Moonglow by Michael Chabon (2016)

Presented as a memoir, but with many a knowing nod to its fictional nature, this novel purports to be the story of the grandfather of the narrator, Mike Chabon, as told from his death bed and interpreted by his author grandson. In non-chronological order, the novel leaps through episodes in the old man’s life, from his marriage to a French refugee to his wartime exploits to a spell in jail. Always referred to as ‘my grandfather’, the protagonist has a fascination with rockets and the moon landing, and approaches life with a rational, scientific view that belies his tendency to blow his top.

The book is full of lovely, surprising imagery, and the events themselves are as quirky and often hilarious as I would have expected from the author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, one of the few books to make its way onto my ‘must reread’ list. The interplay of reality and fiction is a source of great fun for Chabon, with copious use of the trappings of memoir (footnotes, lists, descriptions of ‘real’ objects). But there are tender and serious moments here, too. The mental illness that afflicts the grandfather’s wife, with her haunting visions of the ‘Skinless Horse’, and the brilliantly depicted scenes set in France during/shortly after WW2, provide a constant reminder of generational trauma, as well as providing the key to the main mysteries that the novel gradually unravels. One scene that stuck with me was of the narrator and his mother looking at an old photograph album from which almost all of the pictures had disappeared; as his mother recreates the pictures from memory, it seems to matter less and less that they do not have a visual representation in front of them, as, indeed, the reader would not in any case. I have read a lot of books that explore the blurred lines between memory and reality, fiction and fact; this is one of the most playful, and certainly the funniest.

The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne (2006)

I don’t really want to write about this book, and not just because I always have problems spelling ‘pyjamas’. I don’t like writing negative reviews, and I did not like this novel. So I will keep this brief. In Berlin in 1942, nine-year-old Bruno discovers that his family is moving to a mystery location due to his father’s promotion to Commandant. Bruno’s frustratingly wilful ignorance means that he insists on referring to their new home as ‘Out-With’, and doesn’t even bother asking what country it is in.

And this was one of my biggest problems with the novel: Bruno is deeply annoying, and inconsistent – despite signs of being curious about certain things, he calls Hitler ‘the Fury’, has no idea that he is the leader of Germany (despite the Fuhrer visiting their house), doesn’t know what a Jew is, and knows absolutely nothing about his father’s job. This is all very convenient for Boyne from a narrative point of view, as this ‘fable’, as the author styles it, relies upon the power of suggestion and leaving as much as possible unsaid. But to me, it rang deeply false. Even his older sister, who is supposedly 12, knows almost nothing about what is going on. Both children seem much younger than they are supposed to be, and indeed, perhaps it would have worked better for me if they had been younger. And while there are touching moments in Bruno’s friendship with Shmuel, whom he meets through the fence that runs alongside their property, their relationship did not strike me as well-developed, either.

The ending of the novel is certainly powerful, and there is an argument that, as a book for children, it might provide a useful starting point for opening discussions on the horrors of the Holocaust, but I found the withholding of information too artful, too contrived. In Robert Dinsdale’s book, Gingerbread, which I read earlier this year, one of the characters weaves a truly ‘mythical’ story out of the events of World War 2, turning it into a grim fairy tale by removing all historical detail and transforming Hitler and Stalin into the King in the West and the Winter King – I just feel that if Boyne had gone all-out allegorical, this book would have worked better for me. As it stands, the tenuous links to actual history strike me as unconvincing, and possibly even a little distasteful.

The View from Castle Rock by Alice Munro (2006)

Another book which blends fact and fiction, though in a very different way to Chabon’s novel. Munro begins this collection with a more or less straightforward factual account of her ancestors, the Laidlaws, who start out in Scotland before emigrating to America and Canada. During the first half of the book, her descriptions of family lore occasionally take flight into full-on forays into fiction, such as the re-imagining of the voyage across the Atlantic, and I found myself wanting more of the latter than the former, getting excited whenever the family historian gave up her pen to the short story writer.

The second half of the collection is more personal, detailing her parents’ struggle to make ends meet with their fur business, her childhood and adolescence, and brief mentions of her two marriages. Of course, there is no way to tell how much of this is invented, but somehow it really doesn’t matter: this is Munro on top form, lovingly crafting stories about what she knows. I read that she had been writing these family-based stories for a long time, keeping them separate from her other short stories, not sure where they fitted in; to me, they seem like a natural development. To build upon a not-very-good analogy I have made previously, Munro has gone from tilling her small patch to mining it ever deeper, reminding me of the beautiful descriptions of the glacial geography of Canada found towards the end of this book. I am still regretting not reading Munro’s work in chronological order – perhaps a project for the future is to start again with her earliest works; it would certainly be no hardship to re-read this brilliant writer.

Little Exiles by Robert Dinsdale (2013)

Another slight disappointment this month – I absolutely loved the two other Dinsdale novels I have read this year, The Toymakers and Gingerbread, and I was very excited to treat myself to another of his works. The premise is a compelling one: after WW2, children are shipped to Australia, having either lost their parents or being handed over by them to the Children’s Crusade, an organisation run by sinister men in black, and headed by the suitably creepy Judah Reed. The book takes its disturbing subject matter seriously, and is a well-researched, convincing work. The setting, too, is vividly described, moving from the freezing English winter to the heat of the Australian outback, where the landscape and the mission where the boys are put to work are brought to life through Dinsdale’s clear, precise prose.

The problem, for me, lay mostly with the main character, Jon Heather, and I can’t help wondering if I have perhaps missed the point – for me, he was hard to engage with, and I felt a distance from him that made it difficult to care too much. However, as a boy given up by his mother and shipped across the world, it does make sense that his emotional development would be stunted, and indeed his relationships with others in the novel reveal his difficulty in letting others in. I liked George, his chubby companion, and Peter, an older boy who escapes the fate of being sent to the mission and is instead put to work on a ranch, more; their stories pulled me in, and I wanted more of them, and less of dreary Jon (sorry, Jon, I know you’ve been through a lot).

In the second half of the novel, the flicking around of chronology and location may also have served the story in terms of creating a sense of dislocation and confusion, but it left me similarly detached and unable to throw myself fully into the book. There are tantalising elements that I wish had been further developed: the ‘wild boy’ who escaped; the ‘outings’ the boys are sometimes taken on; the aboriginal children being separated from their families, and so on. I found the ending anticlimactic, and was left feeling a bit empty, and even slightly guilty that a book with such powerful subject matter had left me cold. I’m certainly not giving up on Dinsdale – it may be that this novel just wasn’t for me.

Gingerbread by Robert Dinsdale (2014)

The second novel I have read by Dinsdale, this book, though narrated in the third person, sticks closely to the point of view of its child protagonist, a young boy in Belarus whose mother has just passed away and who enters the woods with his grandfather to scatter her ashes. His Papa is initially reluctant to go into the woods, which hold the secrets of his past, but once he is there he finds himself unable to leave, and the boy must honour his promise to his mother to look after the old man in the winter wilderness.

The use of the child’s point of view is very effective; his naive, endearing way of looking at the world softens the story, adding a fairy tale quality that ties in with the magical stories his Papa tells him by the fireside. As the novel progresses, hints of darkness creep in and grow larger, and the tales the old man tells swell to incorporate historical realities dressed up as myth. Hearing Papa’s past experiences (including one terrible action) through the medium of these ‘tales’ is incredibly effective – and affecting – and allows for a quite complex exploration of the dark truth contained within so-called fairy tales. The exquisite detail of the descriptions of the wilderness reminded me of The Outlander, which I read last month. The way in which the wild begins to claim his Papa is both frightening and poignant, and although I found the denouement slightly over the top (and hard to follow at times), there is something so unique and beautiful about this novel, and I found myself thinking about it long after I had finished it.

Arcadia by Lauren Groff (2012)

I am still determined to work my way through Groff’s entire back catalogue, and this is one of two books by her that I read this month. This novel is set in a 1970’s commune in upstate New York, and also starts off from a child’s point of view. We follow Bit, first as a five year old, then a teenager, and finally an adult, as he negotiates his way through the world. For me, the early section, detailing his childhood in the commune, is the strongest. Bit’s experience of the only world he knows is beautifully drawn, immersed as it is in nature, and his connections with the women of the commune, including his troubled mother, Hannah, seem to me to provide a real insight into the way children perceive maternal figures as almost a part of themselves. His silence as a way to cope with Hannah’s depression, how he enters her dreams, the fluidity of the boundary between his body and hers, all of this was so interesting that I almost wished the whole novel had taken place through the eyes of Bit as a child. Groff’s prose, as always, is lush and gorgeous, and sentences worth savouring litter every page, particularly in the first section.

However, Groff has the larger theme of freedom vs community to deal with, and the inevitable decline of the commune brings to light this conflict, as things begin to unravel in Arcadia. Drugs, power struggles, the endless battle to make ends meet: the utopia they aim to create is of course doomed from the start. But Groff avoids a lofty position of judgement by sending Bit out into the ‘real world’ and revealing its shortcomings, too. The novel leaps ahead in time, and important events are often told after the fact, The third section of the novel catapults us into a world reeling from the effects of global warming and a global pandemic, and as Bit and his mother retreat back to the remnants of Arcadia, it is hard to dismiss their former home as merely a failed social experiment.

A Horse Walks into a Bar by David Grossman (2017)

A real-time description of a stand-up show seems like a perilously difficult premise for a novel, and I doubt there are many writers who could pull it off. The book opens with Israeli comic ‘Dovelah G’ giving a performance in a basement bar in Netanya. He has invited along an old friend from early adolescence, a retired judge, who is our narrator, and who is wondering, frankly, what the hell he is doing there. Grossman pulls off a highly impressive feat in this short, powerful novel, illustrating on the page the ebb and flow of the show, the tension and its release, but this is no ordinary stand-up performance. The show gradually devolves into near-chaos as Dov G dips in and out of a story from when he was 14 and at an army camp and was suddenly summoned home. It is a story he needs to tell, despite the audience’s reluctance to hear it.

There is nothing funny about watching the man self-destruct on stage, and the book is a searing, blistering, flaying experience – a highly uncomfortable read, to say the least. It tangentially reminded me of Hannah Gadsby’s show, Nanette, as it asks some of the same questions: what is the bargain we make as audience members? How complicit are we? How do we react when the release of tension is denied to us? This is a brilliant, brutal book, excellently translated from the Hebrew by Jessica Cohen. I felt exhausted by the end of it, and yet I would certainly recommend it.

Runaway by Alice Munro (2006)

Along with Dinsdale and Groff, Munro is becoming one of my 2019 staples, and I have many more of her collections to read. I’ve jumped ahead from 1982’s ‘The Moons of Jupiter’ to this collection, and I certainly noticed an increased complexity in the stories in ‘Runaway’. I have to say that, blown away as I was by ‘Moons’, a few of these stories rang less true for me, and the more stylistic elements (shifts from first to third person, the inclusion of headlines and subtitles) did not appeal to me as much. There were one or two plot twists that had me groaning, though it should be pointed out that in one case the protagonist has the same reaction to the implausibility of what is happening.

However, let me qualify the above by saying that a ‘bad’ Munro story (by which I mean one that I personally do not absolutely love) is still an excellent story by anyone else’s standards. Her descriptions are vivid and natural, and her characters run deep, seem real. While reading the story of a woman who returns home to visit her parents, I remember thinking: yes, that is how life feels, that is how it happens. In the introduction by Jonathan Franzen, he describes how Munro’s narrow scope allows her to work away at her small patch of experience, digging deeper and deeper, uncovering further layers of truth. I’m still working on some sort of shoddy metaphor about Munro on her allotment, tending the same patch of soil so that it gets richer, produces more and more…you get the point.

Delicate Edible Birds by Lauren Groff (2009)

More Groff, short stories this time. The nine stories in this collection are all beautiful at a sentence level, and build up to a satisfying whole by the end of each story. In ‘Fugue’, the disparate elements of the story come together in a surprising and elegant way. ‘Blythe’ is brilliant on female friendship, and the title story, set in World War Two at the time of the German occupation of Paris, poses perhaps the biggest dilemma that any of the characters face: a group of journalists find themselves held hostage by a Nazi sympathiser who wants Bern, the only woman, to sleep with him. ‘Watershed’ and ‘Majorette’ were the stand-out stories for me.

The historical settings of some of the stories do at times feel a little like experiments, and as a collection, I found it less cohesive than ‘Florida’, the first work by Groff that I read, but the stories nevertheless provide a fascinating exploration of dilemmas faced by women in different temporal and spacial settings.

The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi (1990)

A novel that I always assumed I had read, the mention of this work in an essay by Zadie Smith got me thinking that perhaps I hadn’t, actually. Time to sort that out, and I am glad I did. The first person narrator, Karim, describes himself in the opening paragraph as “an Englishman, almost” and it is that ‘almost’ that the novel explores. The book is as much, or perhaps more, about class as it is about race, but it goes beyond those two issues: Karim’s search for identity is not restricted to these terms. He is not exactly a likeable character, horribly self-absorbed and lacking in purpose as he is, but his relentless introspection is fascinating and revealing about both the character and the 1970’s world he is living in.

And it is a very funny book. The rich cast of characters that populate the novel provides much of the humour: from his Dad, Haroon, the ‘Buddha’ of the title (also called ‘God’ by his son), to the social-climber Haroon runs off with, Eva, to Karim’s aunties and uncles, to the ‘theatre types’ he meets when he embarks on a career as an actor – each one is complex and hilarious, over the top but still somehow realistic. I think it is a real skill to write characters who are almost parodies, but are still believable, and Kureishi treads the fine line of caricature with aplomb. My favourite character is Changez, the hapless man brought over from India to marry Karim’s friend Jamila (who is the most reasonable and sensible character in the book) – the subversion of the traditional power relationship in their marriage, and Changez’s acceptance of it, provides some surprisingly touching moments.

Beneath all the glitter and colour and punk-rock-glam of the book is a fierce examination of the way we construct ourselves, and this unflinching, warts-and-all picture of the difficulty of doing so made me glad I had finally got round to reading it.

All That Man Is by David Szalay (2016)

In an interview, Szalay explains the unconventional format of this book as follows: “I sat down to think about writing a new book and just didn’t see the point of it. What’s a novel? You make up a story and then you tell that story. I didn’t understand why or how that would be meaningful.” In his attempt to find meaning, Szalay presents us with nine stories, each of which features a male protagonist five or ten years older than the last, each at a moment of crisis. There are connections – London is mentioned in most of the stories, and each one has a broad European sprawl. Travel is a major feature, mostly by road, and the specificity of the locations suggests a pretty extensive research jaunt around the continent.

I have to admit, I wasn’t won over by this book at first. The opening story, about a seventeen year old Interrailing around Europe, failed to grab me, and the second story left me with a similarly lukewarm reaction. However, there is a cumulative effect brought about by the deliberately repetitive nature of these stories, a sense of inevitability, that caused the book to grow on me. On the subject of male desire, the book is brutally honest, and there is an interesting shift from wanting ‘experiences’ to wanting power. The stories about the journalist who invades the privacy of a government official with whom he has a sort of friendship and about a multi-millionaire on the verge of losing everything were the strongest for me, and most clearly showed off Szalay’s talent for crisp, beautiful prose. The novel offers a specific and recognisable idea of manhood (predominantly the straight, white male who finds his life gradually settling into the traditional pattern of marriage, family, career, though there are exceptions – notably the drifter, Murray, who sets up on the ‘Croatian Riveria’ and seems unable to avoid making a complete mess of his life), and while at times I perhaps wished for a bit more variety, the book provides a highly intelligent insight into what it means to be that sort of a man, in this sort of a world.

Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann (2009)

This novel spirals out from a central image: the illegal tightrope walk between the Twin Towers performed by Philippe Petit (who remains unnamed in the book) in 1974, though the main cast of characters have only tangential connections to the act. I have to admit, the opening chapters, set in Dublin, didn’t thrill me – the first narrator and his brother, Corrigan, are both rather dour company. But, after both relocate to New York and a terrible accident occurs, the novel springs into life, and a cacophony of lively voices won me over. The female characters in this novel are particularly strong, from Lara, the artist who is involved in the accident, to Tillie, a middle-aged prostitute, to Gloria and Claire, whose bond is that their sons were both killed in Vietnam. The connections between the characters are complex and organic, growing and changing as the novel progresses. There is also a beautiful interlude describing the funambulist’s training, which has a poetic, timeless quality.

The book is bold, beautiful, experimental, and, as in all the very best fiction, it feels like it really gets to the heart of life.

The Outlander by Gil Adamson (2007)

I’ve had this book on my shelf for ages, and, in a frugal effort not to spend too much money on Kindle books, I added it to my pile of unread paperbacks for this month. It appears I have forgotten how to read ‘real’ books – I fumbled with the pages, dropped it on my face, lost my place several times, but despite such millenial incompetence, it was an entirely pleasurable experience. Mary Boulton, referred to almost exclusively as ‘the widow’, is on the run in the Canadian wilderness after murdering her husband. The thing that struck me most about this novel was the meticulous description, so detailed it felt cinematic. Each episode in her (mis)adventures is thrilling, from finding refuge with a bird-like old woman to living in the wilderness in a strange kind of domestic harmony, to the mining town of Frank, pursued, always, by the malevolent twin brothers of her dead husband. This pursuit is what drives the story forward, so that even when the widow ‘beds in’ to a situation, we know it can’t last.

The characters are wonderful – William Moreland, the Rev ‘Bonny’ who shelters her in Frank, Mac the dwarf, Giovanni the cat skinner – they are vivid and funny and compelling, and the widow herself is the kind of complex, flawed protagonist you can’t help but root for. I did find myself wishing that her psychosis, which haunts the first part of the novel, was more fully explored in the later stages – but this is a minor quibble. I loved this book. A review from the Guardian sums up what is so brilliant about this novel: “The Outlander is that rare delight: a novel that is beautifully written yet as gripping as any airport page-turner.” (As long as you are capable of actually turning pages.)

Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie (2017)

This is a modern retelling of Sophocles’ Antigone, but it wears its source material lightly, especially at first. The novel begins with Isma leaving behind her sister, Aneeka, to travel from London to the States to study. Their brother, Aneeka’s twin, Parvaiz, has recently disappeared, suspected to have joined Isis, in a worrying echo of their now deceased jihadi father, whose shadow looms large over the family. Isma faces an entirely expected airport interrogation, which leads to some surprisingly funny lines.

I wasn’t overly sold on this novel at first – Isma is an admirable but rather dreary character, and the recruitment of Parvaiz, detailed later on, seemed too easy, but it made more sense when followed by his immediate realisation that he had made a terrible mistake. He is only 19, after all, and Shamsie is clever to make him a relatable character. At the heart of the book, though, is Aneeka, whose fierce, independent nature grows in scale until, by the novel’s climax (cleverly witnessed through the medium of TV, a visual, extremely powerful ending), she has reached the truly tragic proportions of her Sophoclean ancestor. This book stayed with me for a long time after I finished it, and made me radically (excuse the pun) rethink my initial indifference to it.

Day by A.L. Kennedy (2007)

As soon as I finish a book, I like to read reviews of it and compare them with my own opinion. I don’t know if this is a kind of insecurity, making sure I’ve ‘got it right’, but I am noticing more and more that my own view does not necessarily match up with that of the illustrious critics. Perhaps I am starting to think for myself (shock, horror)? Anyway, it seems that the high wizards of literary criticism weren’t too impressed with this offering, and I thoroughly disagree with them. So there.

Alfred Day, a former RAF bomber, is taking part in a reconstruction of a German POW camp for a film being made in 1949. He isn’t sure why he has agreed to come, he knows it will trigger traumatic memories, but something in him couldn’t resist. Through his fractured stream of consciousness, hints of his past emerge, passing through shifts in register and accent (his Staffordshire roots are betrayed by his use of dialect in moments of extreme emotion). Alfred is a fascinating character, by turns sympathetic and repelling, and the extreme circumstances he has lived through give him a chance to show every facet of himself. I am always impressed by a novelist who can inhabit their first person protagonist so fully, creating an entire consciousness with words, and even more so when the character’s experiences are so far removed from the writer’s own.

The best parts of the novel involve Alfred’s reminisces about his crew: the banter, the intense friendships, the sense of ‘family’ more real to him than his own. If I were to succumb to the critical reviews, I might grudgingly agree that the withholding of key details in order to create suspense betrays the artifice somewhat, detracts from the stream of consciousness – if Kennedy had resisted the lure of plot, it may have elevated the novel even further. And it is true that Day’s mother and his lover are both presented as a kind of ‘ideal’, never really developed beyond paradigms of female perfection, but then we are embedded in Alfred’s point of view, so if this is how he sees them, perhaps fair enough. I certainly didn’t nitpick at the time of reading – I just enjoyed the ride.

The Moons of Jupiter by Alice Munro (1982)

Why, oh why, has it taken me so long to get around to reading Munro? I have been missing out – but at least I can now look forward to reading her many other works. I picked this collection of her short stories at random, figuring the important thing was to start somewhere, and from the first story I was hooked.

There is a deceptive simplicity to her stories; they seem small in their scope, but they contain so much truth and quiet beauty that it is impossible not to be moved by them. The opening two stories, the two-part ‘Chaddeleys and Flemings’, describe the aunts on both sides of the narrator’s family, drawing powerful contrasts and exploring the narrator’s sense of connection (or lack thereof) with her family members. ‘Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Kidd’, set in a care home, is a beautifully nuanced and detailed depiction of forming friendships in old age, and seemed to me to be something I hadn’t seen before. The ending of my favourite story, ‘Labor Day Dinner’ is stunningly effective – endings are something I struggle with when I attempt to write short stories: here is a masterclass in how to do it perfectly.

The level of detail in these stories is astounding. Even seemingly trivial things like the descriptions of the clothes worn by the (mostly female) characters help you to see them in your mind so clearly, as if these snapshots of their lives have been captured on film. At their heart, the stories are about trying to understand oneself, and each other, and I was struck by the many examples of characters showing respect for the differences between them. These ‘small’ tales articulate such achingly beautiful truths about love and human interaction that each one has the depth of a novel. I can’t wait to read more of Munro’s work.

Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff (2015)

I was blown away by Groff’s short story collection, Florida, earlier this year, and this full-length (and then some) novel had me similarly impressed. Divided into two sections, it tells the story of the marriage of Lotto (short for Lancelot) and Mathilde, who meet in college and get married within weeks. The first half, ‘Fates’, focuses on Lotto, who is born in Florida. His father dies when he is young, and after some delinquent behaviour, he is sent to boarding school, where he is miserable. At college, he discovers acting and meets Mathilde, and they move to New York for him to pursue his ill-chosen career. Eventually he discovers that his true talent lies in play-writing, and success finally follows.

This first section is inventive, surprising and uplifting, full of the bright shining light that seems to emanate from Lotto. He is flawed, but he is also endearing and mesmerising, and I fully understood Mathilde’s protective attitude towards him. Groff’s language is fierce and beautiful – her prose is so luminous and delicious, it feels edible, making my mouth water with her dazzling turns of phrase and linguistic acrobatics. She moves between poetic and natural registers with ease, and I was left breathless by some of her sentences.

I wasn’t quite as taken with the second section of the novel. Mathilde deserves her turn to be heard, hovering in the wings as she is during Lotto’s gorgeous performance in the first section, and I can see what Groff was trying to achieve by showing the two sides of the marriage. However, the heaped-on revelations that are catapulted towards the reader by Mathilde’s much darker narrative, thick with tragedy and secrets, overpowers the realist mode in which the first half of the novel mostly operates, and threatens to tip the novel into melodrama. We know there are secrets to be aired, but there are touches of heavy-handedness, including the hiring of a cartoonish private detective, and the unbelievable uniqueness of Mathilde’s own personal story detracts from what could have been a deeply insightful exploration of the ‘two sides to every story/marriage’ theme.

Groff originally wanted to publish the two parts as two separate novels, and I think if she had, and I had only read ‘Fates’, or if she had dripped Mathilde’s story into the first section, marrying (another pun, sorry) the two ‘modes’ more seamlessly, I would be declaring this one of the best novels I have ever read. Even still, I am in awe of Groff’s immense talent, and am looking forward to the next few books of hers already loaded on the kindle.

Vinegar Girl by Anne Tyler (2016)

Warning: I am about to make one last terrible pun, this time about Vinegar Girl leaving a sour taste in my mouth. There. Done.

I’m still cross with this book. I have never read any Anne Tyler, but the woman has won a Pulitzer Prize, for crying out loud, so I was expecting great things. I should not have started with this novel, which was commissioned as part of the Hogarth Shakespeare series, in which eminent novelists retell the bard’s stories (Margaret Atwood’s version of The Tempest, Hagseed, is well worth a read, by the way). Tyler chose or was assigned The Taming of the Shrew, not a play I know well, and arguably one of the trickier ones to update, with its convoluted, misogynistic plot concerning a daughter being forced to marry against her will. How do you transplant this to modern day America? Tyler has the answer: greencard marriage.

I had so many issues with this book, it is hard to know where to start. Kate, the protagonist, is both unrealistic and utterly unlikeable, not so much defiant as an odd mixture of downtrodden and immature. She keeps the household ticking along, in the absence of her late mother, for her ‘brilliant scientist’ father, who takes advantage of her at every turn, yet despite her domestic competence, at work she is unprofessional, rude, and almost as childish as the four year olds she looks after (and there are far too many pointless scenes set at the preschool where she works). When her father suggests she marry his lab assistant in order to keep him in the country, she is all too briefly horrified before she reluctantly agrees. The whole farce that proceeds is, admittedly, mildly amusing at times, and the assistant, Pyotr, is quite endearing in his way (and provides the best jokes), but it is all just so implausible that I found myself scowling at the pages as I read. In all honesty, if you’re interested in a modern version of this play, you’d be far better off watching the film ’10 Things I Hate About You.’ (Don’t knock it, it’s a great movie.)

Fair enough, Tyler is doing the job she has been paid to do, using an old-fashioned plot and trying to fit it into a modern story, but it feels like hack-work, as if she is trying to get the commission out of the way as quickly as possible so she can get back to her ‘real’ work. Which I will read one day, but only when I’ve calmed down.

1. There, There by Tommy Orange (2018)

This novel opens with a powerful essay on the history and depiction of Native Americans; urgent and moving, it sets up from the start why it is so important that the story that follows is told. The novel itself follows a large cast of Native American characters in Oakland, California. The connections between them are sometimes obvious, sometimes slowly revealed as the novel builds to its climax at a powwow. At its core, the story deals with what it means to be an ‘Indian’ in modern day America, and the struggles of keeping in touch with a culture that has been so brutally marginalised.

The characters wrestle with themes all too commonly associated with modern, urban Native Americans, such as addiction, violence and poverty, but the joy of this novel comes from the heart and humanity that shines through in characters such as the overweight man-child, Edwin, the earnest documentary-maker, Dene, and the boy Orvil, who secretly forges his own connection with his heritage. Despite the violent climax, which drives the narrative forward with the chugging inevitability of a freight train, there is a sense of optimism amid the struggle. I found this book satisfying, illuminating, entertaining and above all, real – upon finishing it, I was sad to say goodbye to my favourite characters.

2. The Largesse of the Sea Maiden by Denis Johnson (2018)

Published posthumously, this book of five not-so-short stories is quieter and more reflective than their subject matter (addiction, prison life, etc – themes familiar from Johnson’s most famous collection, Jesus’ Son) might suggest. The stories also contain ruminations on mortality, perhaps not surprisingly considering the author was dying of liver cancer when he wrote them. The prose is full of sentence-level beauty, and a careful, clear-eyed intelligence hovers behind the words. In ‘Doppelganger, Poltergeist’, about a poet’s obsession with a far-fetched conspiracy theory concerning the death of Elvis Presley, scepticism is balanced with a gentler suggestion of permission to let the imagination run where it may. For me, it is this mix of ‘sense and sensibility’, this admission that though we must interrogate and explore, in the end we can only guess at life’s mysteries, that makes Johnson such a master of the short story form.

3. Warlight by Michael Ondaatje (2018)

In post-war London, the narrator of the novel, Nathaniel, is left as a teenager, with his sister, in the care of a mysterious man called The Moth. Abandoned by their parents, whose ‘work’ is soon revealed to have connections to some kind of espionage, they enter a shadowy, semi-legal world, full of doubts, nicknames, and events not quite understood. Ondaatje’s preoccupation with memory is at the forefront here, and the struggle we all face to understand our own lives through its faulty lens is exaggerated by the murky circumstances of Nathaniel’s upbringing. When his mother eventually returns, his attempts to recreate her history further this idea of memory as a kind of fiction itself, one that we can even impose on others. I have to admit, the deliberately slippery nature of the characters and plot of this novel created too much emotional distance for me to become fully engaged, and I found the gloom and mystery surrounding them too oppressive to penetrate in any meaningful way.

4. The Toymakers by Robert Dinsdale (2018)

A much more ‘me’ book, this novel, which begins in the 1900s, takes you straight into the kind of magical realm that fiction is for, the gloriously detailed, wonderfully imagined world of the Emporium, a London toyshop filled with such exquisitely described toys that I actually got upset that such things don’t exist. Papa Jack and his sons are not magicians, but the toys they craft teeter on the edge of magic in a way which had my inner child clapping her hands and jumping up and down with glee. We follow the story of Cathy, a pregnant teenager who runs away from home and finds refuge in the Emporium, developing close but different relationships with the brothers Kaspar and Emil. Cathy’s point of view allows us to experience the wonders of the Emporium alongside her, as well as offering an outsider’s perspective on the complicated fraternal relationship she finds herself stuck in the middle of.

The considerable delights of the Emporium in its heyday gradually give way to the looming outbreak of the First World War, and without spoiling too much, the war’s effects on Kaspar in particular are movingly and tragically explored. In the post-war era the decline of the Emporium takes on touches of horror, but Dinsdale’s skill is in making this shift in tone feel natural and never overdone. All of the main characters are complex and intriguing, with even the petulant, occasionally sinister Emil eliciting some sympathy. The ending was a total surprise, worthy of such a magical book. I’m looking forward to reading more of Dinsdale’s work.

5. Lost Boy by Christina Henry (2017)

In another touch of ‘Kindle-blindness’, and evidently not paying enough attention to the opening of this retelling of the Peter Pan story, I didn’t actually realise until quite near the end that the protagonist, Jamie, is in fact a young Captain Hook (this is not a spoiler – the novel is subtitled ‘The True Story of Captain Hook’ – I am just a fool). The bonus of my stupidity is that I got a lovely little frisson when I realised, which readers who actually pay attention to things like titles and opening paragraphs will miss out on. So I (sort of) win.

I have to admit, I have never liked Peter Pan as a character. It may be that as a woman, the idea of a boy who never grows up lacks a certain appeal (possibly due to encounters with Pan’s non-fictional relations) – for whatever reason, I’ve never been a fan. I therefore felt slightly vindicated by this novel’s portrayal of Peter as a monstrous sociopath, utterly incapable of unselfish actions. His hateful behaviour also makes sense for someone who has never grown up or had to face consequences, and Henry does a very good job of pushing a fairy tale conceit to its logical, horrifying conclusion. Jamie, the first of Peter’s Lost Boys, is a fantastic character, and I was with him all the way as he gradually saw through Peter’s boyish charm to the sinister reality of his treatment of his ‘friends’. Jamie’s relationships with the other boys are touching and realistic, and I grew genuinely fond of him as the novel progressed. He is flawed, certainly, but as his backstory becomes clear, my sympathy for him only grew. The novel is violent and gory, Lord of the Flies times ten, but the violence seems realistic given the anarchic, adultless world the Lost Boys inhabit (pirates notwithstanding).

This book is not perfect – for me, the ending was too rushed, and I felt that some of the revelations about Peter could have been dripped in throughout rather than coming out in one long expository info-dump. However, I was deeply engrossed both in Jamie’s story and in the world of the island, so fantastically detailed that it becomes a character in its own right.

6. A Man Called Ove by Frederik Backman (English translation 2013)

First off, a shout-out to the translator, Henning Koch, who renders Backman’s novel so convincingly into English that if it wasn’t for the protagonist’s name and the mention of paying in ‘crowns’, the early chapters would have convinced me that Ove was British rather than Swedish. (Of course, this is also due to the fact that curmudgeonly old men are something we Brits do very well – I can neither confirm nor deny that I was reminded of my dear father at some points during the reading of this novel). Humorous books are hard to translate, and Koch does a brilliant job.

Ove ought to be immensely dislikeable – he is grumpy, old-fashioned, suspicious of new technology and of any kind of change, and his early interactions with other characters are almost entirely antagonistic. As the book progresses, however, you can’t help but develop sympathy with him, and even come to admire his strong moral code, which encompasses everything from remaining fiercely loyal to the car manufacturer Saab, to being unable to refuse help to his neighbours, despite their annoying habit of interrupting his various suicide attempts. The tragedies of his past (distant and recent), gradually revealed, serve to increase the reader’s emotional attachment to Ove. In the end, of course, it is the connections he reluctantly forges with members of his community, especially with the brilliant character of Parvaneh, his fierce, heavily pregnant new neighbour, that save Ove – which leads me neatly onto my last March read.

7. Eleanor Olifant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman (2017)

Another novel with an unconventional, eponymous protagonist, whose way of looking at the world seems at odds with everyone else around her. This book has a lot in common with A Man Called Ove, but it is even funnier and simultaneously more profound. I felt a gentle affection for Ove as a character; I loved Eleanor fiercely. Ove is a take on a character we are all familiar with, albeit an idiosyncratic version, whereas Eleanor seems to me to be quite unique. I can’t remember reading a novel about a young woman with quite so many quirks, with such a specific take on the world. The first person narration, which emphasises her impressive, rather formal vocabulary, allows the reader to enter the character’s head more fully than in Backman’s novel, and I found it fascinating to be immersed in Eleanor’s world.

Eleanor offers an alternative viewpoint on everyday life – she is confused by social interactions, hyper-sensitive to the nuances that we might take for granted, but it is her take on what it involves to be considered an attractive woman which provides the most humour. Having developed an unrequited crush on a local singer, Eleanor decides to explore the world of beautifying; the scene in which she gets her first bikini wax shines a delightfully absurd light on the ridiculous lengths women are expected to go to in order to fit into society’s expectations.

Although there are plenty of laughs in this novel, the narrative is underlaid with hints about Eleanor’s past. What I particularly liked about the story was that we only get to explore the tragedy of her childhood when Eleanor herself decides that she is ready to speak about it with the therapist that she starts seeing in the second half of the novel – she hasn’t been hiding details in her narration, rather repressing them, and it is as much a revelation to her as to the reader when the full truth comes out. The fact that she has undergone this process makes the optimism of the ending more believable – I feel like it is quite rare to see successful therapy depicted in fiction.

Like Ove, Eleanor’s redemption comes about through connections with other people. Her loneliness at the start of the novel, her fixed routines, the pizza, wine and vodka rituals that see her through weekends when she doesn’t talk to another soul, are slowly replaced with tentative friendships, most notably with Raymond, the chubby IT guy from her office, who is a brilliant character. I liked that while there were subtle hints that their relationship might be more than platonic, Honeyman resists the urge to turn Eleanor’s story into a love story – Raymond helps her on her journey to self-acceptance, but she is the one who saves herself. I found this book poignant, hilarious and insightful – being such a success, I am sure most of you have already read it, but if not, I highly recommend it. I am also always pleased to find a debut author who isn’t ten years younger than me (Honeyman was 45 when the book came out) – there is hope!

As always, I’m eager for recommendations – what are your best reads of 2019 so far?

1.The Only Story by Julian Barnes (2018)

When I started this novel, and realised it was about a rather unlikable young man, Paul, who lives in a posh part of London and is just back from university, beginning an affair with a bored housewife, I may have let out a little groan. Barnes’ style is quite impersonal, and I was not looking forward to spending time with these characters and their irritating habits. However, the story, which shifts from first to second to third person as the narrative progresses, changes into something quite different after Paul and Susan’s initial “first bloom” of romance, taking a turn that I did not see coming. Susan’s descent was painful and emotional to read, relentlessly sad in its agonising detail, and it left me with a feeling of despair.

2.Bitter Orange by Claire Fuller (2018)

Another very English novel – Frances, a 39 year old woman who seems far younger in terms of life experience, finds herself spending a long, hot summer at a dilapidated country estate along with worldly couple Peter and Cara. I thought it was quite clever to subvert the gothic tropes of cold, stormy nights by setting this sinister novel in bright sunshine, although I didn’t particularly warm to any of the three main characters. Cara’s fanciful stories are told with a level of detail that make them seem like a side-novel all of their own, rich with biblical overtones. The horror touches – eyeless peacocks on the wallpaper, the hare in the library – give an unsettling feeling that builds to a crescendo in the novel’s dramatic ending.

3.An American Marriage by Tayari Jones (2018)

It was a relief to fictionally depart good old Blighty and head across the pond – after reading Barnes and Fuller, Jones’s novel felt fresh and modern. Little Roy and Celestial are 18 months into their marriage when he is wrongly accused of rape (the perpetrator also happened to be a black man, and thus Roy’s fate is sealed) and sentenced to 12 years in prison. Finally I came across characters I could fully engage with, helped by the first person narratives of Roy, Celestial, and, later in the novel, Andre.

The middle section of the novel consists of letters between Roy and Celestial while he is incarcerated. I loved the sense of Roy in particular fumbling to express himself in this unfamiliar, old-fashioned medium. The central focus is not on the prison experience, but on the relationship between Roy and Celestial, which, though never perfect to start with, is unavoidably altered by his long absence. The book raises a lot of questions, but doesn’t provide any easy answers.

4. Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday (2018)

This brilliant debut novel manages to ask hugely intelligent and thought-provoking questions about the nature of “the novel” itself without being too annoyingly postmodern about it. It consists of three sections – the first, ‘Folly’, details aspiring writer Alice’s affair with a much older, very distinguished writer, Ezra Blazer (based on Philip Roth). We aren’t given much insight into Alice’s thoughts and feelings – it reads like a series of vignettes, interspersed with extracts from other books – but it builds up a picture of an unusual relationship, from its romantic apprenticeship origins to Alice assuming more of a care-giver role.

The second section, ‘Madness’, is a seemingly unconnected story about Amar, an American-Iraqui who is being detained at UK border control. His present dilemma is broken up with flashbacks to his life in the States and his time spent with his family in Iraq. He is a more rounded character than Alice, which poses some of the most interesting questions of the novel once the hints about his origins are understood.

The final section is an eerily convincing transcript of Ezra’s ‘Desert Island Discs’ interview – it is quite something to finish a novel with Kirsty Young’s voice ringing in your ears.

I was blown away by this novel, and a tiny bit jealous that students of contemporary fiction will get to write essays about it. Yes, I miss writing essays.

5. Feel Free by Zadie Smith (2018)

I’m never quite sure how I feel about Zadie Smith. I think I’m intimidated by her. I adored White Teeth (written so young!) admired bits of her other novels, and whenever I have read interviews or essays by her, been humbled by her intellect.

This ferocious intellect is certainly on display in this collection of essays, but it is coupled with a sympathetic outlook that is not a million miles away from the Lorrie Moore book I read last month. Like Moore, Smith covers a wide range of topics, and is not afraid of delving into popular culture. A Guardian review described the book a bit sniffily as “cultural thought experiments from her desk” – that may be, but the results of the experiments make for fascinating reading.

6. Florida by Lauren Groff (2018)

I’m probably going to gush about this one, because discovering this collection of stories made me want to immediately seize and read anything else Groff has written, so I will keep my fan-girling brief. Fierce, furious, full of ominous weather, green swamps, dangerous nature that threatens to overwhelm humanity while being indifferent to it, these stories (not exclusively set in Florida, by the way) are urgent with a kind of ‘state of the world’ panic. There is a woman who seems to reappear in several stories, the mother of two young boys, but it was the story of Jude, ‘At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners’ that genuinely made me exclaim out loud: “THAT’S how you write a short story!” to my bemused husband. A whole life is perfectly encapsulated in a beautiful, moving short story, so that when I finished it I felt as if I had read an entire novel about the character. That’s writing.

7.Immigrant, Montana by Amitava Kumar (2018)

To be fair, had I read the reviews comparing Kumar’s novel to the work of W.G Sebald, I would have known this probably wasn’t really for me. I remember struggling through a book by Sebald for my MA – it left me cold. The ‘non-fiction novel’ is not my thing, apparently. This book, in which Kailash (known as AK) arrives in New York for grad school from a village in India, has various relationships, lots of intellectual discussions, and a few internal addresses to an imaginary judge, adheres to the view that plot is far less crucial than Important Ideas, and I think I’m just not clever enough to entirely agree.

8. A Grain of Wheat by Ngugi wa Thiong’o (1967)

For me, this novel provided a much more enaging way of exploring complex political ideas – in this case, Kenya’s independence. The ‘present’ timeline of the novel takes place in the days leading up to independence, and it focuses on a group of characters from the village of Thabai, all of whom have been impacted by the uprising.

The point of view moves between characters to build up a collective sense of what these events mean to them as individuals, as villagers, and as a nation. The most intriguing character for me was Mugo, a reluctant hero of the resistance who just wants to be left alone. Another character who has returned from the detention camps, Gikonyo, comes home to find that his relationship with his beloved wife has irrevocably changed, in an echo of one of the themes of An American Marriage – how long does a woman have to wait?

Independence, for these characters, is as much an internal struggle as an external one, and the realism with which the author depicts their inner thoughts, coupled with the genuinely intriguing plot, had me feeling sad to say goodbye to Thabai when I finished the book.

I’m going to need to stock up on new fiction reading again soon, so any suggestions very welcome!

New year, new start, and I’m back on the books! Here’s a round-up of what I read in January 2019…

1.Circe by Madeline Miller (2018)

Being a self-confessed Greek geek, I do love a modern retelling of ancient mythology. This beautifully written novel gives voice to a ‘cameo’ goddess of Greek myth, she of turning Odysseus’s men to swine fame. The prose is simple but elegant, and the natural descriptions (in particular of the island to which she is exiled) are especially vivid. The level of detail and appropriacy of Miller’s metaphors completely absorbed me in the world she creates.

Circe as a character is complex and fully developed, and not always sympathetic, prone to the same jealousies and moments of pettiness as the other (both divine and mortal) characters. The motherhood section resonated particularly with me (unsurprisingly!) – it felt real and raw, and ever so slightly reassuring to know that even goddesses can have tricky babies!

Despite the harsh, often amoral nature of the Titan/Olympian/Mortal spheres that Circe inhabits, I found this novel oddly soothing.

2.The Needle’s Eye by Margaret Drabble (1972)

I can’t remember how this novel ended up on my reading list for 2019, but I hadn’t read any of Drabble’s work before, so I gave it a go. It is a detailed, intense character study of the two protagonists, Simon and Rose, although occasionally the narrative voice switches to the perspective of other characters.

There is minimal plot – and I have to admit that I found the constant psychological, analytical tone almost exhaustingly introspective. This is a novel of thoughts and emotions, and I did occasionally wish that something would just HAPPEN.

The characters are incredibly detailed in terms of their psyche, and as such highly realistic, although not necessarily sympathetic. Although I found this novel unsatisfying in some ways, as a technical study in character, it is undeniably admirable.

3.See What Can Be Done by Lorrie Moore (2018)

I have to admit, I started this excitedly thinking it was a new collection by one of my favourite short story writers (the dangers of speed-ordering on the Kindle), but luckily my momentary disappointment on discovering that it was (gasp) non-fiction was short-lived. This book of essays and reviews on everything from respected authors to TV shows like True Detective and The Wire is thoughtful, considered and well-researched. Moore reveals a broad range of interests and knowledge, that intense fascination with life that is such an important part of being a writer.

Her humour and generosity shine through here, and she is not afraid to admit to certain ‘low brow’ tastes (Titanic, anyone?). Even when being critical, her words are carefully balanced, and she is never malicious.

There are echoes of what I enjoy so much about her fiction – a piece about getting married is full of a delicious foreboding which reveals that Moore can turn her ironic humour on herself as well as her characters. Her writing is full of insights, unassumingly offered, and I came away with a long list of writers to try, which always pleases me.

4. The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner (2018)

This novel tells the story of Romy Hall, who is serving two life sentences for murdering her stalker. It explores a darker side of San Francisco to that often depicted, and shows how Romy never really had a chance.

I found Romy’s voice quite detached, and never really felt I was inside her head. Minor characters are given their own chapters, which I found a bit distracting, and some of Romy’s key relationships (with her son and with Jimmy) didn’t seem to be explored fully.

As much as it is certainly shallow to imagine that my beloved ‘Orange is the New Black’ has got the ‘women’s prisons’ thing covered, I have to admit that while Kushner’s portrait of life in detention is grittier and doubtless more realistic, it somehow didn’t feel as ‘full’ to me, in every sense of the word.

5.Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi (2018)

One of the delights of my ‘one-click’ approach to stocking up on reading (and a small positive of my lamentable reading hiatus) is that I can start reading a novel with absolutely no knowledge or preconceptions about it. In the case of Adeyemi’s debut novel, the fact that I have evidently been hiding under a rock means that I am probably one of the very few people who didn’t know that this YA fantasy is The Next Big Thing, with film rights snapped up and massive advances paid.

The book does more than just draw on Nigerian folklore for its depiction of the fictional land of Orisha, in which magic has been recently wiped out – it transposes the whole western fantasy genre into an African setting and claims it for its own. Adeyemi creates a series of exciting, fast-paced set pieces that cry out for Parts 2 and 3 of the trilogy and, of course, for the big screen version. The three first-person narrators are all engaging characters, although Inan is arguably the most intriguing in his conflicted state as he wrestles with the question of whether or not magic should indeed be restored.

I read this in big, joyous gulps of childish glee, and will be gobbling up the rest of this franchise unashamedly.

6. Gorilla, My Love by Toni Cade (1972)

Another sneaky retro entry in amongst the 2018 books I have mostly been reading, coincidentally written the same year as Drabble’s novel, although that is the ONLY thing the two books have in common.

These powerful short stories offer a view of black life in America, accessed via an idiosyncratic style that at one or two points I found hard to follow, but I enjoyed letting them wash over me nevertheless. The first couple of stories hooked me with the original, engaging voice of Hazel, and I found myself wishing she appeared more.

A particular strength was the opening lines of each story, which took me straight into that world. Cade Bambara does some amazing things with words throughout the stories – some of the language is just utterly gorgeous: “Days other than the here and now, I told myself, will be dry and sane and sticky with the rotten apricots oozing slowly into the sweet time of my betrayed youth.”

I’m thrilled to be back in ‘reading mode’, and always on the look-out for more suggestions. What have you read so far this year? Comment and let me know!

Satantango by Lazslo Krazsnahorkai (1985; translated by George Szirtes)

This is apparently the Hungarian writer Krazsnahorkai’s ‘most accessible’ novel. The fact that I don’t know where to begin describing the plot, the hugely demanding prose style, the looming and shrinking characterization, and the gloomy, wry pessimism that pervades the whole book is probably a sign that his other works will be beyond me. It is different, and quite brilliant, in a perplexing, juddering way.

On Black Sisters’ Street by Chika Unigwe (2010)

This novel tells story of four African prostitutes sharing a Belgian apartment who know little about each other, until the disappearance of one of them, Sisi, prompts them to share their stories. Their shocking experiences are related with warm, humorous touches, and Unigwe’s dialogue in particular is engaging and fresh. Personally I found that the girls, and their stories, blended into each other – this may have been part of the point, but it left me without much of an emotional attachment to any of them.

Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman (2011)

Kelman’s novel has been on my ‘to read’ list for ages – or “donkey years,” as his protagonist, Harri, might put it. I have read a few mixed reviews – it seems there has been a bit of a backlash against the novel’s ‘fairytale’ success. For me, however, Harri’s voice was utterly convincing – like Unigwe, Kelman does wonderful things with language, but he also manages to create a character I completely believed in. It verges on the sentimental, but the clash between Harri’s childish naivety and grim reality of life on the Dell Farm estate creates a dynamic that avoids syrupy sweetness. I think writing from the point of view of a child is one of the hardest things to do, and Kelman, here, has got it just right.

Every Secret Thing by Gillian Slovo (2009)

If writing from a child’s point of view is tricky, then even trickier is the feat that Slovo pulls off in this work of non-fiction: writing about one’s parents. Especially when you consider that her parents were two of South Africa’s most prominent anti-Apartheid activists, public figures as much as private ones (the subtitle of Slovo’s novel, ‘My Family, My Country, reveals the inseparable nature of these two spheres in the lives of Ruth First and Joe Slovo). This is a brave book to have written – the risk of it turning into either a eulogy or a therapeutic catharsis of deep childhood issues is ever-present, but Slovo instead produces a politically relevant, intellectually challenging and moving memoir. I am currently reading First’s book 117 Days, which is equally fascinating, but First’s daughter’s book seems to me, at the moment, to be a more layered, nuanced work.

Flight Behaviour by Barbara Kingsolver (2012)

In David Attenborough’s series Life, there is an incredible section about the monarch butterflies’ annual migration to Mexico, where they hibernate for four months. In one scene, the butterflies face an unexpected frost. The forest floor is littered with ice-coated butterflies.When the butterflies finally wake up and begin to fly off, it looks like the trees are on fire, flashes of orange leaping up from the branches.

It is such a visual image, but in Kingsolver’s novel, she does an impressive job of describing it:

“The flames now appeared to lift from individual treetops in showers of orange sparks, exploding the way a pine log does in a campfire when it is poked. The sparks spiralled upward in swirls like funnel clouds. Twisters of brightness against grey sky.”

The book is partly a cautionary tale about global warming, as the monarchs mysteriously appear on an Appalachian farm, their normal patterns of migration disrupted. But it is also a fantastic character study of the protagonist, Dellarobia Turnbow, a woman stuck in small town USA poverty, but who has so much more to give.

I remember loving The Poisonwood Bible – Kingsolver doesn’t disappoint here.

The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty (2013)

A wife finds a letter written by her husband marked ‘to be opened in the event of my death’. He is still alive – what does the wife do? As a newly married lady, the answer is obvious – OPEN IT!

This is a quietly gripping novel – I didn’t want to get as involved as I did, but it is a credit to the writer that the plot is decidedly ‘moreish’.

Tangled Lives by Hilary Boyd (2012)

Um, yeah. I am not sure how this ended up on my Kindle, but in the spirit of trying new stuff I haven’t heard of, I read it. It is…okay. Fine. A family saga of Rosamund whats-her-name proportions. Not my thing. But always nice to read about people who have Agas. I’d like an Aga one day.

Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel (2012)

Even better than its prequel. Mantel really must have been Cromwell in a previous life. This is writing. Can’t wait for the final installment.

I still have a massive reading list for 2014, but am always looking for suggestions. Best reads of last year, people?

2013 was a very exciting year, for lots of reasons, but it seems to have whizzed by without my having read nearly enough books or done nearly enough writing. And I only managed one solitary blog post. For shame.

However, a super-relaxing 10 day holiday in December gave me the chance to sink back into fiction-reading in a way I haven’t done for months. A lovely mixture of literary and less-literary novels were consumed along with the rum cocktails and sunshine. Here’s a quick summary of my sunbed reading:

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2013)  – Excellent novel which deals with complex issues of race and identity and tells a damn good story at the same time. Draws heavily on personal experience of moving from Nigeria to the States (and back again).

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (2012) – This thriller is silly. And I quite enjoyed it.

Life After Life by Kate Atkinson (2013) – The protagonist, Ursula Todd, lives through the events of last century again and again, with subtle or significant differences each time. This novel manages to be intelligent without being annoyingly clever – Atkinson is up there with my favourite writers.

The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson (2012) –  Made me snort with laughter in an unladylike manner. Allan Karlsson is one of the best creations in modern fiction.

The Testament of Mary by Colm Tóibín (2012) – Did not make me snort with laughter. But this is a brief, beautifully written book which is well worth a read.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce (2012) – Another (very different) old man protagonises in this lovely, understated story. Funny and sad.

Harvest by Jim Crace (2013) – The first novel I’ve read by Crace, and it certainly won’t be the last. Staggering prose – I have never read such evocative descriptions of rural England.

Reading suggestions for 2014? What were your best reads of last year? What’s on your ‘to read’ list this year?