My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 2

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As in previous years, I’ve spread my Books of the Year across two posts. Part 1, published on Tuesday, highlighted my favourites from the first half of the reading year (roughly speaking), while Part 2 features the standout reads from the second half of 2025. Apologies, but I couldn’t bear to leave any of them out, even though it means a total of twenty-six books for the year as a whole.

So, to cut to the chase, here are my favourite reads from mid-2025 onwards, most of which were first published in the 20^th century. Alongside the titles featured in Part 1, these are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. I’ve summarised each book in this post, but in each instance, you can find my full review by clicking on the relevant title.

(Not pictured: A Land in Winter, read on audio)

Brother of the More Famous Jack by Barbara Trapido (1982)

Brother… is a coming-of-age novel, and a superb one at that, partly due to Trapido’s prose, which is sharp, lively and flecked with dry wit. Our narrator is Katherine Browne, a bright, impressionable young woman, ready to break away from her prim, suburban upbringing in North London at the age of eighteen. Happily, I found her voice utterly engaging from the start. The novel follows Katherine as she moves to London, where she is taken under the wings of her ebullient philosophy professor and his bohemian family. Love, heartache and a spell in Italy duly follow, with more heartbreak hovering on the horizon.

In summary, it’s a captivating and insightful novel about first love, heartache, disillusionment and growing up – as moving and unsentimental as it is funny and charming. Trapido also touches on motherhood, grief and depression in the narrative, weaving together wry humour and genuine poignancy to excellent effect.

Amongst Women by John McGahern (1990)

Ostensibly the story of Moran, an ageing, tyrannical father, whose wife and daughters both love and fear him, this novel can also be seen as a reflection of the deeply conservative nature of Irish society during much of the 20th century, a world dominated by stifling patriarchal power structures in which women were kept firmly in their place. Beautifully constructed in simple, unadorned prose, McGahern has written a superb character study here – a minor masterpiece with an immersive sense of place. I adored this subtle novel, which feels so well suited to fans of William Trevor, Colm Tóibín, Claire Keegan and Dierdre Madden, all of whom have an innate ability to see into the hearts and minds of their characters with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations and insecurities for the reader to see.

Palladian by Elizabeth Taylor (1947)

First published in 1946, Palladian is something of an outlier in Elizabeth Taylor’s oeuvre. On one level, it is the story of a recently orphaned eighteen-year-old girl, Cassandra Dashwood, whose headmistress finds her a position as a governess following the death of her father. Young, naive and something of a romantic, Cassandra quickly determines to fall in love with her new employer, Marion Vanbrugh, a rather closeted, effeminate widower who, in the wake of WW2, seems disconnected from the harsh realities of British life. So far, so Jane Eyre, albeit a 20th-century version.

However, beyond this initial set-up, darker preoccupations emerge. Decay, disintegration and self-destruction seem to be Taylor’s major themes here, from the crumbling façade, interiors and statues that characterise Copthorne Manor, the Vanbrugh’s jaded estate, to the self-loathing, bitterness and angst exhibited by various family members and their acquaintances. As ever with Taylor, the characterisation is sharp and insightful – from the main protagonists to the supporting players, everyone is brilliantly sketched. Interestingly, this book has really grown in my mind since I re-read it earlier this year. A surprisingly enduring novel, which demonstrates that even a ‘lesser’ Taylor is streets ahead of many other writers’ best.

A Woman by Sibilla Aleramo, 1906 (tr. Erica Segre and Simon Carnell)

What a phenomenal book this is, an autobiographical feminist novel first published in Italian in 1906, under a pseudonym due to its radical content! Touching on similar themes to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s seminal text The Yellow Wallpaper and Alba de Cespedes’ startling confessional novel Forbidden Notebook, in which a woman explores the right to her own existence in light of the demands of marriage and motherhood, Aleramo’s A Woman reads like a howl from the past, a cry of anguish for liberty, independence and intellectual fulfilment in an oppressive world.

In passionate, emotive prose, Aleramo lays bare the horrific realities of life for a young Italian woman trapped in a brutal, patriarchal society, in which a married woman is considered her husband’s property to do with as he pleases. I found it a vital, propulsive read, an early example of feminist autofiction that deserves to be widely read. Annie Ernaux fans should be rushing to pick this up!

Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang, 1943-7 (tr. Karen S. Kingsbury, 2007 & Eileen Chang, 1996)

In this insightful, exquisitely written collection of four novellas and two short stories, Chang exposes the traditional social mores at play in 1940s Shanghai and Hong Kong, complete with all the cruelties, restrictions and hypocrisies these unwritten rules dictate. Born into an aristocratic family in Shanghai in 1920, Chang was raised by her deeply traditional father, an opium addict, and her more progressive mother, a woman of ‘sophisticated…and cosmopolitan tastes’, partly developed during time spent as a student in the UK. Her family background and formative experiences enabled Chang to straddle different cultures and see the world from different angles.

In her precision, attention to detail and scalpel-like dissection of the complexities of human behaviour and social mores, Chang reminds me of Edith Wharton, another female writer whose characters often find themselves trapped between two worlds: one driven by personal needs and desires, another by societal conventions and moral codes. There are other similarities too, not least an interest in their characters’ inner lives, often closed to outside observers, but vividly alive inside. Both writers are also adept at combining psychological acuity with a strong sense of cultural place, all cloaked in precise, elegant prose. Highly recommended for fans of this style.

A Note in Music by Rosamond Lehmann (1930)

An exquisitely observed exploration of two loveless, unfulfilling marriages and the shifts in dynamics that occur when two captivating visitors enter their stagnant world. Set in an unnamed provincial town during the interwar years, A Note… features two couples, Grace and Tom Fairfax and their friends, Norah and Gerald MacKay, all of whom are discontented in their different ways. Into this troubled world comes Hugh Miller, a bright, sensitive, passionate young man who charms everyone he meets, and his sophisticated, liberated sister, Clare.

Something that Lehmann does particularly well here is to illustrate how inner lives can be altered in subtle but highly significant ways, even when outwardly everything remains broadly the same. By the end of the year, Hugh and Clare will have departed, leaving the Fairfaxes and MacKays to carry on with their lives largely as before. Nevertheless, internally, the tectonic plates have shifted, opening up new levels of understanding and appreciation between Grace & Tom – and between Norah & Gerald. Early middle age is a tricky period for many of us, a time when the optimism, rapture and ambitions of youth may have given way to routine, resignation and a lack of fulfilment. Lehmann writes beautifully about these challenges, showing us how new understandings can be reached in the present, even if the past can never be recaptured.

A Private View by Anita Brookner (1994)

This superb novel is somewhat different from Brookner’s trademark stories of unmarried women living quiet, unfulfilled lives while waiting for their unattainable lovers to make fleeting appearances before disappearing into the night. In this instance, Brookner turns her gaze towards the aptly named George Bland, a quiet, respectable, recently retired man in his mid-sixties living a dull, highly ordered existence in a comfortable London flat. In many respects, he is the male equivalent of Brookner’s archetypal spinsters – a man adrift, living a narrow life on the periphery, while all the excitement and passion seems to be taking place elsewhere.

As the novel unfolds, Brookner explores what can happen when such a life is disrupted, raising the tantalising possibility that it might veer off course. With Brookner’s A Private View, the catalyst for the potential derailment is the arrival of an alluring, infuriating young woman, who takes up residence in the flat opposite George’s. Every time I read another Brooker, I find a new favourite, and this was no exception to the trend!

The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller (2024)

A moving, elegantly crafted novel that goes deep into character, Miller’s latest takes place in the winter of 1962-63, one of the coldest British winters on record, when temperatures plummeted, blizzards swept in and rivers began to freeze over. It’s an atmospheric backdrop for this story of two marriages, in which the author gives us access to the inner world of each of his main characters – their hopes and dreams, their preoccupations and fears.

As this slow-burning novel unfolds, Miller excels at reflecting the bleak, desolate landscapes of the brittle West Country winter in the emotional isolation felt by his four protagonists – a troubled, hard-to penetrate GP and his lonely, pregnant wife, plus an ambitious, educated farmer and his flighty partner, a former dancer in a Bristol nightclub. Each figure is preoccupied and adrift in their own individual way, raising the possibility that either of these marriages could easily fracture, should the hand of fate twist one way instead of the other. It’s a beautifully written book, very much in tune with the 20th-century writers I love.

The Juniper Tree by Barbara Comyns (1985)

Regular readers of this blog are probably aware of my fondness for Barbara Comyns – a startlingly original writer with a very distinctive style. Her novels have a strange, slightly off-kilter feel, frequently blending surreal imagery and touches of dark, deadpan humour with the harsh realities of life. This wry sense of the absurd is one of Comyns’ trademarks, cleverly tempering the darkness with a captivating lightness of touch. There’s often a sadness in her narratives too, a sense of poignancy or melancholy that runs through the text. First published in 1985, The Juniper Tree is very much in this vein.

In short, it’s a clever, dreamlike reimagining of the Grimms’ fairy tale of the same name – in fact, the novella’s epigraph is a rhyme taken directly from that classic story. Ostensibly set in London in the late 20th century, Comyns’ spin on The Juniper Tree reads like a timeless dark fable, weaving together the innocence and savagery that characterise many of this author’s best books. While much of what happens here is rooted in reality, Comyns invests her narrative with a surreal, otherworldly quality, tilting the familiar into something slightly off-kilter. Right from the very start, the reader is unsettled, sensing perhaps the tragedy to come…

Crooked Cross by Sally Carson (1934)

For a novel first published in 1934, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross feels remarkably timely, charting, as it does, the rise of Nazism in the early 1930s, the falling apart of a country’s fundamental codes of decency and the moral fortitude required to stand against persecution. Recently republished by Persephone Books, the book makes chilling reading in 2025, a time when far-right extremism, hate speech and inhumane discrimination against various groups continue to increase.

Carson was a frequent visitor to Bavaria in the early 1930s, and her insights into what was happening there fed into Crooked Cross. In some respects, she was writing in real time, sounding a warning alarm on the pernicious rise of fascism and its grip on the nation. By scrutinising the broader political developments spreading across Germany through the lens of the Klugers, an ordinary middle-class family living in the fictional town of Kranach, close to the Austrian border, Carson illustrated the allure of the fascist movement, particularly for disaffected young men. Lacking the structure and focus of regular work, these men saw the Nazi Party as providing many of the things that had been lacking in their lives, from stability, status, power and responsibility to purpose, direction and a reason to exist. Moreover, the movement gave young Germans a convenient scapegoat – i.e. the Jews – to blame for everything that had been denied them in the lean post-WW1 years. A brilliant, terrifying, immersive novel that deserves to be widely read – it’s also an excellent combination of the personal and political, just the type of book I love.

Lady L. by Romain Gary (1958)

Published in English in 1958 and subsequently translated into French by the author himself, Lady L. was my first experience of Romain Gary’s fiction, but hopefully not my last. What a delightful novella this turned out to be – an elegant story of love, long-held secrets and railing against the conventional establishment, in which the pull of personal desires is pitted against political principles and beliefs! It reads like a work of 19th-century French fiction, which fans of du Maupassant, Flaubert and Louise de Vilmorin’s Madame de__ will likely enjoy.

In short, this charming picaresque tale takes the reader from the slum districts of Paris to the upper echelons of French society, with a story involving spectacular robberies, betrayal, capture, escape, reunion and unexpected marriages, all topped off by a surprising denouement. I’m delighted to see this back in print, courtesy of the Penguin Archive series.

The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington (1974 or ‘76)

Born in Lancashire in 1917, Leonora Carrington is perhaps now best known as a surrealist artist; however, during her career, she also wrote novels, short stories, a play and a memoir, all infused with her dreamlike, idiosyncratic worldview. First published in English in the mid-1970s but reputedly completed in 1950, The Hearing Trumpet is as unconventional as one might expect from this visionary creative – a surreal, subversive, wildly imaginative novella that challenges traditional patriarchal and ageist societal structures, turning them neatly on their heads in thrilling fashion. It is, by turns, hilarious, surprising, esoteric and poignant – a wonderful sui generis work that defies categorisation.

The novella is narrated by Marian Leatherby, a ninety-two-year-old woman who lives in Mexico with her family, who, in turn, consider her somewhat burdensome and eccentric. Before long, Marian is packed off to a care home, which turns out to be more sinister than it appears at first sight. Much is made of the seemingly ‘eccentric’ nature of elderly women here, a label often attached to marginalised individuals to explain away their unconventional qualities. Carrington, however, was well aware of the revolutionary potential of women who looked at the world differently, and as the novella unfolds, eccentricity is portrayed in a positive, liberating light as a rebellious force for good.

The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett (1896)

First published in 1896 and recently reissued as part of the Penguin Archive series, The Country of the Pointed Firs is a classic example of literary regionalism, a genre of writing in which the local setting, landscape, history, community and customs are centre stage. Through a series of evocative vignettes, Jewett conveys a rich picture of everyday life in the fictional small-town community of Dunnet Landing on the east coast of Maine. It’s a gem of a book – reflective, affecting and beautifully crafted.

Central to the story is Jewett’s narrator, an unnamed female writer (possibly Jewett herself) who has come to Dunnet Landing for the summer to work on her writing. Through her landlady, Mrs Todd, who has lived in the area since her birth, the narrator is drawn into the lives of the local inhabitants – their stories and histories, preoccupations, and concerns. Something Jewett does particularly well here is to capture the traditional rhythms and rituals of life in this coastal community, the importance of female friendships and shared stories, resilience and independence, occasional family gatherings and reunions, nature and landscape. In short, it’s a gorgeous paean to ordinary lives well lived, where small acts of kindness and generosity brighten the spirits, easing some of the difficulties humanity must face.

So that’s it for my Books of the Year, 2025! Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

Thanks so much to everyone who has read, commented or engaged with my thoughts on books over the past year. I really do appreciate it.

All that remains is to wish you all the very best for the festive season and the year ahead. Here’s to another great year of reading and more book chat in 2026!

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 1

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I seem to say this every year, but 2025 really has been a great reading year for me. From new releases to treasures from the TBR to brilliant reissues and rediscoveries, the books have been excellent, with very few misses.

As before, I’m splitting my favourite reads of the year into two parts, with thirteen highlights in each post; however, in this instance, the split is fairly arbitrary. Today’s post covers my favourites from the first half of the reading year (roughly speaking), while part two (coming at the weekend) will feature the standout reads from the second half of 2025. I couldn’t bear to leave any of them out, even though it means a total of twenty-six books.

So, without further ado, here are my favourite reads from Jan – May 2025! These are the books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the books I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. As ever, many of these titles were first published in the 20th century, although there are a few recent releases as well. I’ve summarised each one in this post, but in each instance, you can find my full review by clicking on the relevant title.

The Fate of Mary Rose by Caroline Blackwood (1981)

With its undercurrent of domestic horror and flashes of pitch-black humour, this unnerving novel is a brilliant exploration of our collective fascination with gruesome true crimes, how sometimes we can become emotionally involved in a media story with which we have no personal connection. Blackwood seems particularly interested in how a mother’s protectiveness towards her child can tip over into an unhealthy obsession – in this instance, the transition is prompted by the brutal assault and murder of a young girl in the local community, fuelled by media reports and underlying social anxieties. It’s a fascinating, disturbing book, reminiscent of Shirley Jackson in its darkness and unflinching pursuit of a singular vision.

The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick (2015)

First published in 2015 and reissued this year by Daunt Books, The Odd Woman and the City is Gornick’s ode to New York, a book that captures the rhythms and idiosyncrasies of this vibrant metropolis in sharp, insightful prose. Presented as a sequence of beguiling vignettes, the book delves into Gornick’s reflections on friendship, romantic love, childhood memories, ageing, navigating life alone in a busy city and the kaleidoscopic nature of New York itself. The relationships other writers enjoy with major cities are also briefly featured. The vignettes are not grouped chronologically or by topic; rather, Gornick moves seamlessly backwards and forwards in time and from one theme to the next, sharing insights and confidences on a variety of different subjects as she goes. In fact, the book’s rhythm – vibrant, fast-moving and constantly changing in nature – reflects the city’s character itself.

There is so much insight, honesty and intelligence in these vignettes, and Gornick is a delightful companion – smart, curious and ever-observant. If, like me, you enjoy exploring cities on foot, soaking up the atmosphere of the urban streets, you will likely love this one.

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson (1943)

I can’t quite recall where I first heard about Donald Henderson’s excellent novel, Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper, a wickedly satirical portrayal of a murderer operating under the cloak of the London Blitz. It may have been on Backlisted, always an excellent source of lesser-known gems, or possibly during a discussion about boarding-house novels, a genre close to my heart. Either way, I’m very glad to have discovered it. That said, this pitch-black wartime gem might not be to everyone’s tastes. If you’re a fan of Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, William Trevor’s The Boarding-House or Patricia Highsmith’s The Blunderer, chances are you’ll enjoy this book. If not, you might want to steer clear! I loved this darkly satirical portrayal of Henderson’s twisted, opportunistic killer, and the Patrick Hamilton-style vibe really drew me in. Not for the sensitive or faint-hearted, but a wickedly compelling novel nonetheless. Raymond Chandler was a huge fan!

A Little Luck by Claudia Piñeiro, 2015 (tr. Frances Riddle, 2023)

A fascinating, utterly gripping novel about chance vs fate, split-second decisions and their irreversible consequences, guilt vs responsibility and condemnation vs redemption. In short, this thought-provoking story follows a middle-aged woman, Mary Lohan, who returns to her old neighbourhood in Temperley, Buenos Aires, after an absence of twenty years. At first, we don’t know why she has come back, or the reasons behind her earlier departure, but things gradually become clearer as the novel unfolds. Piñeiro is very skilled at withholding key information, and the novel is a masterclass in measured pacing and the piece-by-piece reveal. The compelling first-person narrative reads like a kind of confession, establishing a level of intimacy with the reader and drawing them into Mary’s story from the opening pages. An outstanding, beautifully written novel that’s hard to shake.

Box Office Poison by Tim Robey (2024)

There is something genuinely fascinating about raking over the coals of a humungous financial disaster – a point eloquently illustrated by film critic and writer Tim Robey in his hugely enjoyable book, Box Office Poison, a catalogue of cinematic catastrophes from the past hundred years. In some respects, this roll call of wreckage presents an alternative history of Hollywood through its most costly failures, and it’s a delight to read!

Robey’s definition of a flop is simple. Crucially, the film must have made a significant loss at the box office. In other words, flops are defined in commercial terms rather than ruinous reviews by critics (although in some instances, the two go hand in hand). Moreover, the production must have been truly insane in some way for a film to qualify for inclusion, thus making the story suitably interesting to recount. From outright horrors with few redeeming features (such as Jan de Bont’s pedestrian actioner Speed 2: Cruise Control and Thomas Lee’s ‘textbook shambles’ Supernova) to genuinely decent films that flopped due to unfortunate circumstances (e.g. William Friedkin’s Sorcerer), this is catnip for the cinephile in your life!

The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym (1978)

Barbara Pym has made several appearances in my reading highlights over the years, and she’s here again in 2025 with a fairly recent reissue. First published in 1978, The Sweet Dove Died is one of Pym’s post-wilderness novels, and as such, the tone feels somewhat darker than her earlier work. There’s a genuine poignancy here, a sense of a woman losing her beauty and allure as younger, more attractive rivals threaten to supersede her in the search for affection. While the novel’s tone is poignant, especially towards the end, there are some wonderful touches of humour here, too. Pym’s fiction may at first seem light or inconsequential, but it’s a testament to her skill as a writer that she captures the delicate tension between humour, pathos and absurdity that characterises so much of our lives. I adored this beautifully written exploration of the narrowing opportunities for love as we age and lose our lustre – it’s top-tier Pym for me!

There’s No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, 1938 (tr. Ann Goldstein, 2024)

Groundbreaking on its initial publication in 1938, There’s No Turning Back can now be viewed as a prescient, transgressive exploration of women’s desire for independence, autonomy and self-expression. By weaving together the stories of eight young female students living in the Grimaldi, a convent-style boarding house in Rome, de Céspedes presents the reader with a range of different experiences as each of these women must find a way to live, to shape her future direction for the better.

In essence, each student is trying to bridge the gap between the role society has deemed for her and the one she herself wishes to adopt. Moreover, she must consider what challenges must be overcome and what sacrifices need to be made to achieve her aspirations. With many of these women looking to branch out beyond the traditional gender-based roles of wife and mother, the novel explores themes such as female friendship, agency, independence, autonomy, ambition, desire, and fulfilment in a wonderfully engaging way. By focusing on the choices these characters make to break free from their constraints, de Céspedes explores the upsides and downsides of progression through education vs work, love vs independence and personal desires vs familial duty. An immersive, richly imagined novel that deserves to be better known.

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood (2023)

Strange, unsettling and beautifully written, Stone Yard Devotional is a quiet, meditative novel that explores themes of loss, grief, forgiveness, guilt, atonement and death – the kind of mysterious, slow-burning narrative that gets right under the skin. Written partly as brief diary-style entries and partly as a series of reflections on events, the novel is narrated by an unnamed woman in late middle age. With her marriage crumbling and a loss of faith in her environmental work, Wood’s narrator has come to an isolated retreat in New South Wales to reflect and contemplate her existence. All proceeds smoothly until the retreat’s peaceful atmosphere is rudely disrupted by three unsettling visitations (more of which in my full review).

Wood’s style is subtle and understated, leaving much unsaid for readers to contemplate and fill in for themselves. Forgiveness and atonement are recurring themes here as the author invites us to consider what it means to forgive someone who has wronged us and what we truly want when attempting to atone. An absorbing, thought-provoking book – one of the best new novels I’ve read in recent years.

It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over by Anne de Marcken (2024)

This strange, magical, exquisitely written book is a tricky one to summarise in a few lines, but I’ll give it a go! On one level, it’s a remarkably poignant reflection on what it might be like to exist in the afterlife, how it feels emotionally to be caught between life and death, to be a member of the undead. In other words, it’s a zombie story, but not as we know it – de Marcken’s vision is much more inventive and beautiful than that brief description suggests. Alongside (and perhaps entwined with) its themes of yearning, loss and grief, the book can be viewed as a metaphor for our current existence in an isolated, alienating 21st-century world, where the overwhelming horrors and uncertainties of modern life leave us feeling disillusioned and numbed. The ending, when it comes, is beautiful, enigmatic, sad and strangely fitting. I adored this deeply affecting exploration of grief and all the longing, pain and sadness this all-consuming experience evokes. A highly original novella that deserves to be widely read.

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban (1975)

First published in 1975 and now well established as a modern classic, Turtle Diary is a charming, piercingly perceptive exploration of different facets of loneliness and the fear of stepping outside one’s comfort zone in the maelstrom of middle age. The novel’s premise seems at once both simple and eccentric – and yet, it all works remarkably well. Divorced bookseller William G. lives in a London boarding house run by a landlady, Mrs Inchcliffe – a far cry from his former life in Hampstead as a husband and father with a job in advertising. While his work at the bookshop brings William into contact with the smart ladies of West London, his personal life is a desert – dry, lonely and painfully directionless.

Also feeling lost is Neaera H., a writer and illustrator of children’s books who works from home with nothing but a water beetle for company. Middle-aged and unmarried, Neaera is adrift in a sea of loneliness, lacking a clear purpose or direction as she struggles with writer’s block. As the novel opens, these two individuals are unaware of one another, but as Hoban’s narrative unfolds, their lives become inextricably entwined, setting up the premise for this marvellous story. An unexpected gem tinged with sadness.

The Reef by Edith Wharton (1912)

Over the years, Edith Wharton has become one of my favourite authors. She writes precisely and perceptively about the cruelties embedded within the upper echelons of American society in the early 20th century. For instance, the tensions that exist between restraint & passion and those between respectability & impropriety. These qualities are central to Wharton’s much-loved society novels The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth, both of which I adore. The Reef could easily be added to this list, particularly given the devastating nature of the premise. It’s a story of indiscretions, deceptions and complex romantic entanglements where what remains unsaid can be more damaging than the details revealed.

Central to the novel, which revolves around a love triangle (or possibly a quadrangle), are questions of trust and integrity. For instance, it is better for us to be honest about our past mistakes, even when we know such revelations will hurt the ones we love, or should we lie and cover our tracks to avoid undue distress? And if the terrible truth should come to light, will it be possible for our loved ones to forgive and forget?

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez, 2009 (tr. Megan McDowell, 2021)

Last year, I read and loved Mariana Enriquez’s Things We Lost in the Fire, a superb collection of macabre, deeply disturbing short stories in which elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery mingle with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Enriquez grew up during the Dirty War, when several thousand Argentine citizens were murdered or disappeared. Consequently, the ghosts of the vanished – both literal and metaphorical – haunt many of her stories, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid and compelling ways.

Translated into English in 2021, The Dangers of Smoking in Bed is in a very similar vein to Fire – another unnerving collection of stories with the power to destabilise and disturb contemporary readers. Enriquez excels at weaving together the surreal and supernatural, embedding these into the real-world socio-political horrors of life in Argentina, from poverty, parental neglect and sexual abuse to disappearances, murders and other criminal activities. There’s a wildness or sense of craziness to many of these stories, twisting the recognisable into distorted, destabilising shapes – and it’s this rooting in reality, the real and inescapable, that makes Enriquez’s stories so horrifying and impactful to read. Unnerving, alluring and inventive, these stories are not for the faint-hearted; otherwise, very highly recommended indeed!

The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

I loved this hugely enjoyable, fast-moving caper, largely set in a high-class London hotel. Fashioned on the Savoy in London, the Grand Babylon is expensive, exclusive and efficient, a model of discretion and quietude favoured by royalty and other dignitaries from the upper echelons of society. Newly arrived at the hotel are Theodore Racksole, a wealthy American magnate, and his daughter, Nella, a self-assured young woman full of initiative. Following a run-in with the haughty head waiter at dinner, Racksole buys the hotel, and within hours, strange things begin to happen, culminating in a sudden death.

What follows is a gripping sequence of escapades taking Theodore and Nella to the darkest corners of Ostend while also embroiling them in the romantic entanglements of a missing European prince. Along the way, there are kidnappings and disappearances, disguises and concealed identities, not to mention various political machinations afoot. There’s even time for a sprinkling of romance, adding greatly to the novel’s elegance and pleasures. In short, it’s a delightfully entertaining story imbued with glamour, suspense and a great deal of charm!

So, that’s it for Part 1 of my favourite books from another year of reading. Do let me know your thoughts on my choices – I’d love to hear your views.

Join me again for Part 2, when I’ll be sharing another thirteen favourites, this time from the second half of my reading year.

The House Opposite by Barbara Noble

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There is often something very compelling about fiction written and published during World War II, when the outcome of the conflict raging across Europe would have been uncertain. Set during the turmoil of the London Blitz, Barbara Noble’s 1943 novel The House Opposite is one such book, a very absorbing character-driven story in which the tensions underpinning the lives of two families are contrasted with the mundanity, unpredictability and daily destruction unfolding across the city. It’s an excellent, well-written novel ideally suited to fans of Persephone Books and the British Library Women Writers series. In the UK, this novel is in print with Dean Street Press, which Liz is currently spotlighting through her DSP December event.

Noble centres her story on two main protagonists: Elizabeth Simpson, a twenty-eight-year-old secretary living at home with her parents, and Owen Cathcart, an eighteen-year-old boy whose family live in the house opposite the Simpsons’, hence the novel’s title.

Careful and self-contained by nature, Elizabeth has been embroiled in a love affair with her married boss, Alex Foster, for the past three years – a relationship that seems to be going nowhere as Alex is unwilling to leave his wife due to their children. While Alex does seem to care for Elizabeth, one gets the impression he is being rather selective with the truth, creating the impression that his relationship with wife, Naomi, is rather distant, both emotionally and physically. Naomi has moved to an Oxfordshire village with the couple’s two children, largely to escape the bombings. Consequently, during the week, Alex stays in a service flat in London, giving him plenty of opportunities to spend time with Elizabeth before travelling to Oxford to see his family at the weekends. For Elizabeth, the situation is far from ideal as she loves Alex and would like to be more than just his mistress. Nevertheless, she went into the relationship with her eyes open, and the benefits still outweigh the downsides – for now, at least.

In some respects, Owen Cathcart is the most interesting character here. Quiet and sensitive at heart, Owen is struggling to understand and reconcile the deep feelings he has for his older cousin, Derek, who is now in the RAF. The boys have spent many holidays together in the past, and Owen has developed something of a crush on Derek, whom he plans to follow by joining up. Noble excels at capturing the maelstrom of emotions Owen experiences as he wrestles with his sexuality, highlighting the uncertainty, embarrassment and self-loathing that accompany some of the joy.

He was overwhelmed once more with all the symptoms of acute neurosis which had tormented him so recently—self-disgust, terrified and terrifying ignorance, above all, a loneliness of spirit which made him sometimes want to beat his head against a wall. Everyone but himself, and an unnumbered, faceless, untouchable horde of others like himself, walked in light and fellowship; only he and his kind crawled miserably in darkness and despair. His mind could evoke nothing but images of separation, which cut him off from ordinary, normal people, the fortunate ones, the well-beloved. Most of all, he knew, he was cut off from Derek. Derek would not understand at all. He would be incredulous, embarrassed, concerned and utterly uncomprehending if Owen were ever to try to explain. (pp. 68-69)

Owen has taken a dislike to Elizabeth, having overheard her referring to him with an unfortunate turn of phrase which seemed to raise questions about his sexuality. For her part, Elizabeth considers Owen uncommunicative and ‘wet’, which makes the prospect of sharing Sunday night fire-watching duties with him very unappealing. Nevertheless, as these weekly sessions unfold, Elizabeth and Owen get to know one another a lot better, opening their eyes to the realities of their own lives and those around them. In particular, Owen becomes aware that Elizabeth is in an illicit relationship with Alex – probably a troublesome one – which evokes in him new feelings of sympathy and concern for her happiness.

They had arrived now at a point where they could be silent together without embarrassment and this evening they were both glad to take advantage of the fact. Elizabeth wanted to think about Alex, and Owen wanted to think about Elizabeth.

He did not himself realise what enormous advance this was. In the past he had been forced, against his will, to think about her; he had been obsessed by her, and always in relation to himself—what she thought, said or guessed about him. Now, for the first time, he was interested in her as an individual, with a separate, surprising and rather mysterious life of her own. (p. 111)

Noble’s depiction of the affair between Elizabeth and Alex is insightful and perceptive, replete with all the lies, frustrations and crushing humiliations Elizabeth experiences, particularly when circumstances force her to interact with Naomi. The doomed nature of the relationship is there for the reader (and Elizabeth) to see.

Another area where Noble excels is in her portrayal of London during the Blitz, as the novel is peppered with vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds and smells of a city under attack. The images she paints of landscapes, devastated by a combination of bombings and the resultant fires, are especially evocative.

Already it was an effort to remember what some of the shops had been. Bombed, blasted, burnt out—they had all become anonymous in their misfortune. Only here and there a display of muddy, soaked dresses clung limply and incongruously to their stands, no longer protected, no longer needing protection from the passer-by. A menu still hung on the lintel of a door which framed only rubble. Heavy shutters had been wrenched off and curtains blown into the street. Outside the least damaged buildings, commissionaires and assistants armed with brooms and shovels were clearing the pavement of an indescribable litter of glass and window fittings. The acrid smell of dust and charred wood filled the air. (p. 160)

Impressive too is Noble’s ability to convey a sense of normalcy amid the bombings, with Londoners going about their daily business as far as possible despite the destruction visible around them.

Not many people were about, even in Oxford Street, and those who were walked purposefully, all hurrying home to their little burrows–the inadequate protection of bricks and concrete, the far greater protection of dispersal, the law of averages and the anonymous ruling that many should be threatened but few harmed. Life was acquiring a large simplicity, all lesser insecurities swallowed up by that one enormous vulnerability. Time enough to worry tomorrow, when tomorrow might never come for you. (pp. 4–5)

As the novel unfolds, London adapts itself to the situation, responding with a mix of co-operation, compassion, bravery and resilience in the most testing of circumstances. There are eye-opening descriptions of nightly patrols, anxious waits at home, people camped out underground stations during bombing raids, and the aftermath of a direct hit on a dance hall and nearby pub – as readers, we see some of the casualties through Elizabeth’s eyes during one of her voluntary shifts as an auxiliary nurse.

Both sets of parents – Elizabeth’s and Owen’s – are brilliantly drawn, and everyone, it seems, has a secret to conceal. While Elizabeth’s mother gets drunk on a hidden supply of rum to blunt her anxieties over the bombing raids, Mrs Cathcart ponders the secret she is harbouring about her former lover, one that goes some way to explaining the emotional gulf between her husband, Lionel, and young Owen. Meanwhile, Lionel has serious troubles of his own, having been caught selling timber illegally on the black market. To his wife’s disgust, he shows no signs of remorse, only annoyance at being rumbled by the authorities.

“…I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done—so get that clear in your mind! It’s no worse than hundreds—thousands—of other men are doing every day, and getting away with it. What sticks in my gullet is that it’s come out. And not through my own books, but just because some snivelling, long-nosed busybody had to talk.”

Everything he said made it worse. She listened to him with increasing horror. If he had been unhappy, conscience-stricken, apprehensive, she would have closed the door on all her personal scruples and standards of conduct in order to comfort and reassure him. But how could she console him for the ignominy of being found out? They stood on opposite sides of a frontier. They did not even speak the same language. (p. 135)

Elizabeth’s father, Henry, is a calming, supportive presence in the Simpson household, an idealistic solicitor who also volunteers for fire-watch duty. Not only does he avoid judging Elizabeth when she confides in him about Alex, but he also helps Owen to appreciate that feeling deeply for another boy might not be an unusual experience in adolescence. Henry too has been carrying his own emotional burden, a form of guilt over the death of a close friend back in the days of his youth.

As this excellent novel draws to a close, there is a sense of closure on old issues and new beginnings for some, but not all, the main characters here. All in all, Noble paints an engrossing picture of what it must have felt like to live through the London Blitz, seen through the eyes of two ordinary families. It’s a thoughtful and absorbing read, ideally suited to lovers of home-front stories from World War II.

The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett

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Born in Maine, New England in 1849, the American writer Sarah Orne Jewett is known for her works of literary regionalism, a genre of writing in which the local setting, landscape, history, community and customs are centre stage. Willa Cather, an ardent admirer of Jewett’s books, was a key proponent of the style, which proved popular in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries.

First published in 1896 and recently reissued as part of the Penguin Archive series, The Country of the Pointed Firs is a classic example of the genre. Through a series of evocative vignettes, Jewett conveys a rich picture of everyday life in the fictional small-town community of Dunnet Landing on the east coast of Maine. It’s a gem of a book – reflective, affecting and beautifully crafted.

Central to the story is Jewett’s narrator, an unnamed female writer (possibly Jewett herself) who has come to Dunnet Landing for the summer to work on her writing. While there, the narrator lodges with Mrs Almira Todd, a sixty-seven-year-old widow who acts as the community’s herbalist. With her extensive knowledge of the medicinal value of herbs, Mrs Todd is a valuable adjunct to the town’s doctor, often receiving callers at home when her assistance is needed.

…Mrs Todd was an ardent lover of herbs, both wild and tame, and the sea-breezes blew into the low end-window of the house laden with not only sweet-brier and sweet-mary, but balm and sage and borage and mint, wormwood and southernwood. If Mrs Todd had occasion to step into the far corner of her herb plot, she trod heavily upon thyme, and made its fragrant presence known with all the rest. Being a very large person, her full skirts brushed and bent almost every slender stalk that her feet missed. You could always tell when she was stepping about there, even when you were half awake in the morning, and learned to know, in the course of a few weeks’ experience, in exactly which corner of the garden she might be. (p.3)

Through Mrs Todd, who has lived in the area since her birth, the narrator is drawn into the lives of the local inhabitants – their stories and histories, preoccupations, and concerns. Seafaring and fishing have been the community’s mainstays for many years, and while still important to the town’s economy and heritage, these traditions seem to be in decline.

For the most part, the locals’ stories are recounted to the narrator by the women of Dunnet Landing, namely Mrs Todd, her octogenarian mother, Mrs Blackett, and her childhood friend, Mrs Fosdick, who pays Almira a visit during the summer. Occasionally, though, one of the town’s male residents bares his soul to Jewett’s narrator, revealing tales of seafaring, fishing and various changes over the years.

…Captain Littlepage was sitting behind his closed window as I passed by, watching for someone who never came. I tried to speak to him, but he did not see me. There was a patient look on the old man’s face, as if the world were a great mistake and he had nobody with whom to speak his own language or find companionship. (p. 90)

As the novella unfolds, Mrs Todd also reveals a deep sense of grief and sorrow over a path not followed – another, more fulfilling life she might have lived had things worked out differently. Everyday occurrences, objects and elements of nature evoke powerful memories for the community’s inhabitants, such as the pennyroyal plant that reminds Mrs Todd of her one true love, a man she knew before her marriage to Nathan Todd. Nevertheless, this earlier love match was not destined to be, due to differences in the pair’s wealth and social class. While Almira came from a lowly family, the man she loved back then moved in higher, more comfortable circles, scuppering any thoughts of marriage between the two sweethearts.

In some of my favourite vignettes, Mrs Todd takes the narrator on a visit to nearby Green Island, home to her mother, Mrs Blackett – still small, light-footed and spry at the age of eighty-six – and her brother, William, a shy, gentle sixty-year-old, who lives with his mother. It’s a charming day out, suitably enlivened by Mrs Blackett’s warmth and generosity.

Her hospitality was something exquisite; she had the gift which so many women lack, of being able to make themselves and their houses belong entirely to a guest’s pleasure, – that charming surrender for the moment of themselves and whatever belongs to them, so that they make a part of one’s own life that can never be forgotten. (p. 47)

Despite being siblings, Mrs Todd and William cannot voice their deepest feelings in front of one another – a point the narrator notes during the trip. Something, possibly an inherent sense of pride or reticence, holds them back. Nevertheless, even William seems to enjoy the narrator’s company during the visit.

Something Jewett does particularly well here is to capture the traditional rhythms and rituals of life in this coastal community, the importance of female friendships and shared stories, resilience and independence, occasional family gatherings and reunions, nature and landscape.

To see the joy with which these elder kinsfolk and acquaintances had looked in one another’s faces, and the lingering touch of their friendly hands; to see these affectionate meetings and then the reluctant partings, gave one a new idea of the isolation in which it was possible to live in that after all thinly settled region. They did not expect to see one another again very soon; the steady, hard work on the farms, the difficulty of getting from place to place, especially in winter when boats were laid up, gave double value to any occasion which could bring a large number of families together. Even funerals in this country of the pointed firs were not without their social advantages and satisfactions. (pp. 111–112)

There’s a quiet, humble dignity to these people, many of whom have never travelled outside the local area. (Interestingly, conflict is not touched upon here – unusual for a novel focusing on a small, close-knit community, in which tensions often run high. The closest we get is the occasional disparaging remark mentioned in private.) These positive qualities are typified in the stories Mrs Todd shares about Joanna, a woman who left the mainland to live alone on the near-barren Shell-heap Island, having been jilted by her fiancé for another woman. Despite pleas from her friends and family, Joanna wished to be left alone to live a life of self-imposed penance following the shame of being abandoned. Following her move to the island, Joanna received the occasional parcel of food, dropped onshore by a passing fisherman, which bolstered the supplies of eggs, vegetables and fish she could access there. Many years later, when Joanna finally died, the whole community travelled over Shell-heap Island for the funeral, such was the importance of paying due respect despite her solitary existence .

Unsurprisingly for a novella in this style, the sense of place is very strong. Jewett excels in capturing the sights, smells and textures of the local landscape as Mrs Todd forages for plants and the narrator explores on foot.

As we looked upward, the tops of the firs came sharp against the blue sky. There was a great stretch of rough pasture-land round the shoulder of the island to the eastward, and here were all the thick-scattered gray rocks that kept their places, and the gray backs of many sheep that forever wandered and fed on the thin sweet pasturage that fringed the ledges and made soft hollows and strips of green turf like growing velvet. I could see the rich green of bayberry bushes here and there, where the rocks made room. (pp. 38–39)

The characters, too, are beautifully drawn, sketched with enough detail to bring them to life.

As this quietly moving novella comes to a close, Jewett’s narrator must say goodbye to Dunnet Landing and the friends she has made there. While some might find it restrictive to live a small, simple life, such as those depicted in this community, there are many pleasures to be had as well. The Country of the Pointed Firs is a gorgeous paean to ordinary lives well lived, where small acts of kindness and generosity brighten the spirits, easing some of the difficulties humanity must face.

The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington

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Born in Lancashire in 1917, Leonora Carrington is perhaps now best known as a surrealist artist; in 2024, one of her artworks sold for $28.5 million. During her career, however, she also wrote novels, short stories, a play and a memoir, all infused with her dreamlike, idiosyncratic worldview. First published in English in 1976 but reputedly completed in 1950, The Hearing Trumpet is as unconventional as one might expect from this visionary creative – a surreal, subversive, wildly imaginative novella that challenges traditional patriarchal and ageist societal structures, turning them neatly on their heads in thrilling fashion. It is, by turns, hilarious, surprising, esoteric and poignant – a wonderful sui generis work that defies categorisation.

The novella is narrated by Marian Leatherby, a ninety-two-year-old woman who lives in Mexico with her suggestible son, Galahad, his uncaring wife, Muriel, and their insensitive grown-up son, Robert. Despite being toothless and rather deaf, Marian remains sharp of mind while also enjoying her cats, hens and visits to Carmella, her delightfully resourceful friend.

“You never know,” said Carmella. “People under seventy and over seven are very unreliable if they are not cats. You can’t be too careful…” (p.9)

Marian is, in short, a wonderful creation, a character whose voice I found beguiling from the start.

Humanity is very strange and I don’t pretend to understand anything, however why worship something that only sends you plagues and massacres? and why was Eve blamed for everything? (p. 26)

When Marian is given a hearing trumpet as a gift, she soon becomes aware of the family’s plans to move her into a care home, much to her displeasure.

“Remember, Galahad,” added Muriel, “these old people do not have feelings like you or I. She [Marian] would be much happier in an institution where there’s proper help to take care of her. They are very well organized today. This place I told you about out in Santa Brigida is run by the Well of Light Brotherhood and they are financed by a prominent American Cereal company (Bouncing Breakfast Cereals Co.). It is all very efficiently organized and reasonably inexpensive.” (p. 15)

Before long, Galahad is positioning the institution as a kind of holiday for Marian, complete with company of her own age, a range of interesting pastimes, and trained staff to prevent her from getting lonely. Not that Marian is ever actually lonely; rather, she values her solitude and a degree of independence.

“You are going away on a nice holiday, Mother. You are going to enjoy it very much.”

“My dear Galahad, don’t tell me such silly lies. You are sending me away to a home for senile females because you all think I am a repulsive old bag and I dare say you are right from your own point of view.”

He stood mouthing at me, looking as if I had picked a live goat out of my bonnet. (p.23)

Presided over by the tyrannical Dr Gambit and his equally dictatorial wife, the Well of Light Brotherhood ‘care home’ is suitably surreal – a castle-like complex, in which the ten elderly residents, all female, live in individual huts, each one fashioned into a peculiar shape. There are Swiss chalets, toadstools, railway carriages and a boot – a birthday cake, complete with candle, also deserves a mention here for brio alone. However, despite these quirky, almost welcoming touches, the establishment is run as a kind of self-improvement cult that blends religious teachings with New Age Spirituality.

Dr. Gambit believes Marian exhibits a range of ‘impurities’ which must be addressed and eliminated for her to embrace the institute’s doctrines. These include ‘Greed, Insincerity, Egoism, Laziness, and Vanity. At the top of the list Greed, signifying a dominating passion.’ However, as Georgina, a fellow resident observes:

“Gambit is a kind of Sanctified Psychologist,” said Georgina. “The result is Holy Reason, like Freudian table turning. Quite frightful and as phoney as Hell. If one could only get out of this dump he would cease to be important, being the only male around, you know. It is really too crashingly awful all these women. The place creeps with ovaries until one wants to scream. We might as well be living in a bee hive.” (p. 42)

As the story plays out, Marian and her fellow inmates must find ways to resist and subvert the strict regime imposed on them by the Gambits, an adventure that harks back to an earlier time when a resourceful Abbess embarked on a dangerous quest to restore the Holy Grail to its rightful owner, the Goddess Venus. It’s a surreal, fantastical romp, like a wild, extraordinary dream sequence that unfolds before our eyes.

They saw Rosalinda and the Bishop inhaling Musc de Madelaine and by some process of enfleurage becoming so saturated with the vapours of the ointment that they were surrounded by a pale blue cloud or aura which apparently acted as a volatile element on solid bodies. Thus the Bishop and Abbess were wafted into the air and were suspended, levitating, over the open crate of Turkish delight with which they were both gorged. Modesty forbids a full account of the disgusting acrobatics which were then performed in midair. (pp. 97–98)

Back in the novella’s present day, all manner of strange motifs and occurrences come to light at the care home, from the portrait of a nun who appears to be winking at Marian to the production of poisoned fudge and an unintentional murder.

Much is made of the seemingly ‘eccentric’ nature of elderly women here, a label often attached to marginalised individuals to explain away their unconventional qualities. Carrington, however, was well aware of the revolutionary potential of women who looked at the world differently. Here, eccentricity is portrayed as a positive, liberating, rebellious force for good, enabling Marian, Carmella and the other elderly inhabitants of the Gambits’ draconian institute to challenge the oppressive doctrines which, alongside other longstanding conservative structures, have kept these women in check.

“…we have absolutely no intention of letting ourselves be intimidated by your beastly routine ever again. Although freedom has come to us somewhat late in life, we have no intention of throwing it away again. Many of us have passed our lives with domineering and peevish husbands. When we were finally delivered of these, we were chivvied around by our sons and daughters who not only no longer loved us, but considered us a burden and objects of ridicule and shame. Do you imagine in your wildest dreams that now we have tasted freedom we are going to let ourselves be pushed around once more by you and your leering mate? (p. 152)

Historically, patriarchal societies have sought to dismiss and oppress elderly women, preventing them from creating a fuss or being bothersome to others. Consequently, these women have often found themselves marginalised and stripped of any agency or influence. Even now, many are barely tolerated, often consigned to care homes away from their families. Carrington too was no stranger to incarceration, having spent time in a mental hospital in Madrid following a nervous breakdown in the early 1940s. The Hearing Trumpet, however, is a striking riposte to this archaic thinking, a glorious celebration of the liberation to be found when these stifling constraints are challenged, opening a door to a new world of possibilities. It’s a wonderfully empowering story, skilfully illustrating how new, more fulfilling realities can be created in the face of resistance.

Highly recommended, especially for fans of Angela Carter, Barbara Comyns and Olga Tokarczuk. In fact, the latter has written the afterword to the NYRB Classics edition, which also comes with a beautiful series of illustrations by Leonora’s son, Pablo Weisz Carrington. (Personal copy.)

Just a Little Dinner by Cécile Tlili (tr. Katherine Gregor)

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Established in 2023, Foundry Editions are still relatively new on the UK publishing scene, but I’ve already noticed their books in several outlets in London, largely due to the striking blue-and-while covers. Based on the description on their website, Foundry came into being through a passion for three things: “a love for discovering and sharing new voices, a love for the Mediterranean and the people and lands that surround it, and a love of internationalism and reading across borders”, all of which sounds appealing to me.

Published in French in 2023 and translated into English in 2025, Just a Little Dinner (a recent Foundry Editions release) is an intriguing chamber piece in which two couples come together for dinner in a Parisian apartment one sweltering evening in the summer heat. As the night unfolds, tensions abound, various dynamics shift, fault lines in each couple’s relationship are exposed and decisions are made that will change everyone’s life, in some instances for the better. It’s a compelling story, touching on themes of love, fulfilment, life goals, friendship, class, racial prejudice and the place of women in society. The novella was shortlisted for the Prix Goncourt du Prémier Roman (first novel) in 2024, which gives an indication of its literary credentials.

Hosting the dinner in question are Étienne, a forty-something status-conscious lawyer from a privileged background, and his younger girlfriend, Claudia, a painfully shy physiotherapist who feels inferior to her partner. In truth, the last thing she wants is to be making conversation with Étienne’s friends, two people she barely knows, but on this occasion, Étienne has insisted on the get-together. Moreover, he expects her to make a good impression.

She wanted to play the perfect hostess at her first real meeting with these friends of Étienne’s. She threw herself into the role wholeheartedly. The staging had to be perfect and the meal delicious, and now it’s time for her to spruce herself up. That’s what Étienne really expects, of course: “Go and have a shower, it’ll do you good” meant “Make yourself presentable, dress up, match the décor.” (pp. 8–9)

Joining this ill-matched couple for dinner are Étienne’s longstanding friend, Rémi, a lycée teacher, and his wife, Johar, a high-flying board director of a major IT company. They, too, have their problems, largely due to the wedge Johar’s career has driven between them. Having come from a poor Tunisian family who moved to France to give their children a good education, Johar has worked incredibly hard to get to where she is today, overcoming sexist and racist preconceptions and prejudices along the way. All this, however, has come at the expense of her personal life, particularly her relationship with Rémi. Consequently, Rémi has slipped into an illicit affair with Manon, a young, affectionate fellow teacher at the school where he works. At first, it was probably a bit of a fling, but now he’s in deep, raising the possibility of him leaving Johar for Manon.

Claudia turns to see where Rémi’s gaze has wandered. On the living room balcony, Johar is tapping nervously on her phone.

“Who’s she texting like that?” Rémi says with a huff. “Funny how, practically overnight, we’ve nothing more to say to each other. We don’t understand anything any more – that’s if we ever did.” (p. 39)

A little like Claudia, Johar is not in the best frame of mind for tonight’s dinner. She’s hot and tired after a hard day at work. Plus, she has a major business decision to make, one that will alter the future direction of her life…

Unbeknownst to Étienne, Claudia is expecting a baby, which she hopes will strengthen their relationship, allowing her to share more of his hard-to-penetrate world. Étienne, however, is focused on other things. A strong sense of entitlement leads Étienne to believe that life owes him everything, from a highly successful career to a comfortable, privileged lifestyle. In short, he is always searching for something bigger, better and more beautiful than before.

Now, though, Étienne is struggling at work. Various clients have left recently, leaving him desperate to bring in some serious new business – otherwise, he might be for the chop. And this is where tonight’s dinner comes in. Étienne needs a favour from Johar – the contract for the legal work on a major merger that Johar’s company, Oryx, is currently discussing. If he can land this deal, his boss, Alexandra, will be satisfied, in the short term at least.

The thought that this woman [Johar], whom he only agreed to let into his very personal circle out of friendship for Rémi, and perhaps, at most, out of a taste for the exotic, should hold in her small, plump hands the future of a company the size of Oryx, is making him nauseous. He cannot understand why she is entitled to all this power when he has to make do with the treats Alexandra condescends to throw him. [Like Johar] he has an exemplary professional history too. (pp. 84–85)

As the dinner gets underway, various tensions are palpable, which Tlili conveys through astute observations and sharp dialogue.

“Claudia insisted on making chicken curry, it’s her speciality,” Étienne replies on her behalf. “Shall I get you a whisky?”

Not waiting for an answer, he heads to the kitchen and brings back a glass half-filled with ice cubes.

“Sit down, Johar, make yourself comfortable.” Unconcerned with Claudia, who is standing awkwardly between the armchairs, Étienne sits back down next to Rémi and pours Johar much more than she can reasonably drink. He takes up all the space with his long, slender limbs, in ruthless contrast with Rémi, who is slouching, his chest over his belly, the bottom button on his shirt about to pop.

“We should thank Étienne for inviting us,” Rémi says to her sarcastically, “so we can actually spend some time together.” (p. 23)

The characters are also thoughtfully sketched, particularly Étienne – selfish, condescending and inconsiderate – and Claudia – timid, self-effacing and yearning for love. As the novella unfolds, we see why Étienne chose her as his partner, partly as some kind of challenge, but mostly because he knew she would never upstage him. In short, Claudia is a glorified housekeeper, someone to run the home for him while he sits back and enjoys it.

He [Étienne] chose this woman out of defiance, to prove to himself that his charm could have an effect even through the miasma of shyness that practically stifled her, and, above all, because he knew that his superiority over her would never be put in doubt. Tonight, he feels queasy at the thought that she might one day feel sorry for him. (p. 50)

Naturally, the reader wonders why she stays with him. But Tlili makes clear that Claudia gave up everything – her small studio flat and meagre possessions – to move in with Étienne two years ago; so, in effect, she has nothing to go back to. Moreover, her parents are revealed to be cold and distant, more focused on their medical careers than the life of a daughter they consider a disappointment.

Johar, too, is nicely drawn, particularly as more of her family background is revealed. From a young age, Johar vowed that she would never become like her mother, the kind of woman who was (and still is) tied to the kitchen, living a life of domesticity in the service of her family.

The men – her [Johar’s] uncles, her eldest cousins, and often guests she couldn’t place precisely in the family – would wait, comfortably seated at the table, for the procession of dishes. Only at the end of the meal would the women and children, sitting in a circle on low stools or crouching directly on the floor, quickly share the lukewarm leftovers. They would grab handfuls of fried food gone limp, comb through the couscous, now congealed into compact balls by the sauce, searching for a forgotten piece of meat. Then her mother would make tea. (p. 72)

Now, however, Johar’s focus has shifted so far in the other direction that she has lost sight of what is truly important in life, namely her husband and family.

I won’t reveal how this tricky evening plays out, but there are various surprises in store for each member of the quartet. As I mentioned earlier, tensions swirl, various power dynamics shift, fault lines in relationships are exposed and decisions are made that will alter the lives of these individuals, for better or worse. In summary, then, a short but satisfying read with some interesting food for thought, particularly in the novella’s underlying themes. (A friend chose this for our book group, so I’m interested to hear what everyone thinks.)

Lady L. by Romain Gary

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Twice winner of the Prix Goncourt (once under a pen name), Romain Gary was a French writer, diplomat, film director and WW2 pilot of great repute. His highly engaging memoir, Promise at Dawn, is by turns humorous, entertaining, charming and poignant – a wonderful account of Gary’s early life and ongoing quest to fulfil his mother’s ambitions, namely for him to become a great artist and person of distinction.

Published in English in 1958 and subsequently translated into French by the author himself, Lady L. is my first experience of Gary’s fiction, and what a delightful novella it is – an elegant story of love, long-held secrets and railing against the conventional establishment, in which the pull of personal desires is pitted against political principles and beliefs. It reads like a charming piece of 19^th-century French fiction, which fans of du Maupassant and Flaubert will likely enjoy.

The novella opens with Lady L.’s 80^th birthday party, a lavish affair hosted at her grand English home where she has lived for over fifty years. Once a great beauty who hailed originally from France, Lady L. is now surrounded by members of her distinguished family, all set to celebrate this great occasion. Gary conveys a sense of Lady L.’s character right from the very start.

The window was open. The bouquet of tulips and roses, against the blue of the sky and the light summer air, reminded her of Matisse, and even the yellow petals falling on the window-ledge seemed to arrange themselves gracefully for a master’s brush. Lady L. hated yellow and she wondered how the flowers had found their way into the Ming vase. There had been a time when every bouquet in the house had first to be presented to her for inspection and approval. (p.1)

Lady L. dislikes birthday parties and family reunions, mostly because she doesn’t particularly care for any of her relatives, especially her grandsons – all pillars of respectable, conservative society, from Roland, a cabinet minister, and James, a director of the Bank of England, to Richard, a Lieutenant colonel in the army, and Anthony, soon to be a Bishop. In short, she detests these conventional, stuffy people and their respectful, bourgeois moral codes. Instead, her pleasures lie in beauty and art, in the great paintings she has inherited and collected over the years. In turn, the family considers her rather eccentric.

Also at the party is Percy, the poet laureate, whose company Lady L. greatly enjoys. In truth, Percy – a respectable, elderly man who has been in love with his host for fifty years – would like to marry Lady L. and write her biography, but our heroine isn’t having any of that, especially not the latter!

At an early point in the narrative, Gary hints at secrets waiting to be revealed, more of which later as this engaging story unfolds…

As she [Lady L.] watched them standing there with their cups of tea, with their small talk, their discreet clothes and terrible hats, her smile became a little mischievous and she had to make an effort not to laugh. She simply longed to tell them – to tell them everything. It would be such fun. Just to see the horror, the shame and the incredulity on their faces. But, of course, it wouldn’t do – it wouldn’t do it all. She was not going to shatter their comfortable complacency. (p. 11)

Now, however, everything Lady L. values is at risk. The government is planning to build a new road through part of her property, bringing trade and prosperity to the local area; but the plans will mean the demolition of Lady L.’s beloved pavilion, bulldozing a place of great sentimental value to her. Consequently, she needs Percy’s help to save certain objects stored there, a task that will necessitate the disclosure of her life story, delving into a shady past he will be shocked to discover!

Cue the unveiling of Lady L.’s backstory, how she was born Annette Boudin and raised in the slums of Paris by her laundress mother and alcoholic, revolutionary father. When her parents come to unfortunate ends, the teenage Annette, with her beauty and resourcefulness, earns a living as a prostitute, working for the powerful pimp, Alphonse Lecouer – and it is through him that she meets Armand Denis, a fervent anarchist with ambitious plans to take down the establishment. Strong words are not enough for Armand; revolutionary acts must also be carried out. Social justice and reform are his causes, marking him out as a Robin Hood figure of sorts.

He [Armand] was determined to save mankind from ugliness – and there was no greater ugliness than injustice, poverty, police, authority, and money. His anarchist creed was born and was never to leave him. (p. 37)

The whole of the social pattern had to be disorganised by whatever means available. Disorder, ruin and chaos should be made to reign everywhere: the police must be made powerless – the roads unsafe – railways destroyed – bridges blown up – and forged money must be circulated, so as to undermine the value of real currency. Churches must be burned, and the Socialists who wanted an organised proletarian state should be opposed and destroyed. There should be no classes – no state – no proletariat – only human beings, liberated, beautiful, and free.

The beauty of life was the only thing worth fighting for. (pp. 39–40)

In 1880, Armand is suspected of killing the Commissaire de Police, putting him in a precarious position, having disturbed the mutually tolerant relationship between the Parisian authorities and the criminal underworld. Consequently, he turns to Alphonse Lecouer (who is sympathetic to the cause) for help.

His [Armand’s] plan was very simple. He intended to organise a series of well-planned burglaries and then use the money to stage a few spectacular coups against the crowned heads of Europe who gathered cosily in fashionable resorts and picturesque spas. He knew that it wouldn’t be easy; he needed a lot of information from somebody who would know the right people and serve as an accomplice on the inside. (p. 45)

And this is where Annette comes in. Armand requires a beautiful young female accomplice, someone loyal with a quick mind and the manners of a lady – a woman such as Annette, once she has been coached and installed in the upper echelons of society. No one would suspect such a refined young woman to be a member of an anarchist group. She will, therefore, be able to move freely and gather valuable information, helping the revolutionary movement from the inside. So, with the help of tutors, Annette is transformed into a society lady with a suitable new identity and backstory to boot.

As Lady L. has predicted, Percy is indeed shocked by her revelations, allowing Gary to showcase his skills with humour.

‘I suppose it’s only your damned sense of humour,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘I don’t believe there is a word of truth in it, not a word. Your background is perfectly known, and this is all pure invention. You were born Mademoiselle de Boisserignier, and one of your ancestors fought in the battle of Crécy…’

‘We had great difficulty in forging those papers,’ Lady L. said. ‘It was particularly important to make the Crécy part look convincing. Monsieur Poupat, the state calligrapher, did a very good job of it, and then Armand himself had s go at it with chemicals. It was all rather fun.’ (p.46)

For Annette, it is love at first sight when she meets Armand, and the pair soon become lovers. Nevertheless, Armand is devoted to the anarchist cause, leaving little room in his heart for Annette. (If anything, he sees her more as a comrade than a lover.) She, on the other hand, is reluctant to share him with his ‘mistress’ – i.e., the revolutionary movement and its actions for the good of mankind. As Annette reflects at one point, if only Armand could be less principled, at least for a while! He even forces Annette to give up her own jewels, selling them to raise money for his anarchist activities. At one point in a fit of pique, Armand gives some of her jewellery to an old beggar woman who then dies of shock, incensing Annette with his thoughtless actions.

For the first time since she had met Armand she was scared of him. She also felt scorned and rejected, and her resentment and fury against ‘the cause’ was as implacable as if Armand had preferred another woman to her. Everything that was violent, untamed, primitive in her nature with pushing her across that narrow, slender bridge between love and hate; she was discovering in herself a new cruelty, an imperious urge to punish, even to destroy. (p. 97)

Something Gary does particularly well here is show how the tensions between the competing motivations of love and social justice create difficulties in the relationship between Annette and Armand. In truth, they want very different things from life, and Gary shows how these competing demands push the couple apart, much to Annette’s dismay. Annette is ready to sacrifice everything to be with Armand, but it must be him alone, not alongside his anarchist cause and fellow revolutionaries. In short, she wants to be his only cause. Sadly, however, Armand is determined to fight on for his beliefs, and it is this stubbornness that finally prompts Annette to devise a cunning way to keep him with her forever.

As the narrative unfolds, we learn the full story of Annette’s adventures with Armand, and her transition into Lady L. – a thrilling tale taking in spectacular robberies, betrayal, capture, escape, reunion and unexpected marriages, all topped off by a surprising denouement revealing the true nature of those secrets hidden in Lady L.’s precious pavilion. It’s a delightful, elegant story, told with much wit and panache, very much in the style of 19th-century French fiction. At times, I was reminded of Louise de Vilmorin’s marvellous novella Madame de ___ (tr. Duff Cooper), filmed by Max Ophüls as The Earrings of Madame de…, one of my favourite French films.

All in all, then, a wonderful, beautifully written novella in which love and personal desires must do battle with idealistic principles and beliefs. The revelation of longstanding secrets, taking in Lady’s L. extraordinary actions, is the cherry on this delicious cake!

Lady L. is published by Penguin Classics as part of the ‘Archive’ series; personal copy, another read for Novellas in November.

Child of All Nations by Irmgard Keun (tr. Michael Hofmann)

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Born in Berlin in 1905, the German writer Irmgard Keun rose to prominence in the early 1930s with her striking novels Gilgi, One of Us (1931) and The Artificial Silk Girl (1932), both of which I love. These books were blacklisted by the Nazis in 1933, primarily for their depictions of the modern young woman, a figure the regime considered ‘immoral’ and counter to its hard-line views on the place of women in society. Consequently, Keun left Germany in 1936 and travelled through Europe, where she published After Midnight (1937) and Child of All Nations (1938) while living with the troubled Jewish writer Joseph Roth.

Narrated by ten-year-old Kully, whose voice I found highly engaging from the start, Child of All Nations provides an eye-opening window into the uncertain existence of a small family of German refugees, forced to leave their homeland due to the father’s criticism of the Nazi’s political beliefs. Headed by Peter/Pierre, a dynamic, outspoken writer, Kully’s family left Germany in 1936 in search of freedom. In practice, however, true liberty is rather difficult to achieve, especially for Kully and her mother, Annie. As the novella unfolds, we see how the family continually lives on credit in well-to-do hotels, racking up expenses they can ill afford to settle. When Peter goes off on his travels, attempting to conjure up some money from nowhere, Kully and Annie remain behind at their latest establishment, effectively acting as collateral in lieu of payment for their stay.

Moreover, when Kully’s father does happen to come into some money, he often gives much of it away to friends and others in need, rather than paying his family’s bills. Kully and her mother are also drawn into emotional blackmail in Peter’s quest for funds, appealing to the latter’s publisher, Krabbe, to release an advance. At one point, Peter writes to Annie with the following instructions:

Take Kully with you when you go to Krabbe’s office. Don’t write to let him know you’re coming: don’t even let his secretary announce you, in case he runs away. I can’t believe he will be as inhuman when confronted with women and children. Kully should put on her white dress that she looks so sweet in. Don’t leave before he’s wired me the money. Chain yourselves to his desk, if necessary. (p. 52)

With her beguiling blend of streetwise intelligence, natural curiosity and moments of innocence, Kully is a marvellous creation, hardy and adaptable in a myriad of situations. Her instincts are sharp, ever alert to the unwritten principles and rules, even when the logic behind them remains somewhat mysterious. At one point, Kully’s father reaches Belgium but is unable to cross the border into Holland to be with his wife and daughter as the Dutch are unwilling to admit more refugees. Meanwhile, Kully and Annie are unable to travel from Holland to Belgium because they lack the appropriate visas.

Sometimes my father rings from Brussels, and says: ‘Be calm, children, be calm’. My father never cries.

It’s warm and we’re hungry. We can’t leave, because we can’t pay the hotel bill. We can’t enter any other country, but we can’t stay here either. Perhaps we’ll be thrown into prison, and then we’ll be fed. (p. 86–87)

While remaining highly accessible and engaging, the narrative captures the long periods of boredom and uncertainty for Kully and Annie, punctuated by bursts of renewed hope and activity when Peter reappears. In short, Kully lives a life where nothing is permanent – one requiring frequent moves, depending on changes in the family’s financial and political circumstances.

The use of a child narrator, especially one as curious and thoughtful as Kully, enables Keun to subtly criticise the German authorities more easily than if her novella were being told from the perspective of an adult. While undoubtedly streetwise and intelligent, Kully remains a ten-year-old girl at heart, complete with the suggestion of innocence this age implies – a technique that allows Keun to highlight the poignancy and absurdity of the situations Kully must face.

At first, my father didn’t want us to go to Italy, because Italy is friends with Germany, which makes it a dangerous place to visit. But we are émigrés, and for émigrés all countries are dangerous. Lots of ministers make speeches against us and no one wants to have us in their country, even though we’re not at all harmful and in fact just like other people. (p. 117)

Sometimes, Keun goes further, pinpointing the poison at the heart of German society, as voiced in the novella by Kully’s father.

‘…Everything that’s wrong with the world begins with fear. […] All that mess in Germany could only result because the people there have lived in fear for ever. No sooner is a child born then fear of its mother and father is instilled in it. And then it has to honour its father and mother as well. […] First a father demands that his child be afraid of him. Then there’s school and fear of the teacher, fear of God at church, fear of military or other superiors, fear of the police, fear of life, fear of death. Finally, the people are so crippled and warped by fear that they elect a government that they can serve in fear. Not content with that, when they see other people who are not set on living in fear, they get angry, and try in their turn to make them afraid. First of all they made God into a kind of dictator, and now they don’t need Him any more, because they’ve come up with a better dictator themselves.’ (p. 101)

In many respects, Kully has been denied the normal, carefree innocence of childhood, having been catapulted into a world tainted by various concerns more commonly faced in adulthood.

Christmas is coming soon. What am I going to give my mother? She wants to die sometimes, then she’ll have quiet and not be afraid any more. But then she doesn’t know what will become of me. I don’t want to die yet, because I’m still just a girl. My mother would like to be a chambermaid and work and earn money. But the various countries won’t let her be a chambermaid. (p. 74)

Over the course of the novel, Kully encounters various harsh realities, including exile, debt, unemployment, deception, infidelity, racial and political discrimination, persecution, death and suicide. Nevertheless, there are moments of humour too, not least when Kully’s father reappears, temporarily rescuing his wife and child from their near-captive existence.

…the fat lady goes into a rage and yells: ‘Don’t forget you’re in Holland now, and kindly follow Dutch customs.’

‘But of course, Madame,’ says my father, and all of a sudden he’s terribly serious. ‘Now don’t force me to take extreme measures. Underneath my raincoat, I am completely naked. If you don’t let us pass right away, I will be forced to take it off.’ (p. 92)

Written as a sequence of perceptive vignettes, Child of All Nations is an eye-opening novella, drawing on some of the adult Keun’s own experiences of émigré life. As Michael Hofmann mentions in his excellent afterword, Kully’s father, Peter, was reputedly inspired by Keun’s lover and fellow writer Joseph Roth – in part, at least. ‘The generosity, the scrounging, the panache, the drinking, the odd mix of unreliability and dependability’ all seem indicative of Roth during that challenging time. Highly recommended, especially for readers interested in the émigré experience in the run-up to WW2.

Child of All Nations is published by Penguin Modern Classics; personal copy. (I read this book for Caroline and Tony’s German Lit Month and Cathy & Rebecca’s Novellas in November event, both running this month.)

Tirzah Garwood: Beyond Ravilious – exhibition and accompanying book

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Something a little different from me today – another post in an occasional series of pieces about the art books I’ve accumulated over the past few years, mostly from gallery visits in London and the South East. One of my current reading aims is to sit down and read some of these books, rather than leaving them to gather dust on my shelves.

Previous pieces in this series have covered the Royal Academy’s brilliant Making Modernism exhibition (winter 2022/23) devoted to pioneering women artists working in Germany in the early 1900s, the Barbican’s beautiful exhibition of Alice Neel’s work, Alice Neel: Hot Off the Griddle, in spring 2023 and the MK Gallery’s Vanessa Bell: A World of Form and Colour exhibition (winter 2024-spring 2025), the largest-ever solo exhibition of this artist’s work.

As before, I’m going to keep this piece reasonably informal, partly because I’m not an art expert – professional critics such as Laura Cumming are much better placed than I am to do that! Instead, I’m treating these posts as opportunities to share a few photos from my trips and thoughts about the books.

Today, I’m looking at the Tirzah Garwood; Beyond Ravilious exhibition, which took place at the Dulwich Picture Gallery from November 2024 to May 2025. It’s probably one of my favourite shows in recent years, a gorgeous, comprehensive collection showcasing the full range of Tirzah’s work, from her early wood engravings and stunning marbled papers to her fascinating collages and slightly surreal oil paintings. Her late works, many of which were produced in the fertile year before her death from cancer, are especially beguiling.

If you weren’t able to get to the show itself, the exhibition catalogue, written by art historian and curator James Russell and published by Philip Wilson Publishers, is still available and well worth investing in – it really is beautifully produced!

Born in Kent in 1908, Eileen (Tirzah) Garwood was sharp-eyed and quick-witted as a teenager – a popular, but intensely private girl by nature. After middle school, Tirzah studied at Eastbourne School of Art, where a new teacher, Eric Ravilious, taught her the wood engraving techniques she used to make her early works. Several of these engravings were on display in the show, highlighting Tirzah’s cool, satirical approach to observing family life. I especially loved Relations (1929), a series of engravings Curwen Press commissioned for their 1930 calendar. Sadly, the calendar was never published, but the beautifully detailed artworks (now owned by private collectors) have been preserved.

Her distinctive style – observant, often comic, faintly uncanny – was in full bloom from the start, in her intense, scale-blind studies of snails, wasps and spiders, flowers and fungi, and spiky rendering of schoolgirls walking down a street, or a woman – often modelled on herself – yawning or bathing or simply going about her day. (p. 17)

The Train Journey (1929) and Kensington High Street (1929) also caught my eye in this section, the latter showing a young Tirzah (carrying a case marked T. G.) following behind her confident aunt, who is decked out in a stylish hat and coat.

Tirzah and Eric began spending more time together, and in 1930, they married, vowing to live by shared values of ‘personal freedom, tolerance and honesty’. Initially, the couple set up home in London and were soon spending summers with fellow artists Edward and Charlotte Bawden in Great Bardfield, Essex. In the 1930s, prospects for male artists were much brighter than for their female counterparts of broadly similar ability, meaning Eric’s career progressed more rapidly than Tirzah’s during the time. Nevertheless, by the mid-1930s, Tirzah was experimenting with marbling techniques to great success, producing exquisite marbled papers by layering various colours for her stylish designs. It was an unpredictable, time-consuming process, but she mastered it very well.

Both Eric and Tirzah had affairs during their marriage, but they stayed together throughout, supporting and encouraging one another artistically despite these personal distractions. They were also raising a young family by this stage, which placed various demands on Tirzah as a wife, mother and family driver, alongside her art.

The early 1940s proved immensely challenging for Tirzah when a breast cancer diagnosis led to a mastectomy in 1942. She wrote her autobiography, Long Live Great Bardfield & Love to You All, while recovering from surgery, but another blow came in late 1942 when Eric’s plane went missing in action during a trip to Iceland. Eric was working as a war artist at the time, and his body was never recovered, leaving Tirzah widowed at the age of thirty-four.

In the mid-1940s, Tirzah turned her hand to oils, producing a small sequence of paintings in a ‘sophisticated naïve’ style inspired by artists such as G. N. Whitehead and Alfred Wallis. There is a strange, fairy-tale quality to some of these works, such as Etna (1944) and Horses and Trains (1944), while The Old Soldier (1947) is particularly unsettling, hinting at a dark drama unfolding before our eyes. (Interestingly, dolls’ houses recur in several of Tirzah’s works from various phases of her career, signalling an ongoing interest in the world they represent.)

**Horses and Trains, 1944, oil on canvas**

‘I have started painting in oil and I believe it may be my cup of tea. I always hankered after it because of being able to get things really dark.’ (letter from Tirzah to Peggy Angus, p.9)

The Old Soldier, 1947, oil on canvas

Collage proved a fruitful form of creative expression for Tirzah in the mid-1940s, adding depth and texture to her work. Often mounted in box frames to add a hint of theatre, her representations of houses and shop fronts were fascinating to see, but I especially loved the Missionary Hut collage (1944-45) with its leaf prints and mahogany veneer, and Villa at Walton Naze (1948) – another collage, but this one has some three-dimensional elements (pictured towards the end of this post).

**Missionary Hut, 1944-45, leaf prints on paper collage with mahogany veneer**

In 1946, Tirzah married the BBC producer Henry Swanzy, who proved a devoted husband and stepfather to Tirzah’s three children. Their time together, however, was relatively short as Tirzah’s cancer returned in the late ‘40s, giving her only a couple of years to live. Nevertheless, she produced some of her very best work in this final year, paintings in which the surreal and dreamlike mingle with the everyday. There is a haunting, hallucinatory quality to many of these beguiling artworks, such as Hide and Seek, Suffragette’s House and Spanish Lady (all 1950-51) – undoubtedly my favourite section of this outstanding show.

Tall and slender in nineteenth-century dress, clasping her hands in front of her, she gazes out at us with two small black eyes. Above her, a ghostly owl swoops low, its wings spread as if in protection of the delicate, earthbound creature below it. The graceful neck and face of the figure is unmistakable: it is the artist, unable to move, glowing softly beneath a starry sky. (p. 23)

Tirzah died in March 1951 at the age of forty-two. A year later, the Tirzah Garwood Memorial Exhibition opened in London, showcasing the full range of her creative techniques – the variety of media she used was incredibly impressive. Many of her works were not seen again in public until the Dulwich Picture Gallery show, which gave visitors a rare opportunity to see them up close.

**Villa at Walton on Naze, 1948, leaf print, paper collage set in box frame**

The aim of the Dulwich exhibition was to reintroduce Tirzah Garwood as a talented artist in her own right, beyond her status as Mrs Eric Ravilious, thereby bringing her back into public view. Happily, the show really succeeded in this respect, demonstrating the full range of her creative powers and achievements through a variety of media. Reference was also made to Tirzah’s creative relationships with Eric Ravilious and Charlotte Bawden (the latter for the marbled papers) during her career.

As Garwood layered colours in her marbling, Ravilious was learning how to do the same in lithography. As she created patterns from abstracted natural forms, he arranged natural forms in patterns to create harmony and texture in his watercolours. Shapes that flow repeatedly across her papers are echoed in his designs for glassware and ceramics. (p. 8)

Arranged in a broadly chronological fashion, the catalogue captures all the artworks n high-quality reproductions, complete with well-judged descriptions. It’s also beautifully produced, one of the best I’ve seen in a while. Alongside plates of all the exhibits, the book contains an introduction to Tirzah Garwood and the exhibition by the art historian & curator James Russell, essays by art critic & writer Jennifer Higgie and art curator Ella Ravilious (Tirzah & Eric’s granddaughter), plus a detailed timeline covering Tirzah’s life.

**Suffragette’s House, 1951, oil on canvas**

(I read this book for Liz’s Non-Fiction November reading event, which is running this month.)

Crooked Cross by Sally Carson

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For a novel first published in 1934, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross feels remarkably timely, charting, as it does, the rise of Nazism in the early 1930s, the falling apart of a country’s fundamental codes of decency and the moral fortitude required to stand against persecution. Recently republished by Persephone Books, a fervent champion of neglected women writers, the book makes chilling reading in 2025, a time when far-right extremism, hate-speech and inhumane discrimination against various groups continue to increase. It’s a brilliant, terrifying novel, a highly compelling combination of the personal and political – easily one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Crooked Cross opens on Christmas Eve 1932, enveloping the reader in the warmth and comfort of the Klugers’ seasonal celebrations. A close family of modest means, Hans Kluger, his wife, Rosa, and their three grown-up children – Helmy, Lexa and Erich – are joined by Lexa’s fiancée, Moritz Weissmann, a bright, much-loved doctor with a promising future ahead, and his recently widowed father, a gentle man whose sight is now fading. It’s a beautiful, loving scene, infused with the glow of candles, the glittering Christmas tree, presents waiting to be unwrapped and festive fir sprigs decorating every available surface. Even Helmy’s picture of Hitler, proudly standing on the Klugers’ piano, has been adorned for the season.

Warm and generous by nature, Lexa wants to hold onto this sense of joy, love and permanence surrounding her family at Christmas, hoping to take it with her into the forthcoming year. She and Moritz are due to be married in June, enabling them to start their life together with the family close by. Nevertheless, this idyll is soon to be shattered as fascism exerts its iron grip, not only on the country but on the Kluger family, too…

As 1932 hurried amid storms and rain to its end, political events in Germany began to move with an unexpected rapidity. […]

The flame of unrest was fanned by the careful attitude of newspapers, by spasmodic outbursts of lawlessness all over the country, and by the constant danger at all times to both Communists and Nazis. Sometimes it was a fight between two or three men; personal grievances to be settled, anger flaming up under insolent aggression. More often whole streetfuls of people were involved; instead of one or two deaths and a handful of men injured, the numbers would run to alarming proportions. Occasionally a whole town would be implicated. Quiet, non-political, peace-loving people waited behind closed doors for the shooting and the hurrying footsteps to cease; the streets were unsafe; the very nights were restless. (pp. 38–39)

While Erich was able to find temporary, seasonal work as a ski instructor at a hotel, Helmy had, until recently, been out of work for three years, leaving him feeling redundant and adrift. Now his role as Secretary in the local branch of the Nazi Party has given him a new sense of purpose, plus a regular salary to boot.

It was Helmy who was different. Helmy, quiet, reticent, tired, almost old-looking last year, had an eager look in his thin face; his step was quicker, his laugh readier. Helmy had a future, something to look forward to; he had an ideal, something bigger to work for than a woman, a family, a business firm. That was what Helmy had always wanted out of life. It was what he was trying now to find in the Party. (p. 135)

In short, the fascist movement is creating a sense of buzz and excitement, giving many young Germans something to feel good about following years of scant hope.

All felt the power, the seduction of Hitler’s voice and its promises. Young people were enthralled by it, captivated. Older people realised its significance too. (p. 64)

As the spring of 1933 unfolds, bands of workers in slum districts are murdered, concentration camps are opened, prominent Jews, Communists and others hostile to the Nazi party are shot dead or tortured by young fascists, all in the name of patriotism. The horrors spread across Germany ‘like a slow stain’. By extending its network into small towns and villages, the Nazi Party strengthens in size and organisational structure, enabling it to pursue the war against Communism with increasing ruthlessness. Now controlled by the government, the German press is silenced; the country’s ears are closed to counterarguments or protests from elsewhere.

As the New Year rings in, Moritz loses his job at the Munich clinic, ushering in a new period of fear and uncertainty for him and Lexa – their wedding, for instance, is indefinitely postponed. Moritz has never been politically active; in fact, the closest he has ever come to politics was to give first-aid lectures to the workers’ guild in Munich. Now he is being accused of having Communist sympathies. In reality though, he knows it to be a trumped charge due to his Jewish heritage. Despite being a practising Catholic, Moritz is considered a Jew by the Nazis due to his Jewish surname, Weissmann, therefore his card is marked. As he searches for new work, this heinous discrimination continues. Younger, less experienced Aryan men are taken on ahead of him; doors are repeatedly closed, while restrictions on the civil liberties of Jews rapidly increase.

Open taunts to Jews and Communists were made, and there were isolated cases of people like Moritz who began to suffer while the days of doubt, hope, indecision, bravado, drew January to a close. The country was like a person tossing in a frightened sleep, half conscious yet half unconscious of the nightmare into which, on awaking, it was to be so abruptly plunged. (p 63)

Soon, Moritz and his ailing father have little option but to move to cheaper accommodation, keeping their heads down while struggling to survive as the unrelenting grind of poverty kicks in. Except for Lexa, former friends are nowhere to be seen, unwilling to stick their necks out by associating with Jews. Meanwhile, Helmy warns Lexa against continuing her relationship with Moritz, particularly given the current political climate.

A cruel insult as a dance marks a tipping point for Moritz, heightening the seriousness of the situation for Lexa; nevertheless, she vows to stick by him, even if it puts her own happiness and safety at risk. Carson holds us close to Lexa’s point of view, occasionally slipping from a third-person narrative to the second person (where Moritz becomes ‘you’) in scenes of heightened emotion. At first, Lexa finds it difficult to understand these sudden shifts in the nation’s mood, but as the discrimination becomes more brutal, the reality of the situation kicks in.

What has happened at the Bar on the night of the ball had been far more of a shock to her than she had realised. The composure she had shown and her quickness in handling the situation only served to show up to her in sharper contrast how frightened she had been by it. The vague, half-formed fears, the persistent muddle into which her thoughts, actions and whole plan of life had been thrown so abruptly in the New Year, had now suddenly crystallised into an open-eyed realisation of what Moritz, and she because of him, were facing. (p. 115)

Lexa realises that her feelings for Moritz have the potential to cause a deep rift with her family, but she continues to see him in secret, concealing her movements from Helmy and Erich. By now, it’s considered a crime for a girl to have any sort of association with a Jew, especially if her family is integral to the Party. Consequently, the risks for Lexa are particularly high.

Very soon Lexa began to learn that when she had thrown in her lot with Moritz she had never reckoned the full score that she would have to pay. Perhaps she had guessed even vaguely at the amount, for her imagination was keen and quick, but of the subtle methods of payment she had never known. Week by week, day by day even, she was learning them, discovering fresh injuries to Helmy, to her mother, to all of them, and through that to herself. […]

For Lexa, there was not even the possibility of still going forward but keeping her eyes shut to certain things; with her temperament and her imagination this was impossible. The immensity of what she had undertaken was multiplied by the fact that she not only had her eyes open and saw everything clearly and yet still went on, but that she stared at the things, recognised them and felt them with every fibre of her being. (p.155 –156)

As this gripping novel plays out, Carson shows us the degree of moral fortitude Lexa must draw upon to remain loyal to Moritz, standing against the horrors being perpetrated as patriotism. Amongst her peer group, Lexa is also the only one with the courage to speak out against the Nazi’s atrocities when their friend, Hermann, is taken away to Dachau for refusing to join the Party and to give the Nazi salute. It is Lexa who confronts her friends’ willingness to condemn Hermann for thinking differently – and by doing so, she alienates her longstanding but temperamental friend, Elsa, now firmly ensconced in the Hitlermädchen.

One of the most impressive things about this novel is Carson’s ability to show how rapidly a society’s fundamental moral codes and structures can fall apart, allowing a new, relentlessly destructive ideology to take hold. With the possible exception of the Klugers’ youngest son, Erich, most of the German characters we meet in Crooked Cross are not inherently evil; rather, they are ordinary men and women swept along by the prevailing winds of change.

Carson takes great care with her characterisation here, depicting these young Germans as nuanced and sometimes conflicted individuals fired up by the political developments swirling around them. Helmy, for instance, isn’t cruel by nature. In reality, he is far from the stereotypical figure of a brutal, ruthless Nazi; rather, he simply wants the best for his country, himself and his family, genuinely believing that the Nazi Party will deliver this in time. To Helmy, and thousands like him, Hitler represents a new beginning and a brighter future for Germany with promises of work, money, food and freedom. Nevertheless, as a nation, Germany has failed to learn the lessons from WW1, which highlighted all too clearly the emptiness and destructive nature of a relentless drive for nationalism.

In many respects, this is one of the most frightening aspects of the picture Carson is painting here – just how easily ordinary human beings can be seduced by an inherently evil ideology when it steps into a vacuum of disaffection, offering people a new purpose and direction with financial rewards.

Through Helmy, Carson also shows us how doubts in the moral acceptability of Hitler’s project begin to creep in. In truth, Helmy is looking for genuine benefits for Germany in the Nazi ideology. However, he and other young men are working so hard for the Party that there is little time to think or question anything when the movement becomes violent…

For events had not happened exactly as he [Helmy] had imagined, Hitler had promised to unite Germany, to put her on an equal footing with other European nations, to improve unemployment, to exterminate the Jew. Helmy in his heart had agreed to all these things. As a loyal Nazi, confident in the righteousness of his party and his leader, he had given his promise to help to achieve these ends. When this confidence weakened and wavered he was lost in a sea of doubts and misunderstandings with himself. The things he had not promised to aid and abet were crime, bloodshed, lawlessness; what he had not counted on finding in the Party was a complete and rigorous stamping out of freedom and individuality. (p. 262–263)

Carson doesn’t pull any punches here, illustrating some of the horrific consequences of this heinous violence, not only for the victims, but the perpetrators too, as a young Nazi is destroyed by the devastating emotional fallout after participating in a fatal attack.

Rather ironically, Erich – selfish, materialistic and hot-headed – is shown to be something of a hypocrite in prizing loyalty to the Nazis above all else, even his family. In his former role as a ski instructor, Erich provided certain ‘services’ to married women staying at the hotel, thereby benefiting financially from their infidelity. Considering this, his faithfulness to the fascist movement infuriates Lexa, who clearly sees it for what it is – cruel, destructive and morally wrong.

Moreover, Carson scrutinises the horrors sweeping across Germany through the presence of an outsider, Michael, an English friend of a family in the Klugers’ circle, visiting Kranach to improve his language skills. With his objective, clear-eyed views, Michael can see just how blinkered young Germans have become, whipped up in a frenzy of excitement by Hitler and his acolytes. He also senses a vague, underlying sense of fear or doubt about the movement amongst some Germans. Are they simply exchanging one form of uncertainty for another? What good, if any, will come of it all?

As you can probably tell by now, I was knocked out by just how rich and prescient this novel feels in 2025, especially given the recent rise of far-right extremism and the vilification of various groups across Europe and elsewhere in the world. The book asks searching questions about our moral values and whether we, both as individuals and as part of a supposedly civilised society, have the courage of our convictions when faced with racial discrimination and persecution. How would we react if our political principles came into conflict with our own personal affections and family loyalties? Which way would we turn? Who would we stand by and support?

It’s also a remarkably gripping and immersive read with characters – particularly Lexa, Moritz and the latter’s father – the reader can really invest in. The novel ends on Midsummer’s Eve, 1933, but Carson also wrote a couple of sequels – The Prisoner (1936), which Persephone will be reissuing next spring, and A Traveller Came By (1938). It feels apt to give the last word to the author, so I’ll finish with a short quote that seems to capture something of the horrors people were facing back then. As a society, we desperately need to learn from history to prevent these atrocities from happening again…