The forthcoming #1961 Club – some recommendations for books to read

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In a few weeks’ time, Karen and Simon will be hosting another of their hugely enjoyable ‘Club’ weeks, focusing in this instance on 1961. Starting on Monday 13th April, the #1961Club is a week-long celebration of books first published that year. These reading events are always great fun, with various tweets, reviews and recommendations flying around the web, giving readers an overview of the relevant period in literature.

Unsurprisingly, given my fondness for the 1960s, I’ve already reviewed a few 1961 books on the blog, and they’re all interesting in one sense or another. So, if you’re thinking about taking part in the Club, here are some recommendations for books to consider.

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Bird in a Cage by  Frédéric Dard (tr. David Bello)

With an output bordering on that of fellow crime writer Georges Simenon, Frédéric Dard was one of France’s most popular and productive post-war novelists. First published in French in 1961, Bird in a Cage is one of his ‘novels of the night’, a dark, unsettling mystery with a psychological edge.

As the novella opens, our narrator, Albert, has just returned to his former home in Levallois, a suburb in Paris, after a six-year absence. His loneliness and sense of unease are palpable from the outset as he enters a damp, empty flat, the place where his mother died some four years before. In an attempt to reconnect with his life and memories of happier times, Albert heads out into the streets of Levallois, which are bustling with activity on Christmas Eve. At a restaurant, he catches sight of an attractive woman, someone who reminds him very strongly of a girl he used to know from his dark and mysterious past. The woman is with her young daughter, but there is no man on the scene, and in some ways, their shared loneliness strikes Albert as being even more tragic than his own. After exchanging glances a few times during their meals, Albert and the woman end up leaving the restaurant at the same time. It could be a coincidence, but maybe it isn’t…

At the centre of this story is a crime which is fiendishly clever in its execution. I don’t want to say too much about what happens here, save to say that poor Albert finds himself caught in the middle of it. As this fateful night unravels, there is at least one occasion when he could walk away from this situation, removing himself from imminent danger in the process. Instead, Albert chooses to remain close at hand, almost as though he is fascinated by this woman and everything she appears to represent. This taut, dreamlike novella has also been adapted for the screen as Paris Pick-Up (1962), and I can heartily recommend both!

No Fond Return of Love by Barbara Pym

I love Barbara Pym, an author whose humane explorations of unrequited love among the genteel middle classes are both charming and quietly poignant. She creates an idiosyncratic yet oddly recognisable world of ‘excellent’, well-meaning spinsters, fusty academics and other befuddled men, which I find thoroughly engaging. No Fond Return of Love was Pym’s sixth novel, the last one to be published by Jonathan Cape before their well-documented rejection of An Unsuitable Attachment, which ushered in her ‘wilderness years’, a period that eventually ended in 1977 following prestigious recognition from Philip Larkin and Lord David Cecil.  

No Fond Return revolves around Dulcie Mainwaring, a thirty-something spinster who works as an indexer and proofreader from her home in the London suburbs. As the novel opens, Dulcie has just arrived at a ‘learned conference’ for indexers, a gathering she hopes will enable her to meet some new people, particularly as a recent break-up with former fiancé, Maurice, has left her feeling conscious of her status as a lonely, unattached spinster.

On the first evening, Dulcie meets Viola Dace, a fellow indexer who happens to be in the room next door. At first sight, the two women present quite a contrast to one another – Dulcie looks rather dowdy in her tweed suit and brogues, while Viola appears more confident with her black dress and rather unruly hair. As the two women get talking, it becomes clear that Viola knows one of the speakers at the conference, the rather handsome editor, Dr Aylwin Forbes, with whom she has an interesting history.

The suitability or not of various ‘matches’ is a key theme here with Pym using Dulcie’s observations on the nature of relationships, particularly those between men and women, as a recurring thread. On two or three occasions, Dulcie thinks back to her time with Maurice and wonders if it is sadder to have loved someone unworthy of her affection than to never have loved at all. As ever with Pym, there’s much to enjoy here – not least, the beautifully drawn secondary characters and humorous set-pieces, two of this author’s main strengths. To summarise, it’s a delightful novel in which maybe, just maybe, there will be a fond return of love after all!

Call for the Dead by John le Carré

Le Carré’s debut novel, Call for the Dead, was also the first outing for his most famous creation, George Smiley, a career spy within the British overseas intelligence agency, commonly known as ‘the Circus’ due to the specific location of its London base. This very enjoyable mystery serves as a good introduction to Smiley and certain elements of his backstory, particularly the troublesome nature of his relationship with flighty ex-wife, Ann, who is often referenced in le Carré’s books, though rarely seen in depth.

Following a routine security check by Smiley, Foreign Office civil servant, Samuel Fennan, apparently commits suicide, triggering a meeting between Smiley and Maston, who heads up the Circus. All too soon, Smiley realises he is being set up to take the blame for Fennan’s death, something he finds both troubling and suspicious, particularly as his interview with the civil servant had ended quite amicably.

The arrival of a letter from Fennan, posted shortly before the man’s death, adds to the mystery, suggesting that he had something pressing to pass on to Smiley following their initial meeting. When Smiley is warned off the case by Maston, he begins his own investigation into Fennan’s network, which brings him into contact with the East Germans and their agents.

Le Carré clearly has points to make here about the intelligence agencies – for instance, the way they use people as pawns on a chessboard, illustrating a lack of humanity at the heart of the system. While Call for the Dead might not be the author’s most polished novel, it’s still highly compelling and convincing – a well-crafted literary spy novel with some memorable moments of tension along the way. Plus, it’s a great introduction to Smiley with his quiet, perceptive disposition and expensive yet ill-fitting clothes. I liked it a lot!

Voices in the Evening by Natalia Ginzburg (tr. D. M. Low)

The award-winning Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg has been a major discovery for me over the past seven years, largely due to Daunt Books’ and NYRB Classics’ sterling work on reissuing her books. Much of Ginzburg’s fiction explores the messy business of family relationships, the tensions that arise when people behave selfishly at the expense of those around them. In contrast to characters in many British and Irish novels, Ginzburg’s protagonists don’t keep their feelings under wraps; instead, they express them openly, typically using the blunt, direct language that characterises this author’s work.

In many respects, Voices is an episodic book, a series of interconnected vignettes that depict the lives and loves of various members of one particular family, all set in a small Italian village, viewed from the perspective of the years following WW2. Central to the novel is Elsa, an unmarried twenty-seven-year-old woman who lives with her parents in the watchful village community, a place where gossip and arbitrary judgments are prevalent. The narrative is bookended by two ‘conversations’ between Elsa and her mother. I use the term ‘conversation’ with caution, as the dialogue is in effect a monologue with Elsa remaining silent in the face of her mother’s barbed musings and pointed observations. These opening and closing vignettes set the tone for the novel, emphasising the sense of distance between Elsa and her mother, a feeling of separation between the generations.

Voices is a simple yet subtle novel, one that explores the tension and discontentment in various conflicts  – those between mothers and daughters, men and women, and ultimately between different values and ideals, particularly in a small, close-knit community. There’s a strong sense of estrangement running through the story, a feeling of separateness and isolation in a shifting world; meanwhile, the shadow of war looms ominously in the background, accentuating a feeling of unease and instability.

Ginzburg’s prose is direct and unadorned in a way that leaves quite a bit of space in the narrative, and in some instances, what is left unsaid between individuals can seem just as significant as what is shared. It’s a book I’d like to revisit sometime, now that I’ve read almost all of Ginzburg’s translated work.

Clock Without Hands by Carson McCullers

Set in 1953 in a small town in Georgia, this excellent exploration of interracial tensions focuses on four men whose lives are connected by past and present events. As the novel opens, thirty-nine-year-old J.T. Malone, owner of the local pharmacy, learns that he is suffering from leukaemia and is given only twelve to fifteen months to live. This news prompts the unassuming Malone to reflect on his life and its disappointments: for instance, the lack of intimacy and love in his stilted marriage, and a sense of bewilderment as to how he lost his way.

Malone’s closest friend and confidante is Judge Fox Clane, a rambunctious former congressman who has suffered his own tragedies, including the loss of his son, who continues to haunt his thoughts.

Judge Clane believes in white supremacy and the ‘noble standards of the South’. Firmly in favour of maintaining racial segregation in all aspects of civilised life, the Judge holds views in direct opposition to those of his grandson, the sensitive Jester Clane (the third of our four main characters and Johnny’s son).

The story moves up a notch when Jester befriends a local black boy, Sherman Pew, a bright, confident and articulate orphan who was abandoned on a church pew as a baby. Sherman, who is unaware of the identity of either of his parents, is connected to Judge Clane in more ways than one; he once saved Clane from drowning and is now in his employ as an ‘amanuensis’  to write letters and attend to his needs. At times, Sherman revels in his position as Judge Clane’s ‘jewel’; he considers himself a cut above the other household help and often behaves in a rude or fickle manner towards Jester, whose feelings for Sherman run deep.

As the narrative unfolds, we learn more about past events, which shed a different light on the connections between these characters. The circumstances surrounding Johnny’s suicide become clear to Jester, prompting him to choose a particular path for the future. And when Sherman discovers information regarding the identity of his parents, the consequences of subsequent events touch all the main players here.

With great insight and understanding of the human condition, McCullers focuses on interracial tensions and injustices and how these ‘sit’ alongside our beliefs and principles. The novel’s title is also significant; racial integration would move the clock forward, but Judge Clane seems content for the South to remain in the early-‘60s, or even to revert to bygone days. It’s an excellent introduction to Carson McCullers’ work, a writer I’d like to explore in more detail.

The Wycherly Woman by Ross Macdonald

Ostensibly a ‘missing girl’ story, albeit one with many, deeper layers to reveal, The Wycherly Woman is an excellent entry in Macdonald’s Lew Archer series. Based in LA, Archer is a private eye with a conscience, a fundamentally decent man in pursuit of the truth, who finds himself battling against the systemic violence and corruption that frequently exist in dysfunctional families, corrupt organisations and other powerful institutions.

While the novel delves into many of this author’s favourite themes – twisted, dysfunctional families with dark secrets to conceal; highly damaged individuals with complex psychological issues; and finally, elements of greed, murder, blackmail and guilt – there’s something very melancholic about this one, a tragic sadness that’s hard to shake.

As ever, Archer approaches these tangled networks of crime, corruption and cover-ups with his usual world-weariness and dogged pursuit of the truth. In some respects, the intricacies of the plot are not particularly important here (for me, least); rather, much of the pleasure stems from observing Archer doing his job, which Macdonald conveys in his trademark hardboiled style. The writing is excellent throughout, very much in tune with the mood of this genre.

Recommended, especially for fans of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett – or any crime fiction with a moody atmosphere and strong sense of place

Do let me know if you like the sound of any of these books – and your thoughts if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have plans of your own for the #1961Club. If so, feel free to mention them here.

The Levant Trilogy (Books Two and Three) by Olivia Manning

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One of my informal reading aims for 2026 is to read Olivia Manning’s Levant Trilogy, which, together with her earlier Balkan Trilogy, forms The Fortunes of War, a superb, largely autobiographical series of novels based on the author’s experiences during the Second World War. Viewed as a whole, the series offers a unique insight into lives lived on the advancing edges of war as the Germans closed in on Eastern Europe and North Africa. Moreover, it also provides an acutely perceptive portrait of the early years of a fraught marriage unfolding against the backdrop of displacement and uncertainty. In these books, we meet Guy and Harriet Pringle as they embark on married life, firstly in Bucharest, where Guy is employed by the British Council as a University lecturer, then in Athens, and finally in Cairo, where he initially finds himself sidelined with fewer opportunities to put his teaching skills to good use. The Pringles are, of course, based on Manning and her husband, Reggie Smith, and the fictional couple’s movements across the Balkans and the Levant mirror those of the author and Smith.

While this post covers books two (The Battle Lost and Won) and three (The Sum of Things) in The Levant Trilogy, I’m going to keep major plot developments to a minimum to avoid spoilers. Instead, this piece is more about the characters, along with some thoughts on Manning’s themes. (I wrote about the first Levant book, The Danger Tree, back in January; so, if you need a refresher, just click on the link.)

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As The Danger Tree ends, the Pringles are still in Cairo, but their marriage appears to be in more trouble than ever, with Guy continuing to put the emotional needs of his friends, acquaintances and students ahead of Harriet’s. Meanwhile, Guy wonders if Harriet would be better off in England, particularly as her physical health seems to be suffering in Egypt.

Developments come thick and fast in these novels, taking in adulterous affairs, chance encounters, dramatic separations, numerous close shaves, a murder in the ex-pat community, severe fevers that sometimes end in tragedy, and death in the desert conflict. At one point, a character is declared missing (presumed drowned) following a tragedy at sea, but to say any more would be a spoiler, I think.

While the Pringles remain the beating heart of Manning’s trilogies, we see less of Guy in books two and three of the Levant than in earlier instalments of the series, partly because Guy’s insensitivity over a personal matter prompts Harriet to strike out on her own. 

Dissatisfaction – chiefly Harriet’s – was eroding the Pringles’ marriage. Harriet had not enough to do, Guy too much. Feeling a need to justify his civilian status, he worked outside of normal hours at the Institute, organizing lectures, entertainments for troops and any other activity that could give him a sense of purpose. Harriet saw in his tireless bustle an attempt to escape a situation that did not exist. Even had he been free to join the army, his short sight would have failed him. He thought himself into guilt in order to justify his exertions, and his exertions saved him from facing obnoxious realities. (p. 241)

Harriet’s spur-of-the-moment travels take her to Syria and Palestine, where she demonstrates impressive levels of independence on limited resources while also seeing more of the Levant. Meanwhile, Guy continues to be Guy, throwing himself into his work, partly as a means of justifying his existence. (Again, it’s tempting to say more about the Pringles, but I’ll leave it there to avoid spoilers.)

Manning is especially adept at capturing the social circles in which Harriet and Guy move, including Dobson, the British Embassy official with a comfortable Garden City flat which becomes home to the Pringles, and Edwina Little, a bright young thing with a string of eligible suitors at her fingertips. In truth, Edwina is something of a gold-digger, setting her cap at Peter, an Irish peer stationed in Egypt with the army.

Perhaps sharpest of all is Manning’s portrayal of the wealthy and rather louche British ex-pats determined to carry on dining and drinking in the best restaurants in Cairo, irrespective of the war. Lady Angela Hooper, a good friend of Harriet’s, is a case in point. To the Pringles’ initial surprise. Angela begins a passionate affair with Bill Castlebar, a married poet and lecturer colleague of Guy’s. However, with his possessive wife, Mona, stranded in England, Castlebar is uninhibited by his married status and spends most afternoons closeted together with Angela in her room at Dobson’s Embassy flat. As Harriet reflects at one point:

She had seen common-place English couples who, at home, would have tolerated each other for a lifetime, here turning into self-dramatizing figures of tragedy, bored, lax, unmoral, complaining and, in the end, abandoning the partner in hand for another who was neither better nor worse than the first. Inconstancy was so much the rule among the British residents in Cairo, the place, she thought, was like a bureau of sexual exchange. (pp. 336–337)

As ever, the sense of place here is superb. Manning excels at portraying the cultural feel of her settings, and her depictions of the different pockets of Cairo are especially vivid.

The taxis had taken them past the Esbekiyah into Clot Bey where women stood in the shadows beneath the Italianate archers. From there they passed into streets so narrow that the pedestrians moved to the walls to enable the taxis to pass. No one, it seemed, needed sleep in this part of the city. Women looked out from every doorway. It was here that the squaddies came in search of entertainment and every café was alight to entice them in. Loudspeakers, hung over entrances, gave out the endless sagas relayed by Egyptian radio, while from indoors came the blare of nickelodeons or player pianos thumping out popular songs. (p. 230)

Of all the characters in this trilogy, Simon Boulderstone is the one who grows and develops the most over the course of the story. After arriving in Egypt as a new junior officer barely out of his teens, Simon must cope with the senseless loss of his brother, Hugo, who bled to death in the desert. Despite his recent marriage, Simon gives little thought to his new wife while in Egypt. (In truth, they only had days together before he had to leave for the war.) Instead, his mind turns to the attractive young socialite, Edwina Little, whom he still thinks of as Hugo’s girl. Now that Hugo has been killed in action, Simon wonders if he might stand a chance with Edwina himself, especially given the family resemblance…

As Simon drove back, Edwina was still on his mind. He tried to order her away but she stayed where she was, smiling down on him from the balcony. The desert to air was a sort of anaphrodisiac and he and the other men were detached from sex, yet he could not reject the romantic enchantment of love. (p. 262)

Simon’s story is a coming-of-age of sorts, one that requires him to face emotional and physical challenges in the most trying of circumstances. However, by the end of The Levant Trilogy, he is a new man, free of the burdens that have been holding him back for months.

She [Edwina] had been a fantasy of his adolescence but now he had not only reached his majority, he was verging on maturity. He had been the younger son, Hugo’s admirer and imitator, and Edwina’s attraction had lain not only in her beauty but the fact he had believed her to be Hugo’s girl. He had wanted to be Hugo and he had wanted Hugo’s girl, but now he was on his own. And Edwina had been no more Hugo’s girl then she could be his. (p. 538)

War has changed Simon beyond his wildest expectations. Now he wishes to stay in the army, preferably in the thick of the action. After all, what else can he do? The thought of home doesn’t appeal to him anymore. He knows he would feel out of place there because too much has happened for him to go back.

Thinking of his return to a wife he had almost forgotten, Simon wondered how he would fit into a world without war. He would have to begin again, decide on an occupation, accept responsibility for his own actions. What on earth would he do for a living? He had been trained for nothing but war. (p. 357)

As this wonderfully immersive series draws to a close, there are hints that Guy might be more conscious of Harriet’s emotional needs than he was before, but in practice, one wonders if his day-to-day behaviour will ever change. (Probably not!) Nevertheless, Manning absolutely succeeds in portraying both Pringles as complex, authentic and flawed individuals – just as we all are in life. I’ve loved spending time with these characters and will miss them greatly. Both trilogies are very highly recommended, especially for readers interested in this period.

The Levant Trilogy is published by NYRB Classics in the US and by W&N in the UK; personal copy.

Through a Glass, Darkly by Helen McCloy

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The American writer Helen McCloy is completely new to me, but on the strength of this intriguing mystery, I’d be open to reading her again. First published in 1950 and recently reissued by Penguin as part of their ‘Mermaid’ series, Through a Glass, Darkly reads like a cross between a psychological thriller and a detective novel, with the latter element featuring McCloy’s serial sleuth, the psychiatrist and assistant District Attorney, Dr Basil Willing. There’s a dark, creepy feel to this tale of psychological suspense, an atmosphere made all the more unsettling by the suggestion that supernatural forces might be at play in this story of unnerving sightings at a prestigious girls’ school. In short, I liked it a lot.

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Central to the novel is Faustina Crayle, a newly appointed art teacher at Brereton, a renowned girls’ boarding school in Connecticut, New England. As the story opens, Faustina is being dismissed from her role by the school’s headmistress, Mrs Lightfoot, who refuses to give a specific reason for the teacher’s removal after five weeks. There are vague allusions to Faustina not fitting in with the school’s spirit and ways of doing things, despite the sense that her work as a tutor has not been called into question. Nevertheless, Mrs Lightfoot creates the impression that the school could be ruined if Faustina remains there as a teacher. Naturally, Faustina is upset, especially as Mrs Lightfoot refuses to provide her with a reference for any future teaching roles, leaving Faustina with limited options open to her.

When Faustina’s only friend at the school – fellow teacher, Gisela – hears about the firing, she calls upon her boyfriend, the psychiatrist and amateur sleuth, Dr Basil Willing, to help out. Having won Faustina’s trust, Basil meets Mrs Lightfoot to discuss the dismissal, a tale that involves all manner of inexplicable occurrences since Faustina’s arrival at Brereton. In short, two teenage pupils and a handful of the school’s maids claim to have seen Faustina in two different places at virtually the same time, fuelling speculation that she has a mysterious ‘double’ or ‘doppelganger’, possibly rooted in the supernatural. Faustina, too, is aware that almost everyone at the school has been treating her strangely – either avoiding her, watching her closely or appearing to be scared of her. Moreover, the hysteria is spreading as news of the disturbing events at Brereton filters through to pupils’ families. Some girls have already been removed by their parents as a protective measure, and two of the maids have left after being unnerved by Faustina’s double. Naturally, all these incidents are reflecting badly on the school, whose upstanding reputation Mrs Lightfoot is determined to preserve.

I can’t go down the upper hall after ten, when the blue night-lamp is the only light, without looking back over my shoulder and expecting to see…I don’t quite know what, but something distinctly peculiar and unpleasant. (p. 14)

As Basil examines the events at Brereton and Faustina’s personal history, further mysterious incidents come to light, touching on family secrets, confidential wills, potential murder and, of course, the possibility of a doppelganger being part of the mix.

‘You see a figure ahead of you, solid, three-dimensional, brightly coloured. Moving and obeying all the laws of optics. Its clothing and posture is vaguely familiar. You hurry toward the figure for a closer view. It turns its head and – you are looking at yourself. Or rather a perfect mirror-image of yourself only – there is no mirror. So, you know it is your double. And that frightens you, for tradition tells you that he who sees his own double is about to die…’ (p. 61)

Something McCloy does particularly well here is to invest the novel with an underlying sense of unease in which the fear of the unknown – and possibly the supernatural – seems ever-present. At one point, there is even the suggestion that the sinister doppelganger is a vision conjured up by Faustina’s subconscious mind without her conscious knowledge.

He was sure that the despair she felt was sincere. But he was also sure that, paradoxically, this despair was now blended with pleasure in a certain sense of power, as agreeable as it was unaccustomed. She had not asked for power, but now she believed it had been thrust upon her, she would have been less than human if she had not felt something more complex than unmixed horror. The horror was there, but with it were other, more subtle feelings. She could not be wholly dismayed at the idea that she, Faustina Crayle, plain, timid, and neglected, had punished with death the bold, handsome woman who scoffed at all her failings with such arrogant cruelty. (p. 110)

Telepathy is also floated as a possible explanation, especially when a tragic accident occurs at the school. To say any more would spoil things, so I’ll leave it there in terms of the plot, save to say that McCloy leaves us guessing for most of the novel until the explanation for these sinister happenings is duly revealed.

As is often the case in this type of novel, the characters are lightly sketched; nevertheless, I found them interesting and believable. McCloy also has a lovely turn of phrase, illustrated here in this description of Mrs Lightfoot.

Even at that hour she was exquisitely coiffed and dressed. She still had her air of serene authority. But something else was gone. Some inner strength of soul that had sustained her until now. It was like finding a handsome seashell, all sunset colours, brilliant glaze, intricate convolutions, then looking inside and finding the dead creature that had once made that shell for its home, now a dark, brittle thing, like a dried bean, rattling around in splendid emptiness. (pp. 164–165)

There are some wonderful pen-portraits of minor characters, too. I loved this description of Mrs Chase, whose daughter, Beth, is a pupil at the school.

Gisela looked at Mrs Chase and wondered how old she really was. The reddish brown of her hair was as patently an artifice as the tomato-red of her lips and nails, and the harsh dyes only made her skin and eyes look more faded than ever. Her tilted nose and round chin were perennially childlike, but fine threads of scar at neck and hairline explained the synthetic smoothness of her cheeks. As she played with her gloves, two square emeralds flashed on her small, gnarled hands. The hands were ten years older than the face and the voice was ten years older than the hands. (pp. 82–83)

All in all, then, Through A Glass, Darkly is an intriguing, unsettling mystery that explores the power of the subconscious mind in more ways than one. Fans of Celia Fremlin may well enjoy this one, as might readers of John Dickson Carr.

Galley Beggar Ghost Stories – The Signalman by Charles Dickens and The Old Nurse’s Story by Elizabeth Gaskell

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Back in winter 2024, the independent publisher Gallery Beggar Press issued a small bundle of ghost stories called Pocket Ghosts, comprising three beautifully produced slim volumes, each containing a classic ghost story by a well-known writer: The Signalman by Charles Dickens, The Leaf-Sweeper by Muriel Spark and The Old Nurse’s Story by Elizabeth Gaskell. While ghost stories are often associated with Christmas, these excellent, eerie tales can be enjoyed at any time of the year, especially by readers who love the genre.

I’m going to cover these stories in a couple of posts, starting today with The Signalman, which is easily the best-known of the three, and The Old Nurse’s Story, my first experience of Mrs Gaskell’s supernatural fiction, but hopefully not my last. (Thoughts on The Leaf-Sweeper will follow, probably later this year, as I’ve yet to read it.)

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The Signalman by Charles Dickens (1866)

Famously adapted for TV as part of the BBC’s Ghost Story for Christmas series, this chilling tale is thought to have been partly inspired by an accident involving a train on which Dickens was travelling in the late 19th century. The Staplehurst rail derailment in 1865 resulted in multiple fatalities and injuries, as did the Clayton Tunnel rail crash, which took place four years earlier in 1861.

In Dickens’ story, a narrator tells of his encounters with a troubled signalman, whom he visits at night in a signal box near a railway tunnel. On the second night, the signalman reveals he is haunted by strange, inexplicable occurrences – the ringing of a bell that no one else can hear and the appearance of a ghostly figure that no one else can see. On two previous occasions, these events were swiftly followed by fatal incidents in the tunnel – firstly, a horrific train crash, in which many people died, while others were seriously injured, and secondly, the sudden death of a beautiful woman, glimpsed by the signalman as she writhed in agony on the passing train. Consequently, the signalman is convinced that the bell and ghostly figure are prophecies of impending doom – eerie augurs of a forthcoming tragedy.

‘That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and heads, and something waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver, Stop! He shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here a hundred and fifty yards or more. I ran after it, and, as I went along, heard terrible screams and cries. A beautiful young lady had died instantaneously in one of the compartments, and was brought in here, and laid down on this floor between us.’ (p. 30)

With this foreshadowing groundwork in place, the reader knows that another dreadful incident will almost certainly occur, especially once the signalman reveals a recent sighting of the figure accompanied by the ringing bell. The question is, will the signalman be able to prevent another tragedy in the tunnel, or is he powerless against whatever terrifying supernatural forces are at play?

His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was the mental torture of a conscientious man, oppressed beyond endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life. (pp. 35–36)

This story feels so atmospheric, partly because Dickens infuses it with a creeping sense of dread. Alongside the haunting symbols of the bell and the spectral figure, Dickens creates an air of mystery about the narrator himself as we never really learn who he is – or indeed, how reliable he might be. One might even wonder whether he is also a phantom, especially given the mirroring between his initial greeting to the signalman and the words uttered by the ghostly figure when he appears by the tunnel. Either way, it’s a very unsettling tale, ideal for a chilly, windswept night.

So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot, that it had an earthy, deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed through it, that it struck chill to me, as if I had left the natural world. (p. 13)

The Signalman has been adapted many times, but the most famous version was written by Andrew Davies for the BBC’s Ghost Story at Christmas TV series. This excellent adaptation, starring Denholm Elliot as the titular signalman, was first broadcast in December 1976 and remains a favourite for many fans of the format.  

The Old Nurse’s Story by Elizabeth Gaskell

This spooky, suspenseful story features many of the classic elements of the best Gothic literature, from an orphaned child sent to live with a distant, elderly relative in the country, to a cold, stately manor house with a mysterious wing that remains off-limits to new arrivals.

The story is narrated by Hester, the young nanny who accompanies her charge, five-year-old Rosamond, to their new home at Furnivall Manor in the Northumberland fells. This vast, foreboding house is so close to the surrounding forest that it is at risk of being overshadowed by trees, their branches stretching out like gnarled and wizened fingers. The eerie atmosphere is enhanced by the sound of an old organ being played on stormy nights, even though the old footman, James, and his kindly wife, Dorothy, try to pass it off as the wind whistling through the trees. Meanwhile, elderly Miss Furnivall, who is virtually deaf, and her companion, Mrs Stark, eke out their days making tapestries in the drawing room, ensconced in the lonely, melancholic aura that permeates this disquieting house.

Sitting with her, working at the same great piece of tapestry, was Mrs Stark, her maid and companion, and almost as old as she was. She had lived with Miss Furnivall ever since they both were young, and now she seemed more like a friend than a servant; she looked so cold, and grey, and stony, as if she had never loved or cared for anyone; and I don’t suppose she did care for anyone, except her mistress; and, owing to the great deafness of the latter, Mrs. Stark treated her very much as if she were a child. (p. 17)

Where Gaskell really excels here is by slowly ratcheting up the suspense as her story unfolds. The house and its inhabitants are harbouring secrets, information that Hester and Rosamond are not privy to, even though the former is disturbed by various frightening occurrences. As this unnerving tale spins towards its dramatic denouement, powerful supernatural forces threaten Rosamond’s safety, prompting Hester to be on the alert for the appearance of a ghostly figure or two intent on luring the child onto the sinister fells…

I turned towards the long narrow windows, and there, sure enough, I saw a little girl, less than my Miss Rosamond – dressed all unfit to be out-of-doors such a bitter night – crying, and beating against the window-panes, as if she wanted to be let in. She seemed to sob and wail, till Miss Rosamond could bear it no longer, and was flying to the door to open it, when all of a sudden, and close upon us, the great organ peeled out so loud and thundering, it fairly made me tremble; and all the more, when I remembered me that, even in the stillness of that dead-cold weather, I had heard no sound of little battering hands upon the window-glass, although the phantom child had seemed to put forth all its force… (p. 42)

As in The Signalman, foreshadowing plays a key role in this haunting story, tapping into themes of jealousy, sibling rivalry and terrible family secrets, all cloaked in the snowy atmosphere of winter to ramp up the chilly mood.

The Galley Beggar Pocket Ghosts are still available from the publisher’s website – link here – and their stylish covers make them ideal as gifts. Highly recommended, particularly for fans of the genre.

The Stepdaughter by Caroline Blackwood

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Born into an aristocratic Anglo-Irish family, Lady Caroline Blackwood was, for many years, largely known as a socialite and muse. Her marriages to the artist Lucian Freud, the pianist Israel Citkowitz and the poet Robert Lowell were all widely reported at the time. Nevertheless, later in life, Blackwood turned her attention to writing – and with great success. Her debut novel, The Stepdaughter won the David Higham Prize for best first novel, while her second, Great Granny Webster, was shortlisted for the Booker. Last year I read and loved Blackwood’s third novel, The Fate of Mary Rose, a brilliant exploration of our collective fascination with gruesome true crimes and how sometimes we can become emotionally invested in a media story we have no personal connection to. While The Stepdaughter shares some of Mary Rose’s qualities – more specifically, its darkness and unflinching pursuit of a singular vision – it’s a book I admire rather than love; nevertheless, there is something horribly compelling about this one, even though I found it an intense and claustrophobic read.

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First published in 1976 and recently reissued by McNally Editions and Virago Press, The Stepdaughter is a short, sharp shock of a novel, a psychologically astute portrayal of resentment, self-loathing and projection as the reader bears witness to a stepmother’s unravelling and the impact of this nightmare on those who are under her care. The book is narrated by J, a married woman in her mid-thirties, who now finds herself superseded in her husband’s eyes by a younger, more beautiful lover. In  short, Arnold, a wealthy and successful international lawyer, has installed J, their four-year-old daughter, Sally Ann, and an au pair, Monique, in a luxury penthouse apartment with beautiful views of Manhattan. However, there is a catch; implicit in this set-up is the unspoken agreement that J must continue to take care of Renata, Arnold’s teenage daughter from his first marriage, as the girl’s mother has been confined to a mental institution for the past two years. Meanwhile, Arnold has moved to Paris to be with his new lover. The trouble is, J loathes Renata, whom she considers lazy, grossly overweight and unwilling to communicate. In essence, the girl is a burden and an embarrassment to her.

I find Renata very ugly. I am therefore in no way jealous of her beauty, but in other ways my attitude towards her is much too horribly like the evil stepmother of Snow White. The girl obsesses me. All the anger I should feel for Arnold I feel for Renata. If Arnold’s letter from Paris was a shock to me—the thing that I found by far the most shocking about it was that he made absolutely no mention of any future plans to remove his hefty, damaged daughter from under my roof. Is Arnold going insane? Or is he being very cunning? Does Arnold really think that he can leave this fat neurotic girl in my apartment just as if she was some inanimate object like an umbrella that he happened to leave behind? (p. 9)

The book is written as a sequence of letters to an unnamed, imaginary recipient, which J duly composes in her head. None of these letters will ever be sent; rather, they simply exist in J’s mind.

As this fractured narrative unfolds, we see how J is projecting all her self-loathing and disgust at Armold’s behaviour onto Renata. Monique and Sally Ann are also on the receiving end of some of J’s contempt, but it is Renata who must bear the brunt.

She [Renata] had the pathos of those hopelessly flawed objects which one often sees being put up for sale in junk shops. She gave the immediate impression of having something vitally important missing. She reminded me of some tea-pot with a missing spout, a compass that had lost its hands, an old-fashioned record that had had all its grooves badly scratched. She had a tense, half- apologetic, half-defiant expression on her face, which made one think that she herself felt that she had some kind of vital deficiency which made it unlikely that anyone would ever want her. The thing that Renata lacked so painfully was the very smallest grain of either physical or personal charm. (p. 12)

There are signs too that J resents Renata for not embodying or showing any interest in the socially acceptable conventions of femininity – a standpoint that seems to signal some of J’s own prejudices or insecurities about being dumped by Arnold. J finds Renata ugly, frumpy and hopelessly pathetic, a sort of grotesque, all-consuming monster who has invaded her home.

…one starts to loathe her for imposing this unvoiced and unwelcome pressure. By being so shy and vulnerable and giving out such a strong feeling of being hopelessly damaged, she invites a kind of cruelty. Renata’s problem seem so insoluble that one starts to feel such a fierce impatience with her that although I hate to admit it one often has a longing to try to damage her even more. (p. 18)

In reality, all Renata wants to do is to make instant cakes from packet mixes, which she then voraciously consumes without offering any to J, Monique or Sally Ann. Another annoying habit is Renata’s excessive use of toilet paper, which often clogs up the apartment’s loo to the point where the plumber must make regular visit to the flat to unblock the system. Meanwhile, J does nothing but sit around in her exquisitely furnished ‘human torture chamber’, staring blankly out of the apartment windows. It’s all very maddening as J reveals in her missives, which effectively act as an outlet for her furious thoughts.

Yours in a state of impotent, almost inexpressible, anger,

J. (p. 75)

While J appreciates that Renata may have been damaged by previous emotional turmoil, particularly given what has happened to her mother, J resents the implicit assumption that she who should be the one to support Arnold’s child.

If Renata can manage to irritate and upset me to a point that I feel quite unhinged by my disgust for my own lack of generosity towards her—the girl is bound to have a much deeper disruptive emotional effect upon Arnold. She comes from his ugly past—this ugly, untalented adolescent, whom no one wants, particularly her father. Renata does not come from my past. I see her as something even worse than my past: she is not only my present, she is also my future. That is why I find her presence in my apartment so intolerable. (pp. 28-29)

Everything we are presented with in the first half of this novella is filtered through the fractured lens of J’s resentful feelings towards Renata. By the midpoint, however, J comes to a decision about Renata’s future, and in the discussions that duly follow, a revelation comes to light which alters J’s view of the girl and Arnold’s decision to leave her in J’s care.

I am only now starting to grasp the fact that, in some complicated way, Arnold is oddly fond of Renata. Something in this unloved and down-trodden girl seems to bring out something protective in this man whom I can only see as fiercely unprotective and uncaring. (p. 80)

We also hear from Renata herself, which proves to be a breath of fresh air after the suffocating atmosphere of the previous section.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, there is no neat resolution in store here, but we do see a different, more human side of J’s character as the novel speeds towards its unsettling end.  

In some respects, The Stepdaughter is a domestic horror story, on paper the kind of psychological takedown of stereotypical images of motherhood and domesticity that fans of Shirley Jackson or Patricia Highsmith might enjoy; but in truth, I found it too intense and claustrophobic for my taste. A novella I respected for its skill but didn’t particularly enjoy despite the excellent writing and flashes of mordant humour. One of those books that might be best appreciated from a distance.

The Stepdaughter is published by McNally Editions and Virago Press; personal copy, which I read for Cathy’s Reading Ireland Month.

The Barracks by John McGahern

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First published in 1963, The Barracks was John McGahern’s debut novel, written when he was in his late twenties. Now considered one of Ireland’s greatest authors, McGahern wrote about a world he knew very well, with The Barracks drawing on various experiences from his own childhood – particularly the early death of his mother, Susan, from cancer in 1944 and the years he spent living in the Cootehall Garda Barracks where his father, Frank, a Police sergeant, lived and worked. It’s a sad, beautifully observed novel that delves deep into character, which on paper ought to have been literary catnip for me; but in this instance, something stopped me from loving it as much as McGahern’s masterpiece, Amongst Women. Then again, maybe my expectations were unfairly high.

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The Barracks revolves around Elizabeth, a housewife in her early forties who lives with her husband, Reegan, a sergeant in the Garda, and his three young children from a previous marriage. Once a nurse with a busy, independent life in London during the turmoil and uncertainty of the Blitz, Elizabeth has now settled for a quieter existence, one dictated by various domestic routines at the Garda barracks in rural Ireland where Reegan is based. Her family hadn’t wanted her to marry Reegan, a man they considered somewhat diffident and prone to flashes of temper, but Elizabeth was ready for a life of her own choosing, away from London and the painful memories it evoked.

She married Reegan. She was determined to grasp at a life of her own desiring, no longer content to drag through with her repetitive days, neither happy nor unhappy, merely passing them in the wearying spirit of service; and the more the calls of duty tried to tie her down to this life the more intolerably burdensome it became. (pp. 15–16)

The marriage is one of companionship, security and mutual dependency rather than love or desire. Nevertheless, Elizabeth seems resigned to this arrangement, finding solace in her contributions to the smooth running of the household and her familiar domestic routines.

…had she married Reegan because she had been simply sick of living at the time and forced to create some illusion of happiness about him so that she might be able to go on? She’d no child of her own now. She’d achieved no intimacy with Reegan. He was growing more and more restless. He, too, was sick, sick of authority and the police, sick of obeying orders, threatening to break up this life of theirs in the barracks, but did it matter so much now? Did it matter where they went, whether one thing happened more than another? It seemed to matter less and less. An hour ago she’d been on the brink of collapse and if she finally collapsed did anything matter? (pp. 49–50)

Early in the novel, it becomes clear that Elizabeth is likely living with undiagnosed breast cancer. She has found lumps in her breast but has done nothing to seek assistance from the doctor despite her earlier training as a nurse. Instead, she tries to focus on the myriad of small daily tasks that must be carried out to keep the household ticking along. Any spare time would only be filled by worries about her condition, and the thought of spiralling downwards is too frightening to bear.

This’d be the only time of the day she might get some grip and vision on the desperate activity of her life. She was Elizabeth Reegan: a woman in her forties: sitting in a chair with a book from the council library in her hand that she hadn’t opened: watching certain things like the sewing-machine and the vase of daffodils and a circle still white with frost under the shade of the sycamore tree between the house and the river: alive in this barrack kitchen, with Casey down in the dayroom: with a little time to herself before she’d have to get another meal ready: with a life on her hands that was losing the last vestiges of its purpose and meaning: with hard cysts within her breast she feared were cancer… (p. 49)

With her strength failing with every passing day, Elizabeth knows the time has come to face up to her condition by seeing the unit’s doctor – a task she has been delaying for fear of the probable diagnosis. (We are in 1950s Ireland here, a time when cancer was rarely discussed publicly – and possibly not even privately, depending on the patient’s character. There’s also a suggestion here that Elizabeth might not even be told that she has cancer, that maybe this fact will be withheld from her or shared only with Reegan, such was the conservative nature of Irish society back then.)

She knew she must see a doctor, but she’d known that months before, and she had done nothing. (…)

What the doctor would do was simple. He’d send her for a biopsy. She might be told the truth or she might not when they got the result back, depending on them and on herself. If she had cancer she’d be sent for treatment. She had been a nurse. She had no illusions about what would happen. (p. 34)

Essentially, the novel follows the Reegan family as they pussyfoot around this crisis. Elizabeth knows she is dying, a realisation that inevitably prompts reflection and the raking over of past regrets, of lives that might have been lived but were never realised.

What was her life? Was she ready to cry halt and leave? Had it achieved anything or been given any meaning? She was no more ready to die now than she had been twenty years ago. (p. 85)

Central to the novel is the question of whether Elizabeth has lived a meaningful and fulfilling life. In some respects, she has been dying inside long before the breast cancer started to destroy her physical strength and resilience. Her life at the barracks is mundane and narrow, a world away from the excitement she once experienced in London with her former lover, Michael Halliday, the dashing doctor she met through her work at the hospital. Despite being somewhat fickle, Michael broadened Elizabeth’s cultural horizons by giving her books and taking her to plays at the theatre. How might her life have turned out had their relationship been more stable? Would it have been more pleasurable, more fulfilling than the one she has experienced with Reegan? Sadly though, for various reasons that McGahern duly reveals, this affair with Michael was torrid and painfully short-lived.

He [Halliday] had changed everything in her life and solved nothing: the first rush of the excitement of discovery, and then the failure of love, contempt changing to self-contempt and final destruction, its futile ashes left in her own hands. (p. 209)

Meanwhile, Reegan is embroiled in his own longstanding battle at work, which McGahern depicts with a strong sense of authenticity. A former leader in the Irish War of Independence, Reegan is frustrated by the futile regulations he must conform to as a Garda sergeant, and an ongoing feud with Superintendent Quirke leaves him feeling bitter and resentful. In truth, Reegan would like nothing more than to tell Quirke where he can stick his routine patrols and duty logs as he dreams of saving enough money to buy a local farm. A side hustle of selling turf from the nearby bog consumes much of his spare time, but one wonders whether it’s a convenient excuse to break free from the constraints of the barracks.

Where this quietly devastating novel really excels though is in its portrayal of Elizabeth’s inner world as she struggles with her illness. While the book is written in the third person, McGahern holds us close to Elizabeth’s viewpoint – a noteworthy achievement for a male writer in his late twenties, especially with a debut novel of this nature. This is a world in which emotions are kept under wraps, where no one seems able to openly acknowledge that Elizabeth is terminally ill. McGahern also pays great attention to the daily rhythms and rituals of life in this close community: the importance of church and family, the devotion to prayer; the small gestures of friends and neighbours when Elizabeth’s illness becomes known; everything here is so well observed.

They came before Elizabeth had her packing finished, all the policemen’s wives, Mrs. Casey and Mrs Brennan and Mrs Mullins. They were excited, the intolerable vacuum of their own lives filled with speculation about the drama they already saw circling about this new wound. (p. 106)

Alongside the characterisation, there is some lovely descriptive writing here, capturing the small moments of beauty in Elizabeth’s world.

The whiteness was burning rapidly off the fields outside, brilliant and glittering on the short grass as it vanished; and the daffodils that yesterday she had arranged in the white vase on the sill were a wonder of yellowness in the sunshine, the heads massed together above the cold green stems disappearing into the mouth of the vase. (pp. 48–49)

Even though I didn’t find The Barracks quite as engaging or enjoyable as Amongst Women, it’s still a very accomplished novel. McGahern’s insights into coming to terms with death are especially perceptive, as are his portrayals of small-town life in rural Ireland at this time, replete with the burden these characters seem destined to bear. Recommended, especially for fans of William Trevor, Claire Keegan and Colm Tóibín. (I read this book for Cathy’s Reading Ireland event, which runs throughout March.)

Tea on Sunday by Lettice Cooper

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While the British novelist and campaigner Lettice Cooper is probably best known for her literary novels, such as National Provincial (1938) and The New House (1936), both in print with Persephone Books, she also wrote some mysteries featuring DCI Corby, of which this is one. Recently republished by the British Library as part of their excellent Crime Classics series, Tea on Sunday is a very enjoyable ‘closed circle’ style vintage mystery in which the focus is very much on ‘whodunnit’ – i.e. the characters, their backstories and links to the murder victim – rather than ‘howdunnit’, i.e. the mechanics of the crime. The novel was first published in 1973; however, as series consultant Martin Edward points out in his introduction, it has the feel of a mystery from an earlier age – ideally suited to the BLCC imprint, which spotlights novels from the Golden Age of Crime.

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Tea on Sunday opens with a brief prologue, in which Alberta Mansbridge, a lady of a certain age, is preparing to welcome eight guests to her London home for a tea party one Sunday afternoon. As she sets the cups on the tea tray, Alberta reflects briefly on her life, touching on some of the guests expected at 4pm. Nevertheless, at 3.30pm, the buzzer on her intercom can be heard, and it is clear from Alberta’s response that one of her guests has arrived early…

The novel then cuts to just after 4pm, when Alberta’s nephew, Anthony Seldon, arrives at his aunt’s house to find the other guests huddled around the doorstep, keen to escape the snowy weather. The trouble is, Alberta isn’t answering her doorbell despite repeated rings; even a phone call from a nearby kiosk fails to rouse her. Fearing a fall or accident of some kind, the guests contact the police, who break in to find Alberta’s dead body sitting at the desk.

The police quickly identify the cause of death as strangulation, but there are no signs of a break-in, pointing to the belief that Alberta must have known her killer (or had a good enough reason to admit them to the house that afternoon). The time of death is identified as sometime between 3 and 4pm, making it likely that one of the tea party guests had arrived early, swiftly committed the murder, then disappeared before the others turned up. The challenge facing DCI Corby and his colleague, Sergeant Newstead, is to establish which of the guests is the guilty party, a quest that involves some dogged detective work into Alberta’s history and her connections to each of the suspects.

The tea party guests are an interesting bunch, and Cooper spends some fruitful time fleshing out their personalities as the story unfolds. Corby’s interviews with each guest are especially illuminating here, providing valuable insights into each suspect’s relationship with Alberta and their thoughts on her attitudes to life. Firstly, there is Alberta’s nephew, Anthony, whom Alberta seemed to like despite his lack of interest in helping with the Mansbridge family business in Yorkshire. Alberta had a controlling share in the company and often visited the works, which now need urgent modernisation to survive. At present, Anthony is drifting somewhat, working as a sales assistant in a fashionable London boutique, but his heart isn’t it. He’s also troubled by the volatile nature of his marriage to Lisa, a flighty, plain-speaking glamour model whom Alberta disliked intensely. Anthony and Lisa travelled separately to the tea party and are therefore unable to confirm each other’s movements during the crucial period in question.

Then there is Myra Heseltine, Alberta’s former housemate until the pair fell out during the summer. Today’s tea party would have been their first meeting since that fateful quarrel when Myra moved out of Alberta’s home. Also attending are Alberta’s doctor, Ewan Musgrove, now happily married to his second wife; nevertheless, Corby can tell he is deeply troubled about something – what, though, is another matter. Two of Alberta’s business colleagues are also among the guests: Russell Holdsworth, a London-based businessman who manages the finances of the orphanage Alberta’s father established in Yorkshire, and John Armistead, Managing Director of the Mansbridge family firm. Rounding out the group are two of Alberta’s dubious ‘protégés’, Barry Slater, a coarse ex-convict whom Alberta had met during her work as a prison visitor, and Marcello, a smooth-talking Italian with plans to set up an industrial design business. Alberta was financing both of these men to various extents, much to the disdain of some of her friends and family, who thought she was being too liberal with her generosity. In many respects, Alberta was a sharp, uncompromising businesswoman, but her support for these chancers was something of an Achilles heel.

If they had given him [Corby] nothing significant about themselves they had given him a fairly full picture of Alberta Mansbridge. She was, they all agreed, a woman who could be irritating sometimes, but whom nobody would want to murder. But somebody had wanted to murder her—from fear of something she knew? For something they hoped to inherit? It would be necessary to find out about her will and their circumstances. Or was the reason further back in the past, in that early life in Yorkshire that had been dominated by Albert Mansbridge? (p. 106)

At first, Corby’s interviews with each suspect yield few clues, but gradually, various loose ends and points worthy of further investigation begin to emerge. Both Anthony Seldon and Myra Heseltine stand to gain substantially from Alberta’s will, but would this have been enough of a motive for either of them to commit murder? Corby is not entirely sure based on his assessment of their characters. Meanwhile, the state of Alberta’s business affairs certainly warrants a closer look, taking Corby to Yorkshire to rake over the victim’s past. As the Corby’s investigations begin to bear fruit, a clearer picture emerges, but to say any more would be a spoiler, I think.

In summary, then, Tea on Sunday is a very enjoyable vintage mystery featuring interesting, well-crafted characters and a believable solution to the crime. Cooper clearly knows how to flesh out a convincing character portrait without resorting to stock stereotypes or cliches. Anthony Seldon and his glamorous but rather fickle wife, Lisa, are excellent value in this respect, bringing moments of wry humour to the mix.

He {Anthony] had at the moment a job in a men’s boutique in Kensington. In his spare time he was writing a play, or had been until he married Lisa last April, since when he had been living in a whirlpool which hardly allowed him to breathe, let alone write. It was a dead failure, their marriage, a mistake; it couldn’t possibly last and he would be glad to be out of it—only the rest of life would be so horribly dull without her. (p. 27)

DCI Cosby is also very engaging, a thoughtful and humane detective with a sharp eye for detail – his discussions with Sergeant Newstead are a pleasure to read.

‘What did you make of Miss Heseltine?’

‘She seemed to be very upset; very jumpy, and trying not to show it.’

‘More jumpy, do you think, than that kind of woman would be after the sudden shock of losing her great friend?’

‘She’d quarrelled with her.’

‘I don’t think that would make losing her any easier. Rather otherwise, perhaps.’ (pp. 51-52)

All in all, another excellent addition to the British Library Crime Classics series, which continues to showcase these lesser-known mysteries.

(My thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy which I read for Karen’s #ReadIndies.)

Freezing Point by Anders Bodelsen (tr. Joan Tate)

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First published in Danish in 1969, Freezing Point is another thrilling entry in the Faber Editions series, an expertly curated selection of rediscovered gems dedicated to showcasing radical literary voices from the past that still speak to us today. Bodelsen made his mark with crime novels, including Think of a Number (1968), which was adapted for the screen as The Silent Partner, featuring Elliott Gould and Susannah York. In 1969, he took a bit of a departure with Freezing Point, a chilling dystopian nightmare shot through with absurdist, deadpan humour. The novella takes place at three different points in time: 1973 (which would have been the near future back then), 1995 and 2022. Reading this novella today makes many of its themes seem eerily prescient, but more of that later as we get into the story. In the meantime, it’s another knockout read from Faber Editions, an imprint that continues to go from strength to strength.  

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Freezing Point revolves around Bruno, a thirty-two-year-old fiction editor who works for a weekly magazine. Bruno, who is single, has various authors on his books, and one of his main roles is to feed them ideas for stories which he can then edit and place in the magazine, assuming they are good enough to feature.

One morning in 1973, Bruno discovers a strange lump on his neck, which a biopsy confirms is malignant. Unfortunately, the cancer is incurable as it has already spread to Bruno’s liver; however, he is offered a tantalising opportunity by his physician. Recent developments in cryogenics mean that Bruno can choose to be ‘frozen down’ until such time when his cancer can be cured – maybe in twenty or thirty years’ time – or he can make the most of the few months that remain. It’s still early days for the freezing technology, and while Bruno wouldn’t be the first person to be frozen down, he’d still be something of a guinea pig for the new process. His single status and lack of close family make his participation in the experiment as simple as possible. Moreover, the researchers will cover all of Bruno’s expenses for the treatment, including the cost of storing his possessions until he is defrosted.

With the alternative being certain death within months, Bruno opts to be frozen down until a cure for his cancer can be found. But before the freezing procedure takes place, he has a one-night stand with Jenny Hollander, a lonely young ballet dancer he recently met at a dinner party, probably as a final fling. This initial section of the novella ends with Bruno being put under; then we fast-forward to 1995, when the time has come for our protagonist to be revived…

When Bruno is defrosted, his chronological age is fifty-four, but his biological age (the most important one in this new world) is still thirty-two, just as it was in 1973 when he was frozen down.

The defrosting process is bewildering and stressful for Bruno, giving rise to many questions, especially as all he can see is the inside of a hospital room and the limited view from its window. Why, for instance, is it sunny every day followed by rainfall at night? Why are there so few cars on the road? And what do those signs on nearby buildings mean? Slogans such as ONE-LIFE CO.; NOW-LIFE; and NATURAL LIFE–NATURAL DEATH? If he’s going to continue working as an editor, he really needs to understand the world around him…

Meanwhile, doctors and nurses maintain strict control over Bruno’s exposure to various elements, from his physical environment, medication and food to stimulants such as books, conversation and sex. Moreover, the medics have Bruno under constant surveillance via a camera in the ceiling of his room, monitoring his every movement for signs of stress.

Understandably, all this proves rather frustrating and frightening for Bruno, not least when he discovers that he’s been sterilised as a precautionary measure – a necessary step to arrest growth in the population, now that so many individuals are opting to live longer! Bruno’s kidneys were also ‘borrowed’ while he was under, a development that Bodelsen reveals in a deadpan tone, highlighting the absurdity of this crazy new world where body autonomy is a thing of the past.

[Doctor:] “In 1982, we had a catastrophic kidney shortage.”

[Bruno:] “A what?”

“A kidney shortage, lack of kidneys in store – it was a spare part that at that time was still indispensable. A law, a law with retroactive effect, an emergency law, allowed us to borrow kidneys from patients who were down and had no use for their kidneys. We borrowed your kidneys.”

“Did I get them back?”

“You got another pair when we found ourselves in the opposite situation – we had progressed to the synthetic computerised kidney and suddenly found ourselves with a kidney surplus.” (pp. 73–74)

Bruno also learns that Jenny Hollander is currently frozen down following a major injury to her spine. It might be another twenty years before spinal transplants will be possible, much to Bruno’s dismay.

Once Bruno and other recently defrosted patients have been ‘up’ for a few days, they learn that a new class divide has emerged. In short, society now consists of two classes: firstly, members of the ‘now-life’ class, who accept death when their first organ gives out; and secondly, members of the ‘immortal’ or ‘all-life’ class, who work hard to pay for their immortality. New organs, ‘freezing down’ and spells in hibernation all cost money, which means the immortals must work themselves to the bone to fund these expensive treatments.

Now Bruno and other recently defrosted individuals face a life-changing decision. Do they opt for a ‘natural’ (i.e. a reduced) lifespan of leisure in return for mortgaging their organs, thus keeping the immortals stocked with new hearts and other vital kit? Or do they choose immortality and accept an indefinite lifetime of hard work?  It’s the only way to pay for the organ transplants, recalcification treatments and ‘freezing down’ periods which will extend their existence forever.

There are other considerations, too. Technology is advancing at such a pace that synthetically manufactured organs are starting to replace ‘organically’ harvested equivalents, meaning the potential for now-lifers to subsidise their leisurely lifestyles is starting to fall. At some point in the future, immortality might be the only viable option.

According to another recently defrosted man Bruno meets at the medical facility, this nightmarish new society is already starting to crumble.

“…They’ve been so busy with their immortality that they haven’t had time to work at anything else at all. The whole thing’s disintegrating. And now they’re going to produce synthetic spare organs and there’ll be no use for now-life people any longer. And then there’ll be a to-do, believe me.” (p. 91)

While the freezing down process stops the decay of most organs, the brain cells continue to age naturally, leading to problems with senility in otherwise youthful individuals. It’s possible that a solution to this mental degeneration might be found in the future, but for now, the decay remains an issue. Severe depression is also rife, especially amongst the recently defrosted, as they try to come to terms with the new world order and the choices they must make.

At first, the doctors attempt to get Bruno to play along. As he was one of the initial guinea pigs for the freezing down process, all his treatments have been financed by the researchers. In effect, his life has been extended for free, so now he ‘owes’ society something in return. However, Bruno’s depression, his rebellion against being confined and his overwhelming desire to see Jenny again are so strong that the doctors finally agree to another period of freezing down. If all goes well, he will be frozen until such time as Jenny can be equipped with a brand-new spine.

So, in part three, the novel fast-forwards to 2022, when Bruno and Jenny can be simultaneously defrosted and reunited. However, rather than this being the panacea that Bruno has been hoping for, new, more complex issues swiftly intervene…

He kissed her again and it really did seem as if he were kissing a doll. They had done something to her, or she must always have been like that. Did he know her at all, or had she just been his pretext for going through with two freezings – his pretext for demanding his eternity? Had they made him into a doll too? (p. 172)

One of the most impressive things about this novella is the chilling, claustrophobic atmosphere Bodelsen creates while keeping most of the action focused within the walls of Bruno’s hospital room. This sense of confinement adds greatly to the novella’s sinister mood. As the story unfolds, Bruno and others begin to rebel against the system that is trapping them. For instance, Bruno keeps asking if he can see copies of weekly magazines, partly to check that they still exist; but despite being told that this will happen ‘soon’, these magazines never appear. Other key information is also withheld from view, only to be glimpsed through the window of his room or passed on through hearsay. There are signs of agitators demonstrating outside the facility, and at one point, a break-in occurs, but the true nature of the external world is never explicitly revealed. Naturally, this allows the reader’s imagination to come into play, filling that void with all manner of nightmarish scenarios and uncertainties.

Moreover, the novella nails the sense that everything pleasurable about life has been stripped away, especially for the immortals / all-life class. What is the point in living forever if one has to work incessantly and adopt an obsessively healthy regime to pay for it all? I couldn’t help but think of all those manic fitness gurus on TikTok who advocate extreme fasting, clean living, daily journalling and punishing fitness regimes to maintain the perfect body and mind. Where is the joy in that? It’s nowhere to be seen. While many of the world’s ‘problems’, such as variations in the weather, seem to have been solved, Bruno longs for the spontaneity and pleasures of his former life, one with rain, flowers, cigarettes, books, music and delicious meals – food that looks and tastes like real food, not the squishy cubes of carefully controlled body fuel and drugs he is given now.

Bodelsen also anticipates various technological and societal developments that are either imminent or have actually taken place since the novel was published in 1969. For instance, the introduction of driverless electric cars, the proliferation of wall-sized TVs, the decline of print media (particularly weekly magazines) and society’s obsession with living longer and looking younger.

The problem with automatic cars and wall-sized television is that the need for both is minimal. The all-life class is too busy earning money for their all-life and their various freezing downs to be able to invest in such things. And the now-life people are only interested in euphoria and other means of forgetting that one day they will die. (pp. 107–108)

Ongoing monitoring systems which automatically administer personalised medicines are also in existence in the novella’s 2022 timeline. The challenge of preventing dementia, or at least arresting its progression, is another pertinent issue which Bodelsen hints at, predicting perhaps one of the biggest challenges of our times.

As this excellent, thought-provoking novella draws to a close, Bodelsen reveals the true horror of a world where immortality seems to be the only option. It’s a terrifying, nightmarish finish to a thoroughly absorbing story. Very highly recommended indeed, especially to readers with an interest in dystopian fiction. Fans of Sven Holm’s Termush, also published by Faber Editions, would likely appreciate this one!

(My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy, which I read for Karen’s #ReadIndies.)

The Empusium by Olga Tokarczuk (tr. Antonia Lloyd-Jones)

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Inspired by Thomas Mann’s 1924 novel The Magic Mountain, which explores various philosophical ideas and the nature of European society in the run-up to the First World War, The Empusium is Olga Tokarczuk’s sly, clever and erudite response – a health resort horror story in which the true horrors are the misogynistic views of men, central to received wisdom and intellectual thinking at that time. It’s a dense, beautifully written novel that requires patience and concentration from readers, but the rewards are plentiful for those who persist. I found it oddly gripping and unsettling, the sort of book that really gets under your skin.

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Tokarczuk’s main protagonist is Mieczysław Wojnicz, a young Polish student who travels to a health resort in the Silesian mountains in 1913 to seek treatment for his tuberculosis. The village of Göbersdorf is shielded from winds by the surrounding mountains, and this atmosphere, enhanced by a large underground lake, makes the valley air rich in oxygen. In other words, it’s the ideal location for those seeking relief from severe lung conditions.

Right from the start, Tokarczuk invests her story with an unsettling feel, a Gothic-like atmosphere that hints at the sinister developments to come.

But Wojnicz can see nothing beyond a dense wall of darkness that is heedlessly breaking free of the mountainsides in whole sheets. Once his eyes have grown used to it, a viaduct suddenly looms before them, under which they drive into a village; beyond it, the vast bulk of a red brick edifice comes into sight, followed by other smaller buildings, a street, and even two gas lamps. The brick edifice proves colossal as it emerges from the darkness, and the motion of the vehicle picks out rows of illuminated windows. The light in them is dingy yellow. Wojnicz cannot tear his eyes from this sudden, triumphal vision, and he looks back at it for a long time, until it sinks into the darkness like a huge steamship. (p. 18)

Like many other men under the care of the Kurhaus sanatorium, Wojnicz is staying at the nearby Guesthouse for Gentlemen, where he takes his evening meals after each day’s treatments.

Shortly after Wojnicz’s arrival at the Guesthouse, the owner’s wife, Frau Opitz, hangs herself, signalling an inauspicious start to the young student’s stay in the valley . More trouble duly follows as Wojnicz gets to know the other guests, who insist on conducting philosophical discussions over drinks and dinner. Every night, the men partake of Schwärmerei, an intoxicating concoction popular in the area, and insist on debating the great issues of the day. Each member of the group has their own personal affiliations to various movements, with discussions spanning the breadth of current thinking from the benefits of democracy vs the monarchy to the political situation among the Western powers. Nevertheless, irrespective of the starting point for each debate, the men soon turn their attentions to the failings of women, whom they consider inferior beings, frequently prone to hysteria and best relegated to the margins. God forbid that these emotional creatures should ever threaten the traditional order of their patriarchal world!

‘Women are more fragile and sensitive by nature,’ he [Lukas] said, ‘which is why they’re easily inclined towards ill-considered acts.’ (p. 55)

‘…Woman is like…’ – here he [Lukas] sought the right word – ‘an evolutionary laggard. While man has gone on ahead and acquired new capabilities, woman has stayed in her old place and does not develop. That is why a woman is often socially handicapped, incapable of coping on her own, and must always be reliant on a man. She has to make an impression on him – by manipulation, by smiling. The Mona Lisa’s smile symbolizes a woman’s entire evolutionary strategy for coping with life. Which is to seduce and manipulate.’ (p. 94)

In short, these men view women as social parasites incapable of rational or intellectual thought. Willi Opitz, the guesthouse owner, has had four wives, all of whom sucked the life out of him, either through their manipulative behaviour or various other weaknesses. Nevertheless, if appropriately managed and controlled, women can be allowed to perform tasks for the benefit of their menfolk, chiefly by acting as housekeepers, cooks, nursemaids and mothers, while also providing sexual services on demand. As one member of the group puts it, men shape a woman’s identity, and the church her spiritual guidance, with the state and society dictating her purpose and acceptable roles.

(At first, I wondered where Tokarczuk, who is known for her progressive thinking, was going with all of this, but everything slots into place with the Author’s Note at the end – a crucial afterword which illuminates a key aspect of Tokarczuk’s approach! I’d love to discuss the language in more detail, but it’s too much of a spoiler, I think.)

Wojnicz, for his part, finds these misogynistic discussions somewhat tiresome, partly because his mind is preoccupied with thoughts of his own. Despite feeling the benefits of the mountain air and the Kurhaus’ treatment regime, Wojnicz cannot shake a gnawing sense of anxiety running underneath his well-ordered existence in the valley. In other words, a sense of discomfort or unease has infiltrated his soul.

He [Wojnicz] left the table with relief, unable to ward off the nasty feeling that they were isolated here, that they had landed in Göbersdorf like a unit cut off from a great army, under siege. And although there were no gun barrels in sight, or signs of the presence of devious secret agents, Wojnicz felt as if he had unwittingly ended up in a war of some kind. Who was fighting whom he had no idea… (p. 59)

One night, a fellow patient, Thilo, pulls Wojnicz into his room, warning him of sinister occurrences in the area. ‘People get murdered here’, Thilo claims, as Göbersdorf is likely cursed. Every November, a young man is mutilated in the forest, and his remains are found scattered about the woods in haphazard fashion. Local men, typically shepherds or charcoal burners, were the first to be targeted; however, in recent years, the focus has shifted to patients at the Kurhaus sanatorium. Moreover, there seems to be a strange sense of acceptance of these deaths amongst the locals, almost as if they are destined to happen on the first full moon in November. In short, it’s as if the landscape demands an annual sacrifice from the menfolk, possibly as payback for earlier crimes.

At first, Wojnicz puts these fanciful claims down to the ramblings of a severely ill and troubled man, but the more time he spends in the guesthouse, the more concerned he becomes. Strange scuffling noises can be heard from the attic, but no rational explanation is forthcoming. Moreover, on investigating the attic area above his room, Wojnicz finds a chair with leather straps attached, presumably for restraining the sitter and restricting their movements – an instrument of torture, perhaps.

As this brilliant, cleverly constructed novel unfolds, Tokarczuk draws on threads from folklore and classical myths, weaving them into the fabric of her story to create a narrative that feels at once very early 20th century while also drawing on unsettling legends from previous eras. The novel’s title is significant here, signalling a link to the Empusa (or Empousa), a shape-shifting spectre from Greek mythology – I’ll hold off from saying more about these phantoms for fear of revealing spoilers!

While misogyny and the blinkered pontifications of arrogant men are Tokarczuk’s main targets here, the novel also finds time to highlight the folly of nationalism and parochial mindsets, signalling perhaps the inevitable consequences when these ideals are pursued to the extreme.

‘The concept of “nation” does not speak to me at all. Our emperor, yours and mine, says that only “peoples” exist, nations are an invention. The paradox lies in the fact that nation states are in desperate need of other nation states – a single nation state has no raison d’être, the essence of their existence is confrontation and being different. Sooner or later, it will lead to war.’ (pp. 111–112)

In summary then, The Empusium is a sly, thought-provoking exploration of the horrors of misogyny, a novel fizzing with ideas and opposing forces, all culminating in a haunting denouement worthy of Sylvia Townsend Warner or Barbara Comyns. While Tokarczuk might not be everyone’s taste, it’s hard not to acknowledge her skill as a visionary writer capable of tackling some of the central tensions and philosophical concerns of our world, even though she might well unnerve us in the cleverest of ways. I’ll finish with a final quote, one that seems to capture the unsettling atmosphere of this brilliant novel.

For a split second Mieczysław [Wojnicz] notices an incredible phenomenon – the light of magnesium bounces off the spruce trees and firs and returns to them, briefly coating their bodies in ash; it is as if in this split second he has glimpsed beneath the jackets and pullovers not just their bare white skin, but also their bones, the shape of their skeletons; it feels as if they are standing on a stage, as if this is the overture to an opera, and the spectators in this theatre are the trees, blueberry bushes, moss-coated stones and some fluid, ill-defined presence that is moving like streams of warmer air among the mighty trunks, boughs and branches. (p. 110)

The Empusium is published by Fitzcarraldo Editions; my thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy, which I read for Karen’s Read Indies event.

Some of My Favourite Books from NYRB Classics

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One of the most interesting literary trends in recent years has been the success of various imprints specialising in reissues – lesser-known or neglected books given a new lease of life by publishers with a flair for curation. Virago Press and Persephone Books have been doing sterling work in this area for many years by focusing almost exclusively on female writers; but with Karen’s Read Indies event currently in full swing, I’d like to highlight another leading indie publisher in this sphere, NYRB Classics.

The NYRB Classics series, which began in 1999 with the publication of Richard Hughes’ A High Wind in Jamaica, now comprises over 500 titles from novels and short stories to memoirs, travel writing, literary criticism and poetry. Each title comes with an introduction or afterword from a leading writer to set the book in context. Clearly, a lot of work has gone into curating this list, which is still directed by the imprint’s founder, Edwin Frank. There are so many gems in this series that it would be impossible to mention them all, but here are some of my favourites.

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A View of the Harbour by Elizabeth Taylor (1947)

One of Taylor’s most absorbing novels, A View of the Harbour is a beautifully crafted story of the complications of life, love and family relationships, all set within a sleepy, down-at-heel harbour town a year or two after the end of World War II. It’s a wonderful ensemble piece, packed full of flawed and damaged characters who live in the kind of watchful environment where virtually everyone knows everyone else’s business. Into this community comes Bertram Hemingway, a retired Naval Officer who intends to spend his time painting the local scenery – ideally a magnificent view of the harbour which he hopes to leave behind as a memento of his visit. Slowly but surely, Bertram comes into contact with virtually all of the town’s inhabitants, affecting their lives in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Fans of Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Bookshop will likely enjoy this one!

Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbara Comyns (1950)

One of my favourite novels featuring a highly distinctive female narrator – in this case, Sophia, a young woman who is looking back on her unhappy marriage to a rather feckless artist by the name of Charles. In writing this book, Comyns has drawn heavily on experiences from her own life. It is, by all accounts, a lightly fictionalised version of her first marriage, a relationship characterised by tensions over money worries and various infidelities on her husband’s part. Sophia and Charles’ hardscrabble bohemian lifestyle and North London flat are vividly evoked. Although it took me a couple of chapters to gel with Sophia’s unassuming conversational style, I really warmed to her character, particularly as the true horror of her story became apparent – her experiences of the insensitive nature of maternity care in 1930s London were especially disturbing to read. This is a wonderful book, by turns humorous, sad, shocking and heart-warming.

The Expendable Man by Dorothy B. Hughes (1963)

If I had to pick just one of these books as a must-read NYRB Classic, The Expendable Man would probably be it. A young doctor picks up a dishevelled teenage girl on a deserted highway while driving to a family wedding in Arizona. What could possibly go wrong? Well, pretty much everything, as it turns out, in this remarkably gripping novel set in 1960s America. There’s a crucial ‘reveal’ at a certain point in the story, something that might cause you to question some of your assumptions and maybe expose a few subconscious prejudices as well. The Expendable Man was a big hit with my book group, along with another of Hughes’ novels, the equally compelling In a Lonely Place, also reissued by NYRB.  

More Was Lost by Eleanor Perényi (1946)

This remarkable memoir by the American-born writer Eleanor Perényi deserves to be much better known. In essence, More Was Lost covers the early years of Eleanor’s marriage to Zsiga Perényi, a relatively poor Hungarian baron whom she meets while visiting Europe with her parents in 1937. Following the couple’s wedding, Eleanor moves to Zsiga’s charming but dilapidated estate on the shifting borders between Hungary and Czechoslovakia. It’s a gem of a book, both charming and poignant in its depiction of a vanishing and unstable world, all but destroyed by the ravages of war. There is a sense of lives being swept up in the devastating impact of broader events as the uncertainty of the political situation in  Europe begins to escalate. By turns beautiful, illuminating, elegiac and sad, it’s the type of book that feels expansive in scope but intimate in detail.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (1962)

One of the first NYRB Classics I read, and it remains a firm favourite. Baker’s novel revolves around Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, who is heading home to her family’s ranch for her identical twin sister’s wedding, which she seems hell-bent on derailing. Cassandra is a fascinating yet very complex character – possibly one of the most complicated I have ever encountered in fiction. Yes, she’s intelligent and precise, and at times charming and loving, but she can also be domineering, manipulative, self-absorbed and cruel. Her thoughts and actions are full of contradictions, and there are instances when she tries to delude herself, possibly to avoid the truth. At heart, Cassandra is emotionally dependent on her twin, Judith, and deep down, her sister’s earlier departure to New York and imminent marriage to Jack feel like acts of betrayal. (Identity is a key theme here, particularly how it can limit our sense of self as well as define us.) And yet it’s very hard not to feel some sympathy for Cassandra despite her abominable behaviour. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

School for Love by Olivia Manning (1951)

Set in Jerusalem during the closing stages of World War II, this highly compelling coming-of-age story features a most distinctive character, quite unlike any other I’ve encountered, either in literature or in life itself. When Felix Latimater is orphaned following the death of his mother from typhoid, he is sent from Baghdad to Jerusalem to live with his late father’s adopted sister, the formidable Miss Bohun, until the war comes to an end. In Miss Bohun, Manning has created a fascinating individual who is sure to generate strong opinions either way. Is she a manipulative hypocrite, determined to seize any opportunity and exploit it for her own personal gain? Or is this woman simply deluded, acting on the belief that she is doing the morally upstanding thing in a changing and unstable world? You’ll have to read the book yourself to take a view…

Agostino by Alberto Moravia (tr. Michael F. Moore) (1944)

Another excellent novel about a young boy’s coming-of-age and loss of innocence – in this instance, the setting is an Italian seaside resort in the mid-1940s. Moravia’s protagonist is Agostino, a thirteen-year-old boy who is devoted to his widowed mother. When his mother falls into a dalliance with a handsome young man, Agostino feels uncomfortable and confused by her behaviour, emotions that quickly turn to revulsion as the summer unfolds. This short but powerful novel is full of strong, sometimes brutal imagery, with the murky, mysterious waters of the setting mirroring the cloudy undercurrent of emotions in Agostino’s mind. Ultimately, this is a story of a young boy’s transition from the innocence of boyhood to a new phase in his life. While this should be a happy and exciting time of discovery for Agostino, the summer is marked by a deep sense of pain and confusion. Another striking, evocative novella deserves to be much better known.

Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum (tr. Basil Creighton) (1929)

Set in the late 1920s, this engaging, cleverly constructed novel revolves around the experiences of six central characters as they cross parths in a Berlin hotel. There are moments of lightness and significant darkness here as Baum weaves her story together, moving from one figure to another with consummate ease – her sense of characterisation is remarkably vivid. At the centre of the novel is the idea that our lives can change direction in surprising ways through our interactions with others. We see fragments of these individuals’ lives as they come and go from the hotel. Some are on their way up and are altered for the better; others are on their way down and emerge much diminished. What appears to be chance and the luck of the draw may in fact turn out to be a case of cause and effect. In some ways, the hotel is a metaphor for life itself, complete with the great revolving door which governs our daily existence. All in all, it’s a wonderfully entertaining read.

A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr (1980)

A sublime, deeply affecting book about love, loss and the restorative power of art. Set in a small Yorkshire village in the heady summer of 1920, Carr’s novella is narrated by Tom Birkin, a young man still dealing with the effects of shell shock following the traumas of WWI. A Southerner by nature, Birkin has come to Oxgodby to restore a Medieval wall painting in the local church – much to the annoyance of the vicar, Reverend Keach, who resents the restorer’s presence in his domain. However, there is another purpose to Birkin’s visit: to find an escape or haven of sorts, an immersive distraction from the emotional scars of the past. Imbued with a strong sense of longing and nostalgia for an idyllic world, Carr’s novella also perfectly captures the ephemeral nature of time – the idea that our lives can turn on the tiniest of moments, the most fleeting of chances to be grasped before they are lost forever. In short, it’s a masterpiece in miniature, full of yearning and desire for times gone by. 

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have some favourite NYRB Classics of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments below.