through diary entries. Making up a real person’s diary is a minefield, but I went along for the ride. Perhaps it helps that the entries are so short.

Through Charlot’s perspective, we see his ambition to open up a bookshop and cultural meeting point in Algiers, called Les Vraies Richesses, and to start publishing some of the greatest names in French literature. He is apparently best known for his working relationship with Albert Camus, and there were other names that I recognised – Giono, Vercors, Gide, Saint-Exupéry – as well as many that are doubtless familiar to people with a better knowledge of Francophone literature than I. He appears to have spent some time in prison, thanks to Gertrude Stein…

March 17, 1942
Just out of prison. A month inside! Thanks to Gertrude Stein who had the bright idea of declaring, in an interview with the BBC: “I have a very dynamic publisher in Algiers, who is resisting…” Vichy already had me under surveillance. Three days after the book was printed, the police came for me in the small hours of the morning.

[…]

This unfortunate episode has held up the publication of Gerturde Stein’s book, but the store stayed open, thanks to Manon and other friends. it’s clearer than ever to me that without friendship there could be no Éditions Charlot. It all depends, essentially, on circumstances, friendship, and encounters.

Before each section of diary entries, there is a page or two summarising the state of Algeria in the time period – from the 1930s through to the 1960s. Now, if I am ignorant about French writing, that’s nothing to my ignorance about the geopolitics of Algeria through the 20th century. In Adimi’s hands, I feel like I’ve had a quick but first-class education. She wears her knowledge and research lightly, and perhaps it’s because we see all these famous names and big events through the eyes of one individual, who is as preoccupied with rude letters and paper shortages as he is with the world stage. Later in the novella, there is an astonishing section on a brutal episode I had never heard of – the massacre of Algerians in Paris in 1961, by police. It is related with a fierce poeticism, and is incredibly striking.

The parallel story is in 2017. Through a friend of his father’s, a young man called Ryad is hired to throw away everything left in Les Vraies Richesses, paint the walls, and get it ready to be turned into a shop selling beignets. Though it hasn’t been a bookshop for years, it is still a members’ library, and its final custodian, Abdullah, is living next door. Ryad doesn’t like books at all – the idea of print reminds him of mites – and he is not at all uneasy about his task. But he finds the community are friendly but unhelpful. There is allegedly no paint to be bought in the whole region.

Over his time there, Ryad gets to know Adbullah and other locals. Adimi is too subtle to make him have a Damascan Road turn towards literature, but there is a subtle transformation to him nonetheless. Perhaps it’s because of my well-documented suspicion of historical fiction, but it was the contemporary Ryad scenes that I most enjoyed. He is not your usual literary hero, but I warmed to him and his gradual development.

Despite, as I say, not loving historical fiction, and despite some queries about making up the diaries of a real person – I did really enjoy reading A Bookshop in Algiers. It is quietly powerful about the abuse faced by Algerians over the years, as well as a fascinating insight into a literary circle and the resilience of people who simply love literature. It is not a sentimental book, and it is all the better for that. A lovely way to spend a sunny evening, and perhaps the beginnings of an education about a country and culture I know very little about.

#150: A Q&A special! (part 1)

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Thank you so much for all your questions for episode 150 of ‘Tea or Books?’!

Because we had so many questions, we’re doing it over two episodes – so today’s is the first half. Watch out for part 2, next month.

You can support the podcast at Patreon – where you’ll also get access to the exclusive new series ‘5 Books’, where I ask different people about the last book they finished, the book they’re currently reading, the next book they want to read, the last book they bought and the last book they were given. More to come soon.

And, of course, do get in touch at teaorbooks@gmail.com with any questions or comments – we still need questions for the middle sections of future episodes, of course!

They by Helle Helle – #ABookADayInMay – Day 24

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A copy of They in a sunlit park

The UK has entered something of a heatwave, and I read They (2018) by Helle Helle entirely outside, in a couple of different parks in Oxford. It was originally in Danish, and translated by Martin Aitken – the first time, in fact, that I remember seeing the translator’s name on the cover.

I bought They earlier this year with a voucher from some friends for Caper, an excellent little bookshop in East Oxford, having been beguiled by a review in the Guardian. It’s about a 16-year-old girl and her mother (both unnamed) living in a small Danish community. We don’t know what happened to the father, and we don’t know all that much about the two figures – known usually as ‘she’ or ‘her’ and ‘her mother’. Instead, we are just immersed in the ordinary world they live together, with the only clue of instability being the number of previous houses they have lived in. Some of the short sections deal with previous homes, and we usually don’t know quite why they have been so temporary.

The girl has the same preoccupations of most 16-year-olds. Her school, her friends, including a new one called Tove who is a little wilder and exciting than the ones she is used to. There are her older friends, some boys who are starting to intrigue her, and the neighbourly people she bumps into each day. But most of all there is her mother. They are close with an unspoken intensity. In less subtle hands than Helle’s, we might know if this is an unhealthily close relationship – but she just shows it to us, without judgement.

The story is mundane, every day, with little to disturb the calm surface of their lives. Except the mother keeps getting tired. And then, in the midst of the relentlessly ordinary, is a phone call from the hospital, where the daughter uses impersonation to get the information she correctly thinks she’s being shielded from.

Then the telephone rings, it’s the nurse, she’s Swedish or Norwegian. She speaks clearly but considerately. She reads aloud from the patient file. The patient expresses great surprise at the severity of her illness. Her mother bounds into the living room with two potatoes. She finds a telephone conversation taking place and beats a quiet retreat. Now the music changes, again her mother sings along. The doctors can relieve the symptoms, but the condition can’t be cured. Her school bag is dumped on the floor, she sits in front of it with her back to the rest of the room. Six months, perhaps a year. The dinner’s ready, they can eat now. They eat now.

A rock has been thrown into that pool – but not into the narrative. Helle’s prose continues as slowly, calmly as before. The mother has to stay in hospital, and the girl distracts herself with baking and housework. This is not a novel with heart-to-hearts or emotional outbursts. It is quiet and tender.

I’ll be honest. For the first 50 pages or so, I wasn’t sure about They. To be frank, I found it boring. The voice didn’t feel quite as distinctive as I’d hoped – but which I mean that it didn’t have the oddness or off-kilter elements that might make Helle’s prose stand out. But, as I kept reading, and as the prose washed over me, I succumbed. I got into the rhythm of the writing, and started to understand what made it special. Ultimately, They won me over. It took a bit of time for me to connect with it, but once I had, I appreciated the gentleness, everydayness of it.

It was also one where I wish I could compare the translation with the original. There were some moments where the English didn’t quite make sense – a ‘goes’ that should have been ‘went’; a ‘since’ which should have been ‘in case’ – but I assume these discordances were in the original? Maybe?

Apparently it is the first of a trilogy, with the other two books focusing on one of this novel’s background characters. I can see myself going back another time, and hoping for that same connection to appear, once I let the novel take me over.