november 2023 books…

Lucy By The Sea (Elizabeth Strout): I’m a huge fan of Strout’s writing (this is the fourth of her Lucy Barton novels). This one, set in March 2020, sees Lucy’s ex-husband William pleading with her to leave New York and escape to a coastal house he has rented in Maine… she reluctantly agrees, expecting to return in a week or so. But William (with his scientific background) knows best… he’s aware of the emerging Covid pandemic that was beginning to take hold. I absolutely loved this novel and her wonderful, graceful style of writing. It was a reminder of the fragility, uncertainty and fear that we all lived through at the time (and, of course, many didn’t)… not being able to meet with family and friends (let alone hug them); the daily walks; the social distancing; the closed shops, cafés, theatres/cinemas; people having work from home; the isolation of those living alone; the fears; the anxieties; the rules (and the rule-breakers)… as well as the positives, such as no traffic, birdsong and the possibilities that the long, quiet days can inspire. Her books don’t feel like novels to me – much more like personal reflections… and this book managed to capture so much about what we’d all been through in some form or other. Quite, quite brilliant.
Companion Piece (Ali Smith): I think I’ve only previously read one of Smith’s books (‘Accidental’, back in 2012) and, according to my old blog post wasn’t desperately impressed. Strangely, as it happens, this is another lockdown story (published in 2022). The father of the main character, Sand, is ill in hospital. She sits outside the hospital gazing up at the windows of the ward where the people they love are probably dying; she’d looking after her father’s dog. She’s contacted by an old university friend, Martina, from years ago (who she never really got on with) who wants to tell her a story; this woman’s teenage daughters burst into her life (and home). Sand fears these ‘Covid-denying anti-maskers’ may be carrying disease… The second part of the book’s story relates to where Sand walks the dog in a local park, beneath which lies a medieval plague pit… and this introduces us to a time-travelling female blacksmith with a fairytale aura, who made beautiful things centuries ago. Those things include a famous lock that is at the centre of the story Martina told… The book is something of a fable; it’s a beautifully-crafted tale of episodes of injustice from the distant past coupled with frustrations and sadness induced by the recent pandemic.
Nothing But The Night (John Stoner): This short novel (published in 1948) follows one day in the life of 24-year-old Arthur Maxley, who’s living alone in an anonymous city after dropping out of college. He lives a somewhat listless life (paid for by his father) which frequently involves intoxication. He receives a letter from his long-estranged father (a man that Arthur has a powerful fear and aversion towards) and they agree to meet for lunch. After their meeting, Arthur disappears into the night, gets drunk and ends up becoming involved with a beautiful young woman. This, in turn, brings back painful, disorientating memories of a childhood trauma involving his mother… and his night comes to a violent end. Unlike Williams’ compelling book ‘Stoner’ (which I read nearly 10 years ago), I’m afraid I found this one utterly forgettable.  
Notes To Self (Emilie Pine): Having read (and been impressed by) Pine’s ‘Ruth+Pen’ novel, I decided to explore this non-fiction book of essays (published in 2018, 4 years before R+P). She’s quite a brilliant writer and these assays are extraordinarily frank, honest and raw. They are part-memoir and part-psychological exploration. The book’s cover describes them thus: “she writes of caring for her alcoholic father, the childhood pain of her parents’ separation, her unboundaried teenage years, infertility and sexual violence” (I was particularly impressed by the essays about her father and her own infertility). It’s a fascinating, confessional book. Harrowing, honest and brilliant.
The Moving Finger (Agatha Christie): Yet again, I’ve resorted to Agatha (this novel first published in 1943). I hadn’t previously read the book, but knew that I’d watched one of the BBC ‘Miss Marple’ adaptations of it on the telly (she doesn’t enter the story until two-thirds the way through the book). The trouble was that, typically, I could no longer remember who actually HAD committed the murder(s)! Another clever, satisfying crime mystery – albeit with some rather ‘dated’ attitudes and comments (it was written 80 years ago afterall!).