Tag Archives: Fitzcarraldo Editions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Books of the Year, 2025 – Part 1

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

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

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

The Fate of Mary Rose by Caroline Blackwood (1981)

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

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

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

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

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson (1943)

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

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

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

Box Office Poison by Tim Robey (2024)

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

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

The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym (1978)

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

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

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

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

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood (2023)

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

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

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

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

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban (1975)

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

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

The Reef by Edith Wharton (1912)

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

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

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

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

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

The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (1902)

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

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

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

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

Ten excellent novellas I highly recommend

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There’s something very satisfying about reading a whole book in one or two sittings on the same day, especially when time is tight. I’ve always been fond of novellas, which often offer the best of two worlds, combining the intensity of a well-constructed short story (in which not a word is wasted) and the scope for character and/or scenario development that a longer form allows. Ian McEwan has described the novella as ‘the perfect form of prose fiction’, and while he might not be my favourite author, I’m not going to argue with this statement.

Last November, I wrote about ten of my favourite haunting, atmospheric novellas, a post that proved so popular it outperformed everything else I published that year. So, with this (and the forthcoming Novellas in November event) in mind, I thought it would be interesting to recommend another ten novellas I’ve enjoyed over the years. These books aren’t necessarily haunting or atmospheric, but they can be read in a day without too much trouble. I’ve also avoided repeating suggestions from my earlier Faber Editions post, which included several brilliant novellas, such as Mrs Caliban, Maud Martha, Hackenfeller’s Ape and Termush. Here are my recommendations:

The Ballad of Peckham Rye by Muriel Spark (1960)

The gloriously off-kilter world of Muriel Spark continues to be a source of fascination for me, a writer whose intense, imaginative visions seem so well suited to the novella form. I could have chosen one of a handful of short novels here, including The Driver’s Seat, The Girls of Slender Means, Loitering with Intent and, of course, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. In the end, I plumped for The Ballad of Peckham Rye, in which the mercurial, malevolent Dougal Douglas brings chaos into the lives of everyone he encounters. There is a touch of the dark arts about this novella with its slyly manipulative protagonist, who always strikes me as an older incarnation of Timothy Gedge from William Trevor’s superb novel The Children of Dynmouth (almost a novella itself).   

Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner (1984)

Brookner is another writer who has proved herself adept over this distance (Look at Me would be another excellent option here). As this perceptive novella opens, Edith Hope – an unmarried writer of romantic fiction – has just been packed off by her respectable, interfering friends to the Hotel du Lac, a rather austere establishment of high repute in the Swiss countryside. Right from the start, it’s clear that Edith has been banished from her sector of society, sent away to reflect on her misdemeanours, to ‘become herself again’ following some undisclosed scandal. (The reason for Edith’s exile is eventually revealed, but not until the last third of the book.) Central to the novella is the question of what kind of life Edith can carve out for herself, a dilemma that throws up various points for debate. Will she return to her solitary existence at home, complete with its small pleasures and its freedom and independence? Or will she agree to compromise, to marry for social acceptability if not for love? You’ll have to read the book itself to find out…

The Artificial Silk Girl by Irmgard Keun, tr. Kathie von Ankum (1932)

Women writers in translation represent a great area of interest for me, and I’ve read several excellent short novels in this category over the years. Irmgard Keun’s novella, The Artificial Silk Girl, really stood out, largely for the distinctiveness of its central character, Doris, a striking young woman whose voice I found utterly engaging right from the very start. Keun excels at conveying her protagonist’s complex personality – a glorious mix of the naïve and the streetwise, the vivacious and the vulnerable. Reputedly inspired by Anita Loos’ Gentleman Prefer Blondes, Keun set out to write a response from the German perspective, one that ultimately shows us the darker side of life lying beneath the glamour of the capital city. A very evocative read, particularly if you’re interested in Weimar-era Berlin.

Passing by Nella Larsen (1929)

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 circulate 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.

The Girl on the Via Flaminia by Alfred Hayes (1949)

After serving in the US army in the Second World War, the British-born writer Alfred Hayes stayed on in Rome at the end of the conflict where he worked with some of the leading lights in the Italian neo-realist film movement, including Vittorio De Sica and Roberto Rossellini. This talent for scriptwriting shows in Hayes’ excellent 1949 novel, The Girl on the Via Flaminia, a slim work which zooms in on a microcosm of a society irreparably damaged by the ravages of war. This jewel-like novella focuses on Robert, a desperately lonely American soldier who finds himself stationed in Rome in 1944. Robert is hoping to make a simple arrangement with a local girl, Lisa – namely some warmth and company at night in exchange for a few sought-after provisions. But nothing in wartime is ever easy, and in times of unrest and uncertainty even the most straightforward arrangements can run into complications. Another bleak yet beautifully written book by Hayes, shot through with an aching sense of pain and sadness.

Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto, tr. Jesse Kirkwood (1958)

Originally published in Japan in 1958, Tokyo Express is an excellent, thoroughly involving mystery, taking in elements of duplicity, intrigue and corruption, partly played out across Japan’s uber-efficient rail network. The mystery centres on two dead bodies – a man and a woman – found lying side by side on Kashii Beach in southern Japan. At first, the case appears to be a love suicide, but the investigating Inspector harbours doubts. I loved this wonderfully clever ‘howdunit’, in which much of the investigative legwork involves working out precisely where each key player happened to be during the time period in question, with train routes, timetables, stations and passenger lists proving crucial to the puzzle. I hope to read more by Matsumoto in the future.

Nights at the Alexandra by William Trevor (1987)

William Trevor is frequently cited as a master of the short story, and rightly so. His stories are spellbinding – humane, compassionate and beautifully written. He has a way of getting into the hearts and minds of his characters with insight and precision, laying bare their deepest preoccupations for the reader to see. These skills are very much in evidence in Nights at the Alexandra, a slim collection comprising the titular novella and two short stories. In the novella, fifty-eight-year-old Harry looks back on the days of his youth during WW2 when, at the age of fifteen, he formed an unlikely but deeply touching friendship with Frau Messinger, a young Englishwoman who has moved to Ireland with her much older German husband. This is a sad, melancholy story, but as Harry looks back at his life, he feels no regret. His memories of Frau Messinger are enough, shot through with happiness despite the spectre of loss. As always with Trevor, the prose is exquisite and perfectly judged. 

The Island by Ana María Matute, tr. Laura Lonsdale (1959)

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 the 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. An unsettling but highly evocative summer read.

Orbital by Samantha Harvey (2023)

There’s a wonderful hypnotic quality to this elliptical novella, which could be described as a thought-provoking exploration of our position in the universe – like a prose poem on the fragility of life, the beauty and vulnerability of planet earth and the power of human connection in a rapidly evolving world. Central to the novella is a six-man spaceship continuously orbiting the earth during its nine-month mission in space. We follow the spaceship’s crew – 4 astronauts of different nationalities and 2 Russian cosmonauts – for a single day, during which their craft will circle the planet 16 times, passing through 16 sunrises and 16 sunsets over a wide range of trajectories. Something that Harvey does so brilliantly here is to move seamlessly between the micro and the macro throughout the narrative, cycling from the ‘smallness’ and mundanity of the astronauts’ daily routines to the immense, mind-blowing nature of their position in the universe. In the hands of a less accomplished writer, this technique could seem rather clunky or confusing, but somehow Harvey manages these transitions beautifully, weaving a tapestry that feels both intimate and expansive. It’s a luminous, poetic book, touching on various aspects of science, philosophy and geography with the lightest of touches.

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.

Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them or are thinking of trying one or two. Or maybe you have some favourite novellas of your own – if so, feel free to mention them in the comments.

Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico (tr. Sophie Hughes)

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Perfection, the fourth novel by the Italian writer, translator and art critic Vincenzo Latronico, caught my eye when it was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize earlier this year. It’s an arch, sharply observed satire about the hollowness of a life lived online, carefully curated to showcase the perfect lifestyle, ready to post on Instagram or the hip social media platform of the day. I thoroughly enjoyed this quick, slyly amusing read, beautifully translated by Sophie Hughes in clean, crisp prose – a streamlined style ideally suited to the subject under scrutiny here.

Millennial expats, Anna and Tom, have the seemingly perfect set-up in uber-hip Berlin, having moved there from southern Europe when rental prices were low. As freelance digital creatives, they have the flexibility to work from their home – a trendy apartment – cocooned in a bubble of low-maintenance monstera plants, honey-coloured floorboards, Danish mahogany armchairs, herringbone tweed blankets and first-edition Kraftwerk LPs.

Sunlight floods the room from the bay windows, reflects off the wide, honey-coloured floorboards and casts an emerald glow over the perforate leaves of a monstera shaped like a cloud. Its stems brush the back of a Scandinavian armchair, an open magazine left face-down on the seat. The red of that magazine cover, the plant’s brilliant green, the petrol blue of the upholstery and the plain ochre floor stand out against the white walls, their chalky tone picked up again in the pale rug that just creeps into the frame. (p. 13)

Their working lives are spent online, designing websites, tweaking graphics and developing digital campaigns, interspersed with frequent breaks spent scrolling through social media feeds to keep abreast of emerging trends. Consequently, Anna and Tom have fallen into a circular pattern of social media use, uploading various images of their carefully curated existences, monitoring comments and likes on these posts and checking their virtual network for the latest in-vogue craze. Promising new trends and consumable goods are soon absorbed into the couple’s lives, ready for the online cycle to begin again. (Importantly, Latronico’s frequent use of ‘they’ underlines Anna and Tom’s homogeneity and lack of individual opinions or personalities – essentially, they are a single entity, inseparable from one another.) 

What was that rush they would get after a particularly popular post? And the itch that made them look up from their work every twenty seconds, every minute, to refresh the page and watch the number of likes clock up, as if it was a stock ticker or a scoreboard? They felt it every day, and yet that feeling had no name. It wasn’t a scoreboard – there was no prize at the end. Financially speaking, it had very little impact, if any. Fifty-year-old sociologists would talk about narcissism, but they were only talking about themselves. (pp. 54-55)

Downtime is typically spent at a gallery opening or a hip club, where the couple brush shoulders with other expat millennials endlessly searching for the perfect life. They don’t have friends as such; rather, their network is more a lattice or matrix of like-minded individuals sharing similar, shallow obsessions than a genuine friendship group built on trust.

Once the group had reconvened they would go and get eggs and salmon (or asparagus, when it was in season) in some café, where they might stay for thirty minutes or several hours, leafing through magazines they had already read online and commenting – with barely disguised sarcasm, with suppressed rage, with nostalgia or disappointment – on the latest news from France or Portugal. The late afternoon would be spent going from gallery to gallery. They were all signed up to the same newsletter listing the latest art events, which included icons to denote whether there would be free drinks or if the crowd would be mostly German- or English-speaking. (pp. 36–37)

Year after year, Anna and Tom continue to live this soulless existence, endlessly accumulating the on-trend ‘stuff’ that seems to define them as people. We learn little, if anything, about their respective personalities, the values that define them as human beings with beliefs idiosyncrasies and life-shaping experiences – a deliberate tactic on Latronico’s part, emphasising the extent to which the couple’s lives are defined by on-trend possessions, lifestyle choices and Instagram posts. Their existences are ‘smooth and manicured’, unlike those of their grandparents indelibly marked by war.

The problems back then might have been more urgent, but they also had clearer solutions. Now there were too many choices, with each one leading off on endless branches, preventing any real change. Their idea of a revolutionary future didn’t go beyond gender balance on corporate boards, electric cars, vegetarianism. Not only had Anna and Tom not had the chance to fight for a radically different world, but they couldn’t even imagine it. (p. 69)

Nevertheless, this ‘perfect’ lifestyle doesn’t prove as satisfying as Anna and Tom expect, and a sense of restlessness gradually creeps in alongside the ongoing gentrification of Berlin. Work becomes burdensome and repetitive, while the cost of living continues to edge up. Members of the couple’s social network disappear, moving back to the countries they came from, starting families or simply moving on. When the migration crisis hits Berlin, Anna and Tom’s surface-level attempts to help newly arrived Syrian refugees fail to have an impact, partly due to their lack of real-world experience and practical skills.

They had glimpsed – within themselves and those around them – a flakiness and vanity that they could not now unsee. They were restless. (p. 77)

Furthermore, a new, younger generation is now threatening to supersede our protagonists as the Gen Z digital natives come of age. In their ongoing search for some kind of meaning in an essentially hollow world, Anna and Tom spread their wings, taking on a project in Lisbon while subletting their flat in Berlin. Maybe Lisbon will be the new Berlin, ushering in the feeling of happiness that seems tantalisingly out of reach? Sadly, the reality fails to live up to the dream, and a move to Noto in Sicily proves equally disappointing, dampening the couple’s spirits further still.

Happiness was there, tantalisingly close, and achievable with a simple operation of the mind. But seconds later the side of the concrete shell of a half-finished building, or a dilapidated shopping centre surrounded by rubbish and burned-out cars was enough to remind them they were still very far from what they wanted. (p. 103)

In the acknowledgements section at the end, Latronico states that Perfection came about as a tribute to Things: The Story of the Sixties (1965) by George Perec, closely following that book’s structure, use of tenses and fundamental themes. While I haven’t read Things myself, I believe Perec uses the conditional tense in the book’s opening section to convey the material desires of his protagonists, Jerôme and Sylvie, two twenty-something freelancers working in the emerging fields of opinion polling and consumer research. Like Anna and Tom, Perec’s characters covet fashionable furniture, clothes and a hip place to live – in this instance, 1960s France. Sections written in the present and future tenses duly follow, the latter portraying the couple’s imagined future.

In Latronico’s Perfection, the final ‘future’ section brings this thought-provoking novella about disaffected millennials to a fitting, slyly amusing close. Despite (or maybe because of) the book’s brevity, I thoroughly enjoyed this sharp, forensically observed critique of consumerism and the shallowness of a life played out online. In many ways, it’s a timely wake-up call for some of the downsides of social media and the ongoing trend for users to construct the perfect Instagramable life at the expense of genuine human connection. Highly recommended!

They lived a double life. There was the tangible reality around them, and there were the images, also all around them. (p.51)

Perfection is published by Fitzcarraldo Editions in the UK and NYRB in the US; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.

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

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What a strange, magical, exquisitely written book this is – a haunting, poetic exploration of grief, loss and yearning that seems all the more relevant in these crazy, end-of-world times.

In 2022, Anne de Marcken’s novella, It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over, won The Novel Prize, a biennial award for innovative and imaginative book-length works of literary fiction written in English that explore and expand the possibilities of the form. (The Prize was jointly awarded to the de Marcken and Jonathan Buckley’s novel Tell, which I’ve yet to read.) It Lasts Forever… is a highly original book, a remarkably poignant reflection on what it’s 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.

The novella opens with our narrator telling us she has lost her left arm. ‘It came off clean at the shoulder.’ Nevertheless, despite losing one of her limbs, she still exists, alert to the sights, sounds and feelings of this otherworldly reality. Her home – temporarily, at least – is a hotel for the undead, a soulless, eerie place that could be a metaphor for purgatory. Most of the undead cannot remember who they are or, crucially, who they were; consequently, new names are chosen from a wall. While her lover’s name is lost to the narrator, she can recall some of the times they spent together and the emotions these memories evoke.

I think about how we used to take a blanket into the dunes and wrap up together. Wake with sand in our hair and in the corners of our eyes. Sound of the ocean big as the sky. I miss sleep. I miss you. (p. 14)

In short, she experiences an intense yearning for her lover and the grief (or emptiness) which stems from this loss.

I dial 9 for an outside line. I get a dial tone. Before I can remember or forget our phone number, I dial it. There is a pause, then a tiny mechanical click, then the line pops open like a leak springing in the night sky.

Emptiness spills into me. My ear is the Panama Canal connecting two oceans of emptiness. The emptiness out there and an emptiness in me. Dark. Entire. Impossible. Emptiness teeming with cold silence. It is so silent it is loud. It is unbearable. It is so familiar. (p. 36)

While grief and yearning have a colossal impact on our emotions, they can also make their presence felt physically – perhaps like the dead crow the narrator places inside herself, carving out a home for it under her ribs. Once the crow is inside her, she feels it constantly, as though the space for the bird was always there in her body, just waiting to be filled.

I have a crow inside me and no one can know. I can feel it all the time. It is like the entire night sky and all the stars and every beautiful sound you can imagine. It is like being too excited to sleep. (p. 25)

Seized by this longing for her lover, the narrator leaves the hotel, moving through the streets like a zombie from a B movie, following an inaudible call. The end of the world looks a little like our current one, only quieter and emptier. Many residential areas are deserted, but occasionally boarded-up houses can be seen, typically sheltering groups of the living as they strive to survive. Other towns contain the dead – couples and families in their homes, like snapshots of the departed.

Things happen to the narrator as she moves westward towards the ocean, seeking the dunes she once shared with her lover. Nevertheless, de Marcken’s novella is not plot-driven as such; rather, its power rests in the narrator’s reflections on her own existence in this lonely, somewhat absurd afterlife.

As the narrator journeys across time and space, one bizarre encounter follows another, blurring the boundaries between the real and the imaginary. She muses on various philosophical aspects of life, such as how the end of something may only become apparent down the line when it is too late to act. How the beginning of something is usually the end of something else. Or maybe there’s a time between the end and a new beginning, a kind of middle or limbo without the promise of a resolution? These questions, and more, haunt the narrator’s existence as she runs across the land.

Sometimes she feels hunger, other times an intense sadness; but most piercingly of all, there is a deep emptiness or absence, capturing her grief for everything she has lost. Is it worth existing if there is no hunger, no life to extend? If emptiness is all that is left, would it be better to die?

Mitchem is wrong. We are just like the living. Hunger is only ravenous hope. A mirage. Always receding. The black swarm behind my teeth. There is no bottom to this well. No dark place to wait it out. Nothing will ever touch this craving for you. How long before we let ourselves know what we know? (p. 45)

Threaded through these meditations are glimpses of memories from the narrator’s past: picking blueberries with her lover in summer; conversations they once had; sunlight falling on the living room wall; flocks of birds migrating south. She knows her lover won’t be there in the dunes. But if she can make it to the place they shared together, it will be enough; they’ll be united in spirit.

Alongside (and perhaps entwined with) these 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.

“We came here from life. A bleak and aimless world of uncertainty and self-delusion, of violence cloaked in compassion, of greed masquerading as order. A world of ranks and classes and races. Life. A world consumed by fear…” (p. 31)

While the overriding moods here are poignant and melancholy, de Marcken also brings a wry seam of black humour to the narrative, often drawing on the absurdities her narrator encounters en route. Take Mitchem, for instance, who seems to have assumed the role of preacher at the undead’s hotel.

Mitchem holds up a coffee cup. It is a regular cup. “This cup,” he says, “This cup can be whatever I say it is.” He looks at it there in his own hand. I expect him to transform it with a magician’s flourish into a bouquet of bright flowers. (p. 34)

The ending, when it comes, is beautiful, enigmatic, sad and strangely fitting. I adored this extraordinary, deeply affecting exploration of grief and all the longing, pain and sadness this all-consuming experience evokes. While this might sound rather mournful, there is something dazzling and life-affirming about de Marcken’s novella. Human beings are remarkable creatures – we can experience a multitude of emotions on any given day, from profound sadness to unbridled joy. Like watching Wim Wenders’ gorgeous, meditative film Perfect Days, you will likely see the world afresh after reading It Lasts Forever…, more alive to the natural wonders we encounter on a daily basis. It’s a book for everyone who has loved and lost someone, which is pretty much everyone on earth.

I used to imagine how it would be after you died. The way my days would go. It wasn’t bad. I would have had so much in having you and would have lost so much in losing you that I would no longer want anything. There would be more time. I pictured myself moving through the quiet house. I saw myself in the garden—my face, my back, my hands changed by not saying anything to anyone day after day. […]

I realize now that when I was playing these silent movies of life after our life, you were still there. You were sitting with me, the two of us alone in the theater, still together. This sadness is not an empty church and not an empty house. It is the whole empty world and I am in it and it is in me. (pp. 122–123)

It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over is published by Fitzcarraldo Editions, New Directions and Giramondo; may thanks to Fitzcarraldo and the Independent Alliance for a review copy.

Favourite Books by Women Writers in Translation – for International Women’s Day (8th March)

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Celebrated annually on 8th March, International Women’s Day (IWD) marks the achievements of women across all aspects of life – social, economic, cultural, and political – while also advocating for gender equality.

In the run-up to this year’s IWD, I’d like to share some of my favourite books by women writers across the globe, mainly as a way of recognising their achievements and those of their translators. With this in mind, I’ve looked through my reviews from the past 11 years and chosen a dozen great books by women writers, originally published in languages other than English – or, in other words, books by women in translation.

There are many more gems I could have mentioned here, but hopefully this will give you a flavour of my favourites and some inspiration for the future. (I’ve summarised each book below, but you can find my full reviews by clicking on the relevant links.)

The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg (tr. Dick Davis)

A luminous collection of essays by one of my favourite women in translation – it’s erudite, perceptive and full of the wisdom of life. In her characteristically lucid prose, Ginzburg writes of families and friendships, of virtues and parenthood, and of writing and relationships. For instance, in ‘My Vocation’ (1949), Ginzburg traces her approach to writing over the arc of her creative life, from composing juvenile poems and stories in childhood to her maturity as a writer of the female experience. It’s a fascinating piece, detailing how her relationship with writing has changed through adolescence, marriage and motherhood. There is so much wisdom and intelligence to be found in these essays. Or, if you prefer fiction, Ginzburg’s novels All Our Yesterdays and The Dry Heart are well worth considering.  

Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum (tr. Basil Creighton)

Set in the 1920s, this engaging novel revolves around the experiences of six central characters as they brush up against one another in a Berlin hotel. There are moments of lightness and significant darkness here as Baum weaves her story together, moving from one figure to another with consummate ease – her sense of characterisation is remarkably vivid. At the centre of the novel is the idea that our lives can change direction in surprising ways through our interactions with others. We see fragments of these individuals’ lives as they come and go from the hotel. Some are on their way up and are altered for the better; others are on their way down and emerge much diminished. All in all, a wonderfully entertaining read.

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 the 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. It’s an unsettling summer read.

Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr. Aneesa Abbas Higgins)

Set out of season in a quiet seaside town close, Winter in Sokcho is a haunting yet captivating novella of great tenderness and beauty – a story encompassing themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to society’s expectations. The narrator – a young woman who remains unnamed throughout – is something of a misfit in her community, her French-Korean origins marking her out as a source of speculation amongst the locals. Into her life comes Kerrand, a French graphic artist from Normandy whose speciality is creating comics. Almost immediately, there is a certain frisson to the interactions between these two, a connection that waxes and wanes as the days slip by. The book’s enigmatic ending adds greatly to its air of mystery.

The Trouble with Happiness by Tove Ditlevsen (tr. Michael Favala Goldman)

These short stories – many of which are superb – explore the suffocating nature of family life predominantly from the female perspective, the overwhelming sense of loneliness and anxiety that many women (and children) feel due to various constraints. Here we see petty jealousies, unfulfilled desires, deliberate cruelties and the sudden realisation of deceit – all brilliantly conveyed with insight and sensitivity. What Ditlevsen does so well in this collection is to convey the sadness and pain many women and children experience at the hands of their families. Her characters have rich inner lives, irrespective of the restrictions placed on them by society and those closer to home. The writing is superb throughout, demonstrating the author’s skills with language and a flair for striking one-liners with a melancholy note.  A collection to seek out.

Gigli, One of Us by Irmgard Keun (tr. Geoff Wilkes)

I loved this novella, a striking portrayal of a determined young woman in Weimar-era Cologne. Right from the start, I found Gilgi an utterly captivating protagonist – a strong feminist presence with a thoroughly engaging voice. In essence, the novella explores Gilgi as an individual and the competing demands on her future direction as she finds herself torn between two seemingly irreconcilable passions: her desire for independence and a successful career vs her love for Martin (a free spirit) and the emotional fulfilment this delivers. Keun does a terrific job of capturing her protagonist’s conflicted emotions, frequently in a state of flux. In many respects, this is a very progressive book. Not only is it written in a modernist style, but it also touches on several forward-thinking themes, including adoption, opportunities for women in the workplace, financial independence from men, sex outside of marriage, unwanted pregnancy, and the impact of debt on a person’s mental health. It’s a thoroughly engaging, thought-provoking book.

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 past and present atrocities. Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. I was knocked out by this collection, which makes very effective use of imagery to augment the fear and tension lurking within.

Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima (tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

I loved this book – a beautiful, dreamlike novella shot through with a strong sense of isolation that permeates the mind. Originally published as a series of short stories, Tsushima’s novella focuses on a year in the life of a young Japanese mother recently separated from her somewhat ambivalent husband. There is a sense of intimacy and honesty in the portrayal of the narrator’s feelings, something that adds to the undoubted power of the book. Themes of isolation, alienation and disassociation are heightened by the somewhat ghostly nature of the setting – an apartment located in a commercial building where the mother and child are the sole occupants at night. Strangely unsettling in tone yet thoroughly compelling.

Happening by Annie Ernaux (tr. Tanya Leslie)

First published in French in 2000 and translated into English in 2001, Happening takes us back to October 1963 when Ernaux was twenty-three, studying literature at Rouen University while also dealing with an unwanted pregnancy. In essence, the book is an account of Ernaux’s experiences of a backstreet abortion – her quest to secure it, what takes place during the procedure and the days that follow, all expressed in the author’s trademark candid style. What makes this account so powerful is the rigorous nature of Ernaux’s approach. There are no moral judgements or pontifications here, just the unflinchingly honest details of a topic that remains controversial even in today’s relatively liberated society. By recounting this traumatic experience, one deeply connected to life and death, perhaps Ernaux is looking to translate the personal into something of broader social relevance. It’s  powerful, vital, uncompromising book that deserves to be widely read.

La Femmes de Gilles by Madeleine Bourdouxhe (tr. Faith Evans)

Another novella I adored, this powerful book has stayed with me for several years. Elisa is devastated when she realises that her husband, Gilles, has become entangled with Victorine, her attractive younger sister. Beautifully written in a sensual, intimate style, La Femmes de Gilles is a very compelling novel with a striking ending. The writing is spare but very emotive – Bourdouxhe holds the reader close to Elisa’s point of view giving us near-complete access to her inner thoughts and feelings. It’s a timeless story of desire, selfless love, and the pain these things can bring. Highly recommended, particularly for fans of writers such as Simenon, Anita Brookner and Jean Rhys.

Space Invaders by Nona Fernández (tr. Natasha Wimmer)

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 talented writer – her fairly recent non-fiction book, Voyager, is just as good, too!

Love by Hanne Ørstavik (tr. Martin Aitken)

This haunting, dreamlike story of a neglectful single mother and her eight-year-old son will almost certainly get under your skin. Right from the very start, there is something of a disconnect between parent and child, a sense of separateness or isolation that sets them apart from one another. The narrative unfolds over a bitterly cold night, during which these two individuals embark on separate yet strangely connected journeys, searching for their own sense of fulfilment in an uncertain world. This quietly devastating book would make a fascinating choice for book groups and solo readers alike. Moreover, the ambiguous nature of the novella’s ending makes it particularly unnerving to read.

Let me know your thoughts on these books/writers if you’ve read any of them or are thinking of trying one or two – and please feel free to mention any favourite women writers in translation in the comments.

Independent Publishers – some favourite books from my shelves

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As some of you may know, February sees the return of #ReadIndies, (Reading Independent Publishers Month), a celebration of books published by independent presses. This annual event, established and hosted by Karen and Lizzy, aims to support independent presses as they continue to negotiate challenging trading conditions whilst competing with the big publishers for readers’ attention. Basically, the idea is to read and discuss books from independent publishers, posting about them on social media or blogs — whatever platform works for you.

It’s one of my favourite reading events – partly for the theme, which fits well with my interests, and partly for the flexibility. The event was set up in 2021 to support small presses during the COVID lockdown, and it proved so popular that Karen and Lizzy have repeated it every February since then.

So, if you’re still looking for ideas on what to read for this year’s #ReadIndies, here’s a round-up of some favourites – I’ve chosen one book from each of these excellent independent publishers.

The Home by Penelope Mortimer – published by British Library Publishing

This beautifully written semi-autobiographical novel follows an attractive but vulnerable middle-aged woman, Eleanor Strathearn, in the months following the breakdown of her marriage as she attempts to establish some kind of life for herself, while also delving into the meaning of ‘home’ with all its various connotations. The story opens with Eleanor and her youngest child, fifteen-year-old Philip, moving from their longstanding family home in London to a smaller residence near St John’s Wood. As her other grown-up children have flown the nest, Eleanor approaches her new life with a strange mix of emotions, oscillating wildly between stoic optimism and crushing grief – the latter largely winning out. Alongside the sadness, this excellent, slightly off-kilter novel has flashes of darkly comic humour throughout. Fans of Muriel Spark (and possibly Elizabeth Taylor) would likely enjoy this one.

A Summer Bird-Cage by Margaret Drabble – published by Canongate

This thoughtful, witty debut novel features an intelligent, educated young woman trying to find her place in an evolving world. Drabble focuses on two well-educated sisters here – twenty-one-year-old Sarah Bennett and her older sister, Louise, both Oxford-educated – exploring their different values and preoccupations. While Louise opts for marriage to Stephen, a wealthy but snobbish writer, Sarah tries to figure out what to do with her life. The writing is marvellous, encompassing chic 1960s fashions, hairstyles, and lifestyles, plus glimpses of Louise’s honeymoon in Rome. Drabble also gives us some wonderfully evocative descriptions of London, from Sarah waiting in the pouring rain to catch a bus at Aldwych to the messy glamour of backstage life in the city’s West End. A witty, hugely enjoyable book, shot through with some amusing touches, always beautifully judged.

Rhine Journey by Ann Schlee – published by Daunt Books

Set in Rhenish Prussia in 1851, this sublime Booker-shortlisted novel tells the story of an unmarried woman’s emotional awakening during a boat trip along the Rhine. Originally published in 1981, it’s an ideal summer read, quivering with latent energy just waiting to be unleashed. Schlee’s protagonist is Charlotte Morrison, an acquiescent, mild-mannered woman, financially independent but emotionally tied to her brother, Charles, a sanctimonious Church of England preacher, and his demanding wife, Marion. During the boat trip down the Rhine, Charlotte is assailed by vivid, transgressive dreams that blur the margins between reality and fantasy, reawakening emotions and desires long since buried in the past. This gorgeous, richly imagined novel is as precise and compelling in its psychological acuity as it is in its portrayal of a vanished world. One for fans of Black Narcissus, A Passage to India and Lolly Willowes, to name but a few.

Hackenfeller’s Ape by Brigid Brophy – published by Faber and Faber (Faber Editions)

By turns witty, playful, beautiful and sad, this highly original novella is a provocative exploration of man’s treatment of animals, particularly those closest to us on the evolutionary scale. For a book originally published in 1953, Hackenfeller’s Ape feels eerily prescient, particularly in a world where animal rights, sustainability and various environmental issues have risen in importance in recent years. Brophy’s mischievous story revolves around Professor Clement Darrelhyde, a scientist specialising in studying apes, but to say any more might spoil the fun – just read it for yourself!

Dandelions by Thea Lenarduzzi – published by Fitzcarraldo Editions

In Dandelions, the Italian-born editor and writer Thea Lenarduzzi has given us a gorgeous, meditative blend of family memoir, political and socioeconomic history, and personal reflections on migration between Italy and the UK. Partly crafted from discussions between Thea and her paternal grandmother, Dirce, the book spans four generations of Lenarduzzi’s family, moving backwards and forwards in time – and between Italy and England – threading together various stories and vignettes that span the 20th century. In doing so, a multilayered portrayal of Thea’s family emerges, placed in the context of Italy’s sociopolitical history and economic challenges. I adored this book for its themes and the sheer beauty of Lenarduzzi’s prose.

Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell) – published by Granta Books

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. I was knocked out by this collection, which makes very effective use of imagery to augment the fear and tension lurking within.

The Girls by John Bowen – published by McNally Editions

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 The League of Gentlemen/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 idiosyncratic story, which is flecked with touches of the absurd. It’s a wonderfully strange 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.

School for Love by Olivia Manning – published by NYRB Classics

Set in Jerusalem during the closing stages of WW2, this highly compelling coming-of-age story features a most distinctive character quite unlike any other I’ve encountered in literature or life itself. In Miss Bohun, Manning has created a fascinating individual who is sure to generate strong opinions either way. Is she a manipulative hypocrite, determined to seize any opportunity and exploit it for her own personal gain? Or is she simply deluded, predominately acting on the belief that she is doing the morally upstanding thing in a changing and unstable world? You’ll have to read the book yourself to take a view.

The Fortnight in September by R.C. Sherriff – published by Persephone Books

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, and 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 here – 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.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Ann Goldstein) – published by Pushkin Press

This remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature is a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. De Céspedes’ 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 she is tied to – 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. I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands – probably my favourite book of 2023.

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Let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re considering reading any in the future. Maybe you have a favourite indie publisher and book to recommend? If so, please feel free to mention them below.

Ten haunting, atmospheric novellas I highly recommend

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November seems to be a very popular time for themed cultural events, ranging from German Lit Month (which focus on books originally written in the German language) and #Noirvember (a tradition of watching film noir classics throughout the month). There’s also Cathy and Rebecca’s Novellas in November reading project, which does exactly what it says on the tin.

So, to tie in with this particular theme, I’m highlighting ten haunting, atmospheric novellas, each of which could be read in an afternoon. In fact, something Cathy said in a recent comment gave me the idea for this post when she mentioned how much the novella form seems to suit dreamlike, enigmatic stories. It’s hard to sustain this type of mood across a longer novel, but the novella-length format feels just about right – long enough to build up the atmosphere but short enough to stop it from dissipating.

So here are my ten picks. As ever with these themed posts, I’ve summarised each recommendation below, but you can read the full reviews by clicking on the title links. Happy reading!

A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr

A sublime, deeply affecting book about love, loss and the restorative power of art. Set in a small Yorkshire village in the heady summer of 1920, Carr’s novella is narrated by Tom Birkin, a young man still dealing with the effects of shell shock following the traumas of WW1. A Southerner by nature, Birkin has come to Oxgodby to restore a Medieval wall painting in the local church – much to the annoyance of the vicar, Reverend Keach, who resents the restorer’s presence in his domain. However, there is another purpose to Birkin’s visit: to find an escape or haven of sorts, an immersive distraction from the emotional scars of the past. Above all, this is an elegant novella imbued with a strong sense of longing, a nostalgia for an idyllic world. It also perfectly captures the ephemeral nature of time – the idea that our lives can turn on the tiniest of moments, the most fleeting of chances to be grasped before they are lost forever. A masterpiece in miniature, full of yearning and desire.  

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 unfolds, 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 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.

Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri (tr. by the author)

This slim, beautifully constructed novella is an exploration of solitude, a meditation on aloneness and the sense of isolation that can sometimes accompany it. The book – which Lahiri originally wrote in Italian and then translated into English – is narrated by an unnamed woman in her mid-forties who lives in a European city, also nameless but almost certainly somewhere in Italy. There’s a vulnerability to this single woman, a fragility that gradually emerges as she goes about her days, moving from place to place through a sequence of brief vignettes. As we follow this woman around the city, we learn more about her life – things are gradually revealed as she reflects on her solitary existence, sometimes considering what might have been, the paths left unexplored or chances never taken. This is an elegant, quietly reflective novella – Lahiri’s prose is precise, poetic and pared-back, a style that feels perfectly in tune with the narrator’s world.

Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima (tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

I loved this. A beautiful, dreamlike novella shot through with a strong sense of isolation that permeates the mind. Originally published in Japanese as a series of short stories, the novella focuses on a year in the life of a young mother, recently separated from her somewhat ambivalent husband. There is a sense of intimacy and honesty in the portrayal of the narrator’s feelings, something that adds to the undoubted power of the book. Themes of isolation, alienation and disassociation are heightened by the somewhat ghostly nature of the setting – an apartment located in a commercial building where the mother and child are the sole occupants at night. Strangely unsettling in tone yet thoroughly compelling.

A Silence Shared by Lalla Romano (tr. Brian Robert Moore)

Another atmospheric novella in which Giulia, the young woman who narrates the story, is drawn into the orbit of an enigmatic married couple – the lively, spontaneous Ada and her distant, pre-occupied husband, Paolo – while sheltering in the Italian countryside during WW2. A sense of connection swiftly develops between Giulia and Paolo, a kind of affinity or unspoken bond which flourishes in their shared silences, enhancing the delicate mood in the couple’s house. There is something dreamlike and hypnotic about this novella, as if the reader is viewing every development through a light, gauzy curtain, rendering everything with a hazy, shimmering glow. Romano excels in creating an intimate, emotionally charged atmosphere, highlighting the burgeoning relationships between Giulia, Paolo and Ada. It’s a beautiful ode to stillness and silence, all expressed in Romano’s subtle, poetic prose.

Baron Bagge by Alexander Lernet-Holenia (tr. Richard and Clara Winston)

Born in Vienna at the end of the 19th century, Alexander Lernet-Holenia served in the Austro-Hungarian army in the First World War, an experience which may have inspired his transcendent novella Baron Bagge, a haunting, existential tale of love, mortality and war set in the dreamlike hinterland between life and death. I loved this poignant, captivating little book, which could be in the running for my 2024 highlights. It’s quite a difficult book to summarise, so I won’t try to describe the plot. Just trust me when I say it’s a wonderfully captivating read that sets the surreal, heady dreamscape of yearning and desire against the harsh realities of war, conjuring a world in which the former just might prevail over the latter.

The Shutter of Snow by Emily Holmes Coleman

There is a long tradition of women writers depicting crushing mental health conditions in fiction, from Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s unforgettable short story The Yellow Wallpaper (1892) to Sylvia Plath’s semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar (1963). The Shutter of Snow – a groundbreaking modernist novella by the American writer Emily Holmes Coleman – fits firmly into this tradition, portraying its protagonist’s fractured state of mind in haunting, luminous prose. First published in 1930, this semi-autobiographical novella draws on the time Coleman spent in a mental health institution after suffering a nervous breakdown in the mid-1920s. The haunting stream-of-consciousness-like style perfectly captures the fractured nature of the protagonist’s mind – a frenetic jumble of suppressed memories, delusions caused by her medical condition and the horrific reality of her imprisonment. In short, a claustrophobic whirlwind of a novella that feels way ahead of its time.

Love by Hanne Ørstavik (tr. Martin Aitken)

This haunting, dreamlike story of a neglectful single mother and her eight-year-old son will almost certainly get under your skin. Right from the very start of the book, there is something of a disconnect between parent and child, a sense of separateness or isolation that sets them apart from one another. The narrative unfolds over a bitterly cold night, during which these two individuals embark on separate yet strangely connected journeys, searching for their own sense of fulfilment in an uncertain world. A fascinating choice for book groups and solo readers alike – the ambiguous nature of the novella’s ending makes this a particularly unnerving read. A quietly devastating book.

Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr. Aneesa Abbas Higgins)

Set out of season in a quiet seaside town close, Winter in Sokcho is a haunting yet captivating novella of great tenderness and beauty – a story encompassing themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to society’s expectations. The narrator – a young woman who remains unnamed throughout – is something of a misfit in her community, her French-Korean origins marking her out as a source of speculation amongst the locals. Into her life comes Kerrand, a French graphic artist from Normandy whose speciality is creating comics. Almost immediately, there is a certain frisson to the interactions between the two, a connection that waxes and wanes as the days slip by. The book’s enigmatic ending only adds to its sense of mystery… 

Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au

At first sight, the story being conveyed in Cold Enough for Snow seems relatively straightforward – a mother and her adult daughter reconnect to spend some time together in Japan. Nevertheless, this narrative is wonderfully slippery – cool and clear on the surface, yet harbouring fascinating hidden depths within, a combination that gives the book a spectral, enigmatic quality, cutting deep into the soul. Au excels in conveying the ambiguous nature of memory, how our perceptions of events can evolve over time – sometimes fading to a feeling or impression, other times morphing into something else entirely, altered perhaps by our own wishes and desires. A haunting, meditative novella from a writer to watch.

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

Women Writers in Translation 2024 – some recommendations for #WITMonth from my recent reading   

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As many of you will know, August sees the return of #WITMonth, an annual celebration of books by women writers, initially written in languages other than English and then translated for English-speaking readers to enjoy. This annual event, established and hosted by Meytal Radzinski, aims to raise the profile of translated literature by women writers across the globe, and it’s one of my favourite reading events – partly for the theme and partly for the flexibility. Over the past ten years, #WITMonth has grown in popularity, with many publishers and bookshops around the world joining members of the reading community to showcase works by women writers in translation.

For the last 2 or 3 years, I’ve been trying to make #WIT a more regular thing by reading and reviewing at least one book by a woman in translation each month (rather than just earmarking them for August). So, if you’re still looking for ideas on what to read for this year’s WITMonth and beyond, here’s a round-up of my recent faves.

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 Enriquez’s 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 her 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.

Her Side of the Story by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Jill Foulston)

An immersive, richly textured novel from the author of Forbidden Notebook, one of my highlights from 2023. At once a blistering portrayal of the constraints, frustrations and realities of life for women trapped in a patriarchal society and a vivid coming-of-age story that gives voice to the female experience in 1940s Italy. The granddaughter of the first president of Cuba, de Céspedes was born and raised in Rome, and her first marriage, at the age of fifteen, ended in divorce after just five years. While working as a journalist in the 1930s, she was politically active, lending her support to anti-fascist activities for which she was imprisoned twice. I mention these things because they are relevant to Her Side of the Story, which follows its central protagonist, Alessandra, from her adolescence in Rome to early adulthood, taking in the rise of fascism in Italy, the impact of WW2, and anti-fascist activities.

Woman Running in the Mountains by Yūko Tsushima (tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

As a single mother, writing at a time when few Japanese women were raising their children alone, Yūko Tsushima took great care in exploring the challenges of single motherhood in her work, frequently featuring young women struggling to take control of their lives in the face of societal and familial pressures to conform. I loved this thoughtful, beautifully observed story, a profound exploration of the challenges of raising a child alone in a deeply conservative society. While the novel is mostly written in a realist style, Tsushima accentuates her protagonist’s longing for a world beyond the peripheries of society through brief, dreamlike sequences, tapping into a desire for emergence, liberation and freedom of movement. As in her other novels, Tsushima uses imagery and descriptions of light so well here, accentuating the underlying atmosphere and mood. A gorgeous, evocative read, ideal for #WITMonth.

The Time of Cherries by Montserrat Roig (tr. Julia Sanches)

This vivid, richly-textured novel explores life in 20th-century Catalonia through the experiences of three generations of the same family, intertwining the personal and the political to exhilarating effect. Here is a story teeming with life, complete with all the messiness and tensions this inevitably presents. The novel opens in 1974, during the tail end of General Franco’s dictatorship, with a young Catalan woman returning home to Barcelona after twelve years abroad. From there, the narrative moves backwards and forwards in time, illuminating various incidents from the family’s past and their relevance to the book’s present. The novel takes its title from a song by the poet J. B. Clement, written during the Paris Commune when Parisians rose up against a fiercely oppressive regime. Clement knew the conflict would be followed by devastating repression, but ‘he dreamed of the time of cherries, the springtime of joy’. It’s a fitting name for this evocative portrayal of the old, wounded Catalonia poised on the brink of transition to a new, more hopeful democracy – a time when the cherries will bloom again.

Katalin Street by Magda Szabó (tr. Len Rix)

This 1969 novel, a poignant story of complex family relationships, focuses on three middle-class Hungarian families living in adjacent houses in Budapest’s Katalin Street: Mr and Mrs Elekes and their two daughters, the dutiful, clever Irén, and the younger, wilder Blanka; Major Biró, his housekeeper, Mrs Temes, and his son, Bálint; and finally, the Jewish dentist Mr Held, his wife Mrs Held, and their young daughter, Henriette. Szabó has given her novel a very interesting structure, showing us key moments in the families’ lives from the mid-1930s to the late-1960s, opening with an initial section on where these characters have ended up. Here we find the Elekes crammed into a flat in a soulless apartment block on the Danube’s left bank, directly opposite their old home in Katalin Street, which they can see across the river. As the story unfolds, we see how their lives have been impacted over the years. This complex, multi-layered book is an absorbing combination of the personal and the political, highlighting how the destruction of war can tear families apart.

All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami (tr. Sam Bett and David Boyd)

Another superb novel by the hugely talented Japanese writer Mieko Kawakami. (I now want to read pretty much everything she has written.) On the surface, this book appears to be a thoughtful, meditative portrayal of loneliness, isolation and alienation – all very familiar aspects of Japanese fiction featuring young, unmarried women living their lives outside of conventional societal ‘norms’. Nevertheless, Kawakami subverts readers’ expectations by disrupting her protagonist’s seemingly placid existence in highly impactful ways, widening the novel’s scope to touch on issues such as casual cruelty, toxic work-based relationships, alcoholism and more. This is a luminous, devastating, beautifully written novel, deftly conveying the piercing sensory experience of life in this young woman’s world.

Misunderstanding in Moscow by Simone de Beauvoir (tr. Terry Keefe)

Deceptively simple yet infused without enough depth to intrigue readers, this elegant, posthumously published novella explores ageing, disillusionment, regrets, misunderstandings, and the evolution of a marriage with the passing of time. The misunderstanding of the title is a relatively trivial one; nevertheless, it’s significant enough to be damaging if left unchecked. Something de Beauvoir does particularly well here is to show how a small sequence of miscommunications can spiral out of control, exposing deeper fault lines at the heart of a couple’s marriage. Longstanding resentments and insecurities resurface for both partners, causing them to question their understanding of the relationship. This is a subtle, perceptive story of how relationships naturally evolve as we grow older, prompting us to change our expectations and face up to regrets. 

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.

The Premonition by Banana Yoshimoto (tr. Asa Yoneda)

This haunting, enigmatic story of childhood, long-buried memories and the complex nature of family relationships is narrated by Yayoi, a nineteen-year-old girl who lives in Tokyo with her parents and younger brother. On the surface, life for Yayoi seems perfect. Along with her brother, she is surrounded by love and support, just like the family ‘in that Spielberg movie’. But deep down, Yayoi is haunted by the feeling that she has forgotten something crucial about the past. Her childhood remains a mystery, a troubling gap where treasured memories should exist. Sometimes, a strange feeling resurfaces, causing Yayoi to feel she is on the verge of recalling an important detail, but each time the memory itself remains tantalisingly out of reach. I’ll leave you to discover the rest for yourself, but Yoshimoto creates an alluring, melancholy mood here, exploring these themes with the lightest of touches. 

Sleepless by Marie Darrieussecq (tr. Penny Hueston)

Beautifully translated from the French by Penny Hueston, Sleepless is an erudite exploration of sleeplessness, weaving together the author’s personal experiences of the condition with those of other notable sufferers, typically writers. It’s a difficult book to describe accurately as so much of its power comes from being immersed in this dizzying condition, caught in the hinterland between restful sleep and waking up refreshed. Structurally, the book comprises a series of fragments and essays, supplemented by a wealth of footnotes, photographs and illustrations, all of which add texture to Darrieussecq’s eminently readable meditations. It’s a great book for dipping into, best read in small chunks to appreciate all the details in full. As an occasional insomniac myself, I found much that resonated with me here. In short, this is a fascinating treatise on a frustrating condition that many of us will experience at some point in our lives. Recommended reading for any literary lover, especially those with an interest in the mysteries of sleep!

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Let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re considering reading any in the future. Maybe you have a favourite book by a woman in translation? If so, please feel free to mention it below.

You can also find some of my other favourites in my WITMonth recommendations posts from July 2020, 2021, 2022 and 2023, including books by Olga Tokarczuk, Françoise Sagan, Claudia Piñeiro, Irmgard Keun, Sayaka Murata and many more. I’ve also got a ‘Women in Translation’ area on the blog., where you’ll find all my #WIT reviews. Hopefully, there’s something for everyone here!

Getting Lost by Annie Ernaux (tr. Alison L. Strayer)

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The Nobel Prize-winning French author Annie Ernaux has risen in prominence in recent years, partly due to Fitzcarraldo Editions’ support for her books. She writes, with remarkable candour, clarity and vulnerability, about various aspects of the female experience, including adolescence, sex, abortion and family. Throughout her work, she has shown an interest in broader society, from social development and progression to the relationship between the personal and the universal. 

A couple of years ago, I wrote about Simple Passion (1991), a series of autofictional reflections Ernaux put together about her affair with a young married man in the late 1980s. It’s a very compelling book which explores the emotional impact of this all-consuming relationship on her day-to-day life.

Getting Lost can be seen as a companion piece to that book as it presents Ernaux’s unexpurgated diaries from that time, opening with the beginning of the affair in September 1988 and closing five months after it finished in November 1989. (The last entry is dated early April 1990.) It’s a raw, intimate, unflinching read, charting Ernaux’s thoughts on the highs and lows of this relationship as it oscillates between brief bursts of intense passion and long agonising periods of uncertainty between her lover’s visits. Any woman who has had an affair with a married man will find much that resonates here, from the interminable waiting for phone calls to the constant doubts and uncertainties to the all-consuming moments of desire that compensate for the downsides, albeit very briefly, obliterating all rational thoughts in the heat of the moment.

Rewinding to September 1998, we learn how Ernaux hooked up with the man she refers to as ‘S’, an attractive, married Russian diplomat stationed in Paris with the Soviet Embassy. S, who at thirty-five is thirteen years younger than Ernaux, has responsibilities for culture, which bring him into contact with Ernaux and other French writers. In fact, it is during a writers’ junket to Russia that the pair get together. While Ernaux initially thinks of it as a one-night-stand on the last evening of the trip, she is swept away by the intensity of her feelings for S, prompting a continuation of the liaison following the pair’s return to France. 

Their meetings are arranged similarly each time, with little warning or certainty. S typically calls Ernaux on the phone whenever an opportunity arises for him to get away. Soon after the call, he comes to her house in Cergy, roughly 20km from Paris, stays a few hours when they make love, and then leaves to go home to his wife. Ernaux never knows when he will call again – or if he will call again. Nothing is certain or pre-planned; rather, everything is tenuous and unpredictable.

The wait begins as soon as I wake up. There is never any ‘after.’ Life stops from the moment he rings the doorbell and enters. I’m tormented by the fear that he won’t be able to come. The beauty of this whole affair lies in its continual uncertainty. But I don’t know the nature of his attachment. To say that it is ‘sensual’ doesn’t mean anything. Anyway, that would be the most beautiful, truest, and clearest kind of attachment. (p. 39)

While S is not much of an intellectual, he loves luxury, fancy cars, stylish clothes and social connections. There are touches of misogyny entwined with this narcissistic steak, which Ernaux comments on in her diaries, but they’re not troubling enough to prevent her from being swept up in this passion. S remains a somewhat mysterious and elusive presence in Ernaux’s world for the duration of the affair; she knows so little about his life apart from their time together.

In several of her diary entries, Ernaux documents the difficulties she faces when trying to concentrate on her work between S’s visits. She is beholden to the phone, waiting for his calls, afraid to leave home in case he rings up while she is out. Consequently, any new creative writing projects are pushed to one side as she honours pre-existing commitments only.

The cycle begins again: a doleful, lethargic day when I’m unable to do anything creative. Then the waiting returns, the desire, and the suffering, because in the type of relationship we have, I’m at the mercy of his phone calls. (p. 41)

Something Ernaux does particularly well here is to convey the emotional impact of fitting her life almost entirely around S’s availability. In essence, her life during this time consists of a sequence of ‘bland and burdensome actions, punctuated only occasionally by moments of intensity’ with S, making it impossible for her to function normally. As she documents in her diaries, the gulf between the heady desire of passion and the numbing reality of its absence is enormous and unbearable.

I really ask myself, must I continue to live this way, between expectation and chagrin, apathy and desire? Complete similarity between my behaviour at the time of my mother’s death and now. […] It is a lovely hell, but hell nonetheless. (p. 42)

My life is hollowed out by desire and pain. Is that what passion is? I’m not even sure. (p. 78)

Ernaux writes about how her desire for this man feels close to a desire for death, ‘an annihilation of [the] self’ as she puts it here. In her mind, desire and death are intertwined, inextricably linked in intensity and feeling. Moreover, as this all-consuming affair deepens, she describes getting lost in this desire as her sense of self dissolves.

Love and writing are the only things that hold any meaning for Ernaux outside these bursts of passion with S, and she is frequently assailed by fears: the fear of missing him or not being able to connect, fear that he won’t call, either because he no longer needs her or has become bored of her, having transferred his affections to someone else. On other occasions, she worries about not being beautiful enough for S, not giving him enough pleasure or becoming too clingy for his tastes, any of which could signal the end of their relationship at the drop of a hat.  

There is a time in a love affair when you run – everything still lies ahead, full of hope – and another time when everything tumbles into the past and what lies ahead will never be anything but repetition and decline. I situate the moment it changed as sometime in November, but cannot be more precise. More likely December…October and November were two very beautiful months – sunny, moreover – and December very dark (p. 59)

In effect, she is trapped in a vicious cycle – the inability to concentrate, the agonising wait for a call, the fear that he’s had enough, the elation when he gets in touch, the passion of their lovemaking, the emptiness when he departs. Rinse and repeat.

Gradually, the gaps between S’s phone calls begin to lengthen, deepening Ernaux’s fears that a break-up is looming. On multiple occasions, she vows to break up with him if he doesn’t call or come to see her by a specific date. But then, just as these self-imposed deadlines are about to pass, he suddenly makes contact again, triggering a rush of elation that sweeps away her doubts.

From an early stage in the relationship, Ernaux knows that the affair will come to an end when S must return to Russia in the autumn of 1989. On the day of his departure, she feels a transition taking place, moving from a world of ‘possible presence’ to one of ‘definite absence’. In some respects, this loss feels like a death, leaving a void that cannot be filled.

Will it be harder to erase this past year than the eighteen years with my husband? Hatred made things easier then. Now love complicates them. (p. 194)

In the days that follow, Ernaux feels sad, listless and depressed. All she wants to do is sleep, and the bleak December weather does little to help.

Nevertheless, the book ends on a more optimistic note when, five months after her last encounter with S, Ernaux wakes up one day with a sense of happiness. There is nothing concrete underpinning this brighter mood, but it’s a start. Moreover, it leads to a new determination on Ernaux’s part to write something risky or uncomfortable ‘like a cellar door that opens and must be entered, come what may.’ As ever, Ernaux hopes to create something meaningful and universal from her experiences, capturing thoughts and emotions that may prove useful to others. Together with her autofictional account, Simple Passion, the diaries in Getting Lost very much fulfil this role, illuminating a woman’s desire with candour and clarity.

Getting Lost is published by Fitzcarraldo Editions; my thanks to the Independent Alliance and the publishers for kindly providing a copy.