The Story of the Forest by Linda Grant

One of the most excitingly unforeseen results of starting this book blog was being invited to travel to Riga and discover more about current Latvian literature. My great grandfather was born in Latvia and moved to the US to avoid being conscripted into the army during WWI. My family has always been proud of that Latvian heritage and traveling there was a longterm goal so it was a thrill to finally experience life in Riga and connect with a cousin I've never met. I made a video about that experience which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5HHP5AfG1k

All this preamble is to say I instantly felt a strong connection to Linda Grant's new novel which follows the life of Mina Mendel, a girl born in Latvia who emigrates to England in the early 20th century. She's separated from the majority of her Jewish family because of the war and the narrative traces the experiences of the Mendels – the ultimate fates of whom are not all known. In part, it's framed like a fairy tale: a girl goes to pick mushrooms in the forest and her life is irrevocably changed. However, it's clever how the novel is more about the ways in which this family forms a personal mythology. As we follow them through the years and different generations we see the ways in which storytelling is part of what binds this group together no matter how much the stories stray from history and the truth. The novel traces how the family's past intersects with larger socio-political events so their fates are more often influenced by happenstance than by their own free will. From a tight-knit working class Jewish community in Merseyside to the machinations of the film industry, their lives are portrayed in vivid, humorous and loving detail.

At first I wasn't sure about the nature of the story which initially centres around Mina and her brother Jossel's attempt to emigrate to America. It's compelling following how larger events disrupt their plans and cause them to grow new roots in a place where they hadn't planned to settle. Yet I found it initially disorientating reading occasional flashes into the future where we learn about the fates of future generations before the narrative has caught up to them. But gradually this structure developed a poignancy as the story becomes more splintered by the dispersement of family and the uncertainty about the truth of their origins. Names are changed. Connections are lost. History is forgotten. Eventually all the descendants are left with is speculation about their family past and an inherited object which takes the form of a somewhat ugly coffee pot. This feels very true to life and will resonate with anyone who has attended a family reunion where pieces of stories are recounted whilst studying obscure items that have been passed down through the generations.

There was another surprising personal connection I felt with the story when at one point the family receives an anonymous anti-Semitic note through the door. This naturally leads to a sense of anxiety that some of their neighbours harbour resentment towards them and they take measures to try to assimilate. It's no wonder that part of the reason aspects of family history are lost because details are suppressed or altered in different periods for the sake of survival. This also showed how little changes because several years ago my boyfriend and I temporarily moved to an area of North London. Soon after settling in we received an anonymous note through the letterbox urging us to change our homosexual lifestyle and warned that our friends were laughing behind our backs. (We failed to see how many of our gay friends would be laughing at our lifestyle.) Though we tried to laugh this off, it was also unsettling being made to feel like some anonymous individual or few people who lived around us in this new environment were secretly disapproving and hostile towards us.

Grant's novel shows that there will always be intolerant individuals who feel they own certain communities and everyone who inhabits that space should be a mere reflection of them. It's also clever in how it demonstrates the fragile value of ideologies when tested against the full spectrum of society. When Mina is a naïve girl the men she meets in the forest impress her with their Bolshevik ideas and these beliefs ferment in her mind over the course of her life. But she discovers the relative impact of these ideas when discussing them with women in a munitions factory during the war as well as learning about the deadly consequences the Soviet Union has upon her native Latvia. Though this novel is largely set in Britain, it's interesting to compare the historical events portrayed within Latvia in the novel “Soviet Milk” - my review of this book is what eventually led to the invitation to visit Riga. It shows how things come full circle. So I was very glad to read Grant's new novel which comes with a touching author's note explaining her own personal relationship to this tale. Overall, as well as being a poignant meditation on family and the flow of time, “The Story of the Forest” is also a highly entertaining story.

My Favourite Books of 2023 (so far)

Here are the 10 best novels I've read this year! What are your top reads from 2023 so far?

Somehow we're already halfway through the year so I've browsed through the 50+ books I've read so far and picked out my favourites. A new video has just gone up on my YouTube channel discussing all of these titles: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnOm_GDlyB8

Some of these books I read at the beginning of January and one I only just finished last week. They range from historical tales (“The New Life”) to fiction set in the recent past (“Wandering Souls”), a sci-fi novel (“In Ascension”) and a surreal inward adventure (“Solenoid”). In one story an author creates a powerful fictionalised account of her friend's violent experience (“Vista Chinesa”) and another gives a fascinatingly revised version of history while examining a fictional artist's life (“Biography of X”). Some are more contemplative (“Boulder”) and some have plots that are so gripping I had to keep reading late at night to find out what was going to happen (“The Birthday Party”). And, coincidentally, two of these novels (“The Worlds and All That It Holds” and “In Memoriam”) are gay love stories about soldiers in WWI but they take such different approaches to telling their stories and use very different styles of writing.

It's been great that some of these titles have been listed for different book prizes including the International Booker Prize and the Women's Prize for Fiction. Just recently “The New Life” won the 2023 Orwell Prize for Political Fiction. Hopefully all these novels will get even more prize attention and a wider readership!

I'd love to hear about the best books you've read so far this year. Let me know what I need to catch up on reading and what you're looking forward to reading next!

August Blue by Deborah Levy

Though I enjoyed this novel it confirms my personal preference for Levy's “living autobiography” over her fiction. “August Blue” follows the story of famed classical pianist Elsa M. Anderson during a period of time when the disruptions caused by the recent pandemic are gradually winding down. She was a child prodigy raised by a gay teacher who is now old and frail. She longs for a connection with her lost mother. After dying her hair blue and scandalously flubbing an important concert, she bounces around Europe giving private lessons to troubled privileged children and having glancing encounters with a woman she views as her double. She imagines clipped exchanges of dialogue with her and their relationship is teasingly antagonistic. This novel is definitely interesting and fun, but I didn't love it. I think this is because there's often a strong conceptual aspect to Levy's fiction which makes it like an intellectual puzzle. It feels satisfying to complete. However, it doesn't have enough of an emotional pull for me to feel as involved as I'd ideally like to because the characters are more like pieces of that puzzle rather than real people.

Maybe it's inevitable with a writer who moves between autobiographical books and fiction, but there is a blending between the two forms. Levy might or might not be cognizant of this. Fans who read “Real Estate” will recall Levy had great trouble remembering the code to get into her Paris apartment and in “August Blue” there's a scene where Elsa struggles to remember the correct sequence of numbers to get through the front door of her temporary accommodation in Paris. I could cite more examples and there's no problem with reusing details such as this, but it makes me more conscious that the character of Elsa is like classical pianist cosplay for Levy. Elsa has a slightly bohemian, shabby glamour to her with her penchant for chic cocktails, scented hand cream and casual sex. Her characteristics and attitude feel so strongly aligned with the spirit of Levy as described in her memoirs. Again, this isn't necessarily an issue especially if the reader of this novel hasn't also read her autobiographical trilogy. But personally reading it makes me constantly aware I'm sitting in a theatre watching Levy's actors rather than feeling so immersed I forget the artifice.

Despite all this, there is truly a lot to enjoy in this novel. Levy creates delicious imagery such as scene where a man removes the spines of a sea urchin from Elsa’s fingers while she can feel that man's erection through his shorts. There's a vivid sense of atmosphere created of what life was like during this period of the pandemic as mask wearing became sporadic and the after effects of getting the vaccine shot created a worry that the recipient had caught the virus. Levy exhibits a wonderful sense of humour in several scenes with near slapstick-like situations such as when Elsa loudly discusses her potential sexual relationship with a man while they meet at a noisy brasserie or when a man sarcastically misquotes Walt Whitman at someone over FaceTime. The author is also highly adept at satisfying putdowns towards particularly unsavoury figures such as a sexist bigot Elsa and a Rastafarian encounter in a London park where she observes “The white man's head was so infected with anger and self-pity it made his eyes stupid and small.” Conversely, there's a sweet affection shown towards the adolescents she teaches.

Overall, I grew to really like Elsa as a character. There's a cumulative poignancy to the brief conversations in her head with her doppelgänger who questions and chides Elsa about her insecurities and fears. Forms of doubling are shown in other aspects of the story as well but the symbolism didn't add up to saying anything that meaningful. I reckon these issues would feel more powerful if Levy discussed them frankly in memoir form rather than mediating them through the cipher of this character. I fully respect Elsa is a fiction and that her history and preoccupations probably differ from Levy's own. Maybe it's an unfortunate byproduct for an author who slides between two forms of writing that there will be a confusion between the two. But I feel the blending of autobiography and fiction in “August Blue” doesn't have the same expansive imaginative power as it does in recent novels such as “Solenoid” or “Still Born”.

Solenoid by Mircea Cartarescu (translated by Sean Cotter)

If I had to sum up “Solenoid” in a one line review I'd say: this book makes reality wonderfully weird. It is one of the most brilliant pieces of fiction I've ever read. Though it's very long and dense with complicated passages that require a lot of attention, every line feels as if it's written with great urgency and as such I was completely gripped. The writing is also frequently surprising and beautiful. It made me want to read it slowly and savour its poetic nature and the odd imagery which made me think about life from a new angle. For instance, the narrator writes that when we dream we “sink into our visions' cistern of melted gold.” I copied out many many quotes while reading. At another point a man named Virgil asks “What are we doing inside this filthy, soft machine?” It's this kind of turn of phrase which is so refreshing and humorous as it gives a different way of considering what it's like to inhabit a body.

The narrator's obsessively-written notebook is mesmerising as it explorers his preoccupations in meticulous and fabulous detail. The text is rooted in life's big questions concerning the meaning of existence, the nature of being and the metaphysical. However, all this self-conscious lofty subject matter never feels too ponderous because it's presented with sincere emotion, creative verve and a sly sense of humour. It peels back the mundane surface of reality to reveal all the fears and wonder lurking underneath. If this book could be dismissed as naval-gazing, then it seems to meet this criticism by literally beginning with its unnamed narrator gazing at his naval and his account continues with vigorous self-scrutiny. By looking inward with such intensity and dedication all the unwieldy beasts of the unconscious are released and life's essential purpose is reasserted.

The book takes the form of day to day notes which the narrator compulsively records – not to produce an account to be read by others but “to try to understand what is happening to me, what labyrinth I am in, whose test I am subject to, and how I can answer to get out whole.” He sifts through his humble past, work as a reluctant teacher in Bucharest and his haunting dreams. Yet he also veers off to speculate on the infinite possible alternative paths his life might have taken and how he might break free from the confines of reality. He describes a formative event when he read an extended poem aloud at a literary salon. He'd poured all his life force into this poem and dreamed it'd be recognized as a work of genius. Hilariously, he dresses for the event in a certain way because his idea of being a writer came from watching Breakfast at Tiffany's as “the author in that film wore a turtleneck, a little frayed around the neck.” However, the group's reaction to his poem is devastating. It's ruthlessly criticised and he is utterly humiliated. This leads him to abandon his hope of becoming a writer and causes him to lose faith in the power of literature.

The nature of this book is itself a contradiction. It's both a novel and an anti-novel, auto-fiction and wild fantasy, dedicated disquisition and an ephemeral project. Equally, his very identity contains a lot of uncertainty especially when he recalls his youth. He might have had a twin brother who functions as a kind of doppelgänger. There's a curious exploration of gender where his mother sometimes dressed him as a girl and he asserts at one point: “Today, it feels as though I had been a girl in a previous life, as though the girl left a hole shaped like her body in the petrified ash of my mind”. Tantalizing lines such as this left me with so much to ponder concerning how our sense of self is constantly shifting and layered. There's also a lot of excruciating detail which recurs like a nightmare and body horror concerning his physical existence. As a caution: this is definitely not a book to be read before going to the dentist or getting a shot from a doctor! Yet, this adds to the sense of his being trapped in a particular physical form though he feels himself to be much more expansive and malleable.

There's also a sense of the larger society which weighs down his potential to grow. The absurd reality and spurious demands of the oppressive Communist government is described where “Each child must bring fifteen kilograms per month of paper and one hundred kilos of empty bottles and jars, all well washed, ready to reenter production.” There seem to be few possibilities for the future of these children who are forced to perform in nonsensical shows so it's not surprising they sneak off to a disused factory for some kind of arcane ritual. The larger adult population is also discontent and there is a group called the Picketists who not only protest against the government but against our mortality and natural phenomena such as “the swarms of diseases, fears, and horrors located in human flesh”. There are some quite vivid descriptions of other figures such as the head of the school, his fellow teachers and certain students, but the focal point is fairly constantly upon the narrator himself.

His monotonous existence consists of traveling between his home and work. This forms “The sad insanity of my life.” This is definitely a melancholic novel but the creative flair of its storytelling never makes it feel too weighty. At one point he comments: “Melancholy is also exciting, but in a different way than the stringent drunkenness of sex.” Though he's solitary by nature he isn't always entirely alone because he connects with a physics teacher who he has sex with. They discover a button next to his bed which allows them to levitate while having conjugal relations. However, their pairing isn't so much emotional as convenient like his job. Hilariously, he often can't even remember which classroom he teaches in or who his students are until he looks in his notebook. Yet, alongside the everydayness of this world there are portals into other labyrinthine spaces. From a disused factory with strange cavernous areas to a proliferation of endless rooms in his boat-shaped house to the micro world of dust mites.

This is where the novel's title comes into play. A solenoid is a metal coil which becomes surrounded with a magnetic field when an electric current is introduced. There are solenoids buried in the foundations of certain buildings around Bucharest and these form sorts of gateways which allow him to traverse the fourth dimension. I don't understand the science behind all this but the book possesses an internal logic which makes it convincing and also adds such fascinating mystery as it breaks the limits of reality and leads this story into some outlandish situations. It's so entertaining and it becomes almost hypnotic as the narrator leads the reader into such curious realms. There's also a kind of tragedy to it as his concentrated endeavour of recording all this must inevitably fail. The book explores the limitations of literature: “What I am writing here, evening after evening, in my house in the centre of my city, of my universe, of my world, is an anti-book, the forever obscure work of an anti-author. I am no one and I will stay that way, I am alone and there's no cure for being alone”. Yet, at the same time it's his only method for processing his life and asserting he exists. “My writing is a reflex of my dignity, it is my need to search for the world promised by my own mind, just as perfume is the promise of the many-layered rose.”

There are lines in here I also connect with so strongly as a reader because like the narrator I return to books again and again looking for worlds beyond my own experience. I know there's no definite answers which can be found in books and reading can sometimes feel addictive. He states at one point: “I love literature, I still love it, it's a vice I can't put down, a vice that will destroy me.” And there are some very tender moments when this book becomes almost confrontational. “After you've read tens of thousands of books, you can't help but ask yourself: while I was doing that, where did my life go?” What a way to induce panic in a reader like me surrounded by books which I've spent countless hours of my life reading! It forces me to consider all the actual living I've missed out on while inhabiting an imaginative life sparked by reading. It's intense, but it doesn't change my instinctual desire to read more and transcend the limitations of my own experience. And this novel reminds me of how the individual expands to encompass all of reality: “My mind dressed in flesh, my flesh dressed in the cosmos.”

So this book is extraordinary. It is one of the most brilliant books I've ever read. But it's not perfect. There are some sections which I didn't think worked quite as well. The parts about his ex-wife felt oddly truncated and undeveloped. There are extended sequences where he recounts dreams which felt overlong. In some parts he over-emphasised questions asking: what is reality? It's also all very rooted in a masculine point of view with all the trappings of that: he describes his sperm as “a liquid as sacred as blood” and in one section “at this moment I looked at her vulva with a kind of indifference, the way you look at a painting on the wall in your own room that you know so well you don't even notice it.” But I fully accept that all this is part of the parcel that is this narrator and he can't extract himself from his own individual point of view with all his failings and prejudices. Which really only made him feel more human – even when he inhabits the consciousness of a dust mite. There is so much more to say about this book and so many more quotes I could list. So maybe it's enough to say that reading “Solenoid” has been an enriching experience I will never forget.

Biography of X by Catherine Lacey

There are some novels that feel perfectly aimed at me. “Biography of X” is absolutely one of them because its story and central subject matter are the sort I most enjoy reading. Like in Hustvedt's “The Blazing World”, Lacey's new novel considers the phantasmagoric life of a fictional female artist. It's an intelligent exploration of the meaning of identity considering whether this is formed through inherent characteristics, self-creation or projections from other people. This is clearly a preoccupation for the author as her novel “Pew” explored this meaningful question from a different angle. Yet the premise of this new novel is in some ways more ambitious and expansive as it's a very playful mixture of fact and fiction which also pursues a central intimate mystery. Ultimately, this tale is also about the dilemma of how much we can truly know the people we love the most because no matter how close we feel to them there will always be aspects of their lives which will remain hidden and unknown.

A complex artist named X has died. Her widow CM embarks on researching X's life and interviewing people from her past in order to write an account to set the record straight and learn more about her own puzzling wife. In the process she describes how X's life intersected with a fascinating array of real historical and current artists, writers and cultural figures. It's so fun to see how personalities such as Susan Sontag, Andy Warhol and Max Porter enter the story. However, the more CW learns about her deceased wife the more she realises how little she understood her. X's elusiveness was part of her work as a shapeshifting figure in the manner of artists such as Sophie Calle or Cindy Sherman. Her process of radical reinvention from country life to cosmopolitan “it girl” is also akin to the character of Holly Golightly – if Capote's character were a radical artist. Additionally, X needed to escape her past as this novel presents a revisionist history where America became politically divided in a way even more outwardly extreme than what exists today. Like in the first section of “To Paradise”, in this version of America same sex marriage has been legal for much longer than it has been in reality. Gradually we come to understand the various ways in which X's artistic mission was both personally and politically motivated.

Alongside Lacey's text there are a number of photographs throughout the novel which further blend fact and fiction as well as illuminating the biographical detail of X's life. It's so creative how Lacey explores the way events in history might have differently played out and how certain figures such as Emma Goldman could have had a key political role if circumstances had been slightly different. As with many biographies, the text can reveal more about the biographer than the subject. CW must gradually separate what she wanted X to be from the person she actually was. As she's confronted with the versions of X that existed for the subjects she interviews a blurry understanding of the real woman appears. But how much can you truly know such a human changeling and how much can you really understand someone when, as the philosopher William James described, we have as many personalities as the people we know? These universal questions are poignantly applied to a wildly entertaining story that's like a masterful puzzle and an exposé of a sumptuous hidden history.

Men I Trust by Tommi Parrish

It can be difficult to allow someone into your life when you've been badly betrayed – especially when it happens again and again. In Tommi Parrish's graphic novel “Men I Trust” we're introduced to Eliza and Sasha, two women who have been differently used and abused by men. Eliza is a single mother, a recovering alcoholic and a poet who reads her writing aloud at open mic nights in a near-empty bar. Sasha is an occasional sex worker who has recently moved back in with her parents. She struggles with neediness and sometimes dips into her mother's prescription medicine. The two form an unlikely connection discussing their insecurities and the struggle to affect positive change in their lives. It's an intimacy full of all the awkwardness and hesitancy involved with early friendship or potential romance. By following their private moments of conflict and how their daily lives occasionally intersect, we see the challenges of real companionship and how difficult it can be to truly trust someone.

The drawings which accompany Parrish's poignant text develop a real emotional power as the story progresses. The characters' bulky forms contrast with their undersized heads in a way that emphasizes the uneasiness of inhabiting their bodies. Facial expressions are portrayed in minimalist detail in a way which is simple but effective. At times of high emotional tension the environment around them seems to bleed out into solid colours. It adds to the sense of isolation these women experience at different times. Though it feels like they should naturally find solace in their bond with each other, I enjoy how the story teases out whether this is a healthy relationship as boundaries are trodden over. The men these women are closest to may be toxic, but there isn't necessarily any more respite to be found in sisterhood. It's impressive when a story can subvert the reader's expectations to present a conclusion which is so thought-provoking and new.

In Memoriam by Alice Winn

This novel grabbed hold of my heart! It's so emotional but also so well crafted and intelligent. What a special debut novel! The story and plot are so gripping. It contains many surprises and I want to keep this as spoiler free as possible because there are twists that had my heart racing: moments of tragedy, moments of kindness, moments of horror and moments of absolutely beautiful tenderness. This is embodied by an array of well observed and totally believable characters. Many are privileged English schoolboys but within that sphere they are so diverse and fascinating – not least of all the two young men at the centre of this book. And what I think makes this novel so special is not just the historical subject matter of WWI and the people tragically caught in these circumstances, but the way Alice Winn has structured this book. It's so clever and adds so much to the story.

The novel begins in 1914 at an English boarding school in the countryside. We meet seventeen year old boys: Henry Gaunt and Sidney Ellwood. Gaunt has part German heritage and is more reserved, awkward and anti-war. Ellwood is part Jewish and is very popular and enthused to fight in the war. Neither of them are technically old enough to enlist, but, as with many young men back then, this did not stop them. They both love poetry (especially Ellwood who writes and recites it) and they've been harbouring a secret desire and love for one another. We follow as they separately go to war and the consequences of being at the centre of a conflict where millions and millions of lives were lost.

I was somewhat nervous going into this because I thought: do I want to read about war especially focusing on the point of view of privileged English schoolboys? But once I got into the story and got to know these characters I was completely enthralled. Part of what Winn shows so well is the way youth were manipulated into wanting to be remembered and glorified. This is what governments do to get the manpower for war and make young men enlist. At that tender age so many boys can be easily convinced to die for their country in order to be remembered forever. Part of this is national arrogance and believing they'd win the war right away. But there was also pressure from an organisation called The White Feather Movement which I hadn't heard of before this novel. These were groups of women that went around in public and any young man who looked fit enough to fight was handed a white feather to shame him into wanting to enlist. This was controversial even at the time – not least of all because sometimes feathers were given to soldiers on leave or veterans who were seriously wounded. So I was glad to learn about this element and strategy of war. And reading this book has made me want to read and discover more about this period of time.

Winn makes the characters of Gaunt and Ellwood feel so alive with their hesitancy around intimacy, their confused dreams about the future and what is possible for boys in their position with restrictions about what was socially allowed at the time. It was okay as long as the boys were popular and kept it behind closed doors, but they could not love each other openly. It feels so important for gay love tales to be inserted back into history through novels like these because these relationships did happen but they weren't often recorded or allowed to flourish because of social stigma. I won't reveal what happens between them or how their story together develops but it is so beautifully done. There are also many other really fascinating characters. Some are naively gun ho about fighting, some are understandably crippled by fear and the horror of what war looks like. There are bullies, there are hopelessly foolish boys, there are highly intelligent lads, there's a really interesting character with Indian heritage, there's a man from a working class background which contrasts sharply to most of the young men in this book and there is Gaunt's sister who is extremely intelligent and progressive but can't effect change because of the restricted possibilities for women at that time. All these characters are so convincing in their dialogue and actions while also showing the influence that classism, racism, sexism and homophobia has on their lives. The story depicts how these things still have an effect even on the battlefield where soldiers struggle to survive from moment to moment. The novel also demonstrates the tragic gulf in understanding between those who know what it's like at the front verses people who've remained in England. But also, even before the scenes at war the story shows the sinister bullying culture in English boarding schools where young boys are literally tortured in a perverse cycle which is believed to build character.

Something so unique about this novel is how Winn structures the story because it is not just a straightforward narrative but it's also composed of letters, articles and issues of the boarding school's published journal. And this is another reason why I was initially hesitant to read this book because I wasn't sure how these fictional newspaper articles could add to the story. But they definitely do and create such a powerful sense of the brutal consequences of war as some characters that the reader has grown to love or despise or even just know casually are listed under the casualties over time. To see them suddenly removed in black and white like this gives such a strong sense of what it must have been like at the time. But also, the gruelling task of soldiers writing letters to families to inform them of their husband's or sons' deaths while trying to make it personal. It is heart wrenching and so effective.

Running through this novel is the power of poetry. Not just in its creation and the ways it can encapsulate experience like no other but what effect war has upon the creative imagination. It's made me keen to read more by and about great gay poets of WWI such as Siegfried Sassoon. It's also made me keen to read George Eliot's novel Adam Bede. I've read a number of books by Eliot but not that one. And I won't explain how that novel has a role in this novel, but just read this novel and see. There's a really interesting prisoner of war camp section – again, no spoilers, but it's so suspenseful and vivid. And it's so compelling how it elicits sympathy for the German soldiers in this section who were technically overseeing the prisoners but many of these guards were less well fed and less experienced than their prisoners who relentlessly bullied them. Because no matter which side of the conflict these young men (who were still boys really) were on, they were led by their countries into perilous conflict and thousands were slaughtered. There's also a fascinating narrative shift at one point showing the other side of the battlefield and the other boys caught up in this hellish conflict.

It all comes together to create a war story and a love story like no other. And I loved it. There's so much more to say about this novel, but it's a masterful accomplishment. So impressive for a first novel – although, from what I gather from interviews Winn has been writing for a long time. I think it shows that this is a writer who has honed her craft and told a story she feels so passionately about. I don't want to make any assumptions, but I know Winn is married to a man so for a presumably heterosexual woman to write so beautifully about such complex gay characters with depth and understanding and to write about their sexual and emotional relationships so convincingly is stunning. I'd also recommend reading “The World and All That It Holds” by Aleksander Hemon which, coincidentally, is also a story of WWI about two soldiers in love with each other, but it's in a very different setting and it also has a very different style and approach. It's also excellently done. However, “In Memoriam” is a novel that completely captured my heart and I know I'll remember it for a long time.

Children of Paradise by Camilla Grudova

In an era that's often dominated by confessional “tell all” fiction it's refreshing, in a way, to read a novel that makes a dilapidated cinema the protagonist of the story and the journey we follow is this dying movie house's last hurrah. Each chapter is headed by the title of a different film and the subsequent events frequently play upon the style or subject matter of these movies. We know little of the narrator at all. She calls herself Holly after a character from 'Badlands' and just arrived in the country, but beyond that we know nothing of her past or future plans. She happens to see a movie house advertising “We're hiring” and quickly gets the job. After orientating herself around its strange interior and working there long enough, she's gradually drawn into the sub-culture of film enthusiasts who are her stand-offish colleagues.

This group doesn't just work in the cinema; they stay after hours drinking the dregs left by customers in glasses of alcohol, taking any drugs which customers drop on the floor or stash in the toilets and screw each other on the stained seats of the movie hall. However, they could hardly be called a collective or a united clique as their tastes in films vary wildly and their piling together to share unhealthy snacks while watching countless movies is more a convenience. Instead, it's the actual film house which has more of a body than any of these people with “the building's gaping mouth, a sparkling marquee teeth grin” and a lit chandelier “like a skeleton hanging there”. The single scratched screen plays mostly old films while a river of sewage runs in the concealed depths underneath. There's rumoured to be a mysterious secret screen which reveals itself in surreal moments to the curious narrator.

The Paradise cinema is the oldest in the city and it's definitely seen better days, yet the employees are devoted to it as a living artefact and beacon of culture. I related to this scenario as in my teenage years I worked at a haunted house in an amusement park. The employees had a cultish devotion to the place and often spent time there even when they were off the clock. It's endearing how a group of people who could be classified as misfits find solace in gathering around a place of employment whose days are clearly numbered. Equally, the bizarre owner of The Paradise and its patrons continuously return with religious devotion. This endows the cinema with a strong personality and Grudova relates in great detail the remnants of its glory days as well as the excruciating way it is steadily falling apart. Although I can understand why some readers are put off by the way it almost revels in the grotesque, there's a perverse pleasure in following the farcical events of this novel as it veers into absolute absurdity. For me, the story unraveled somewhat towards the very end as enforced changes to make this old independent cinema conform to a large cinema chain's designs go badly wrong. The narrative dwindles and feels less significant as all we're left with is the insubstantial narrator gazing in wonder at another lost institution.

Women's Prize Winner 2023

We've come to the end of another season of The Women's Prize for Fiction and what a fantastic ride it's been! I think the 2023 shortlist has some of the best overall quality we've seen in recent years. Such a great balance between two highly accomplished previous winners, really exciting debut novels and one very contentious book. But, of course, there could only be one champion. It was a thrill to be invited to the ceremony to see the winner being announced and I was overjoyed to have the opportunity to meet and chat with Barbara Kingsolver. She was so gracious and nice! We discussed how the opioid epidemic has also hit hard in my home state of Maine as well as the plot connections between her novel and Dickens' classic. Interestingly, she noted the character of Matt Peggot (known as “Maggot”) doesn't have an equivalent in “David Copperfield” because Dickens didn't know any boys like Maggot but she felt he should have a presence in her story. Well, the spirit of Dickens must have been cheering her on from the sidelines because Kingsolver was declared the winner and it was so exciting to be standing right in front of the stage to see it happen. She delivered such a heartfelt speech. Kingsolver is the first author to have won the Women's Prize twice! You can watch my vlog about going to the ceremony and party here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA1A0bBXtYs

This is another win for “Demon Copperhead” which was already declared the co-recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (alongside Hernan Diaz's “Trust”) and it's also been shortlisted for this year's Orwell Prize for Political Fiction. I fully understand the sentiment (rumoured to be shared by Kingsolver herself) that it would have been more beneficial for the prize to have gone to one of the debut authors on the list as their books and careers would be more enhanced by the attention. Kingsolver’s novel has already sold very well because the author is so well established and it was an Oprah’s book club choice. Certainly “Black Butterflies”, “Fire Rush” and “Trespasses” all contain such unique voices and present such vivid senses of place. I loved reading them and I hope more people will continue to read them. But the criteria for this book prize isn't to award the most promising new writer of the year. It's for the best novel written by a woman published in the past year. In my opinion, “Demon Copperhead” is the most skilful and powerful book on the shortlist so I'm absolutely delighted it's taken the prize!

Of course, I also can't help taking a little smug satisfaction in the fact that I've been advocating for this novel to win the Women's Prize even before the longlist was announced – as you can see in my predictions video with Anna. I made a video earlier this year explaining why I think “Demon Copperhead” should win every prize it's eligible for. And it looks like the novel is doing just that as it's sweeping all the book awards. It may take the surprise out of any book contest this year, but it's also a very worthy winner. I've heard from some readers who haven't been as moved by this novel as I was, but I know it's also touched many readers' hearts and minds. I'm grateful we have a great diversity of literature and points of view. But excellence is excellence. “Demon Copperhead” isn't just a modern retelling of a classic; it is a modern classic.

I'm a Fan by Sheena Patel

The unnamed protagonist of “I'm a Fan” isn't really the protagonist of her own life as she spends much of her time following online (and borderline stalking) two individuals. There is “the man I want to be with” and “the woman I am obsessed with” who is also having an affair with this man. Both the narrator and the man she wants to be with are in longterm relationships with other people that are pushed to the periphery of this toxic love triangle. It's a messy state of affairs and the narrator relates her (seemingly) unfiltered thoughts and feelings about this situation while commenting on the nature of social media/the internet as well as issues to do with class and race dynamics. In many ways the frankness of her voice discussing these subjects in short punchy chapters is very refreshing. The dedicated documentation of such a doomed love affair reminded me somewhat of Annie Ernaux’s “Simple Passion”. It’s also tantalising to observe how a private obsession can be poisonously fostered by the act of online following as small details are seized upon as clues to be scrutinized in detail. This is partly because Instagram updates from “the woman I am obsessed with” aren't so much capturing fleeting aspects of her daily life as they are glib public pronouncements of her values, aesthetics and commercial products since she is an influencer. While the narrator severely critiques and abhors this woman she also covets her status and following. It's compelling and challenging how Patel describes this modern conflict.

My issue with the novel isn't, as some readers have complained, that all the characters are “horrible” people – the most likeable people being the man's neglected wife, the narrator's neglected boyfriend and the narrator's mother whose marriage is a compromise. Rather, I became frustrated that in the narrator's rigorous analysis of power dynamics no room is left for genuine human interactions. Every in real life (IRL) meeting with both the woman and man are part of a ploy towards some goal of simulated closeness or strategy for achieving an advantage in this dynamic. This is partly because of the narrator's fragile self esteem which is partly the product of all these larger historical and social issues. It's meaningful how the novel shows this isn't just theoretical: part of the reason the man desires the narrator is because of the colour of her skin and the woman she's obsessed with blithely lives in luxury while the narrator struggles to buy a home. But there's no growth in her character which allows her to progress in her own life or establish any sort of meaningful connection with these figures she obsessively fangirls.

Perhaps Patel is saying in this story that the state of our society and the poisonous effect of social media mean that no true interaction is possible. But such pessimism is stultifyingly glum and not true to life where such borders between very different individuals can disintegrate when moments of honest connection form. Certainly such a relationship might not be possible with the figures that the narrator is fixated upon, but the story would have felt more radical if she could have found someone who she could establish a bond with that wasn't defined by division. It's a sad effect of relationships that are mediated through social media that so much is left unsaid (even though it's a medium which is all about making pronouncements.) I appreciate how this tale looks through the screen to focus on someone who is viewing and calling out virtue signalling. She also finds herself haplessly playing into a system that grants more advantage to those who are already advantaged. Instead of being able to progress she instead finds herself circulating in the vacuum. It's a position which will hopefully become quickly dated as more and more people eschew platforms that are all about hollow interactions. I'm (obviously) not against social media or the internet in general, but I hope there's a future where the major fallibilities of these platforms can be changed and more honest interactions can occur to bridge our differences.

Small Worlds by Caleb Azumah Nelson

Nelson's much-anticipated follow up to his debut novel “Open Water” follows a few formative summers in the life of Stephen, a young man making the uneasy transition from being a teenager to an adult. He leaves his beloved community in London for the first time to move to university and harbours complicated romantic feelings for a longtime female friend. He also has a knotty relationship with his parents. His father naturally wants a stable future for Stephen even if this runs contrary to his passions and this creates a lot of conflict between them. Meanwhile, he and his mother share a more straightforward free-flowing love exchanging memories while cooking together. It's highly relatable how the author describes the stumbling nature of this period of life where we struggle to understand who we are and what we really desire while testing the limits of our own agency. Nelson has a wonderful style of portraying the emotions wrapped up in this confusion and relating the interior process of his central character with such sensitivity. There are many heartbreaking and tender moments in the story informing Stephen's journey to more comfortably inhabiting his selfhood.

The novel's central metaphor of the sense of connectedness between groups of individuals is especially potent when considering the wider context of being black in modern day Britain. It's stated in the story that “we might build a small world, where we might feel beautiful, might feel free... outside of these spaces, we are rarely safe... the world was not built with us in mind, and that someone, at any time, might intrude upon our homes, crumbling our walls, making dust of our foundations. It's days like these which remind us that we don't have space, that the city feels like it's closing in, trying to magic us away, encouraging our disappearance.” Though they find comfort and security in their tight-knit community, Stephen and his friends are deeply affected by Mark Duggan's murder by the police in 2011. This historical incident makes them recall the extreme perilousness of their situation and sense of painful self-consciousness living in a largely white-dominated society. I was lucky enough to hear Nelson speak about this novel at Brixton Library and when discussing his earnest desire for his community to have safe spaces he was brought to tears. It's extremely moving how this desire is built into the story showing the pleasures and pains of creating such circles.

One of the most powerful aspects of the novel is how it relates Stephen's feelings of ambiguity about his faith, heritage and family. Though he's uncertain in his beliefs he finds such strength in attending church: “it doesn't feel like I'm playing but taking part in something spiritual, something I didn't know I needed.” Equally, he's drawn to visit his parents' birthplace of Ghana reconnecting with family there and his heritage. In these scenes Nelson conveys a wide-eyed wonder for the surprises his character discovers there as well as a sense of connectedness to aspects of the culture. It's especially effective how Ghanaian words are incorporated into the novel as it reflects how he and his family speak to one another but also Stephen's discomfort with the limitations of language: “I came to both languages through violence: the Ga I speak was warped and muted, many years ago, after British invasions, the same invasions which are the reason I speak English. Language, then, has always struck me as less tool than burden. It's always caught between somewhere, something always lost between expression and emotion.” Returning to his family's homeland also inspires a new sense of empathy for his father who he fell out with. The way the narrative voice shifts in the later part of the novel to reflect this understanding is very moving.

This novel is imbued with a lyrical quality with certain phrases and images which refrain throughout the story. It makes sense that the narrative would be structured like this because music and dance is such an integral part of Stephen's life. He's an aspiring musician and it's something which connects him with his community, family and heritage. However, the recurrence of some lines can at times seem like the author is stretching for profundity. The feeling which accompanies reading a novel is different from listening to music so it's not easy to fit this sensation into a narrative. Also, Nelson has a tendency to over-explain and psychoanalyse his characters in a way which isn't always necessary when physical detail and dialogue would feel more impactful. Certain scenes stand out in my memory more for the straightforward exchange taking place when all the attendant feelings are implicit within the situation. Nevertheless, there's a beauty and power to Nelson's use of language which is so original and moving. It's exciting how fiercely artistic he is in his photographic and filmmaking pursuits alongside writing fiction showing how these forms of expression can blend into and inform each other. I'm a committed fan.

In Ascension by Martin MacInnes

There have been very few reading experiences I've had where I finished a book and immediately turned back to the first page to read it all again. But this novel has such compelling subject matter and central characters that I wanted to experience the story a second time to see how it all fit together. There's still a lot about it which feels mysterious and which I'm thinking about, but it's left a lasting impression and really compelled me to re-view the world around me. Not to get too grandiose about it, but I feel like we naturally get so caught in focusing on our immediate environment and our daily lives that we can easily forget how enormous the universe is around us and how infinitesimally small life can be. It's usually only when we suddenly see the starry night sky when it's not obscured by light pollution or notice tiny creatures thriving in a rock pool that we remember the relative scale of the world around us. For me this happened late one evening while driving with the top down in Death Valley and I saw the glowing immensity of the stars in the sky. Reading “In Ascension” gave me a similar sense of awe. It pulled me out of myself to think about the depths of time and space. It shows how an individual is relatively small amidst this vastness, but also that everyone is an integral part of it.

This novel could definitely be called science fiction, but I think of it more as an environmental novel and a psychological investigation into the meaning of life. The story centres around Leigh, a scientist who studies the marine world and cultivates a strain of algae as a sustainable food source. When technological advances mean that deep space travel is possible her discovery is used for an important application. However, this is more than a professional interest for Leigh because she's always felt a deep connection with the scope of life on Earth. She survived an extremely difficult childhood. During this time she wasn't necessarily drawn to suicide, but took respite in the knowledge that her own existence was the result of chance and there's a powerful section when her life hangs in the balance. This is one of those instances in my reading where the scene and all the emotion wrapped up in it are etched in my memory. It's such a moving moment where her own life feels intensely precarious and she realises how dynamically alive the world is around her. This also inspires a sense of wonder which leads her to exploring the furthest depths of the ocean and the farthest reaches of outer space. I've always been entranced by documentaries about these remote regions of our world and the universe so I found this to be utterly compelling. It's an imaginative journey of discovery that's about the origins of life and the reason for our existence. It's also about the fragility of our environment. It's about the price paid when the progress of our civilization is driven by capitalist enterprises.

Even though this book is about such big issues and questions, it's also such a personal story. Leigh is a complex character who is intensely dedicated to her work and is really driven by curiosity. It's so interesting following her transformation and what she finds venturing so deeply into the unknown. She's in many ways quite straightforward in her desires, but she also bears an immense hurt which distances her from others. She's very solitary and prone to isolation. This creates tension between her and her family especially as her ageing mother is in need. But she also feels a strong connection to all life. In some ways she's utterly anonymous while also possibly possessing immense importance. I won't give any spoilers but the novel takes a surprising turn later on when the narrative shifts to another character and suddenly we're given an entirely new perspective on both Leigh and events surrounding her. I began to question how reliable Leigh really is as a narrator and how much I could trust the reality of what is being shown. This is partly what inspired me to go right back to the beginning of this novel. The story has a circular quality as well which comes to feel so profound and made me want to float around in it for longer. That's what reading this novel is like. It's like being suspended in this character's consciousness as the immensity of life and time and the world unfurls.

So this book made a big impression on me. Martin MacInnes is such a fascinating writer in how he pursues ambiguities surrounding life's big mysteries, but in a way which is continuously compelling and unpretentious. His debut novel “Infinite Ground” similarly delved into questions to do with the nature of being and our connection to one another. I feel like “In Ascension” explores these questions in a much grander way with not only excellent detail (this novel clearly required a great deal of technical research) but it also shows a wider scope of imagination. It provides answers and a definite conclusion, but also instills a sense of wonder which has left me so much to ponder. It's a book that I know will be well worth reading again and again. I'm sometimes asked what makes me permanently keep a book on my shelves and this is a great example of a novel I know I'll really enjoy returning to. It makes me want to buy a cabin in some remote location where I can clearly see the stars at night and spend all day reading this and my other favourite books over and over.

Black Butterflies by Priscilla Morris

One of the things I love about following book prizes is that they sometimes highlight books which weren't on my radar that I probably wouldn't have read otherwise. When the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023 longlist was announced it was the first I'd heard about “Black Butterflies” but this debut novel certainly packs an emotional punch and I was enthralled by its harrowing story. It begins in the Spring of 1992 as tensions are rising in the city of Sarajevo. Zora is a teacher and respected artist whose elderly mother is poorly. When she asks her older husband to accompany her mother to the English countryside to stay with their daughter, Zora plans to eventually join them. She's reluctant to leave this diverse and beautiful city she loves. However, when the Bosnian War escalates and conditions turn dire she and her friends and neighbours find themselves trapped in a metropolis which is continuously bombed while essential utilities cease and resources dwindle. This personal tale shows the first year of the Siege of Sarajevo from the inside. It contains heartfelt moments of humanity and instances of vicious cruelty as the resilience of these survivors is severely tested in brutal circumstances.

Though its narrated in the third person, this novel presents the world fully through Zora's perspective. So the city is shown to be full of superb architecture, surrounded by a gorgeous environment and rich with delicious food. As a historic crossroad and European centre it's also filled with people from many different cultures and backgrounds. But dramatic political changes mean that distinctions in nationality and religion which didn't matter before now mean everything. Nearly every ordinary citizen is either a target or under suspicion. It's horrifying how conditions deteriorate so quickly as the city turns into a war zone. The novel powerfully captures the way this creates a surprising juxtaposition of normalcy and desolation. It also produces odd intimacies with strangers on the street and neighbours. Sometimes this sudden closeness is fleeting as people shelter from an attack and other times it forms bonds which last. We witness how communities can come together and how strangers often argue about possible misinformation while waiting in long lines for water. I felt so drawn into Zora's experiences it made these conditions feel increasingly palpable and frighteningly real.

Amidst so much death and destruction, it's very moving how the novel presents art as not just a frivolous respite but an essential testament. Zora became famed for her paintings of bridges not only as a symbol which connects people to each other but as magnificent objects. The story traces how her attitude toward her art and its practice are changed by larger events. While she continues to teach her remaining students, she takes a neighbour girl under her tutelage and they create pictures with what materials are available. This relationship and the desire for people to still experience beauty comes to feel so precious especially as the assault reaches the city's most sacred landmarks and the meaning of the novel's title becomes clear. A community art show which might seem quaint in other circumstances here feels like a last string of humanity which people desperately cling to and it becomes a poignant celebration.

I don't know a lot about the Bosnian War and reading this powerful story has prompted me to want to learn more. But it also shows how even many of the civilians caught in the crossfire or forced into military service didn't understand what the fight was about which adds to an understanding of the absurdity and senselessness of war. It's a timely reminder that even the most robust civilizations become terrifyingly fragile when fear and hatred are allowed to create divisions. So I became thoroughly emotionally invested in Zora's struggle. The book grows increasingly tense in a way which kept me gripped but also woke me up to the reality of how such assaults on ordinary citizens has happened and continues to happen in other parts of the world today. It's an accomplished work of fiction and I'll be eager to read anything Priscilla Morris publishes next.

The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister by Olesya Khromeychuk

Since the escalation of Russia's war on Ukraine in February 2022 the media has widely reported on the battles and unjustified aggression of Putin's forces. However, the killing started many years before this as Olesya Khromeychuk clearly lays out in her memoir about her brother Volodya who died on the frontline in eastern Ukraine in 2017 while defending his country against Russian soldiers. As a historian of war and a Ukrainian, Khromeychuk is well situated to give a contextual understanding about why this occurred from both a personal and political perspective. It's a tender account of her brother's fragmented life and the grief that she and her family experienced after his death. It's also an excoriating look at Western attitudes towards this war, the Ukrainian government's bureaucracy, selective reporting by the media and the fallacy of Russian's advancement into a sovereign nation. Her views are well-reasoned and informed, but if Khromeychuk's frustration about these groups and systems seems harsh it feels fully justified – not from the personal loss she's experienced but the horrifying fact that this brutal war still continues.

It's touching how Khromeychuk's brother is shown to have been an artistic, complicated, brave and sometimes difficult person. An account of such personal loss and the fact he died in battle might easily have lead to a romanticised version of this individual's life. But the author consciously works against this exploring the complexities of her brother's life from her experiences with him before his death and what she discovered after he was killed. This makes him feel all the more real. It's especially affecting how Khromeychuk also created a theatrical play about his death incorporating photos and videos found on his phone. The description of her process doing this and the effect the production had on her family is very moving. It adds to the sense that creative methods are needed to inspire a sense of understanding and change. This book is certainly unique in the method Khromeychuk has created to combine her analytical understanding of larger events with very personal details and a relevant invocation of folklore. Statistics about deaths caused by war will always reduce people who were lost into numbers so it's important to always remind ourselves that these figures include so many individual losses. I'm glad to have read this informative, frank and urgent memoir.

Still Born by Guadalupe Nettel (translated by Rosalind Harvey)

I enjoyed taking my time reading this thoughtful and emotional novel while on a long train journey through the Alps. Although “Still Born” primarily alternates between the stories of two women's lives as they grapple with the question of parenting, it gradually expands to become a nuanced exploration of mothering amongst a number of other characters as well. At the centre are Alina and Laura who are in their 30s. When Alina and her husband decide to do whatever it takes to have a child, her longtime friend Laura is initially confused because they'd previously resolved not to have children. So much so that Laura had herself sterilized. But when she hears her neighbour's troubled child Nico having severe outbursts through the walls of her apartment she becomes increasingly involved in his and his single mother's lives. Though it meditates a lot on parenting, the novel also dynamically addresses issues to do with female friendship, careers and relationships – as well as feminism, sexuality, economic disparity and political unrest.

I think it was partly an effect of lockdown and the timing of when my neighbours had two young children but that long period at home made me hyper aware of the struggle of parenting – just like Laura experiences. I've heard fights and long extended tantrums through the walls I share with my neighbours. Reading this novel I felt slightly guilty because I don't have Laura's altruistic impulse to help care for these children though the mother and child in this story are clearly in much more desperate need. There's the tricky thing of not respecting a neighbour's privacy and what's the line between showing concern and being an imposition. These dilemmas are definitely dealt with in Laura's story too. It's really meaningful how the novel approaches this issue and asks whose responsibility it is to take on parenting roles. Is it all down to the parents or extended family and friends or anyone who witnesses children in need of caring? What happens when the bond between parent and child is transferred to another party and powerful emotional connections are formed?

The story explores this through the involvement Laura takes in Nico's development, but also pigeons which nest on her balcony and a nanny who becomes instrumental in caring for a extremely ill infant. I found it really moving how the story gradually builds the meaning of what it is to be a parent and how this is more expansive and porous than our traditional ideas about this role. It also shows how parenting changes over a long period of time with the way Laura's relationship to her mother transforms. An adult child's relationship to their mother or father is very different from how it was when they were younger and it's touching how the story traces the way mother and daughter come to understand each other as fully rounded individuals – rather than only as parent and child.

Another thing I loved about this novel and it's almost eerie when this occurs, but Laura is reading a novel I just recently read and loved which is “Solenoid” by Romanian writer Mircea Cartarescu. I read this several weeks ago, partly because I figured it had a good chance of being listed for this year's International Booker Prize, but then I realised it wasn't actually eligible and I kept on reading its many hundreds of pages anyway because this novel is absolutely brilliant and fascinating and wild. However, what are the chances? Out of all the books that could be referenced in this novel it's one I also read recently and have been thinking a lot about. So whenever this happens in a book I'm reading it feels like a wonder synchronicity is happening or a dialogue between books in a way which makes reading feel like a larger conversation.

There is also Alina's side of the tale. When she finally does become pregnant there are severe complications. I don't want to give any spoilers if you've not yet read this book, but don't let the title of the novel make you think you know what's going to happen. It is heartrending following her and her husband's journey as they go through this process. And it contrasts in such an interesting way with Laura's experiences where the role of being a parent becomes something Alina desires so much while also not wanting it. This tension must be something all parents feel no matter the health and welfare of their child, but definitely if a child's development is impeded by such difficult restrictions. It's so so moving how her side of the story plays out. But it's also interesting because the author chose to narrate Alina's story in the third person but Laura's sections are all in the first person. I know some readers have expressed how this division didn't work so well for them. I did feel it was clunky at some points because the sections about Alina seem to be from Laura's perspective but then they go into such detail that even though these friends are very close it seemed like there are scenes and dialogue which Laura couldn't know. And this created an unnecessary level of confusion in the narrative. But I can see why Nettle chose to relate the story in this way and it creates another contrast between a deeply interior account and viewing the experiences of someone going through the challenging process of parenting from the outside.

Overall, I think “Still Born” is excellent. Though it raises a lot of meaningful and eternally pertinent questions it's also a gripping story. As it went on I became increasingly tense and I couldn't stop reading. It's the first book I've read by her but it's Nettel's fourth novel and I believe her previous books have been translated into English as well so I'm looking forward to exploring those. I can see why it's the most highly rated novel from the International Booker Prize longlist according to GoodReads as I discussed in a video I made recently comparing all the books' star ratings. It is also on the official International Booker shortlist. It'll be exciting to see if it wins, but regardless I'm so glad to have read this novel which is written in such an engaging style while dealing with parenting issues from a beautifully humane and new angle.