A ray of sunshine

Reading an author you like, and being disappointed by their latest offering, is pretty crushing. A new book from an old favourite is like a special pudding at the end of a meal. Having a hot chocolate made with full fat milk, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows melting into the froth. It is something I really look forward to, and this week both Karin Slaughter (Pieces of Her) and Lisa Jewell (Watching You) have let me down.

Slaughter, I’m going to forgive, mainly because the rest of her work is consistently of a high standard. Pieces of Her, about a mother having rather surprising secrets, is sloppy, unbelievable and not terribly interesting. Andrea, the heroine, is dull and uninspiring. The bizarre romance Slaughter tries to inject falls flat. Her other standalone novels, those outwith the Grant County stories, are brilliant – The Good Daughter being a case in point – so I won’t hesitate to pick up the next one she writes.

Lisa Jewell, however, is another matter. Jewell is like my big writer sister. She’s the only “chick lit” author I like; she’s got brains, emotional intelligence, and knows how to make a big story out of not very much. She knows how to write characters who you understand, who live just round the corner, who you see on the bus and on the next table at Starbucks. Her simple stories are much more complex than they first appear, just like real people.

So why has she started going down the thriller route? One of those which are inevitably marketed with the “… twist you won’t see coming!!!!” on the blurb? It’s disappointing. Jewell’s thrillers don’t thrill, they just annoy. I am not interested in who killed the corpse alluded to throughout the book; the sections of police interview fail to convince; what I want to know is more about the relationship between Joey and her brother Jack, how the dysfunctional Fitzwilliam family fits together, why Jenna’s mum has started losing her marbles. The little minutiae of life which Jewel makes so fascinating are discarded for the Big Mystery and it’s enough to make a grown man weep (I cry pretty easily). This is now the third thriller and I keep reading her latest, hoping that she’ll have gone back to the style she does better than anyone else. But each time I am disappointed and I don’t know if I will dare pick up the next one.

Thank heavens then for Gillian Flynn. Having devoured Sharp Objects on TV – the only TV series I have finished and immediately started watching again – I read the book in one morning. I got out of bed 2 hours later than I should have done because I didn’t want to stop. This was her debut novel, and is accomplished, sinister and fabulous. This was the hot chocolate; not just with whipped cream and marshmallows, but a load of cocoa sprinkled on top. Top marks.

Next on my To Read pile is the new Ann Cleeves: Wild Fire. I have just finished Raven Black, the first in her Shetland series, and enjoyed it. I’ve got that hot chocolate feeling again. Let’s hope it’s made with full fat milk rather than water – that’s as big a let-down as some of these books.

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You Are What You Read

I made a decision while in Greece this year which was to stop reading horrible stuff. Spooky stuff is still in – horror is out. There is a big difference.

I got my annual free Kindle Unlimited pass and every year I remind myself these things are free for a reason. The occasional good title sneaks in – Mark Edwards isn’t an amazing author, but his dark little stories show originality and I keep going back for more (Follow Me Home was the one everyone went mad for, but The Magpies deserves fans too). The Hangman’s Daughter series by Oliver Posztch, about his ancestor who was a hangman in medieval Germany, is again not astounding authorship but is nonetheless enjoyable. I also got some free horror, one of which was “beautiful” horror stories – and they weren’t beautiful. There is no beauty in dredging up the very worst of what humanity is capable of and feeding your brain with it.

I lay in a splash of sticky golden sun on a boat which rocked lazily from side to side. I was in the company of some of my favourite people. If I looked to the left the Mediterranean sea sparkled, inviting me to jump in and cool my tight, salty skin. On my right rose my favourite place in the whole world, a green and purple island.

This is what I could have been looking at.

And I was reading about – a girl who got her mother killed by Nazis in Auschwitz. Someone’s mouth being sewn up. A man turning into a giant penis (yes, really).

I stopped reading and removed the book from my device along with the others of a similar ilk. If your body is poisoned by eating toxic rubbish, what’s it doing to your mind?

I’m not going to tell you what those books were. You don’t need to know and the authors, who are utterly entitled to write whatever the hell they want, don’t need to know that they made me feel ill. Here are the books which I really, really enjoyed and which I think you SHOULD know about.

A Time Traveller’s Guide to Restoration England – Ian Mortimer
Entertaining, fascinating and a most enjoyable read. The others in this series have been ordered from the library.

Larry’s Party – Carol Shields
An extraordinary book about an ordinary man. Shields takes the minutiae of a man’s life and creates a life from it. I loved it.

The Habit of Murder – Susannah Gregory
Gregory’s Matthew Bartholomew series is great fun. Fascinating from a historical point of view, it’s also funny, touching and bloody well written. If you haven’t read about this medieval monk, get into the habit. Arf, arf.

Day of the Dead – Nicci French
A fantastic end to the Frieda Klein series. When these books started I wasn’t keen, but Frieda has grown on me and the taut, well-plotted stories are spell-binding. To all those churning out trashy “a story with a twist you’ll NEVER SEE COMING” nonsense: this is how it should be done. Nicci French (aka Nicci Gerrard and David French) very rarely let you down. If you can’t do it like them, don’t bother.

The Outsider – Stephen King
King has no equal, not only in his imagination but also in his observations on humanity and his ear for dialogue. I’m pleased to see the return of the Finders Keepers detectives. King’s supernatural horror may not sit entirely comfortably with the detective genre, but it’s still far superior to most of the stuff out there…

The Killing Habit – Mark Billingham
… although Billingham is probably one step ahead of King in this particular style. This was another Thorne novel which throws up so many red herrings it was in danger of smelling. Great work. (I’ve just realised that Billingham and Gregory almost share a title!)

There are a lot of dark books here, but nothing I’d call horrible. Horrible is cheap, nasty and unrefined. Horrible is designed to shock and sicken, creating violent visceral reactions rather than gently building up disturbance. Not all horror is horrible, and those who dismiss it as such do it a disservice – but I have to admit most horrible stuff can be found on the Horror shelf. Browse it if you want to, pick up anything that looks fascinating, but tread carefully; choose your titles wisely. The worst will not leave you, and life is short; we should only have worthy companions for it.

P.S. Today is National Read a Book day. So go on! Read one and tell me if you ever find one you liked as a result of my blog. Someone did that recently and her kind message sparked this entry.

Don’t call it a comeback

I’ve been here for years, but to misquote LL Cool J I can’t say I’m rocking my peers, as I have been out of the blogosphere for several months now. A few people have been kind enough to ask where I’ve been (or rather what I’ve been reading). In a nutshell, a major work upheaval took up a huge amount of my time, energy and what passes for brainpower. That, and, if I’m honest, trying to plough through all 10 seasons of Friends on Netflix. But things are calmer now!

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The Dream of the Poet or, The Kiss of the Muse, Cezanne

It’s interesting my last post was about re-reading because currently I’m going through all the Merrily Watkins series (by Phil Rickman) again. I find that I look forward to these books with the same delicious anticipation that I look forward to roast turkey or a twice-baked cheese souffle. I take such joy in the intricacies of the sub-plots, the chill of the supernatural and the warmth of human empathy in these books. They just get better with each read, and I’ve found I missed vital elements of the story which made a lot more sense with a fresh eye. I always bang on about Phil Rickman, but that’s because he deserves a big drum. He should be far better known than he is and it’s a crime (ho ho) that he isn’t on every bookshelf in the land.

I have found some new books though! Rather than bore you to tears with everything I’ve ploughed through, here are some of my personal highlights:

Reservoir 13 – Jon McGregor

I couldn’t believe how much I loved this book and I wasn’t sure why, but i couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I began reading it again as soon as I finished it. There is also a section of short stories based on the book available on BBC iPlayer Radio. If there is one book I want everyone to go out and discover (apart from Phil Rickman’s!) please let it be this. It’s sparse, beautiful, gentle, slightly chilling, heart-warming, heart-breaking.

Lincoln in the Bardo – George Saunders

This is the story of what Abraham Lincoln’s son might have experienced in limbo, where all souls congregate. I got annoyed with it at first and nearly ditched it; I’m so glad I continued. It’s startlingly original and thoroughly enjoyable.

He – John Connolly

Yes, another of my favourite authors; but this book is a huge step away from the Charlie Parker series. He is a biography of Stan Laurel. Initially I got irritated by the constant referrals to ‘he’ but once I got into it I found this a fascinating history of cinema and also a gut-wrenching look behind the smiles of Laurel and Hardy. A fitting testimonial to one of comedy’s greats.

Sapiens – Yuval Noah Harari

A brief history of mankind – and basically how it’s screwed the planet up. Essential reading, but not something to read in a one-er and certainly not advisable bedtime reading if you’re feeling a little melancholy. I felt so ashamed of being a human being by the time I’d finished it that I began my Friends binge-watch.

Eureka – Anthony Quinn

I absolutely loved this! Set in the world of 1960s London, it focuses on a small group of characters and a film which seemingly won’t be made. It’s breath-takingly original, sad and funny.

Winter – Ali Smith

Read back in January but not forgotten. The story of a family gathering, relationships severed being cautiously knitted together, and time skittering back and forth like a skater on thin ice. Ali Smith’s second in her quartet of ‘season’ novels is slim, as if she measures each word very carefully before using it. Mary Berry will tell you that’s the best way to get results, and Winter is a perfectly risen, light but satisfying Victoria Sponge.

At the moment I’m juggling To Dream of the Dead by Rickman and The Naked Civil Servant by Quentin Crisp. I have two eyes so why can’t I have two brains enabling me to read both books at the same time?

To see which one I finished first, you’d better check out my next post. Which I promise won’t take me as long to write as this one did!

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As an aside, I have also written a story. I attended a training session as part of my new job and we discussed a fatal helicopter crash.

The incident haunted me so much I went straight home and typed out my story without really thinking much about it – a real Homer moment at the laptop. No it’s not as romantic an image as an artist being visited by a muse, or Ted Hughes’s thought-fox, but it’s a bit more accurate. When I sit up from the keyboard, blinking sleepily, with my mouth as dry as Ghandi’s flip-flop, I know I might have written something good – mainly because I can’t remember writing it.

(Thank you sincerely to the people who wrote saying they missed my blog. That made my day!)

Rereading for Christmas

This post was written over a period of 2 months.

Re-reading is a joy which I don’t often allow myself. As I recuperate from an operation, I have too much to time to think. There’s a perpetual ache I can’t quite handle.  I’m hiding from it by re-reading the Jinny books, which I posted about a couple of months back. I polished all of them off within a couple of days. I remembered phrases, heart-wrenchingly beautiful descriptions, characters as alive as people in my own life, simple, taut plots. It reminded me how much I had admired the author Patricia Leitch and how desperate I had been to write like she did.

I’ve spent a lot of time with my gerbil who is the light of my life; but our partnership is no match for that of Jinny and her Arab horse Shantih.

A quiet day in sounds wonderful, when you spend your life running around. I’ve had four weeks of quiet days and I’m still exhausted! I have watched Alias Grace and Stranger Things 2 on Netflix; I have read Lifers by Geoffrey Wansell which made me feel a bit ill; Missing Fay by Adam Thorpe which was blandly fascinating in the way his books are; Great Britain’s Great War by Jeremy Paxman (brilliant); The Vampyre by Tom Holland (I never thought I’d enjoy a vampire book); London 1945: Life in the Debris of War by Maureen Waller (excellent); Minette Walters’ latest, The Last Hours, set during the plague  (which left me wanting something. Not the plague, but I felt it was lacking… body).

 

I’m ending the year on The Somme by Hugh Sebag-Montefiore. An deep, damning book, and a vital one, but I am so glad it is over. I have not for a long time read something so visceral it plunged me into the heart of the battle, the horror and suffering, the mud and the slaughter. At one point I found that I could smell death, so vivid is the writing. It was a strange feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a strong reaction to a book before.

I have closed it with a sigh of relief.

Now, finally, I can relax and become a little more festive. Last night a group of four very close friends was reunited. In the summer we were close to becoming a trio. I squished S’s illness and my worry about her into a a little stream of fear which ran deep in my gut. It was only when I watched her, vibrant with new life and a second chance, opening her Christmas presents that I realised how terrified I had been that we might lose her. That we were indescribably lucky to have her still with us, at a time when many feel an emptiness in their life like the gap where a tooth was, an ache which will never be soothed.

I’ve had significant downs this year; not a life-threatening level, but certainly life-changing. That rivulet of dread has been trickling through my every waking hour for many months. But now for the first time in a very long while I am looking towards my future with hope, and a certain degree of excitement, rather than fear. I feel I’m being given a chance to turn my life into a very different direction and the uncertainty for the first time is an opportunity rather than a blow.

With that in mind, it’s too late for me to decorate for Christmas, but I will be lighting some candles this evening. Plugging in the sadly neglected fairy lights. Heating up some salted caramel & clementine hot chocolate (that’s not an advert, but if Hotel Chocolat want to send me some freebies I won’t rebuff them).

I’ve opened The Children of Green Knowe now, and will settle down with that followed by the best book ever written (in my very humble opinion): A Christmas Carol.

The world is so flooded with new books I feel breathless with the desperation to wallow in them. My wishlist is full of titles I may never get to open. But, at a time when I’m on the edge of a new life, some of the oldest, most familiar stories are what I need most.

Happy reading, and merry Christmas.

Angry Blackberry Picking

This photo is of the tiniest snail ever, which I found on a blackberry bush. I rinsed him in the colander by mistake, then rescued him; then dropped him in the washing up bowl, and rescued him again. Somehow, he survived. I like to think this is a good omen, as most of my life, to the point of OCD, is about seeing omens – none of which are positive ones.

 

I am angry. The blackberries aren’t, or not so far as I know. But they are going over now, and apparently because the devil has spat on them. That is so bloody typical of the devil. Can’t even leave the sodding blackberries alone.

 

Yes, it’s been several months since I last posted. Thank you to the three people who’ve got in touch saying they’ve missed me! I’m afraid while you may have missed my witterings, you haven’t missed me too much. I’m angry and scared and frustrated. But then aren’t most of us nowadays?

 

 

I am angry about Harvey Weinstein and the fact that the reaction from so many is “Why didn’t they say anything sooner?” rather than “Who the hell did he think he is?” I’m angry at 21 year old me who didn’t complain when she was groped in a club because she thought it was just what men did (and it wasn’t the first time, either) and then didn’t understand, for many years, why other women did speak up. Don’t even get me started on the Chedwyn Evans case (not calling him Ched, he’s no friend of mine) and how it’s impossible for a woman to be raped if she allegedly had and enjoyed sex with other men pre/post alleged assault. That case was the main reason I spend a lot less time online.

I’m angry that I’m being made redundant. That’s all I’m going to put in the public domain about that. I’m scared, too. I am angry at myself that I have screwed up my life so spectacularly that I am facing 40 without a penny (well that’s not true, I do have a pension, but you know, right here and right now!).

I thought going blackberry-picking would assuage this anger but then I saw a collection of beer bottles flung into the hedge and this reignited the rage. WHY? Why treat our beautiful countryside like a rubbish bin? Then I saw signs from the local community campaign group protesting against yet more sodding “affordable” – that’s 3 and 4 bed affordable, you know – homes to be built on greenbelt and I felt red hot rage.

After all that, I picked 12 blackberries. 12! I’m now angry at the bushes for their dearth of berries, and myself for not putting in the devoted picking time I normally do. A few weekends ago a couple starting picking on the same bush as me and I went into picking overdrive, my hand a blur from bramble to bucket. That also made me cross. Though not angry.

Things That Have Made Me Less Angry

A walk at lunchtime, kicking through piles of yellow leaves with the canopy of trees embracing overhead. I’ve rushed through autumn; I’ve missed her beauties, her gentle warmth. Hopefully, if I’m still here next year, I will take more time over her.

Cavalier chocolate – it shouldn’t, but it does. And it doesn’t have sugar in it, which makes it less bad.

The Compassionate Mind by Paul Gilbert and The Chimp Paradox by Prof Steve Peters, read in tandem. It’s taken me ages to read The Compassionate Mind and I’m very glad I did. Even if the end made me curl up in a little ball of despair because the author is heralding a more compassionate age thanks to the inauguration of Barrack Obama. We all know how long that lasted! A reign of compassion appears to have lit the touchpaper for the intolerant, the ignorant, the racist, the phobic, the selfish, the fascist. It’s an enormous backlash as if certain people just couldn’t stand having a decent human being in charge of their country.

I keep having to reign in my own chimp – the part of my mind which is uncontrolled, which is primitive and works on instinct. For the first time I can separate the Wouldbegood from the Wouldbebad and notice when my chimp gets out of her cage. The chimp has her uses – her instinct is to protect – but she’s left me lonely and bruised, if no longer broken. To have control over her, to be her mistress rather than at her mercy, is something to aim for. Perhaps all this anger isn’t a waste of energy if it means I have heightened awareness of when she’s about to go on the rampage.

Those are the only books I’m going to talk to you about today. I’m done, for now. Off to the gym to be, somehow, less angry. To exercise my chimp in a safe environment so that hopefully tonight, unlike the last few weeks, she gets some sleep.

So the devil wants to spit on my blackberries? Bring it on Lucifer – but you needn’t think I’ll let you do it without protest. Like thousands of other women, I’m done holding my tongue.

We’re angry.

For Love of a Horse Book

I am not a horsey person. I have never had a horse, nor a pony – unless My Little Pony counts (my first was Blossom). When I was in hospital with appendicitis aged 9 my grandparents brought me two books by Patricia Leitch, someone I had never heard of, and this sparked my love of the Jinny books. Night of the Red Horse is the most supernatural of the stories which got my attention straight away. Once I finished the books I then wrote my own version, which were pretty hopeless as I knew nothing about horses. My heroine was called Jenny – fortunately I got more original as I got older.

I stumbled over this very book a few months ago as I was clearing out my old bedroom, and decided to collect the whole series again. As is my wont, I became obsessed by getting all the books in the same cover I had in my childhood. This wasn’t easy – of course !- the late 1980 Armada edition was rare. I scoured eBay, Abebooks and charity shops (a mistake, as I never found a Jinny book but I did find another book I wanted to buy – always!). Some sellers online told me rather snittily that they didn’t have time nor resources to find out which edition they had for sale and I would just be allocated one when I paid. As any serious book collector knows, the edition of the book is vital and I’m not sure someone who doesn’t understand books should be selling them!

My patience paid off, although it did include having a book sent over from South Africa (fortunately a friend in SA is coming over to the UK soon and was able to act as a carrier pigeon). I now have all 12 of my Jinny books again – including 2 individual copies of the double-book compendium I was originally given.

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Jinny is an 11 year old whose family move to the Scottish highlands from a grey city. On their way to Scotland the family see a circus and Jinny is entranced by an Arabian horse named Yasmin. When Yasmin escapes across the moors, Jinny makes it her mission to find her and keep her safe – never to tame her, as her wildness is what Jinny loves most about her.

Jinny’s passion for Yasmin – whom she renames Shantih – and her determination to win her over – is the main theme running through the series but even if you really don’t like horses you will still find these books engrossing. There are 12 of these books – written for children, ostensibly, but in my view they are much deeper and darker than mere pony stories. They deal with relationships, family, bravery, tolerance, and the various traumas of growing up. In my view Patricia Leitch was right to finish the series at book 12, rather than drag it out indefinitely like the Sweet Valley books (another series I avidly collected). Jinny’s burgeoning self-knowledge would have torn her away from her symbiotic relationship with Shantih and the magic of the Celts. Another joy of the books now is reading Jinny’s innocence through my adult eyes; her frustrations, fears and failures are all too easy to remember as my own.

These books are now republished by Catnip, if you want sparkling new copies – but I found mine on Amazon, eBay, Abebooks and through these sites:

www.childrensbookshop.com

www.clhawley.co.uk

There’s a real joy in stumbling upon and making a connection with independent booksellers. When I next go on one of my little jaunts, I think it will be to Hay-on-Wye: the kingdom of books.

I also stumbled upon The Grapes of Wrath. How have I misssed Steinbeck until now? (Of Mice and Men is a much shorter piece) What an incredible book. I lived it. I could smell the heat of that dreadful summer, feel the pangs of hunger the Boads learned to live with. The ending for me was not redemption so much as utter despair – but did I read it wrongly? Was there some hope for the future in Rosasharn’s action of mercy?

I also read the new Lisa Jewell – Then She Was Gone. BAH! I love Lisa’s warm, perfectly observed, extraordinary story of ordinary people and ordinary lives. I don’t want a psychological thriller from my ‘big sister’ author. The book is as perfectly written as always – Jewell gets emotion, sensation and dialogue spot on in her own inimitable style – but the plot is melodramatic and even I couldn’t suspend my disbelief for the length of it.

Birdcage Walk, Helen Dunmore’s last, did not hold me. It’s beautifully written as always enough but dragged – there’s only so long one can care about a builder slowly going bankrupt against the background of the French Revolution. I feel bad about being disappointed by this, and have ordered The Lie, which in my mind should be her last book and is a much more fitting epitaph.

And – because I have never read it – I tracked down Rosemary’s Baby from my library. Fabulous stuff, with much more depth than you would expect; and above all, a real chill which went from the top of my spine right down to the very tips of my toes. I love that chill as much now as I loved it nearly 30 years ago, prostrate in my hospital bed, reading about the Red Horse haunting Jinny Manders.

Snog, Marry, Avoid

The last few months’ reading, in a nutshell…

SNOG.

 The Stars Are Fire by Anita Shreve
I haven’t enjoyed the last few of Anita Shreve’s but I felt this one shows her back on form. The story of Grace, Gene and their children in post-war Maine gradually unravels, in a way you don’t expect it to. I had no idea about the great fire of Maine, so I was reading without having the sense of impending doom that others who know its history will experience. This in no way lessens the impact of the writing and the rebirth of the shattered family. Shreve’s prose is spare, which gives every word a heightened resonance, and can be read in one sitting.

Never Alone by Elizabeth Haynes
Sarah lives alone, and is not prepared for an old aquaintance coming back into her life. Nobody in her social circle trusts him, and it appears with very good reason… While not hitting the spot the way Into the Darkest Corner did, this is an improvement on her other work and has given me hope we’ll get back to the strength of her debut novel.

Moranifesto by Caitlin Moran
Caitlin Moran’s zany bounce does make you want to squash her like a mosquito sometimes, but I enjoy her refreshing zest for life and passion for everything.

The Lonely Hearts Hotel by Heather O’Neill
I very much liked the way this novel was written. The comparisons to Angela Carter are spot on as this is in so many ways a twisted fairytale with thorns of truth poking through amongst the roses. The writing is often beautiful and the story of orphans Rose and Pierrot, separated just as their love begins to blossom, is fascinating. Pierrot hides from his past in drugs, Rose in sex, before they are reunited – but we all know real fairytales do not end with ‘happy ever after’.

The story goes on too long, and loses its way. Having initially been desperate to eat it up, I found myself wanting it to end. Nevertheless this is a startlingly beautiful and original story and I have already checked out this this author’s other work from the library.

I’m Right Here by Yvonne Cassidy
I didn’t expect to enjoy this book as much as I did. The tale of a teenage girl who starts hearing the thoughts of a slave-girl from 150 years ago is taut, human and very intelligent. Interwoven into the stories of both Cassie and EL are the experiences of slavery, friendship and family. Cassidy understands all her characters very well, and although there are a few loose ends – the story of EL in itself, and that of Cassie’s grandfather – in a way these don’t matter because the reader draws their own conclusions. I walked away from this powerful story finding that I didn’t leave it alone. I wrote my own ending, thought about the back stories of the characters. This is the sign of a good book and I look forward to reading more from this author.

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne
A visceral tale about a woman who discovers her father has escaped from prison. The story flags a little, but starts to pick up the pace towards the final third of the book and one twist made me gasp out loud. I would be interested in reading more from this author who displays a confident tone with regards to nature both human and animal.

Howards End on the Landing by Susan Hill
A year of re-reading books – an interesting premise, but perhaps more a memoir than a simple delve into the book shelves. Still, there are authors here I haven’t read, and need to investigate so it is worth a read.

The Whitby Witches by Robin Jarvis
This is a book aimed at young adults, but I enjoyed it as an oldish adult. Orphans Jennet (could that be a taste of a future Pendle-witches story?) and Ben come to Whitby to live with their great aunt. It soon becomes clear that Aunt Alice is not the harmless old lady she first appears. Not great literature, but very readable.

MARRY.

The Great Silence by Juliet Nicholson
Stretching across gender and class – how people recovered from the catastrophe of World War 1.

A Game of Ghosts by John Connolly
John Connolly just keeps upping his game and this latest Charlie Parker novel is the best to date. Not only is it a tense story about the Brethren, a family linked by dark means to the supernatural, but it is a story of Charlie’s relationship with his daughter Sam and his friends Louis and Angel. There is a hugely unexpected death – one I was surprised I felt saddened by – and I get the sense a denouement is not far away. The story is getting taut and I felt a bit breathless reading it.

In the Name of the Family by Sarah Dunant
Fascinating, rich book about the Borgias, particulary Lucrezia in the Italian city of Ferrara. Great stuff!

The Good Daughter – Karin Slaughter
I enjoy Karin Slaughter’s Grant County novels, but I also enjoy it when she goes off piste and writes about other characters. It doesn’t always work well – Coptown was a big disappointment – but The Good Daughter shows Slaughter at her very best. Sisters Charlotte and Samantha Quinn are torn apart both physically and emotionally by what happens one evening in their home. Almost 30 years later they are forced to confront the events of that night, their relationship with their father, and their relationship with each other, when there is a shooting at the local school. As always in Slaughter’s books, things aren’t quite what they appear.

This is a painful book. I found it very hard reading certain scenes, but that is because Slaughter writes so well. She pulls no punches, yet words everything gracefully and tenderly. I gobbled down this book and cannot wait for her next one.

Since We Fell by Dennis Lehane
The emotional side of the book is actually a great deal more interesting than the thriller bit and would have worked perfectly well on its own right. Lehane is such a leader in his genre because of these touches, the care he takes over character history and emotion. I don’t know anyone else who does it so well.

The Holocaust: A New History by Laurence Rees
A fascinating study which answered many questions I’d had, thinking of a hopeful “no” as an answer, with  a damning “yes”.

Victorians Undone: Tales of the Flesh in the Age of Decorum by Kathryn Hughes
Fascinating look at Victorian life, blood, guts, beards and all. I will never say “Sweet Fanny Adams” again!

Together by Julia Cohen
This is a book written backwards, with the most dramatic event in the story happening in the early few pages. I like this device, and it encourages the reader to carry on – to find out the WHY. I itched to discover the reason behind Robbie’s suicide and what happened in 1962 throughout the whole book. Cohen doesn’t tease her reader, but she develops her characters and story well, so when the denouement comes, you feel empathy rather than perhaps a more traditional response.

This is beautifully written and while it lost its pace occasionally (the modern family dynamics aren’t as clear as I’d like them to be, and the story stays more in the past than the present) I thoroughly enjoyed it. It also made me think about ethics, morals and all the stuff which appears so clear cut until we’re in these situations. I would recommend this author and read more of her work. While I’m not a big believer in ‘true love’, romance and all that, this book allowed me to suspend my disbelief for a few hours.

Days Without End by Sebastian Barry
Gorgeous, rich, authentic story of two young soldiers during the Civil War.

All That Man Is by Dazid Szalay
Clever, inter-connecting stories.

Moonglow by Michael Chabon
NOT a real memoir as I thought! Very convincing though. Michael learns about his past and that of his forebears during the last week of his grandfather’s life.

AVOID.

Crimes of the Father by Thomas Keaneally
This is a worthy book, and similar to Schindler’s List in that it tells of horrendous doings and one man’s attempt to change them, but it leaves the reader strangely unmoved. Perhaps the emotional distance kept by the narrator is what’s needed in this, but I found I was struggling to maintain my interest in the story, which is of a priest who coincidentally meets with several victims of an abusive priest and decides to try and help them bring the perpetrator to justice.

The most interesting thing in this book was the twisted justification used by two of the priests for their actions. Otherwise I, as a reader, felt so much at a distance that I was not drawn into the story at all, and the subject deserves better. A History of Loneliness by John Boyd deals with a similar subject in a much more engaging fashion and with the sensitivity it deserves without shying away from what happened.

Beyond The Wild River by Sarah Maine
On the surface, this is a a pretty interesting story: a young gamekeeper flees the country estate where he has been accused of two murders, and five years later comes face to face with the landowner (Ballantyre) and his daughter. Having said that, the plot meanders. It didn’t grip me and you can see the denouement coming early on. There are a few too many characters thrown into the mix, who aren’t fully developed, although that of Larsen, Ballantyre’s friend, was surprisingly intriguing. I would like to read more about him. The others were not particularly interesting and quickly forgotten.

The book has moments of fine writing, and the book isn’t a failure – it just isn’t one that will stick in my head, and I found myself in a hurry to finish it off. Tighter editing and pacing would help.

City of Masks by S D Spyres
The historical setting of the book is fascinating – Sykes has set Venice up beautifully, and as a lover of the city I really enjoyed the story from this perspective. The plot however is not as interesting, and a little flimsy – I am not doing spoilers, but I saw the denouement coming a mile off. The end was too nearly stitched together. However, the device of the hero’s melancholy is a clever one, and his references to previous crimes he has solved made me idly think about looking out for the two previous novels in the series.

All in all an OK read, but I will not break my neck to find more by this author.

The Crime and the Silence by Anna Bikont
An investigation into the Polish massacre of Jews in the town of Jedwadbne in 1941, denied by so many and buried for over 60 years. It was hard going to be honest. An important book, but not the most readable.

Mrs de Winter by Susan Hill
Oh dear. What a disappointment! Whimsical, drowsy, dull, obsessed with crows… the second Mrs de Winter loses any sympathy. What a letdown. This has put me off reading anything more by Susan Hill (which is silly) but I need to dive back into Rebecca again to rinse this dreadful sequel out of my brain.

The Night Visitor by Lucy Atkins
Historian Olivia Sweetman, whose father discovered a new breed of dungbeetle, collaborates with awkward, brusque Vivien Tester on a historical book which is going to send her into orbit. All is not well in Olivia’s world though and only Vivien knows. A family holiday in France brings matters to a head. This was not a particularly interesting book, if I’m honest. This just didn’t surprise me enough; I wanted to be on the edge of my seat and I was quite comfortably in the middle of it.

On the plus side, I learned some really interesting things about beetles.