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Favourite Books in Second Half of 2025

My reading slowed down in the second half of this year, as I got busy with selling and buying houses, clearing out clutter and then planning and executing an actual move abroad. My brain often felt tired from all the project management, so I found myself reaching for books that promised to be entertaining or relaxing (spoilers: they didn’t always deliver on that promise), as well as books that had been lurking forever on my Kindle, since for 3 months or so I had no access to my physical books.

In July I managed to read the graphic novel Pyongyang by Guy Delisle before I packed it away in boxes for storage, and although his mockery of the North Korean regime was perfectly justified (surreal and ridiculous as it was and still is at times), call me over-sensitive but I also detected a bit of an insensitive, patronising tone to it. Nevertheless, an interesting insight into a place few people have access to.

In August I returned to two authors who are sure bets for me. Claudia Pineiro’s Betty Boo had been on my TBR pile forever, and she does her usual great job of using a murder mystery as a pretext to examine Argentine society and politics. China Mieville always has fascinating premises for his story and his The City and the City is full of mind-bending trickery but also great social commentary, I find.

September reunited me with Javier Marias. Thus Bad Begins has a relatively straightforward plot that could have been dispensed with in a novella, but in Marias’ hands, it takes flight and I simply cannot get enough of following his acrobatic train of thought.

October was a month of contrasts: the reasonably light-hearted yet fascinating peek at China during a critical time period in Hand-Grenade Practice in Peking by Frances Wood, and a reread of the cynical, world-weary Jean Rhys and her Good Morning, Midnight. Equally hard to forget were two books about the immigrant experience: Canzone di Guerra by Daša Drndić and So Distant from My Life by Monique Ilboudo. Funnily enough, all of those books were about strangers in a strange land… just as I was settling into my new home, luckily with more joy and satisfaction than any of the above.

November meant novellas and German literature, and I tried to combine both wherever possible. I was particularly struck by The Wall Jumper by Peter Schneider, Golden Years by Arno Camenisch and Erich Kästner’s Fabian.

In December I finally finished the biography of Franz Kafka by Reiner Stach, and although I had read so many of Kafka’s letters and notebooks, although I knew so many things about him already, I was amazed not only at the detailed and thorough research (unearthing some new things about Kafka), but how moving I found the final year or so of his life, the description of his few months in Berlin and then his final weeks and death. This was probably the most memorable read of this latter half of the year, if not the entire year, for me.

I have also just started reading Chevengur by Andrei Platonov and Love Machines: How Artifical Intelligence Is Transforming Our Relationships by James Muldoon, and they both look likely to be in the ‘best of/most memorable’ category for 2025, although I might not finish them before the start of the New Year.

I can’t say I was smitten by any of the covers of the past six months, although perhaps that is reflective of the fact that I read most of the books on Kindle. I’ll do one more wrap-up for December before New Year’s Eve, and then say goodbye to a year that has been full of (exciting) changes – but also a lot of loss and heartache.

Favourite Books in First Half of 2025

It’s always tricky to attempt an annual summary and reduce it to a manageable number of books when you’ve read over 120 books during the year. I’ve tried to organise it by genre or by seasons in the past few years but I’ll keep it really simple this time and just go by first half of the year in one post, to be followed by a second half after Christmas (just in case I get to read something astounding by then).

January has always been about Japan for me, at least since Dolce Belezza started her January in Japan reading challenge. The year did not necessarily start with the best reads in that respect: I did not really appreciate Hunchback or Snakes and Earrings, but one ‘shocking’ novella that did stay with me was Astral Season, Beastly Season by Tahi Saihate. I also enjoyed the return to modern Japanese literature classics like Mishima and Kono Taeko. Finally, a return to Murakami Ryu and the discovery of new-to-me writer Kazushige Abe provided me with more memorable reading – all of them as far removed as possible from the cosy, cat-covered books or puzzle mysteries that publishers have given us in recent years.

February brought a real bout of good reading. I’d been eagerly anticipating Han Kang’s We Do Not Part and it did not disappoint: a combination of eerie, historical, heartwarming and heartbreaking that probably shouldn’t work, but does. Another book by a Nobel Prize winner, The Empusium, I also really enjoyed, although perhaps not quite as much as others by Tokarczuk. I also reread an old favourite for my personal French February reading challenge, namely Saint-Exupery and his Vol de Nuit, which was as beautiful as I remembered, and I discovered a new poet (well, new to me, as he’s been dead for nearly 100 years now): the highly experimental, surrealist Yi Sang.

March and April were largely dedicated to the International Booker longlist, and the books were mercifully shorter and more interesting/varied than the ones from the previous year. I loved the strong narrative voice and irony of There’s a Monster Behind the Door by Gaelle Belem and my personal favourite to win was Kawakami’s Under the Eye of the Big Bird (it didn’t). I was much more impressed by Murakami Haruki’s non-fiction reportage Underground than I’ve been by his last few novels, and it seemed an appropriate time to read it, thirty years after the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo metro. Another non-Booker book which really stuck with me during April was Ex-Wife by Ursual Parrott, hard to believe that it was written a hundred years ago! Last but not least, I read my first László Krasznahorkai and was absolutely charmed with the Genji reference.

You’ll be relieved to hear that there was only one truly memorable book in May (at the distance of several months now): a collection of surreal short stories by Korean author Lee Yuri entitled Broccoli Punch.

June was another great month for reading. I reread and continued to be very impressed with Small Island by Andrea Levy. I absolutely loved Jen Calleja’s memoir and manifesto about translation Fair. For a very different change of pace, I absolutely raced through the frighteningly plausible and exciting thriller The Man with a Thousand Faces by Dutch author Lex Noteboom, and was pleased to be back in the company of Ikmen and Mehmet in Barbara Nadel’s The Wooden Library (this time featuring a trip to Romania!).

So that was the first half of my year and I think what’s remarkable is that of the seventeen books I mention here, only three were written in English. And that’s not because the number of translated books have vastly outnumbered the English language books on my reading list (the proportion is probably more like half and half), but because the translated books (and the English books I enjoyed) were mostly published by small indie presses, who are the only respite from a ‘mainstream culture of dumbing down and selling out’, as this furious but accurate and funny article by Lucy Mercer describes it.

As for my favourite book covers (for the books I read during this period)? Well, this time I have to say that although several were ok, none really blew my socks off, but I am including my three favourites in this post (they’re not necessarily the covers of the editions that I was able to find and read in the UK). Am I becoming too prone to noticing fads and copycats now that I am a publisher myself?If I had to pick a winner, it would probably be There’s a Monster Behind the Door, which does a good job of conveying the atmosphere of the book while using the currently fashionable floral design.

If I had to pick a top five from the books listed above, and remembering that Top Five does not necessarily reflect quality, but degree of obsession, I would say We Do Not Part, Fair, Vol de Nuit, Underground and Yi Sang are the ones that have haunted me for the rest of the year.

#FridayFun: Christmas Markets and Lights

There are probably far too many Christmas markets all over the world now selling the same silly trinkets or woolly hats and overpriced food and drink, and I may be slightly Glühweined out after going to several here in Berlin (I don’t like the crowds either). But there are a few beautiful, atmospheric ones left – as well as inventive use of lighting.

Strasbourg and Colmar are two of the Christmas markets that still feel like a fairytale, from Strafari.

Sibiu’s food and drink are pretty good, and the backdrop is just so pretty. From Balkan Insight.

This one is also from Sibiu, from a few years ago, a tunnel of light. From Reddit.

In Berlin, it’s more about the commercial street Kurfurstendamm. From Berlin-Stadtfuehrung.de

Tokyo always goes crazy on the lights, even though they don’t really celebrate Christmas. From Go Tokyo.

In Rio it might b e summer, but this floating Christmas tree is iconic. From Travel and Tour World.

I will post my best reads of 2025 next week, but will otherwise not be online very much over the next two weeks. Wishing you all a joyous and peaceful festive season.

More ‘Happy’ People from the Weimar Era

Hermann Kesten: Glückliche Menschen (Happy People), 1931

I think the Weimar Republic years in Germany seem happy in retrospect only when we compare them with what preceded and followed them. Yes, there was a liberation from oppressive moral restrictions and standards, and prostitution and homosexuality were tolerated in places, although officially still illegal, yes, Berlin felt like the capital of intellectual and artistic effervescence (and captured the imagination of foreign writers such as Isherwood), yes, there was a great deal of partying and decadence that was pursued more openly (and democratically, across all social classes) here than in the London of the Bright Young Things or Prohibition Era New York City.

One of the famous attractions in Berlin: Dance Cafe Moka Efti (not quite as wild a palce as the one of the same name in the Babylon Berlin TV series)

But it was also a city marked by political and social unrest, and the German economy struggled even before the worldwide Great Depression. Crippling war reparations and injured egos led to hyperinflation in 1923, where people saw their lifetime savings wiped out overnight. Incidentally, this was the moment when Kafka chose to move to Berlin at last and had to move flats three times within six months because his rent was becoming too unaffordable. No wonder there was a desperate sense of ‘enjoy the day, for who knows what tomorrow might bring’. It gave birth to a great cynicism that didn’t quite believe in the temporary upsurge of 1926-28. And they were proved right, for the Great Crash in 1929 caused massive unemployment and brought the German economy once more to its knees as investors withdrew their loans.

This chaos is reflected in the literature and theatre of that period: German literature had traditionally eschewed political subjects, but this time it was no longer possible to stand aside. Brecht’s Dreigroschenoper with its bitter refrain ‘Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral’ (First comes grub, then ethics). The unrelenting bleakness of Alfred Döblin’s novel Berlin, Alexanderplatz, Hans Fallada’s Kleiner Mann, was nun? (Little Man, What Now?) or Erich Kästner’s Fabian, in all of which the protagonists struggle with unemployment, poverty and the lure of criminal activities to keep afloat. The women novelists did not avoid political and social commentary either in their novels, as Gabriele Tergit, Irmgard Keun and Vicki Baum demonstrated. And of course the acute observational journalism of Joseph Roth, or the antiwar stance of Erich Maria Remarque were hardly cheery material either.

Reading them in quick succession now, it feels like all of these authors were both describing their times and also warning that this confusion, chaos and desperation could lead to worse. As it most certainly did in Germany just a couple of years later.

So why on earth was I expecting this book by Hermann Kesten to be any different? Did I really fall for that title ‘Happy People’? The blurb was also a bit misleading: ‘Max Blattner and Else Pfleiderer are young and in love, but a lack of material means is preventing them from having a happy future together…’ I suppose I thought that unemployed Max would have some great idea and find a way to make money and prevent Else being married off to a rich businessman who promises to pay off her father’s debts. Perhaps I thought it would be a fluffy bit of escapism like Hans Fallada’s uncharacteristically sweet love story I reviewed last month.

There are indeed some farcical moments: when Else’s father catches the couple in bed, for instance, or the meeting between Max and Krummholz, the businessman her father would like her to marry. But the book starts with a dialogue between the two young people which at first sight seems comically exaggerated, but then ends up colouring the whole atmosphere of the book and foreshadows the outcome. The very first sentence is actually: ” ‘We could just kill ourselves’, she said.’ What follows, however, is the couple’s attempt to find other solutions to their predicament, solutions which involve begging, stealing, blackmail, physical violence, even reluctant attempts at prostitution. A few legal attempts at finding a job too, of course, but needless to say, these are not successful.

Yet the book ends on a supposedly cheerful note: the very last sentence is Max saying ‘We are happy people.’ But the author is cynically toying with us here: he is saying it to someone other than Else – I don’t think this book is likely to be translated into English, so this shouldn’t be too much of a spoiler. Also, the book jumps a few years into the future when he makes this statement, and the author couldn’t have known that by then very few people other than the Nazis and those who believed in them would have described themselves as ‘happy people’ in Germany.

It was a curious little work, with a head-hopping style giving us insight into several of the characters, a style that is now considered deeply unfashionable, but which reminded me very much of the cynical philosophy of the Dreigroschenoper: ‘Nur wer im Wohlstand lebt, lebt angenehm! – Only the wealthy live comfortably. – Doch die Verhältnisse, sie sind nicht so! – But circumstances do not permit it (for us to be generous and kind, or live in peace and harmony). – Die Welt ist arm, der Mensch ist schlecht. – The world is poor, and man is evil.’

In times of economic, political and social turmoil, art often becomes either completely escapist or political: perhaps this explains the cosy crime revival and cats on covers trend in books, and also films like ‘One Battle After Another’, ‘Bugonia’ and ‘Eddington’. Whether they will outlast the times they reflect remains to be seen.

#6Degrees of Separation December 2025

Ooops, I’ve been so busy hosting a friend and doing other admin stuff, that I completely forgot to take part in my favourite monthly meme, the Six Degrees of Literary Separation linkage proposed by our lovely Kate at Books Are My Favourite and Best. It’s been a week now since I should have done it, so I do apologise for the delay, but better late than never, right?

We start this month with a book that I haven’t read, Seascraper by Benjamin Wood, and, although it has been praised for its atmospheric prose, I can’t see myself reading it any time soon. However, the seascape and the description of traditional professions that seem anachronistic nowadays (plus other people’s desire for contemporary notions of fame) reminded me of Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin, partly influenced no doubt by my having watched a film adaptation of it recently.

My next link is to another Swiss author of a different ethnic origin setting a book in the country of her ancestors, this time Romania, and it’s Dana Grigorcea’s Dracula Park. Not quite as outlandish an idea as it first seems, because the proposal of a Dracula theme park has been hotly debated for a couple of decades in Romanian media.

I’ll stick to another vampire tale by a Romanian author, namely Miss Christina by Mircea Eliade, described as an erotic vampire novella. We all read it under the school benches as teenagers and giggled a little about the drama.

I’ll go with the name Cristina and feature yet another book about the supernatural in my next link, namely The Taiga Syndrome by Cristina Rivera Garza, described as Twin Peaks meets Grimm’s fairytales. I haven’t read this yet, but it’s on my TBR list, since it sounds completely fantastic and strange.

For me, the Taiga is a type of landscape in the Siberian steppes, so that provides the link to my next, far more depressing book about life in the real Taiga and the notorious Kolyma labour camps, Kolyma Tales by Varlam Shalamov, where an estimated 3 million people died, including perhaps my grandfather on my mother’s side.

But I don’t want to end this post on a sombre note, so I will find some more cheerful tales to link to, the raunchy, saucy, delightful and entertaining Canterbury Tales by Chaucer. Modern translations are available and I highly recommend these stories to everyone – a great insight into human nature, which hasn’t changed all that much since the Middle Ages.

So this month I’ve travelled from South Korea to Romania to a post-apocalyptic world, to the death camps in Siberia and to Canterbury in Kent. Where will your 6 degrees of literary links take you?

#FridayFun: Industrial Architecture in Berlin

Last week I showed you the fun palaces in the surrounding area, but one thing I really admire about Berlin is the way many former industrial sites have been repurposed, quite often as places for the general public. So, instead of focusing on the fact that this demonstrates just how much Berlin has declined in terms of industry and jobs, or that many of these sites were converted into cultural spaces only after massive protests from the local population, let’s just admire some of them.

Malzfabrik (malt factory), now an events and office space, aiming for sustainable development and natural ambience. From Tripadvisor.

Former Kindl Brewery, now a museum of contemporary art. From Berlin.de

Kulturbrauerei: 6 courtyards, 20 buildings, formerly Schultheiss Brewery, now an arts centre, museum, cinema and site of a Scandi type Christmas market. From Visit Berlin, photo credit: Nele Niederstadt.

Kühlhaus was a giant cooling house for edible goods, now a concert venue. From Rundfunk Sinfonie Orchester Berlin.

Some, such as the Osram Höfe (formerly producing lightbulbs), have been repurposed for offices and shops as in the UK but even here there are some social initiatives, a reasonably-priced gym and evening classes of various types. From Visit Berlin.

I love the very Northern Germanic archtecture of the Borsig Werke, where locomotives used to be made. There’s a shopping centre there now, a hotel, an adult learning centre and an Amazon warehouse. Photo credit: Andreas [FranzXaver] Süß

And then there are the residential areas built to house the workers of these industry giants, such as Siemensstadt, a modernist jewel and UNESCO Heritage site, designed by Hans Scharoun.

Still an interesting residential area, even today, and a nice change from all the brickwork. From Modernism in Architecture.

WWW Wednesday 3rd December

I was inspired by Joanne from Portobello Book Blog to join in this weekly meme created by Sam at Taking On a World of Words. Three quick and easy questions about our reading:

What are you currently reading?
What did you recently finish reading?
What do you think you’ll read next?

What I’m currently reading…

Far too many books at once, which is probably the reason I’ve not finished one in a while. I’m reading the definitive Kafka biography by Reiner Stauch (greatly enjoying it, but it needs to be read in short chunks, as it’s very dense). As if to compliment that, I’m also reading two books set in 1930s Berlin – one actually written and published in 1931, a love story called (ironically) Happy People by Hermann Kesten, a contemporary of Fallada and Kästner, but who has been largely forgotten and never translated, I believe. The other book, Transatlantik, is set in 1937 but written much more recently, and is of course the next one in the Gereon Rath series, which I’m now addicted to. The remaining three books I’ve barely touched in the last month: I’m trying to do a chapter by chapter reread of The Tale of Genji together with Tony Malone, but have fallen far behind. I started a book about Moldova’s experience of WW2, The End of the World Is a Train, but found it quite upsetting and so put it to one side for the time being. And I bought The Course of the Heart in Cambridge for nostalgia’s sake, but am finding myself rather bored by it.

What I just finished reading…

Ogawa Yōko’s Mina’s Matchbox – which was a bit of a disappointment compared to other works I’ve read by her: a little too pointlessly cutesy, with no real sense of menace, mystery or yearning

A Romanian novel that I’ve been asked to consider translating and pitching to publishers: it’s part historical, part fantasy, very highbrow intellectual, and I’m fascinated by it, but need to find comp titles to try and entice Anglo publishers. It would certainly be a lovely challenge to translate it!

November Summary

Time seems to have expanded somehow since I arrived in Berlin and I seem to fit so much into each day, week, month, that I sometimes wonder how much longer I can carry on like this. The answer, of course, is that I’m being very active now, while I still don’t have part-time work or other obligations to drag me down, and also to figure out just what I most enjoy doing here in my new hometown and how to organise my time best. Just like getting used to my new kitchen and to all the different spices and ingredients is going to take some time, so is the sampling of things from the Berlin taster menu.

Walks

You’ve heard all the jokes about the Germans being big on walking – and that certainly seems to be true, particularly of my friends. One of them goes on hikes on Sunday regardless of the weather and I’ve been able to join her on a couple of them, discovering beautiful landscapes (yes, flat, but with lakes and forests, enhanced by autumn foliage) around Wandlitz. On the weeks when I couldn’t join her, I explored the parks around my area: Schiller Park, Rehberge and Schäfersee, while also admiring some architectural masterpieces in social housing (dating mostly from the 1920s). Temperatures have dropped but there have still been some days with sunshine, so I’m making the most of them.

Bruno Taut was the architect who designed the Schillerpark development in the 1920s, now UNESCO World Heritage site.

Theatre, Concerts and Film

Going to the cinema five times in one month used to be unheard of! But this is not just because there are so many arts cinemas and festivals going on in Berlin -but also because it’s much easier and cheaper for me to go to cinemas all over town than having to pay a fortune to go into London on the train every time.

I’ve seen a couple of new releases which were interesting but didn’t necessarily wow me: The Mastermind and Franz K. I appreciated the intention (and cultural references) of the filmmaker in each case more than the execution and found the main actors – Josh O’Connor and Idan Weiss – to be the best thing about the respective films. I also enjoyed a Q&A with Margarethe von Trotta after the screening of her film about Rosa Luxemburg, although I wasn’t entirely won over by her portrayal of the woman (once again, very well acted by Barbara Sukowa). As part of the French Film Week, I failed to find tickets for L’Etranger by Ozon, but I did get to see another adaptation of a novel, namely Winter in Sokcho, which had a beautifully dreamy, glacial quality that captured the spirit of the book rather well. But the highlight of my filmgoing experience was seeing Metropolis on the big screen with a live orchestra. An amazing and hugely influential film anyway, but one that I’d previously only ever seen on TV.

I’ve also been to two concerts recommended via the Romanian Cultural Institute newsletter – the Târgu Mureș Symphony Orchestra with a great programme combining Romanian and Hungarian music (it’s a city with a population made up of roughly equal numbers of ethnic Romanians and Hungarians), and a chamber music concert in the Villa Elisabeth. I greatly enjoyed both of these – and even more so that I went to see them with my new-found friend Brigitte, who at the interval proceeded to take out a tupperware filled with chocolate bonbons from her bag. A very civilised way to enjoy the concert!

Two other memorable events were: the readings at the exhibition about the Romanisches Café, the meeting place of the cultural elite in Berlin in the 1920s; and the Dreigroschenoper performance at the Berliner Ensemble (the company founded by Bertolt Brecht after the war, and now situated in the building where the premiere of the Three Penny Opera had originally taken place). A very simple but effective backdrop and witty performances, in the vision of Australian theatre and opera director Barrie Kosky.

Reading

In between all my sporty activities (hip-hop classes, gym, table tennis) and bed frame building, kitchen installation, fire alarm checks, window blinds fitting, job applications and joining the organising committee of the streets clean-up operation in our neighbourhood, I’ve also managed to get some reading done. Nine books, three novellas, three normal-sized and three doorstoppers and all of them with some German connections. I obviously took my #GermanLitMonth seriously.

I did fall down a Volker Kutscher rabbit hole and devoured the massive three tomes (volumes 6-8) of the Gereon Rath series. I expect I might finish the whole series (only two more to go) by the end of the year: my little guilt-free pleasure! I was disappointed both by Doris Knecht and Yoko Ogawa (whose Memory Police I loved so much, but this had none of the poignancy of The Makioka Sisters or Setting Sun or other Japanese family sagas). The short, amusing and lesser-known works by Camenisch and Fallada were delightful, but the most memorable books were The Wall Jumper and Fabian, both of which are so dense that they will require rereading. Too late to make it into #GermanLitMonth, but I’ve just started reading another book published in 1931 and describing the chaos and poverty of the late years of the Weimar Republic, Glückliche Menschen (Happy People) by Hermann Kesten, so will report back to see how it compares.

#FridayFun: Palaces in Brandenburg Region

It’s getting a little too cold to explore all of the little (and not so little) palaces in the Brandenburg region around Berlin (and a little further afield), so I’ll start off by doing so virtually. Which of the ones below would you visit first? By appearance or by reputation/association?

Schloss Sallgast was going to be pulled down in 1989 but luckily survived the fall of the DDR. It’s now used as local council offices. From tip-berlin.de

Schloss Ribbeck is now a restaurant and also houses a museum in honour of Theodor Fontane, who wrote extensively about the local area. From tip-berlin.de

Schloss Freienwalde has had quite a tumultuous history: originally the summer residence of Friederike Luise, wife of Emperor Friedrich Wilhelm II (more of him anon), then home of industrialist and politician Walther Rathenau, Pushkin House for Soviet-German Friendship during GDR times, then a museum and event site after reunification, but put up for auction in 2019 for financial reasons. It has been acquired by the Michael Linckersdorff Foundation and is gradually being reopened for cultural events once more. From Michael-Linkersdorff-Stiftung.

The Marble Palais of Emperor Friedrich Wilhelm II was his summer residence (it wouldn’t do to share with his wife, would it?), and also the place where he died. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site. From berlin.de

Schloss Muskau is a little further away, in Saxony, The New Palace, cos there’s also an old one on the same extensive grounds. From berlin.de

Schloss Rheinsberg – this is the one I’m most eager to see because of its association with Kurt Tucholsky (it houses a Tucholsky Museum as well), but it’s also noteworthy because it served as inspiration for the more famous Sanssouci Palace. Tucholsky also wrote about a castle even further away, in Sweden, Schloss Gripsholm. From berlin.de

#GermanLitMonth: Some Easy Reads and a Modern Classic

I’ve been rather lazy and self-indulgent and, instead of following the reading themes suggested by Tony and Caroline for #GermanLitMonth, I’ve led a completely unplanned life. I’ve continued the Gereon Rath series because it was such a pleasure to have them easily available at the library, I made the mistake of spontaneously buying a book because it sounded like something I could easily identify with, and I was inspired by my visit to the Romanisches Cafe exhibition to pick up Fabian by Erich Kästner (which was already on my bookshelves).

It’s funny how in the last few months in the UK, I was less in the mood for reading and instead watched a lot of series on Netflix, while now I’m finding it hard to pay any attention to TV series and am reading instead. However, although I’ve been reading quite voraciously, I’ve been in less of a reviewing mood. Well, maybe because I have workmen coming to the house nearly every day this week… which is not entirely conducive to writing thoughtful reviews.

Doris Knecht: Eine vollständige Liste aller Dinge, die ich vergessen habe (A Comprehensive List of All the Things I’ve Forgotten), 2023

The children move out and the narrator needs to downsize. As she sorts through the various belongings and memorabilia, she looks back on her life as a daughter, sister, mother, wife and friend. She figures out how to deal with a fresh start. I got this book because I thought I’d recognise something of myself, and also because the author is Austrian and it takes place in Vienna, but to be honest it could have taken place anywhere, there was nothing very location specific. And, while there were some moments of rueful grins and nods of recognition, overall it was pretty bland. Not for a moment am I suggesting that she needs to have suddenly started an unhinged exploration of drink, drugs, rock’n’roll or her own sexuality, as seems to be the case in recent American novels dealing with middle-aged women, but I found the narrator simply not interesting enough to sustain a whole book.

Volker Kutscher: Marlow (7) and Olympia (8) in the Gereon Rath series.

The Hindenburg zeppelin above the Olympic Stadium in 1936

The books take place in 1935 and 1936 respectively. In the first, Rath has to fight against the gangland boss with whom he’d previously (somewhat reluctantly) worked in the past, and in the second, it’s all about murder in the Olympic Villagage during the notorious 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin. Although Rath grumbles all the time about the Nazis, he ends up working with them, while his wife Charly is dead set on working against them. You have to wonder why they don’t talk to each other a bit more, or how they can bear to remain married to each other with such opposing points of view. But once again the period details are fascinating, and I’m learning so much about the history of Berlin.

Olympia ends on a bit of cliffhanger, as Gereon is on board of the Hindeburg airship going to the US in May 1937… and we all know what happened to that! I guess I’ll have to read the next in the series soon, where I heard that Charly becomes the main protagonist…

Erich Kästner: Fabian (aka Going to the Dogs. The Story of a Moralist), 1931.

I have the old edition of the text, as it was published (shortened and censored) in the dying years of the Weimar Republic, and then was promptly banned with the rise to power of the National Socialists. I understand there is another edition that was published in the 2010s which shows the original uncensored version, which is far sharper, more extreme. But this one is plenty enough – and the author himself admitted that it’s not the book for the vice police, and that he exaggerated everything because it’s a satire.

Fabian is a copywriter who’s about to lose his job, who wanders around the streets of Berlin, goes to shady clubs and gets involved in some dubious activities and shows quite a bit of double standard even when he supposedly falls in love. It’s the depiction of an individual and a city in decline, and perhaps explains why the promise of ‘law and order and cleanliness and tidiness’ of the Nazis seemed so desirable to many Germans at the time. Berlin seems to be teetering on the brink of collapse, not only moral, but also economic and social. Once Fabian becomes unemployed, he finds it nearly impossible to sign on. Fabian and his friend Labude come across scenes of political violence in a bar room brawl, and it’s all tinged with an ominous note for us readers nowadays, since we know what followed.

Fabian is ultimately kind-hearted, if not always able to find the best way to express his empathy with other people, but he is of a lost generation, who witnessed the First World War. And, although he managed to escape death, there are scars: he’s not quite dead on the inside, but his experiences in the big city very nearly bring that about. And who can resist Kästner’s massive ‘I told you so’ in the foreword of the edition that was reissued after WW2?

There are some excellent reviews of Fabian among our book blogging community, notably Caroline, Lizzy’s Literary Life and Guy. A film version of it directed by Dominik Graf came out in 2021.