2020s

Only About Love by Debbi Voisey – #ABookADayInMay – Day 4

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A quick one from me, because I’m back home late after driving home from Hay-on-Wye (haul to be revealed at some point, possibly after May), via an afternoon at Hidcote National Trust and Chipping Camden, and then straight to Devil Wears Prada 2 (good for nostalgia’s sake, if very patchy). Somewhere along the way, I managed to finish Only About Love (2021) by Debbi Voisey.

After loving Douglas Bruton’s Blue Postcards, I decided to buy up a whole bunch of other Fairlight Moderns. They’re such lovely little editions, and a really interesting range of titles. Admittedly, I read another one that I didn’t like (and decided not to write about) but Only About Love was more of a success.

It tells the story of Frank – in many ways, an ordinary sort of man. He lives in a normal house, has a job that is neither exciting nor particularly the opposite, and marries a nice woman and has nice children. Along the way, he has at least one affair – which is sadly also not that out of the ordinary. But the style in which it is told is where the unusual element comes in. Voisey has taken this everyman’s life and told it in fragments and vignettes – out of chronological order – from Frank’s perspective and from the perspective of his wife and children, and occasionally objective lists and bullet points. Since these are not framed with an explanation, the reader has to quickly catch up with who is telling their story, and where we are in Frank’s life history. It means Only About Love is an endless chain of mild disorientations, always having to establish and re-establish our surroundings – but it comes together in a very coherent whole.

The disorientation also puts us a little in Frank’s place – because the crux of the novella is his diagnosis, decline and eventual death with dementia. An acknowledgement from Voisey suggests she has first-hand experience of this from her father, and that is perhaps why this plot is told with such observation, kindness and charity. Illness does not exonerate Frank of his misdeeds, but nor should it overshadow the everyday nobleness that was also part of his character. (Incidentally, once you know that dementia is central to the story, I think it makes Sam Kalda’s illustration on the cover feel very poignant.)

The title comes from a section late in the novella, from the perspective of Frank’s daughter as she tends to him in the late stages of dementia. I’ll finish by quoting this vignette in full:

When you shave him, he moves his mouth and face around like he’s chewing an invisible sweet. He offers up his neck with absolute trust; you glide the blade down beneath his chin and over his Asam’s apple. It’s massive, like he’s swallowed a rock.

You hear the rasp of his stubble and it’s almost like the noise is coming from you, because there’s sandpaper inside you. Your stomach is made of it. Your heart is made of it. Your throat. Your insides have been transformed into a million tiny pieces of rock.

He can no longer speak, but words are unnecessary. Life is now simply in its cruelty; he once cared for you and now you’re caring for him.

Each touch of your fingers on his skin reminds him that love still exists. You want all his waking thoughts from now on to be only about love.

Finders, Keepers by Nicholas Royle – #ABookADayInMay – Day 2

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As soon as I started reading Kaggsy’s review of Finders, Keepers (2026) by Nicholas Royle, I headed to the Salt website and ordered myself a copy. I think it was probably Karen who also alerted me to his first two books in this series – White Spines and Shadow Lines – and he is, as the The Telegraph puff quote on the cover says, ‘fast becoming the bibliophile’s  bibliophile’.

White Spines was about Royle’s love for Picador books from the 70s-90s, and his hunting to add more to his collection. Shadow Lines had less of a central focus, and went hither and thither in bookish topics – though the title refers to the line visible in the top of a book when it has an ‘inclusion’, i.e. something that a previous reader has left behind, be it a postcard, letter, newspaper cutting or something more unusual.

Finders, Keepers was going to be called Library Fines at one point, so that all three titles would rhyme, but he opted for something less censorious – if perhaps not especially relevant to the contents of the book. The subtitle, ‘The Secret Life of Second-hand Books’, is closer to the mark. It very much continues the themes of the previous book, and I was happy to return to them – Royle is still returning books to addresses written in them, phoning the phone numbers he discovers, and buying books because of the things that previous owners have slipped inside them. Occasionally, he buys books because he wants to read them.

Actually, that’s doing him an injustice. It does seem that he reads widely and with curiosity, and he might be prompted to pick something up because of an eccentric project, but he will usually try the book too – even if he often ends up dismissing them in a whimsically curt way. (He also dismisses bus journeys, people on mobile phones, and an Alpha sign outside a church – that, given his otherwise curious approach to life, I would encourage him to revisit with a more open mind.)

There are as many ways to collect books as there are books to collect.

I was going to type out a long excerpt – starting with that line, then going on to the genesis of his project of collecting ‘doubles’ (i.e. two books with the same title) and how he and the other author called Nicholas Royle are another kind of double. But I love it as an independent thought. And it is the throughline of everything Royle writes in these bibliographic memoirs.

Some book collectors choose their prey based on first editions, fine bindings, and the condition. To me, it is so much more interesting to collect books for the many and various reasons that Royle buys them. As well as the ‘inclusions’ urge, he has sections describing returning library books to libraries (quite a lot of people seem to give their library books to the charity shop?), buying books because they have Christmas messages in them, building a collection of books whose titles start with London, and the aforementioned ‘doubles’ project.

At times, I did find myself thinking ‘Why don’t you just buy books because you want to read them?’ – and I continue to marvel about where he fits all these purchases (particularly since, when I said something similar about the previous book, Royle himself assured me that he lived in a modest home). But, you know what, when I got the section on buying books because there were maps included or sketched in them, then going to the place in the map and reading the book, I was totally won over. That’s charming. That’s the eccentricity of the committed bibliophile that I can get behind. There are, indeed, as many ways of collecting books as there are books to collect.

As long as Royle keeps writing this sort of book, I’ll keep reading them. Our tastes scarcely overlap – though, amusingly, he did read Assembly by Natasha Brown in one day, which I did yesterday. I don’t think I’m likely to listen to any of his specific recommendations, and I doubt he’d want to hear mine. But I still love reading witty, friendly writing from a fellow reader who loves hunting for, buying, and amassing books as much as I do. Another extremely readable gem. The bibliophile’s bibliophile, indeed.

Assembly by Natasha Brown – #ABookADayInMay Day 1

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Assembly by Natasha Brown

A Book A Day In May is back! Inspired by Madame Bibi, it’s my annual attempt to finish a book a day through the month of May – though I already know the final few days won’t really be possible, but let’s start anyway.

Usually, I try to do this challenge entirely spontaneously. This year, I decided to pull lots of potential titles off my shelves and pile them up on the dining table. I think there are about 70 books there now, so I have plenty of choice and still a lot of scope for surprise, but slightly less manic pulling titles off shelves.

First up is Natasha Brown’s widely reviewed and critically lauded debut, Assembly (2021). It’s quite bold for a debut novelist to write something 100-pages-long – such a short book usually doesn’t do well, but there is also a confidence in the spare way that she has approached such a zeitgeisty topic. For, in Assembly, Brown tackles one black woman’s experience of often-subtle racism in a world where unspoken privilege is everything.

The unnamed narrator has, on the face of it, a lot of success. She is a high-flyer in finance, earning significant sums of money at a young age. Her boyfriend is clearly considering proposing, and comes from generational wealth. Her friends are confident and kind.

But… there are colleagues who intimate – or outright state – that she is only getting promotions because of her race. Her potential mother-in-law clearly considers her son to be having a temporary dalliance outside his race and class (“I was unsurprised to learn the titles and heritage properties were all on the father’s side. There was an uncertainty beneath the mother’s hostility that I almost identified with”). And – almost as an afterthought, in the novella’s priorities – she has cancer that she is curiously reluctant to treat.

Even her choice of career is not a neutral, but a response to her background:

Banks — I understood what they were. Ruthless, efficient money-machines with a byproduct of social mobility. Really, what other industry would have offered me the same chance? Unlike my boyfriend, I didn’t have the prerequisite connections or money to venture into politics. The financial industry was the only viable route upwards. I’d traded in my life for a sliver of middle-class comfort. For a future. My parents and grandparents had no such opportunities: I felt I couldn’t waste mine.

The plot of the novella, such as it is, is a trip to a party celebrating her boyfriend’s parents’ wedding anniversary. But it is really a book exploring a web of microaggressions, assumptions, glass ceilings, and the daily obstacles that a black woman encounters in a professional and social environment in the UK. Particularly when class is also thrown into the mix. Brown writes it with eloquence and elegance, and in such a spare way that nothing feels heavy-handed. Even the introduction of cancer, which could have felt like a needless, A-Little-Life-style pile-on of misery, is done with a lightness that somehow brings everything together. I found the narrator’s experience more impactful to read than a more openly furious polemic could have achieved.

What I found harder to get to grips with were the more experimental approaches. There are some formally experimental sections that didn’t add much – a couple of pages with the positive and negative associations of ‘white’ and ‘black’ respectively, which felt a bit like a high school paper – and the opening has several disjointed scenes that are quite disorienting and unclear. Perhaps that was the point, but I think it could have worked better just to tell the narrator’s story without these stray paragraphs from other scenes. I still don’t know who the people are in some of them.

Overall, I thought it was a good and engaging book, though would be more hesitant than some to announce Brown as a major new voice in fiction. But perhaps that’s because I tend to judge these things from the distance of 70 years or more. When the dust has settled, it’ll be interesting to see if this is considered a modern masterpiece, or a good book on an eternal, important topic that was dominating headlines more than usual.

On the Calculation of Volume (vol.2) by Solvej Balle

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cover of On the Calculation of Volume vol.2 showing a falling vase of yellow flowers

Back in January, I raved about the first volume of Solvej Balle’s seven-part On the Calculation of Volume, translated from Danish by Barbara J. Haveland. Uncharacteristically, it has only taken me a handful of months to read the second – and I have the third and fourth on my tbr piles, so watch this space.

If you’re catching up, the series is about Tara Selter, a dealer in antiquarian books with her husband Thomas, who is stuck in a timeloop. Every day is the eighteenth of November. Every day, everyone else is doing the same thing – with a twist on the usual conceit, in that Tara starts the day wherever she ended the previous one. She is stuck in time, but not in space. And she can keep some things that she has near her – but the food she eats one day has disappeared from the world by its next iteration, so she is in danger of wiping out restaurants’ stock. The mechanics aren’t the main thing, but Balle has clearly thought about them.

If the first book had a curious optimism, with Tara finding space and peace in a trope that is usually about power battles and struggles, then the optimism has ebbed a little by the second one. She spends some time with her parents towards the beginning of the novel (like Thomas in the first, they believe her account without any doubts, which goes to show what a trustworthy person Tara is) but, besides this, is largely alone. Or, rather, separated from people she knows. She is always surrounded by people, but they do not think about her and her predicament.

I am surrounded by people in motion. Suddenly they are all walking in the same direction. I look around me and, sure enough, there is a metro station and that is where they are headed. There are lines of people pointing towards the way down. I am outside of the lines. If I get too close to their lines I am in the way. I am a foreign body, an error. I am Tara Selter, lost in the eighteenth of November. Not lost and forsaken, just lost. I have simply fallen out of the world. I have not been hurt in the fall, I got up and brushed a little grit off my knee, that is all.

Having passed a full year of 18 Novembers, Tara is feeling the claustrophobia of her experience. She lives in a hotel for a long time – asking for a room that hasn’t been slept in for a while, with the excuse that she is allergic to cleaning supplies, so that she doesn’t wake up in bed with somebody else the next morning. Even a fire alarm doesn’t rock her from her feelings of stasis.

A few days ago I would have jumped to my feet, scenting change, but I just sat there with my half-eaten sandwich and did nothing and the sandwich is still lying here on the table next to me, not because it was left in haste due to an evacuation, but because it is a bit dry round the edges. I no longer believe in variation, I don’t look for differences and not even a fire alarm can alter my expectations of a day that comes round again and again.

Since she cannot experience variety in time, she decides to go hunting for variety in weather. A lot of this volume is about Tara travelling in pursuit of spring, summer, autumn and winter on this eternal 18 November. For some reason, she never considers travelling to the southern hemisphere or, indeed, outside of Europe, where she could find these seasons more authentically. Perhaps it’s to do with allowances on her passport, or shorter journey times. If you are willing to swallow the idea that she can find springlike weather in a November London day, then you can enjoy her travels. More than the actual climates she finds, it is about her longing and her purpose. When a strange twist of fate has stopped her achieving any of the normal things that give people the reason to keep going, she has found a different reason.

Now I cannot get enough of winter. It is not enough that it resembles winter as I know it. I cannot content myself with snow that doesn’t last, a light sprinkling. I am searching for the heart of winter, consummate winter, concentrated winter. I travel through mountains, I move upwards, northwards and along narrow roads where the snow has already settled as if it means to stay. I gaze at the landscape and write names in my notebook. Place after place. Name after name. I make a note of streets and restaurants. I write the addresses of empty houses and recipes for winter dishes in my book.

Overall, book two sees Tara trying to assess her role in the world a bit more than in book one. It goes through a longer time period – two years of November eighteenths, compared to one – but there is perhaps less plot. The biggest story point is when somebody steals her bag. She struggles through the tedium and self-analysis into something approaching peace – a peace that seemed to come more naturally in the first book, and is more hard-won in this one.

And it continues to be a beautiful reading experience. Balle’s writing is gentle, rhythmic, unshowy and mesmerising.

#754
I don’t know how one can grow used to a situation like this, but that is what is happening. Perhaps it is the case that you can accept a lot as long as you are spared most of life’s worries. If you are not in danger. If it is a life with no drama, with no poverty or diseaee or natural disasters. I am safe, I have nothing to fear, none of the things one has learned to fear: the calamities and catastrophes of real life – loss, betrayal and crime.

My disasters are little ones and my accidents are fleeting: a minor burn, a twisted ankle, a car crash averted by a braking system. The greatest crime I have experienced is the theft of my bag, a crime perpetuated by a football fan on a rattly bike. The only things I have lost, apart from the passage of time, are a bundle of euros, an olive-green, cloth-bound notebook and two sets of keys. I have what I need. I don’t starve. I can buy whatever I want. I can go back to Thomas and slip into his pattern. He is still alive. I am sure that he is still there, in his house in Clarion. In his pattern, I have suffered no loss, I have not been betrayed, rejected, forsaken. Nothing has happened that one might fear. Nothing fearful.

I could read many more books of writing this striking – and thank goodness I get the chance two. Volume 2 ends on something that is quite shocking, given the lack of twists and turns so far – and I can’t wait to see how this new information is explored in the third volume.

A new biography of A.A. Milne

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You may well know how much I love A.A. Milne. I wrote all about it back in 2014, and he is such an instrumental part of me establishing my literary taste and discovering what being a bibliophile and book-hunter looked like. And so I was excited to learn that Gyles Brandreth had written a new biography of Milne – and of Winnie-the-Pooh, so goes the subtitle. Called Somewhere, a Boy and a Bear, it is clearly intended to charm an audience more invested in Winnie-the-Pooh than Wurzel-Flummery or Chloe Marr. On whatever front, I was ready to be charmed – and Mum and Dad got me a copy for Christmas.

Brandreth has written a fair few books, but I’d say he is best known in the UK as a sort of cultural curio. He turns up on breakfast TV shows or Celebrity Gogglebox wearing jumpers with teddy bears on them, and says posh, eccentric, kindly things. You can easily imagine that he would love everything connected with the 100-acre wood with the same upper-class simplicity that he probably approaches toast and marmalade, or going to Lords. (He was a Conservative MP for five years, but we won’t hold that against him. It was probably inevitable.)

And so, what sort of book has he written? It is much more focused on Milne than I’d anticipated – it goes through his childhood, his unhappiness at school, his happiness at university, his dizzyingly early achievements as a sketch-writer, comic essayist and playwright. We tread the path through his wartime experience, his sudden and brief success as a detective novelist before the children’s books dominate – and then we wind down on his gradual fading from literary grandeur.

Winnie-the-Pooh et al certainly get plenty of the book, but less than I’d expected – and I was quite grateful about that. Brandreth hasn’t shunted the rest of Milne’s career to the sidelines to give the children’s books unparalleled attention. Rather, he considers them as part of Milne’s long and often-glittering literary reputation. The only exception to this is the way that he intersperses otherwise unrelated sections with quotes from the Pooh books, slightly awkwardly placed in boxes in the middle of the text.

As a Milne aficiando, there wasn’t anything new to me, but I still loved reading it. Brandreth writes with an ease and affection that is infectious. He has clearly read everything he could get his hands on, and it’s evident which works particularly chimed with him – he returns to Chloe Marr quite often, for instance. But… it really is just an affable rehash of Ann Thwaite’s magisterial biography A.A. Milne: His Life. I did wonder if that was why it has no formal referencing – because the source of almost everything he writes is almost certainly Thwaite’s book. It’s a bit of a pity that, 35 years later, there is nothing new to add – but that’s probably because of the sort of writer Brandreth is.

Brandreth is an enthusiast – he is not a researcher. The only new things he brings to the book say more about the world he lives in, because the novel material comes from friendship with Christopher (Robin) Milne. He doesn’t hide this, nor is he needlessly showy about it – he simply shares discussions and perspectives that Christopher Milne shared with him. This largely came when Brandreth was putting together a play, Now We Are Sixty, though it does sound like it flourished into a friendship rather than simply a fleeting professional relationship.

“We were so close,” Christopher told me, “until I left school and beyond, until after the war, really.” Father and son had sport, nature and mathematics in common. Alan delighted in his boy as once he had delighted in his brother.

One presumes that Brandreth is turning to old notes, rather than remembering conversations of many decades earlier.

This is not an insignificant contribution – it takes the book more into the territory of the friend-of-the-family memoir, which is a genre I greatly enjoy, even if Brandreth is certainly on the peripheraries. And it’s a good job that he brings his individual charm to the tone, because otherwise (besides the lack of new material) there are a few things that would otherwise make Somewhere, a Boy and a Bear feel a bit howlery. It seems rather rushed and repetitive – as one example, he is unable to mention Milne’s brother Barry without rehashing that Milne didn’t like Barry but did get on with Barry’s wife. It is probably repeated six or seven times. And then there are unforgivably bad sentences like this:

Boldly, for this feature, in June 1902, for the special May Week issue of The Granta, Alan wrote about the soon-to-be-crowned new king, Edward VII, who had succeeded his mother, Queen Victoria, on her death in January 1901.

How fast do you have to be rushing a book out to let that comma-strewn monstrosity get through? He also has a habit of this sort of chatty, decisive tone, that feels a bit like listening to a self-styled expert in a bar:

When Alan first met the young woman he was destined to marry, he was delighted to discover that she could quote episodes from The Rabbits line by line. Perhaps that’s why he married her. Seriously. He liked that. He liked it very much.

I know I’m singling out suspect sentences, but this isn’t intended as a censure. I only mention them to explain the sort of book this is: it’s a chatty, charming book about an author I love, written by someone who shares that love. Somewhere, a Boy and a Bear is not the work of a biography exploring new territory. It’s a bibliophile sharing his enthusiasms. And, you know what, that was exactly what I was in the mood for.

Hope Never Knew Horizon (2024) by Douglas Bruton

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You might have seen by now that Blue Postcards by Douglas Bruton was one of my favourite reads of the past year. Bruton himself happened to stumble across me talking about it, and very kindly sent me a copy of Hope Never Knew Horizon (2024) – and I loved that one too!

There are three threads to the novel, and it took me a long time to work out how they could possibly relate to each other. If you’d like to maintain that mystery, then maybe skip some of this review – and it wouldn’t have been a mystery to me if I’d properly remembered the note that Bruton sent me alongside the book. I hope he won’t mind me quoting from it.

The genesis was this: “I wanted to write something filled up with hope.” And then…

I stumbled across two people messaging back and forth online, discussing a programme they had seen on the TV about the blue whale skeleton in London’s Natural History Museum and how it had been taken down and restored and rehung; and it had been given a name: the blue whale skeleton was not called Hope!

Then I remembered a poem by Emily Dickinson: ‘Hope is a thing with feathers’ […] And, finally, I recalled a painting I had seen in my early twenties, a painting by G F Watts and it had held me captive for twenty minutes or so when I knew nothing about art, and it was called ‘Hope’.

Three contributions to art or science – three places where the term ‘Hope’ came to the fore. There are no other connections (in reality, at least) between any of the people related to these three creations. But reading them alongside each other forms a curiously moving tapestry of human curiosity, emotion and, yes, hope.

When Ned Wickham is deeper in his cups than any man has a right to be, he tells the story of the Wexford Whale and like I said before he is not ever to be believed. In the weeks and months after, the story grows arms and legs and runs crazy through the streets, hollering with its arms waving above its head. Ned tells how he single-handedly wrestled the whale into submission, up to his knees in the briny, and then took its life with all the heroism fitting of a sabre-wielding cavalryman at the Battle of Waterloo.

Ned is an ordinary, working-class man who knows the sea as well as the land. He does not single-handedly do anything regarding the whale, except he does find it on the shore and is ultimately paid a small amount by the crown for this discovery. It is the first step of many in the whale’s posthumous journey, and it is the only story of the three that is narrated by many different people – starting with a woman who may or may not have a future with Ned.

On we go, through years and years, as the whale skeleton is bought and sold, cleaned and constructed, and hangs high up in the ceiling of the British Museum. Each voice is captured beautifully for however long it is on the page, and Bruton sees so much in the many invisible stages behind a public spectacle.

Next we have perhaps the most famous figure in the novel: Emily Dickinson. Or, rather, we have her servant, Margaret. Her first words are ‘Sure but Miss Emily thinks no one knows’. Dickinson has more than one secret, but the key among them is her deep love for the woman destined to marry her brother. They surreptitiously send letters to one another, and this has a firmer basis in fact than some other elements of Hope Never Knew Horizon, because a volume of letters from Dickinson to Susan Huntington (though not the replies) has been published. It may have been secret from the world, but servants don’t miss anything. What makes Margaret’s perspective so compelling is her investment in the relationship, and in Miss Emily’s happiness, even while she doesn’t fully understand all the implications. She has all the hope that Emily can’t bear.

‘Open me carefully,’ Miss Emily’d written at the bottom of the page. And the letter was to Susan Huntington, ‘Dear and darling Susie,’ she’d wrote. And ‘open me carefully’ and not when anyone is by so that it is a secret just between Miss Emily and Miss Susan, ‘cept now I know and my heart yearns and I look for the postboy now, as much as Miss Emily does, and I wonder where on earth he can be with his dillying and dallying, and I am a little cross when he does turn up and there is nothing for Miss Emily.

Third and final is Ada, an artist’s model known professionally as Dorothy Dene. I will confess that I had not heard of ‘Hope’, the painting by Watts, a detail of which is on the cover. Her introduction shows us the sort of plucky woman she is:

Men’s hearts are so easily won. Just a carefully timed dip of my head, a look that holds his and then lets it go again and a way of shaping the mouth so the lips almost make one half of a kiss, needing only his lips to complete the act.

Ada is another working-class character, making a precarious living in a world of men who are more powerful than she is – yet she holds her own power over them. As with the other characters in the novel, she is on the peripheries of renown and spectacle, though obviously more present than the others by appearing in the painting. But she is very much the subject rather than the artist, despite her self-possession and confidence. Her story becomes one about love and different kinds of love, and what the relationship between artist and subject can be.

Hope Never Knew Horizon would be an interesting novel if it were ‘just’ an unusual slant on three notable moments in British cultural history, told by people (real or invented) whose names are not the sort to be recorded for posterity. But what elevates it above that is Bruton’s extraordinary writing. I do not know how he does it, and I would think it impossible to analyse, but he breathes humanity into his prose with every sentence. That is his special gift: humanity. These are not just characters who are vivid and vital. They are creations whom the author clearly respects, dignifies, and loves.

And, yes, This is somehow a book suffused with hope. There is no heavy-handed moral, or perhaps a moral at all. But I ended it feeling greater hope about the world and the people who populate it. In his note, Bruton wrote “I wanted to write something filled up with hope.” Even after reading two books by him, I can see that that sentiment is quintessentially Bruton. Hope Never Knew Horizon is special and beautiful. If I didn’t have a rule about only including one book by any author on my end of year lists, it would have been a strong candidate for the top 10. I am so looking forward to continuing exploring Bruton’s work, and thankful to have discovered it.

Others who got Stuck into it:

“By the time I started the third story, a mere 22 pages in, I was gripped, transported to that extraordinary utopia of fiction where life is more vivid and meaningful than ordinary reality.” – Victoria

“Douglas Bruton’s haunting writing is the kind that changes you once you’ve read it; this is a truly original and wonderful book and I can’t recommend it enough.” – Karen

“Bruton’s writing is strikingly beautiful, his storytelling captivating and his theme is one close to my heart.” – Susan

8 things I love about Bookish by Lucy Mangan

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Bookish by Lucy Mangan cover

I read a lot of books about books and reading, and I almost invariably enjoy them. But they do quite often feel like palate-cleansers in between other books – treading familiar ground, and not quite capturing the love I had of my first forays into the genre, like Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman and Howards End is on the Landing by Susan Hill.

But then, sometimes, I come across a book about being a reader that reminds me why I love them so much. Bookish (2025) by Lucy Mangan is such a wonderful read. Or, in my case, listen – I listened to the audiobook, but I wasn’t far through it when I knew I’d have to get hold of a paper copy too. It’s always hard to write a proper review from my memories of an audiobook, so instead here are some bullet points of things about loved about Bookish.

1. The opening lines

The book starts with ‘I am never happier than when I am in a bookshop’, and you know you’re in safe hands already. Like Lucy Mangan, I consider book hunting to be one of the happiest, most joyful ways to spend time. I’d already really enjoyed her previous bookish book, Bookworm, about childhood reading – and I was even more excited to read her talking about grown up books.

2. Lucy Mangan is a kindred spirit

If that quote doesn’t make it clear, she is One Of Us. Few writers have better captured what it is to live a bookish life – not just somebody who enjoys reading, but somebody who is A Reader. Not in a scholarly, superior way – rather, somebody who lives, breathes, and loves books. There were countless occasions on which I felt seen by her. Which is why I am calling her ‘Lucy Mangan’ in full throughout – because I don’t actually know her, so can’t call her ‘Lucy’, but also now feel too much of a friend to call her ‘Mangan’.

3. She captures stages of life perfectly

There are plenty of life experiences that Lucy Mangan and I do not share – marriage, parenthood, being an incredibly successful journalist. But one thing we do have in common is going to Oxbridge from state schools, and being thrown into seminars and tutorials with students who clearly felt much more comfortable in those environments. The section where she describes that period of her life had me nodding vigorously.

4. She has controversial but correct opinions

I am thinking specifically of her preference for Anne Bronte over Charlotte and Emily. Tell ’em, LM!

5. Our tastes overlap…

To be fair, there aren’t many super-super-obscure books mentioned in Bookish, though there are plenty I haven’t read or are only dimly aware of. But it’s still lovely to read a fellow enthusiast for books like I Capture the Castle and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. And, in fact, Lucy Mangan’s love for those books makes me desperate for her to read Guard Your Daughters by Diana Tutton and O, The Brave Music by Dorothy Evelyn Smith. The four belong together, and it should be impossible to love one without loving them all.

6. …and they also differ

But it was also fun to read Lucy Mangan’s enthusiasm for books I know I wouldn’t like – and that certainly isn’t always the case. She doesn’t like whimsy in books, while I do now and then – and, most decisively different, she adores historical fiction which I usually dislike. And yet reading about her obsession with Norah Lofts was a delight, and I do hope she has read Lofts’ excellent, funny, tense non-historical novel Lady Living Alone.

7. She is wise about owning books

Apparently there are 10,000+ books in her house – and, gosh, I’d love to see her library. The descriptions of culling (limited) and bookshelf arranging (joyful) hit home, and it’s wonderful to read about somebody who sees no problem in overflowing shelves – filled, crucially, with much-loved books and possible-reads, rather than expensive first editions and books bought as investments.

8. It’s funny, warm, and optimistic

Even in the sadder moments, there is a warmth that flows through Bookish. How do you capture it? How do you make a book feel like curling up a sofa for a natter with a dear friend? I suppose by being an excellent writer, and that is a keynote of Bookish. It’s a hoot, it’s self-deprecating and simultaneously celebratory about the reading life. Press it into the hands of any bookish friends and family this Christmas – and put it on your own wishlist. After all, it’ll help justify all the other teetering piles of books.

Literary Gardens by Sandra Lawrence

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I’ve really dialled back the number of review books I say yes to (and, let’s be honest, don’t get offered as many as I did in the blogging heyday) – but I couldn’t resist when I was kindly offered a new title from Frances Lincoln publishers. Literary Gardens: The Imaginary Gardens of Writers and Poets by Sandra Lawrence was a lovely concept – and is executed just as beautifully as you’d hope.

The book looks at the gardens created by different authors in their books – particularly those which have a real bearing on the experience of the characters and the imagination of the reader. When I first heard about the book, I thought it might tread very familiar paths – your usual assembly of Austen, Bronte etc, with an eye on the mass market. And, yes, there are some crowd-pleasers in here (Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald) – but Lawrence is clearly extremely well-read and very thoughtful in her selection.

Some authors I love that are represented – ‘The Garden Party’ by Katherine Mansfield, Hallowe’en Party by Agatha Christie, Elizabeth and Her German Garden by Elizabeth von Arnim. We have nostalgia catered to, with The Secret Garden, The Tale of Beatrix Potter, and The Chronicles of Narnia – and then there are authors I’ve never read and, in some cases, never before heard of (Vivant Denon, Valmiki, Sei Shōnagon).

Each chapter introduces you to the book in question, talks a little about the plot and reception and, of course, the setting. Lawrence has an easy, friendly way with words – balancing her research with the affability of a fellow-reader. Here are a couple of paragraphs on Hallowe’en Party, for instance:

One of Christie’s last whodunits, the novel was not well-received on publication in 1969. Alongside pace-slowing throwbacks to previous ‘greatest hits’, she, perhaps unwisely, tries to keep up with the times. Her tried-and-tested but quaint by the 1960s style is littered with everything from long-haired beatniks to recreational drugs, the merits of abolishing capital punishment to the dropping of the eleven-plus exam, televions to – shock – lesbians, in the process, it would seem, both alienating her core and irritating any prospective audiences. […] Time has been kinder, however, than the critics, and while not her most tightly plotted mystery, the basic story of Hallowe’en Party is solid.

The action is mainly set at the imaginary Woodleigh Common, 30-40 miles from London near the equally fictional Madchester. The village’s houses are mainly named for trees: The Elms, Apple Trees, Pine Crest. The only exception is a large Victorian pile boasting a strange garden: Quarry House. Poirot is unimpressed. To him the idea of a ‘quarry garden’ is ‘ugly’, suggesting blasted rocks, lorries and roadmaking, all alien to this olde-worlde setting. 

In each chapter, Lawrence widens from the novel or story itself to a broader look at the author – in this one, for example, she looks at Christie’s own home and garden, Greenway. The chapters are short but satisfying. It’s probably more satisfying if you’ve read the book in question, if I’m honest, but I still appreciate Lawrence’s willingness to introduce us to less familiar authors.

This sort of beautifully produced book (not a ‘coffee table book’ in the sense of merely flicking through, but would grace any coffee table) stands or falls on its accompanying visuals – and Lucille Clerc’s illustrations are a wonderful success. They are so sumptuous, inviting you into the imaginary gardens (or, occasionally, appropriately deterring you). She captures the feel of narrative – none of the images feel static, even the ones that don’t have anybody in. Here’s Mr McGregor’s garden from The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, and I defy you not to want to scurry in.

If you google the book, you’ll find a few other examples. I could stare at them for a long time – Clerc resists being fey or whimsical, and even the most fanciful garden illustration has a groundedness to it.

It’s such a good idea for a book, and it is done much better than I could have hoped for. Such a thoughtful selection, and put together wonderfully. I think Literary Gardens would make a lovely present – but I’d equally recommend it for a purchase for yourself.

Autocorrect by Etgar Keret

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A few years ago, one of my favourite reads was Suddenly, A Knock on the Door by Israeli short story writer Etgar Keret – so when I saw that a new collection had been published, I was keen to get a copy. Autocorrect (2024; English translation 2025) was sent as a review copy, and I loved getting back into Keret’s strange mind. The stories in here were published in various places over the past few years, translated from Hebrew by Sondra Silverston and Jessica Cohen. (Only one was written after the 7 October attacks in Israel, and the subsequent extreme violence upon citizens in Gaza, and this story does look at the aftermath of the October attacks in a fairly oblique way. He is not the sort of writer you’d expect to write un-obliquely about it.)

What I love about Keret is his matter-of-fact surreality. The first story ‘A World Without Selfie Sticks’, for instance, opens like this:

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have yelled at Not-Debbie. Debbie herself always said that yelling doesn’t solve anything. But what is a person supposed to do when, a week after saying a tearful goodbye at the airport to his girlfriend, who was flying to Australia to do her doctorate, he bumps into her at an East Village Starbucks?

From here, things just get weirder. We quickly learn that Not-Debbie is from a parallel universe. She is taking part in a gameshow where five contestants are ‘sent to a universe that contains everything they have in their own world, except for one thing’ and their goal is to figure it out. (The last episode was the one with selfie sticks – the solution to this particular iteration is in the final line of the story.)

I don’t think anybody would describe Keret as sci-fi, but there are elements he borrows from that world. Another story, for instance, is about overcorrection when trying to make robot boyfriends have the right level of sensitivity. The title story, ‘Autocorrect’, is about somebody continually restarting their day to make subtle changes, hoping to evade her father’s death. In all of these odd scenarios, what makes Keret so good is how little time he spends on world-building. He gives us a couple of sentences about what’s going on, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and we are thrust into the plot for a handful of pages that are disorienting in the best possible way.

He’s very good at opening lines. The example above is a good’un. ‘Gravity’ starts “Three days after they moved into their new apartment, the woman who lived upstairs jumped out of her window.” How could you not want to read on? But he is not all stark sentences – ‘Present perfect’ opens rather more philosophically, with rather a striking image:

It’s about time we acknowledge it: people are not very good at remembering things the way they really happened. If an experience is an article of clothing, then memory is the garment after it’s been washed, not according to the instructions, over and over again: the colours fade, the size shrinks, the original, nostalgic scent has long since become the artifical orchid smell of fabric softener.

There were some stories I thought less successful than others. Quite a few are extremely short – three pages, say – and that feels too abrupt to try and do something that leans into the unusual as much as Keret does. Others have pay-off with a comment on faith or politics that feels trite and undergraduate-y – can he really think he’s being profound in these moments? For those reasons, I still prefer Suddenly, a Knock on the Door. But it’s also true that our first encounter with a striking, new-to-us authorial voice can be the one that we retain the greatest fondness for, with the glow of discovery.

That voice is sparse and conversational, which makes the strangeness work. I’m glad to reacquaint myself with him, and glad to know there are others I’ve yet to read.

Snow Road Station by Elizabeth Hay

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It was only towards the end of reading Snow Road Station (2023) by Elizabeth Hay that I realised it was a sequel to an earlier book but, you know what, I don’t think it mattered. I bought it in Oxford’s loveliest independent bookshop, Caper, drawn by the cover, by the fact Elizabeth Hay is Canadian, and by the recommendation from Mary Lawson on the cover. I also have one of her books which I bought in Canada (not the prequel to this) but I think that came a bit lower than those other recommendations.

I was also very drawn by the opening to the blurb:

In the winter of 2008, as snow falls without interruption, an actor in a Beckett play blanks her lines. Fleeing the theatre, she beats a retreat to Snow Road Station – a barely discernible dot on the map of Ontario.

Now, that is good marketing copy! Consider me sold. The actor in question is Lulu. She has had a fairly celebrated career on the stage, but now she is in her sixties – still very attractive and with lots left to give, but with fewer and fewer professional demands, and a life that is looking increasingly lonely.

Beckett’s plays are notoriously difficult for actors, and Happy Days most notorious of all. As you may know, it is one long monologue for a character called Winnie who, as the acts progress, becomes steadily more and more buried in a pile of sand. Beckett demanded total precision in his plays, down to the ums and ahs, and Lulu cracks. She corpses on stage, forgetting her lines. And her confidence is gone. She decides to abandon rehearsals and retreat to visit her friend Nan.

Now, if I’d read His Whole Life, I’d doubtless be totally up to speed with the relationship between Lulu and Nan – as it is, I was piecing it together. Lulu is visiting for the wedding of Nan’s son, Blake, to a woman he doesn’t want to marry. Lulu sees the word through the lens of theatre, and Hay uses this in a way I found effective – not too often, to feel laboured, but giving you an understanding of her vantage on reality when so much of her day-to-day experience is understood through a prism of stage character.

Blake’s limp hair fell into his eyes. It could use a good wash, Lulu thought, but maybe that’s how it looked after a good wash. He was a blend of Nan and her brother Guy, but morose and much more confrontational in his born-again life as an evangelical preacher. She would have cast him as Iago or Angelo, a blend of hot and cold, an agitated man whose blood is very snow-broth, and Nan as some gaunt queen who’s in the dark.

I’m always interested in how writers create Christian characters (usually very badly), but I found Blake quite a successful portrait. He has the stubbornness that comes of a fixed morality, and perhaps the melancholy that can accompany sacrifice, but his happiness or otherwise stems from his beliefs and behaviours much as everyone else’s does. He is not marked out, by Hay, as particularly victim to his worldview – and, frankly, in modern literature that is up there with the better portraits of Christians.

There are a range of other characters – Jim, Blake’s half-brother, who was apparently the central character of the earlier novel; Lulu’s brother Guy, who still lives nearby and with whom she has a rocky relationship; Hugh, a piano tuner and handyman who is perhaps a little idealistically kind and wholesome.

The villain of the piece is Nan’s ex-husband, John. There is a harrowing scene where he gives Lulu a lift and expects them to sleep each other. It seems to be the ‘price’ of this favour. When she resists, he responds with a cruelty that is not physically violent – but so vile, and so precise, that you’ll remember it for a much longer time than most portrayals of abuse.

The novel is set in three ‘acts’ – called Snow, Road, and Station – and there is a lot that feels play-like in its structure. It is firmly set in a particular time and place, and time – 1995 – is significant because the second Quebec independence referendum is taking place, and characters align themselves on either side. But in another way, it is eternal. Snow Road Station is about relationships – between old friends, between parents and children, between somebody’s life and the life they had hoped to live. Hay has extraordinary control over her plot and her characters. Not in the sense that there is a tightly orchestrated set of story points, but in her clear, total understanding of who these people and how they will act – within language that feels loose and thoughtful, but is clearly chosen with absolute exactitude. I can see why Mary Lawson loved it. Hay is an expert storyteller.

Lulu thinks, of the town’s history, “Snow Road Station was an arrival, a departure, a long wait — a place of rest, a stoppage, yet a road.” In the novel, it is all those things. Hay certainly resists any hokey ‘Town good; rural bad’ or ‘Town bad; rural good’ dichotomy – though she recognises that there are certain places that allow and encourage you to develop different facets of yourself. It’s a beautiful, dark, curiously affirming portrait of a group of people who are seldom totally honest with themselves or each other, but whom we end up understanding totally. A triumph – and now I clearly need to read the previous book.