Tag Archives: Edith Wharton

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 2

44 Replies

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 20th 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

53 Replies

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 Reef by Edith Wharton

39 Replies

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, tensions exist between restraint and passion, just as they do between respectability and impropriety. These qualities are central to Wharton’s much-loved society novels The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth, 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. This exquisitely written novel is also partly autobiographical in theme, making it particularly intriguing to read.

Central to The Reef are George Darrow, a thirty-seven-year-old American diplomat based in London, and Anna Leath, a refined, idealistic, convention-bound widow living in Givré, France. George hopes to marry Anna (a fellow American), having crossed paths with her again at a dinner in London. The two were once very close before Anna’s marriage to Fraser Leath, and now George is eager to secure Anna’s hand.

While en route to Givré – where Anna lives with her mother-in-law, Madame de Chantelle, her young daughter, Effie, and her adult stepson, Owen – George receives a message from Anna asking him to wait. No reason for the delay is given, other than the emergence of an ‘unexpected obstacle’, leaving George feeling rather disgruntled and abandoned.

As he [George] looked back at their few days together he saw that their intercourse had been marked, on her part, by the same hesitations and reserves which had chilled their earlier intimacy. Once more they had had their hour together and she [Anna] had wasted it. As in her girlhood, her eyes had made promises which her lips were afraid to keep. She was still afraid of life, of its ruthlessness, its danger and mystery. (pp. 29–30)

Uncertain of his current position and future marriage prospects with Anna, George is captivated by Sophy Viner, whom he happens to bump into at the train station in Dover. Sophy – known to George only by sight – has fled from her unreasonable employer in London following a disagreement and is now en route to France to pursue her theatrical ambitions. Enchanted by Sophy’s vitality, youth and liberated approach to life, George accompanies the girl to Paris, where he arranges a room for her at his hotel.

Darrow, as he observed her [Sophy], again felt a detached enjoyment in her pleasure. She was an extraordinary conductor of sensation: she seemed to transmit it physically, in emanations that set the blood dancing in his veins. (p. 51)

Sophy had been hoping to stay with friends in Paris, but a change in their address (and possibly in their circumstances) has left her in limbo, for a few days at least. Consequently, George – with honourable intentions in mind – takes Sophy under his wing, shepherding her to restaurants and the theatre to lift her spirits. Sophy, who has very little money of her own, is enchanted by George and the experiences he opens up for her.

She [Sophy] became of absorbing interest to him as an escape from himself and an object about which his thwarted activities could cluster. He [George] felt less drearily alone because of her being there, on the other side of the door, and in his gratitude to her for giving him this relief he began, with indolent amusement, to plan new ways of detaining her. (p. 56)

As the days pass, George and Sophy become closer, and while Wharton doesn’t state exactly what happens between them, she reveals enough for us to deduce that they become intimate with one another before parting ways. George then travels to Givré, reconnects with Anna and gives no further thought to Sophy – until, that is, something unexpected happens…

Fast-forward four or five months, and we find George and Anna at Givré, hopefully ready to finalise their engagement. Nevertheless, before making her intentions with George public, Anna wishes to prepare the ground with her family. Firstly, there is her mother-in-law, the rather traditional, class-conscious Madame de Chantelle, to think of, as Anna is living in the latter’s chateau. Young Effie is another consideration, particularly as George’s job will likely take Anna abroad.

Then there is the question of Owen’s future to settle, especially as Anna is very fond of her stepson, hoping he will have some of the chances in life that she has missed. Owen wishes to marry a young girl from a lower social class, and while Anna may not consider the match ideal — very little about the girl’s background is known to her — she will do everything in her power to smooth the way, mostly by preparing Madame de Chantelle for the shock. Anna is of the belief that Owen (and in time, Effie) should be free to make their own decisions in life, even if they turn out to be mistakes. They may not be disastrous – but if so, at least her children will learn from them and go on to make better choices in the future. Nevertheless, it is George who receives the biggest shock of all when Owen’s intended is revealed to be none other than Sophy Viner, recently engaged by Anna as Effie’s new governess.

What follows is a delicate dance as these complex entanglements and their consequences play out. George tries his hardest to keep his dalliance with Sophy a secret from Anna, claiming to have seen her only in passing while visiting friends in London. Sophy, for her part, is equally keen to prevent the true nature of her connection to George from being revealed.

Clandestine conversations between George and Sophy swiftly follow whenever they can snatch a few moments alone. Ideally, George would like to separate Sophy from the Leaths while also securing her future elsewhere. But unfortunately for the former lovers, their secret meetings are observed, generating speculation about the nature of these discussions.

Central to the novel are questions of trust and integrity, specifically around George and Anna. 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? While the former might be possible, the latter is often more challenging to achieve, particularly if loving relationships are to survive.

George knows Anna would be devastated if she learned of his entanglement with Sophy in Paris. Anna, who adheres to traditional moral codes, is bound by the conventions and social mores of the society in which she has been raised, whereas George, possibly by virtue of his gender, is more relaxed. Nevertheless, he knows that Anna retains an idealised vision of romantic love – only after a meeting of minds, values and hearts can any sexual union occur, that is how Anna sees things.

As the remainder of this intricate, nuanced novel unravels, Wharton excels at showing us the consequences of George’s foolish behaviour and the devastation this ultimately creates, shattering the lives of virtually all concerned. The novel’s title reflects the dangers that may lurk beneath the surface of seemingly fleeting relationships – forces with the potential to cause extensive, irreparable damage to those straying into their paths.  

A moment before, at the moment when she [Anna] had lifted her arms to his neck, she had been wrapped in a sense of complete security. All the spirits of doubt had been exorcised, and her love was once more the clear habitation in which every thought and feeling could move in blissful freedom. And then, as she raised her face to Darrow’s and met his eyes, she had seemed to look into the very ruins of his soul. That was the only way she could express it. It was as though he and she had been looking at two sides of the same thing, and the side she had seen had been all light and life, and his a place of graves… (p. 274)

The Reef was first published in 1912, not long after Wharton’s passionate affair with Morton Fullerton – possibly her first experience of unbridled, romantic love. Wharton was married at the time, but the marriage was under great strain, largely due to her husband’s chronic depression and sequence of infidelities. Consequently, some critics consider Anna and Sophy to represent two separate but intertwined sides of Edith Wharton’s personality – Anna as the morally upright, sexually repressed Edith, restrained by her conventional marriage, and Sophy as the bright, passionate woman (or alter-ego) Fullerton unleashed.

As ever with Wharton, the writing is top-notch, giving us access to the inner worlds of her two leading protagonists, George and Anna, while also portraying the broader impact of their actions on Sophy, Owen, Effie and Madame de Chantelle. These characters are beautifully drawn with genuine perceptiveness and depth, highlighting the emotional turmoil each individual experiences. Something Wharton does particularly well here is to tease out the many contrasts between Anna and Sophy. While Anna is restricted by the external pressures of social mores and her internal values of trust, integrity and loyalty, Sophy – a spontaneous, direct and candid young woman – is less bound by convention, allowing her to experience life more fully than the socially superior Anna.

Interestingly, by the novel’s end, Sophy emerges from this messy scenario with dignity, highlighting her strength of character and inner integrity. Readers’ responses to George are likely to vary, particularly given his willingness to lie so smoothly to his future wife and several others. One wonders whether he has done this sort of thing before, even if somewhat naively – he also comes across as rather manipulative at times!

Life’s just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits. (p. 313)

The Reef is a fascinating novel about the complexities of human behaviour, full of attraction, duplicity, suspicion, jealousy and hurt. I loved it and hope to find a place for it on my ever-expanding end-of-year list.

Stories for Winter and Nights by the Fire – Edith Wharton, Shirley Jackson, Katherine Mansfield & more!

38 Replies

Over the past few years, the British Library has been doing sterling work with its excellent Women Writers series, reissuing lesser-known novels by female authors from the 20th century for modern-day readers to enjoy. Alongside the novels, the series includes a handful of carefully curated anthologies, one of which – Stories for Winter and Nights by the Fire – I’m reviewing here.

Sometimes these types of collections can be a little uneven, with a few mediocre stories lurking between the gems. In this instance, however, thirteen of the fourteen featured stories are excellent; only one of the tales, November Fair by Kate Roberts, feels somewhat superfluous and less polished than the rest.

Overall then, this is a marvellous collection of winter-themed stories, full of snowy days, chilly nights and the evocative atmosphere these conditions tend to evoke. It’s also a beautifully produced book, the literary equivalent of a box of chocolates, featuring perennial favourites, new discoveries and the occasional left-field choice. With contributions from esteemed writers such as Edith Wharton, Shirley Jackson, Elizabeth Bowen and Angela Carter to lesser-known contemporaries including Elizabeth Bibesco, Violet M. MacDonald and Frances Bellerby, this delightful anthology showcases tales in a range of styles – from humorous sketches to poignant encounters and partings to spine-tingling ghost stories to haunt your dreams.  Inevitably, different stories will resonate with different readers depending on their tastes, but there really does appear to be something for everyone here!

As in my reviews of other anthologies and short story collections, I’ll focus on some of my favourites to give you a flavour of what to expect.

The collection gets off to an excellent start with Edith Wharton’s The Reckoning, in which a married couple, Julia and Clement, have vowed to remain together only as long as their relationship is in ‘complete accord’. If one party falls out of love, they may ask to be released from the bond. The agreement was suggested by Julia, largely due to the breakdown of her previous marriage, and she didn’t want to feel trapped in an unfulfilling relationship again. But when Clement becomes attracted to another woman – the young, attractive Una, whom he meets when giving a talk – Julia is devastated and shocked.

Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself alive. She looked about her, trying to recover her hold on reality. Her identity seemed to be slipping from her, as it disappears in a physical swoon. “This is my room–-this is my house,” she heard herself saying. Her room? Her house? She could almost hear the walls laugh back at her. (p. 18)

As this brilliantly observed story unfolds, Julia comes to a crushing realisation. Now she knows just how her first husband must have felt when she left him for Clement…

Relationships also form the core of a few other favourites, not least The Prisoner by Elizabeth Berridge, whose novella, The Story of Stanley Brent, is a poignant gem. In The Prisoner, a lonely, middle-aged spinster gradually forms a touching, tentative bond with Erich, one of the German prisoners of war working in a nearby field. At first, the woman is resentful of the soldiers’ presence near her home, but as she gets to know Erich, bonding with him over shared cups of tea and stories of his family, her heart softens considerably. Their parting, when it comes, is awkward and charged with unspoken emotion, tapping into an earlier loss that still feels raw. It’s a very affecting story, beautifully observed.

She stood and looked at it (the door) for a long time, then went quietly to her room and took down her hair before the mirror. As she brushed it with long practised strokes tears flowed down her cheeks; she could not stop them. (p. 161)

There’s also The Snowstorm (by Violet M. MacDonald), one of the most intriguing and atmospheric stories here. Following a chance encounter at an inn, a man persuades a woman to spend the night at his house while his wife is away. For some reason, he senses a kindred spirit in this woman, someone who will listen and help him find a solution to a dilemma he is currently wrestling with. It’s all very mysterious, and at one point, the woman wonders if this man might be mad or some kind of criminal. Nevertheless, it will be an experience – an adventure she might come to regret passing up. A hazardous drive through a wonderfully evocative snowstorm ensues in this enigmatic story of a fleeting attraction and a night of discovery…

His face now was a silhouette against the window. The headlights of the car threw two white shafts into space, and the windscreen wiper clicked steadily back and forth, clearing the fine dust of snow from the glass as it drove and drove against it ceaselessly. The world seemed dissolving under the gentle, insistent action of the snow, that was seen to be twisting in slow spirals across the light. (p. 97)

Elizabeth Taylor’s quietly devastating story The Thames Spread Out is also worthy of a mention here. When a middle-aged single woman, Rose, is marooned in her house by a flood, her lover unable to call due to the weather, she sees the emptiness of her life anew, prompting a reassessment and a fresh sense of purpose. You can find more on this one in my review of Taylor’s collection A Dedicated Man, but it’s lovely to see it included here.

In Katherine Mansfield’s A Cup of Tea, another favourite, Rosemary, a wealthy young married woman, is stopped in the street by a destitute girl asking for the price of a cup of tea. Rather than giving the girl some money, Rosemary decides to take her home, where she treats her charge like a new toy, plying the girl with food and drink as a respite from the cold.

And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on this stage, what would happen? It would be thrilling. (p. 56)

Nevertheless, Rosemary’s motives are far from altruistic. When the girl – who is rather attractive – catches the husband’s eye, Rosemary drops her like a stone, paying her off like something to be disposed of. This is another wonderful wintry story, brilliantly told.

She was outside on the step, gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. (p. 55)

Elizabeth Bowen’s marvellous story Ann Lee’s is another standout. In this one, a well-to-do woman, Letty, introduces a friend, Lulu, to her favourite hat shop in Chelsea. There is something oddly formal about Ann Lee, the shop’s priestess-like proprietress, but Letty assures her friend that the hats are divine. As Lulu tries to decide which hats to buy, the rarefied atmosphere in this feminine space is rudely interrupted by the arrival of a large, rather persistent man.

Then a sword of cold air stabbed into the shop, and Lulu and Letty jumped, exclaimed and shivered. The outer door was open and a man was standing on the threshold, blatant in the light against the foggy dusk behind him. (p. 76)

The man claims to have an appointment with Miss Lee and refuses to leave without being granted an interview; and while the reason for his visit is never fully explained – is he a lover or possibly a debt collector? – but we can probably guess by the end. This is a terrific story with notes of sharp humour, and it’s a joy to see it here.

Humour also plays a key role in Shirley Jackson’s excellent piece, My Life with R. H. Macy, which tells the story of a young girl’s first couple of days as a shop assistant at the famous New York store. Right from the start, the girl is bombarded with a whirlwind of jargon and confusing abbreviations, as if everyone is speaking in code or a language she doesn’t understand. It’s not long before Jackson’s characteristic strangeness emerges as the girl goes rogue when dealing with a customer order. 

I took down the customer’s name and address, her aunt’s name and address, and wrote carefully across the front of the duplicate triplicate “1 Stg. Strk. Sl.” Then I smiled at the customer again and said carelessly: “That will be seventy-five cents”. She said, “But I have a D. A.” I told her that all D. A.s were suspended for the Christmas rush, and she gave me seventy-five cents, which I kept. Then I rang up a “No Sale” on the cash register and I tore up the duplicate triplicate because I didn’t know what else to do with it. (pp. 129-130)

No winter collection would be complete without a ghost story or two, and My Fellow Travellers by Mary Angela Dickens (Charles’ granddaughter) is suitably unnerving. This wonderful tale comes with a classic framing device – two women sitting by a fire, one telling the other of an incident from her past. In the story itself, Miss Lanyon, a schoolteacher, is travelling by train from London to Norwich one Sunday night during the Christmas term. The compartment she chooses appears to be empty; however during the journey itself, two figures – a man and a younger woman – are visible in the carriage through the reflection cast on the window. Whenever Miss Lanyon turns around to view the couple in person, these ghostly figures are no longer there. As the noisy train hurtles across the country, the girl appears to be pleading with her companion, and the discussion between them becomes increasingly fraught…

“Her face was turned towards me, and I saw her eyes. Deep and dark, half wild, and desperate, I met them fully reflected in the glass, and in the same instant my own natural life, frozen and dead within me, seemed to be replaced by another. […] As I sat there, conscious with a ghastly double consciousness of my own rigid, spell-bound figure, I knew that my agony of mind belonged not to me, but to her–-to the girl reflected in the glass before me. (p. 38-39)

I won’t reveal how this chilling story turns out, but Dickens lands the ending in style. A very unsettling tale that might make you wary of travelling by train again!

Finally, a quick mention of two additional stories. Firstly, Sylvia Townsend Warner’s The Cold, a cleverly constructed tale in which the passing of a cold from one member of a large family to another becomes an exploration of the social classes, highlighting the prejudices and snobberies ingrained within society. And secondly The Cut Finger by Frances Bellerby, in which a five-year-old child is suddenly exposed to the sad realities of the adult world during a winter break at the seaside.

As ever with the BL’s Women Writers series, the book comes with an informative and enjoyable introduction/afterword by series consultant Simon Thomas, highlighting the changing roles of women and the tensions between their private and public selves during the 20th century – some of which are touched on this evocative anthology. Very highly recommended indeed! (My thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy.)

Fear and Paranoia in Literature – some sinister books for Halloween

27 Replies

With Halloween just days away, I thought it might be interesting to put together a themed post on some favourite reads for the season. Ghost stories would be an obvious choice, but I’ve widened the lens somewhat to encompass books in which fear, paranoia or trauma play a significant role. Somehow, I find these psychologically driven stories particularly unnerving, probably because the unravelling of the mind (and the subsequent loss of control this invariably signals) feels so terrifying to me…

As ever with these posts, I’ve summarised each recommendation below, but you can read the full reviews by clicking on the title links. Happy reading for Halloween!

Appointment with Yesterday by Celia Fremlin

Last summer, I read and loved Celia Fremlin’s 1959 novel Uncle Paul, a wonderfully compelling story about what can happen when our imagination runs wild, conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios from our fears and suspicions. Faber’s latest Fremlin reissue, the 1972 novel Appointment with Yesterday, shares something of that earlier book’s themes, exploring as it does the damaging impact of paranoia in domestic settings. It’s a very cleverly constructed story in which Fremlin gradually reveals information to build terror and suspense, all set against the backdrop of a dismal London basement, a windswept seaside town and a series of cluttered kitchens. I thoroughly enjoyed this clever exploration of fear and paranoia, which gripped me throughout. Some readers may question a certain element of the ending, possibly projecting 21st-century values onto a 1970s protagonist in the hope of a different outcome, but to my mind, it fits with the times. I loved this novel and hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights. 

A Spring of Love by Celia Dale

Recently reissued by Daunt Books, A Spring of Love is another utterly compelling story of suburban deception by Celia Dale, similar in style to Patricia Highsmith’s best domestic noirs. Dale specialises in showing us how vulnerable individuals – particularly the elderly and the naïvely trusting – can be preyed upon by malicious confidence tricksters in the safety of their own homes. There is something particularly chilling about a seemingly innocent figure inveigling their way into the domestic space, and Dale leverages this violation to the hilt with her disturbing tales of greed and deception. In A Helping Hand and Sheep’s Clothing, the scammers’ victims are female pensioners, often reliant on care and support; but in Spring, the predator targets a much younger single woman – thirty-year-old Esther Wilson, who lives in London with her widowed grandmother. If you want to discover more, just click on the link; but to summarise, this is another masterful novel by Celia Dale – a gripping story of greed, deception, misogyny and horror, all the more terrifying for its seemingly innocent trickster and grounding in normality.

Dark Tales by Shirley Jackson

Published by Penguin Classics in 2016, Dark Tales is an excellent collection comprising seventeen of Jackson’s short stories, many of which first appeared in The New Yorker, McSweeney’s and other publications in the 1960s. The stories themselves are rather creepy and unnerving, illuminating the sense of darkness lurking beneath the veneer of suburban society. Jackson excels at creating characters and situations that seem perfectly normal and respectable at first sight, only to reveal themselves to be somewhat off-kilter as the narrative unfolds. Moreover, several tales are concerned with confinement and entrapment, from the explicit physical state of being trapped in a room to the more subtle psychological sense of being constrained within the limits of domesticity. In effect, Jackson is highlighting the relatively limited roles women were allowed to play in society at the time – wife, mother, homemaker and supporter – with precious little opportunity for personal fulfilment. A deliciously disquieting read for a dark autumn night.

The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton

Subtle, sophisticated and richly imagined, this unsettling collection of Wharton’s Ghost Stories is a veritable treat. Characterised by the tensions between restraint and passion, respectability and impropriety, Wharton’s narratives are rooted in reality, with the ghostly chills mostly stemming from psychological factors. The fear of the unknown, the power of the imagination and the judicious use of supernatural imagery to unnerve the soul are all in evidence here. As one would expect with Wharton, the writing is first class and the characters brilliantly drawn, with sufficient depth and subtlety to appear fully convincing. A wonderfully chilling collection of tales, tapping into the dark side of American history and human relationships.

American Midnight – Tales of the Dark short story anthology

Also making a strong claim for the Halloween reading pile is American Midnight, a wonderfully chilling short story anthology released in 2019. The collection comprises nine tales of the dark and supernatural, all penned by American authors and originally published in the 19th or 20th century. The featured writers include Edith Wharton, Edgar Allen Poe, Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Shirley Jackson (again!). One of the best things about this selection is the diversity of styles – from gothic folk horror to classic ghost stories, there’s something for virtually everyone here. American Midnight is a wide-ranging collection of unsettling stories, shot through with striking imagery and a palpable sense of unease, exploring some of the mystery and darkness in America’s chequered past. For more unnerving short stories, check out Daphne du Maurier’s The Breaking Point, another collection I strongly recommend.

This Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith

Patricia Highsmith is one of my favourite writers. She has an uncanny ability to get into the mind of a delusional character, and she does this particularly well in her 1960 novel, This Sweet Sickness. This immersive story of obsession and desire centres on David Kelsey, a talented yet restless young chemist who lives in New York. The problem for David is that he’s embroiled in the ‘Situation’, a bizarre ritual of fantasies that hold him in their grip. What Highsmith does so well in this novel is to draw the reader into her protagonist’s mind. Even though the book is written in the third person, Highsmith’s depiction of David as an unhinged, delusional individual is utterly convincing, drawing the reader into the fantasy he has created for himself. To say more at this stage might spoil things for potential readers, so I’ll leave it there – save to say Highsmith excels at building dread.

The Girls by John Bowen

First published in 1986, The Girls is a savage gem in which the cosiness of life in an idyllic English village is destabilised by domestic horror. Think Barbara Pym crossed with Inside No. 9 and you’re pretty much there – maybe with a smidgen of Lolly Willowes or Barbara Comyns in the mix, just for good measure. Early in the novel, a pedigree boar escapes while en route to service a local sow, setting the tone for this peculiar story, which is flecked with touches of the absurd. Something that Bowen does particularly well here is to combine the innocent and the savage to compelling effect, and while his style is somewhat different from Barbara Comyns’, I couldn’t help but think of the main characters in the context of Comyns’ fiction. There is something peculiarly English about this book, a savagery and eccentricity at play in the bucolic setting. The Girls is a wonderfully eccentric book, by turns, charming, funny, horrific and surreal, all wrapped up in a dark, dreamlike fairy tale with little nods to pagan myths and the supernatural here and there. But despite these otherworldly elements, much of the story remains rooted in realism, illustrating the limits of how far we might go to protect the people we love.

Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell)

The Argentine writer and journalist Mariana Enriquez grew up during the country’s Dirty War. From 1976 to 1983, when Argentina was in the grip of the military dictatorship, several thousands of citizens were murdered or disappeared, many of whom were not formally documented due to the terrorist regime in place. In these macabre, deeply disturbing stories, elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery are intertwined with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present.

Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. Enriquez excels in using imagery to augment the fear and tension in these pieces. Moreover, most of Enriquez’s protagonists are women or girls, highlighting the horrors of life in Argentina from the female perspective, ranging from arrogant, unsympathetic partners and violence at the hands of men to mental illness and self-harm. I was knocked out by this collection and hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights.

Hungry for What by María Bastarós (tr. Kevin Gerry Dunn)

If you’re a fan of Mariana Enriquez’s dark, deeply disturbing stories on the horrors rooted in Argentina’s history, you will love Hungry for What, a ferocious collection of short fiction from Spanish rising star María Bastarós. With a background in art history and screenwriting, Bastarós has a sharp eye for arresting visual imagery, a skill that comes to the fore in several of these pieces. Here we have stories of oppressed wives, discarded lovers, neglected children and lonely, marginalised figures struggling with their mental health. The desolate landscapes and rundown neighbourhoods of northern Spain form the backdrop to the collection, with the environment’s corrosive underbelly bursting through the fragile surface, making its presence felt in these characters’ anxieties and fears. A sense of latent unease or creeping dread permeates many of these stories. However, in several instances, the threat does not come in the form of a physical presence; rather, the horrors are more psychological, often the consequence of abuse, violence, or trauma lurking in the mundane and everyday. Highly recommended, especially for fans of Mariana Enriquez and Selva Almada.

Space Invaders by Nona Fernández (tr. Natasha Wimmer)

I dithered about including this book, but it just about fits! First published in Chile in 2013, this memorable, shapeshifting novella paints a haunting portrait of a generation of children exposed to the horrors of Pinochet’s dictatorship in the 1980s, a time of deep oppression and unease. The book focuses on a close-knit group of young adults who were at school together during the ‘80s and are now haunted by a jumble of disturbing dreams interspersed with shards of unsettling memories – suppressed during childhood but crying out to be dealt with now. Collectively, these striking fragments form a kind of literary collage, a powerful collective memory of the group’s absent classmate, Estrella, whose father was a leading figure in the State Police. Fernandez adopts a fascinating combination of form and structure for her book, using the Space Invaders game as both a framework and a metaphor for conveying the story. A stunning achievement by a very talented writer.

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have some favourite unnerving reads of your own – if so, feel free to mention them here.

Happy 10th Birthday to JacquiWine’s Journal!

77 Replies

I don’t usually mark my blog’s birthdays, but as JacquiWine’s Journal is 10 years old today, I couldn’t resist this post as a celebration of sorts! It seems such a long time since I first dipped my toe in the blogging world with some reviews of books longlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in 2014. I was part of a Shadow Panel back then, and initially, the other shadowers kindly posted my reviews on their blogs as I didn’t have one of my own – not until I set up the Journal in May 2014, and the rest as they say is history.

Much has changed since I started blogging, but the bookish community on various sites and social media platforms continues to be a joy. I’ve had so many lovely conversations with readers over the years, so thank you for reading, engaging with and commenting on my reviews – I really do appreciate it.

To mark this milestone, I’ve selected a favourite book reviewed during each year of my blog, up to and including 2023. (My favourite reads of 2024 will have to wait till later this year!) Happy reading – as ever, you can read the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (reviewed in 2014)

Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, drives home to her family’s ranch for the wedding of her identical twin sister, Judith, where she seems all set to derail the proceedings. This is a brilliant novel featuring one of my favourite women in literature. Cassandra is intelligent, precise and at times witty, charming and loving. But she can also be manipulative, reckless, domineering, self-absorbed and cruel.  She’s a mass of contradictions and behaves abominably at times, and yet it’s very hard not to feel for her. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (reviewed in 2015)

Taylor’s 1971 novel follows a recently widowed elderly lady, Mrs Palfrey, as she moves into the Claremont Hotel, joining a group of residents in similar positions – each one is likely to remain there until a move to a nursing home or hospital can no longer be avoided. This beautiful, bittersweet, thought-provoking novel prompts readers to consider the emotional and physical challenges of old age: the need to participate in life, the importance of small acts of kindness and the desire to feel valued, to name just a few. Taylor’s observations of social situations are spot-on – there are some very funny moments here alongside the undoubted poignancy. Probably my favourite book by Elizabeth Taylor in a remarkably strong field!

In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (reviewed in 2016)

A superb noir which excels in the creation of atmosphere and mood. As a reader, you really feel as though you are walking the Los Angeles streets at night, moving through the fog with only the dim and distant city lights to guide you. Hughes’ focus is on the mindset of her central character, the washed-up ex-pilot Dix Steele, a deeply damaged and vulnerable man who finds himself tormented by events from his past. The storyline is too complex to summarise here, but Hughes maintains the suspense throughout. (This was a big hit with my book group, and we went on to read The Expendable Man, too!)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (reviewed in 2017)

A beautiful and compelling portrayal of forbidden love, characterised by Wharton’s trademark ability to expose the underhand workings of a repressive world. Set within the upper echelons of New York society in the 1870s, the novel exposes a culture that seems so refined on the surface, and yet, once the protective veneer of respectability is stripped away, the reality is brutal, intolerant and hypocritical. There is a real sense of depth and subtlety in the characterisation here. A novel to read and revisit at different stages in life.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore (reviewed in 2018)

This achingly sad novel is a tragic tale of grief, delusion and eternal loneliness set amidst the shabby surroundings of a tawdry boarding house in 1950s Belfast. Moore’s focus is Judith Hearne, a plain, unmarried woman in her early forties who finds herself shuttling from one dismal bedsit to another in an effort to find a suitable place to live. When Judith’s dreams of a hopeful future start to unravel, the true nature of her troubled inner life is revealed, characterised as it is by a shameful secret. The humiliation that follows is swift, unambiguous and utterly devastating, but to say any more would spoil the story. An outstanding, beautifully written novel – a heartbreaking paean to a life without love.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell (reviewed in 2019)

I’m cheating a little by including this twelve-novel sequence exploring the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes, but it’s too good to leave out. Impossible to summarise in just a few sentences, Powell’s masterpiece features one of literature’s finest creations, the odious Kenneth Widmerpool. It’s fascinating to follow Widmerpool, Jenkins and many other individuals over several years in the early-mid 20th century, observing their development as they flit in and out of one another’s lives. The author’s ability to convey a clear picture of a character – their appearance, their disposition, even their way of moving around a room – is second to none. Quite simply one of the highlights of my reading life!

The Children of Dynmouth by William Trevor (reviewed in 2020)

Probably my favourite William Trevor to date, The Children of Dynmouth tells the story of a malevolent teenager and the havoc he wreaks on the residents of a sleepy seaside town in the mid-1970s. It’s an excellent book, veering between the darkly comic, the deeply tragic and the downright unnerving. What Trevor does so well here is to expose the darkness and sadness that lurks beneath the veneer of respectable society. The rhythms and preoccupations of small-town life are beautifully captured too, from the desolate views of the windswept promenade, to the sleepy matinees at the down-at-heel cinema, to the much-anticipated return of the travelling fair for the summer season. One for Muriel Spark fans, particularly those with a fondness for The Ballad of Peckham Rye.  

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff (reviewed in 2021)

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise seems simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magical charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for, a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (reviewed in 2022)

First published in 1977, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel of loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. Now that I’ve read it twice, I think it might be my favourite Pym! The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. While that might not sound terribly exciting as a premise, Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, showing us that life can still offer new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (reviewed in 2023)

A remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, I adored this candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele.

If you’ve read any of these books, do let me know your thoughts!

My favourite books from a year of reading, 2021 – part two, older books

43 Replies

This year, I’m spreading my highlights from a year of reading across two posts. The first piece focused on my favourite ‘recently published’ titles, while this second one puts the spotlight on the best ‘older’ books from my 2021 reading, most of which were written in the 20th century.

These are the backlisted books I loved, the books that have stayed with me, the ones I’m most likely to recommend to other readers. I’ve summarised each one in this post (in order of reading), but as before, you can find the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links.

The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton

Subtle, sophisticated and richly imagined, this unsettling collection of Wharton’s Ghost Stories is a veritable treat. Characterised by the tensions between restraint and passion, respectability and impropriety, Wharton’s narratives are rooted in reality, with the ghostly chills mostly stemming from psychological factors. The fear of the unknown, the power of the imagination and the judicious use of supernatural imagery to unnerve the soul are all in evidence here. As one would expect with Wharton, the writing is first class and the characters brilliantly drawn, with sufficient depth and subtlety to appear fully convincing. A wonderfully chilling collection of tales, tapping into the dark side of American history and human relationships.

Lost Cat by Mary Gaitskill

A thoughtful, beautifully-written rumination on love, loss, grief and the nature of pain, especially where our feelings for others are concerned. While staying at a writing retreat in Italy, Gaitskill is cajoled into adopting a scrawny, feral kitten, whom she names Gattino. Not long after Mary and her husband move house, Gattino mysteriously disappears, thereby reawakening various emotions, previously suppressed feelings of guilt surrounding the death of Gaitskill’s father. In many ways, Lost Cat is an exploration of the complexities of human emotion, of how we try to offer love to another individual (or animal), whether they are accepting of it or not. While the Daunt Books edition came out in 2020, this powerful extended essay first appeared in the Granta literary journal in 2009.

The Sleeping Beauty by Elizabeth Taylor

This loose re-working of the age-old fairy tale is another of Taylor’s marvellous ensemble pieces, very much in line novels such as A View of the Harbour and The Soul of Kindness, where the focus moves from one individual to another as their lives intertwine. The novel is set in Seething, a small seaside town in the early 1950s, and as ever with this author, the characters are brilliantly observed. What I love about this her work are the insights she brings to her characters’ inner lives, their thoughts and interactions with others, and how their experiences and preoccupations reveal themselves over time. There is a combination of depth, complexity and veracity to these individuals that makes them feel human, complete with emotions and motivations that remain relevant some seventy years after publication. Possibly underrated in the Taylor oeuvre, but for me it’s a gem.

Black Narcissus by Rumer Godden

This is a glorious book – an evocative story of nuns, misguided actions and, perhaps most significantly of all, repressed female desire. A small group of Anglican nuns set out to establish a new convent, high up in the Himalayan mountains, a place steeped in beauty and mystery. As the weeks go by, the Sisters begin to fall under the setting’s spell, surrounded by the heady atmosphere of disruption and beauty. Consequently, each Sister becomes obsessed with a particular passion, causing them to neglect their spirituality in favour of more personal desires. Tensions – both sexual and otherwise – abound in this sensual novel, stepped in lush visual imagery. In creating Black Narcissus, Godden has given us a rich exploration of the tensions between competing desires, one that also touches on the follies of colonialism in subtle and memorable ways. Highly recommended, even for devoted fans of the Powell and Pressburger film, such as myself!

Mrs Eckdorf in O’Neill’s Hotel by William Trevor

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been working my way through some of William Trevor’s novels – mostly the early ones with their notes of dark comedy and undeniable tragedy. Mrs Eckdorf is very much of a piece with his others from the 1970s, and is something of a bridge between The Boarding-House and The Children of Dynmouth, both of which I loved. The novel’s catalyst is the titular Mrs Eckdorf – a most annoying and invasive woman who has fashioned a career as a photographer, exploiting the lives of unfortunate individuals around the world, their existences touched by devastation. Once again, William Trevor proves himself a master of the tragicomedy, crafting a story that marries humour and poignancy in broadly equal measure.

Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead by Barbara Comyns

There is something distinctly English about the world that Barbara Comyns portrays in this novel, a surreal eccentricity that could only be found within the England of old. Set in 1911, three years before the advent of the First World War, Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead has all the hallmarks of a classic Comyns novel: enchanting, innocent children, caught up in a dysfunctional family; memorable, vivid imagery, typically with an off-kilter edge; and a simple, matter-of-fact delivery that belies the horrors within. Another strikingly creative work from one of Britain’s most singular writers – a darkly humorous novel of great brilliance and originality with an allegorical nod to the First World War.

Chatterton Square by E. H. Young

Probably the richest, most satisfying entry in the British Library’s Women Writers series so far, Chatterton Square is a novel of contrasts, an exploration of lives – women’s lives in particular – in the run-up to the Second World War. On the surface, Chatterton appears to be a straightforward story of two neighbouring families – one relatively happy and functional, the other much more constrained. However, the degree of depth and nuance that Young brings to her portraits of the main characters makes it a particularly compelling read – more so than my description suggests. Set in Upper Radstowe’s Chatterton Square – a place modelled on Bristol’s Clifton – the novel features one of the most pompous characters I’ve encountered this year: Herbert Blackett, a conceited, self-absorbed puritan who considers himself vastly superior to his more relaxed neighbours.

The Island by Ana María Matute (tr. Laura Lonsdale)

Set on the island of Mallorca, shortly after the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, The Island is a darkly evocative coming-of-age narrative with a creeping sense of oppression. With her mother no longer alive and her father away in the war, Matia has been taken to the island to live with her grandmother (or ‘abuela’), Aunt Emilia and cousin Borja – not a situation she relishes. Matute excels in her depiction of Mallorca as an alluring yet malevolent setting, drawing on striking descriptions of natural world to reinforce the impression of danger. It’s a brutal and oppressive place, torn apart by familial tensions and longstanding political divisions. As this visceral novella draws to a close, Matia is left with few illusions about the adult world. The beloved fables and fairy tales of her childhood are revealed to be fallacies, contrasting starkly with the duplicity, betrayal and cruelty she sees being played out around her. A unsettling summer read.

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise seems simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magical charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for, a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times.

Passing by Nella Larsen

Larsen’s 1928 novella Quicksand – which was inspired by Larsen’s own background and life – tells the story of a young mixed-race woman searching for her place in society, lacking a sense of identity in a highly segregated world. In Passing (1929), Larsen takes these themes a step further by exploring the emotional, moral and societal implications of the act of ‘passing’, whereby a light-skinned mixed-race woman passes as white in a society divided by race. Central to Passing is a fascinating yet complex relationship between two middle-class women, Irene Redfield and Clare Kendry – both of whom are black but sufficiently light-skinned to pass as white, depending on their personal attitudes and circumstances. Passing is just as much an exploration of the complexities of female friendships as it is of race, touching on themes of desire, jealousy, loyalty, betrayal, victory and victimhood along the way. A superb book, fully deserving of its status as a classic of the Harlem Renaissance. I loved Rebecca Hall’s film adaptation too, currently steaming on Netflix.

Finally, a few books that almost made the cut – all very highly recommended indeed.

  • Meeting in Positano – Goliarda Sapienza’s gorgeous novel of female friendship, set in the glamorous world of 1950s Italy.  
  • The Visitor – Maeve Brennan’s piercing novella of resentment, bitterness and the loneliness of isolation.
  • Family Happiness – Laurie Colwin’s beautifully observed story of familial obligations and our need to be loved.   
  • Tea is So Intoxicating – Mary Essex’s delightfully amusing comedy on the pettiness of village life and the failure to recognise our own limitations.
  • The Feast – Margaret Kennedy’s joyous novel, set in post-war Cornwall. Part morality tale and part family saga/social comedy, it’s an escapist delight!

All that remains is for me to wish you a very Merry Christmas and all the best for the year ahead. Let’s hope it turns out to be significantly less stressful than the last two have been…

Autumn reads – a few favourites from the shelves

40 Replies

A few weeks ago, Trevor and Paul released a podcast on some of their favourite fall/autumn books, including a few they hope to read this year. It’s a fascinating discussion, which you can listen to at The Mookse and the Gripes podcast via the usual platforms. Their conversation got me thinking about my own seasonal reading, particularly books with autumnal settings or moods. So, with a nod to Trevor and Paul’s selection, here are a few of my favourite autumn reads.

A Sunday in Ville d’Avray by Dominique Barbéris (tr. John Cullen)

This beautiful, evocative novella is set in Paris on a Sunday afternoon in September, just at the crossover point between summer and autumn. The narrator – an unnamed woman – drives from the city centre to the Parisian suburb of Ville-d’Avray to visit her married sister, Claire Marie. As the two sisters sit and chat in the garden, an intimate story emerges, something the two women have never spoken about before. Claire Marie reveals a secret relationship from her past, a sort of dalliance with a mysterious man whom she met at her husband’s office. What emerges is a story of unspoken desire, missed opportunities and avenues left unexplored. This haunting, dreamlike novella is intimate and hypnotic in style, as melancholy and atmospheric as a dusky autumn afternoon.

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. This premise seems simple on the surface, yet the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magic and charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for – a throwback perhaps to simpler times.

The Shooting Party by Isabel Colegate

Set on an Oxfordshire country estate in the autumn of 1913, The Shooting Party offers readers a terrific insight into the dying days of the Edwardian era, the beginning of the end of a time-honoured way of life for the English upper classes. The novel follows the final twenty-four hours of a three-day shoot, a landmark event in the social calendar of the Nettlebys and their immediate set. As the story unfolds, we learn more about the main characters, their distorted moral values and the rarefied world in which they circulate. What Colegate does so well here is to shine a light on the farcical nature of Edwardian society, the sheer pointlessness of the endless social whirl and the ridiculous codes that govern it. Fans of L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between will likely enjoy The Shooting Party, a superb novel that deserves to be better known.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

What can I say about this widely-acclaimed Gothic classic that hasn’t already been said before? Not a lot, other than to reiterate how brilliantly unsettling it is. The novel’s narrator, Merricat Blackwood – an eighteen-year-old girl with a distinctive, childlike voice – lives with her amiable older sister, Constance, in a large isolated house on the outskirts of a New England village. However, the girls have been ostracised by the local townsfolk, primarily due to an infamous poisoning in the family six years ago. As such, the book has much to say about outsiders – more specifically, how as a society we treat people who seem strange or different from the ‘norm’, and how our suspicions and prejudices can lead to fear – and ultimately to violence. An atmospheric, unsettling, magical book, shot through with touches of black humour, ideal for Halloween.

American Midnight – Tales of the dark short story anthology

Also making a strong claim for the Halloween reading pile is American Midnight is a wonderfully chilling short story anthology released in 2019. The collection comprises nine tales of the dark and supernatural, all penned by American authors and originally published in the 19th or 20th century. The featured writers include Edith Wharton, Edgar Allen Poe, Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Shirley Jackson (again!). One of the best things about the selection is the diversity of styles across the ranger – from gothic folk horror to classic ghost stories, there’s something for virtually everyone here. American Midnight is a wide-ranging collection of unsettling stories, shot through with striking imagery and a palpable sense of unease, exploring some of the mystery and darkness in America’s chequered past. For more unnerving short stories, check out Shirley Jackson’s Dark Tales, Daphne du Maurier’s The Breaking Point and Edith Wharton’s Ghost Stories – all come with high recommendations from me.

Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor

At first, this might seem an unusual choice; however, I’ve chosen it because the novel’s heroine, Mrs Palfrey – a recently widowed elderly lady – is in the twilight of her life. As the book opens, Mrs Palfrey is in the process of moving into London’s Claremont Hotel (the story is set in the late ‘60s/early ‘70s, when this was not unusual for those who could afford it). Here she joins a group of residents in similar positions, each likely to remain at the hotel until they can no longer avoid a move to a nursing home or hospital.

To save face in front of the other residents, Mrs P persuades a kindly young man, Ludo, to play the role of her grandson, and an unlikely yet deeply touching relationship between the pair soon develops. This beautiful, bittersweet novel prompts the reader to consider the emotional and physical challenges of old age: the need to participate in life; the importance of small acts of kindness; and the desire to feel valued. Taylor’s observations of social situations are spot-on, and there are some very amusing moments alongside the undoubted poignancy. Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont is an understated gem – a wise, beautifully-observed novel that stands up to re-reading.

Do let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re thinking of reading any of them in the future. Perhaps you have a favourite autumnal book or two? Please feel free to mention them in the comments below.

The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton – subtle, sophisticated and richly imagined.

42 Replies

I have long been a fan of Edith Wharton, a fascination that started with Ethan Frome, Wharton’s brilliant yet brutal novella of the fallout from an intense love triangle. The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth are favourites too, along with the New York Stories which I wrote about in 2019.

Wharton’s Ghost Stories – collected together in this beautifully-produced book from Virago’s Designer Collection – are probably closest in style to some of the more unsettling pieces in the New York book, characterised by the tensions between restraint and passion, respectability and impropriety. Here we have narratives rooted in reality, with the ghostly chills mostly stemming from psychological factors – the fear of the unknown, the power of the imagination and the judicious use of supernatural imagery to unnerve the soul. As one might expect with Wharton, the writing is first class and the characters brilliantly drawn – with sufficient depth and subtlety to appear fully convincing.

The book opens with The Lady’s Maid’s Bell, one of the most unnerving tales in this excellent collection. Narrated by the maid herself, it is a classic ghost story in which the protagonist is haunted by the appearance of a spectre, the identity of which becomes clear as the story unfolds. There are several familiar elements here: a dark gloomy house; a feverish young lady of the manor; servants who refuse to speak of the maid’s predecessor; and a ghostly image that only the protagonist herself is able to detect. However, perhaps the most frightening element of the story is Wharton’s use of sound – the terrifying ring of the maid’s bell after hours, piercing the intense silence of the house as it rests at night.

Silence also plays a key role in All Souls, another highlight and possibly the most terrifying story in the collection. It tells the tale of a widow, Sara Clayborn, who believes she has spent a horrific weekend at her home, Whitegates, a lonely, remote house in the wilds of Connecticut. Having spotted an unknown woman heading towards her house, Sara breaks her ankle and is confined to bed for the night. On waking she discovers that the servants are nowhere to be found. The house appears to be deserted; an eerie silence having replaced the normal bustle of activity during the day. In this story, it is not the unexplained creaks and groans that strikes terror into the heart of the protagonist; rather, it is the ominous lack of any sound at all, especially as the house appears to be completely deserted.

More than once she had explored the ground floor alone in the small hours, in search of unwonted midnight noises; but now it was not the idea of noises that frightened her, but that inexorable and hostile silence, the sense that the house had retained in full daylight its nocturnal mystery, and was watching her as she was watching it; that in entering those empty orderly rooms she might be disturbing some unseen confabulation on which beings of flesh-and-blood had better not intrude. (p. 348)

It’s a tale in which Sara begins to doubt her own sanity and perception of reality, with time appearing to expand and contract before the servants finally reappear.

Afterward is another highlight, a vividly-imagined story that feels all too believable and real. The Boynes, and American couple living in England take a country house in Dorset as their home – a property already known to their friend, Alida Stair. When the Boynes enquire about the possible presence of a ghost, they are told by Alida that there is a ghost, although its appearance does not become clear to the house’s inhabitant until ‘afterward’, whatever that may mean. At first, the Boynes take this conjecture in their stride, laughing it off in a light-hearted manner. It is only once a mysterious figure is seen approaching the house that the supernatural happenings swing into action…

Then of a sudden she was seized by a vague dread of the unknown. She had closed the door behind her on entering, and as she stood alone in the long silent room, her dread seemed to take shape and sound, to be there breathing and lurking among the shadows. Her shortsighted eyes strained through them, half-discerning an actual presence, something aloof, that watched and knew; and in the recoil from that intangible presence she threw herself on the bell rope and gave it a sharp pull. (p. 91)

Once again, the fear of the unknown is crucial here, the abject terror that stems from the zealous nature of our own imaginations. Overall, this is a very nuanced story, one that alludes to a sense of retribution – a kind of reckoning for past misdemeanours and nefarious deeds.

Also very impressive is Pomegranate Seed in which Charlotte Ashby, a newly-married young woman, is haunted by the spectre of her predecessor – her husband having previously been widowed following the death of his first wife. In this piece, the haunting comes as a series of mysterious letters, always enclosed in grey envelopes and addressed in the faintest of hands. As a consequence, Charlotte is left shaken; it would appear that the first Mrs Ashby retains an unhealthy hold over her husband, something that Charlotte is determined to break. There are shades of du Maurier’s Rebecca here, albeit with a more supernatural element. (Interestingly, Wharton’s story actually predated the du Maurier, first appearing in 1931, a good seven years before the publication of Rebecca.)

Finally, a mention for The Triumph of Night, which shares something with the opening story, The Lady’s Maid’s Bell. This is another story in which a spectral presence makes itself known to one individual in particular – in this instance, Faxon, a man who is offered shelter by a fellow traveller when his carriage fails to show. Over dinner with his benefactor’s family, Faxon realises that the ghostly figure is fixated on the young man, the very one who invited him to stay. As a consequence, Faxon’s hold on reality begins to slip, a development that is brilliantly conveyed in the following passage.

The glass was so full that it required an extraordinary effort to hold it there, brimming and suspended, during the awful interval before he [Faxon] could trust his hand to lower it again, untouched, to the table. It was this merciful preoccupation which saved him, kept him from crying out, from losing his hold, from slipping down into the bottomless blackness that gaped for him. As long as the problem of the glass engaged him he felt able to keep his seat, manage his muscles, fit unnoticeably into the group; but as the glass touched the table his last link with safety snapped. He stood up and dashed out of the room. (p. 162)

This is a very unnerving story, one that explores themes of guilt, manipulation and the preying on others’ weaknesses – a sobering tale with a tragic twist.

Other pieces in the collection feature mysterious individuals who are not quite what they seem; the dead seemingly brought back to life; and an eerie pack of dogs who reputedly appear on a certain day of the year.

These wonderfully chilling stories are subtle, sophisticated and richly imagined, tapping into the darker side of American history and human relationships. My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

The Constant Nymph by Margaret Kennedy

37 Replies

The Constant Nymph (1924) was Margaret Kennedy’s most commercially successful novel, spawning both a play featuring Noel Coward and a film starring one of my favourite actresses, Joan Fontaine. As a book, it shares much with another of my recent reads, Edith Wharton’s 1928 novel, The Children: a man who enters into a relationship with an underage girl; an unconventional family living a bohemian lifestyle; and a brood of rather engaging, precocious children to name but a few. While the Wharton explores these issues from the male perspective, Kennedy’s novel places a young girl at the centre of its narrative. The individual in question is Tessa, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Albert Sanger, a brilliant yet difficult composer who lives in a rambling chalet in the Austrian Alps.

As the novel opens, Lewis Dodd, a young English composer of some promise is travelling to Austria to visit the much-feted Sanger, whom he views as something of a mercurial genius. With his rather conventional upbringing, Lewis finds himself attracted to Sanger and his ‘circus’ – an assortment of children from various marriages, Sanger’s current wife, the beautiful but lazy Linda, and various hangers-on. Their lifestyles are free-spirited and unconventional with little regard for the customs of the broader society at large. For instance, it is Sanger’s eldest daughter, Kate, who manages the household, her desire for some degree of organisation far outweighing that of Linda.

Young Tessa is the constant nymph of the novel’s title, a wonderfully unfiltered, warm-hearted girl, who at fourteen is already wildly in love with Lewis and his passion for the arts. Lewis, for his part, is also attracted to Tessa with her wild, unfettered innocence, viewing her as the most interesting of Sanger’s daughters.

He has always thought her the pick of the bunch. She was an admirable, graceless little baggage, entirely to his taste. She amused him, invariably. And, queerly enough, she was innocent. That was an odd thing to say of one of Sanger’s daughters, but it was the truth. Innocence was the only name he could find for the wild, imaginative solitude of her spirit. The impudence of her manners could not completely hide it, and beyond it he could discern an intensity of mind which struck him as little short of a disaster in a creature so fragile and tender, so handicapped by her sex. She would give herself to pain with a passionate readiness, seeing only its beauty, with that singleness of vision which is the glory and the curse of such natures. He wondered anxiously, and for the first time, what was to become of her. (p. 68)

Tessa longs for a time when she is grown-up, a point when it will be possible for her to enter into a more fulfilling relationship with Lewis; and while nothing is explicitly said, there is a sense that Lewis understands this too, casting an air of destiny over their connection.

Nevertheless, when Albert Sanger dies, this idyll is fractured, and the family is at risk of being split up. The two eldest children, Caryl and Kate, are old enough to fend for themselves, leaving their younger siblings – Tessa included – to be catered for elsewhere. As a consequence, Florence and Robert Churchill – who are related to Sanger’s second wife, now deceased – travel to Austria with a view to bringing the children back to England.

With her traditional breeding and refined lifestyle, Florence is enchanted by the young Sangers. Nevertheless, their wild, unconventional existence proves something of a surprise, prompting Florence to decide that the children should be sent to boarding school where they will receive a proper education.

In a further unexpected twist, Lewis is drawn away from Tessa by the beautiful Florence with her sophisticated lifestyle and strong standing in society. Florence, for her part, is seduced by Lewis’s artistic temperament and role as a musician. However, their sudden marriage is not a great success, primarily as a consequence of unrealistic expectations and subsequent frustrations for both parties. While Lewis feels constrained by the conventions of London society, Florence finds her new husband rather challenging to fashion. It’s a conflict captured in the following passage, which touches on the balance between art and civilisation/humanity – one of many sets of opposing forces in the novel.

[Florence:] “Your attitude is completely wrong. You put the wrong things first. Music, all art…what is it for? What is its justification? After all…”

[Lewis:] “It’s not for anything. It has no justification. It…”

“It’s only part of the supreme art, the business of living beautifully. You can’t put it on a pedestal above decency and humanity and civilization, as your precious Sanger seems to have done. Human life is more important.” (p. 209)

Meanwhile, Tessa and her siblings are also finding it difficult to adapt to a new life, highlighting the tension between an ordered, conventional lifestyle and an unstructured, bohemian one. The constraints of boarding school prove unbearable for Tessa and her sister, Paulina, prompting them to run away with their brother, Sebastian. The relationship between Lewis and Tessa is rekindled when the latter returns to the Dodds’ London home, a move that reveals the intensity of Florence’s jealousy towards her young cousin.

As the novel’s denouement plays out, Tessa must try to reconcile her love for Lewis – something she views as her destiny – with other complicating factors, most notably her ties to the family and the constraints of a conventional society. By the end of the narrative, Tessa is only fifteen, a factor that dictates society’s view of any sexual relationship she may wish to have with Lewis.

While Kennedy has created a very interesting moral dilemma here, I feel she could have gone a little further in exploring the psychology of her characters, particularly in the case of Lewis. It’s something Wharton delves into quite deeply with The Children, probing Martin Boyne’s state of mind in her characteristically incisive style. Nevertheless, Kennedy’s central characters are recognisable, believable and beautifully drawn, factors that add an extra layer of poignancy to the novel’s ending which I would rather not reveal.

There is some terrific humour here, too. Kennedy has a sharp eye for an amusing scene, highlighting the absurdities of the Sangers’ unfettered existence and the moral outrage of Florence’s family at the prospect of her marriage to Lewis.

[Robert:] “I can’t think what her father will say. If he’s got any sense, he’ll forbid it! He’ll forbid it! But I suppose he’ll blame me. How could I have prevented it? How could I have foreseen it? Who could have thought that Florence, FLORENCE, a sensible woman like Florence, not quite a young girl either, would dream of doing such a thing. A delicate-minded, well-bred girl, to take up with a wretched mounteback, a disagreeable, ill-conditioned young cub, with the manners of…of…well, he hasn’t got any manners. And goodness knows if he ever washes.” (p. 154)

Tessa’s siblings are another source of joy, especially Paulina, whose wonderfully unfiltered letter to Lewis on the trials of boarding school life is one of the book’s most amusing highlights.

If you’re interested in hearing more about this novel, the marvellous Backlisted team covered it in one of their recent podcasts, which you can find here. It’s well worth a listen to hear more about some of this novel’s rather controversial elements, particularly the depiction of an underage relationship and the anti-Semitic sentiments the book contains. (Very much a reflection of the era in which it was written, but it’s certainly something for contemporary readers to bear in mind.)

The Constant Nymph is published by Virago Press; personal copy.