Review: Bernard Cornwell’s ‘Azincourt’

★★☆☆☆

I was surprised how much of an effort it was to finish this book. I find Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels reliably good reading, and I enjoyed The Pale Horseman. Given that Azincourt is set firmly in the Medieval period, which is my favourite historical era, I was sure I was onto a winner here. Alas! How wrong I was.

Azincourt is a 450-page novel about the Battle of Agincourt (Azincourt is the French spelling). It’s 1414, and we meet our English hero, Nicholas Hook, at serious risk of the noose. Fortunately, his skill as an archer saves him from his enemies and sees him join King Henry V’s military campaign in France. Through his eyes, we see the events leading up to the battle and its unlikely outcome.

If there is something that Cornwell knows how to write, it’s war. As his Sharpe novels exemplify, Cornwell has a real gift for crafting compelling narratives out of the chaos of battles past. His books are always well-researched, and I think his passion for the strategy and ingenuity of warfare makes a good pairing with his ability to humanise men who killed for a living.

God had made the bow, a priest had once said in Hook’s village church, as God made man and woman. The visiting priest had meant that God had married heartwood and sapwood, and it was this marriage that made the great war bow so lethal.

We’ll get to other problems, but I think the most profound issue here is Hook, who is good at everything and never makes a mistake of any consequence. The ease with which he wins the complete admiration of all but the most objective villains makes him boring, and a borderline Gary Stu. An element of wish fulfillment for a male audience can be excused, but Hook’s characterisation hinges so completely on his role as the perfect soldier that he has literally no other qualities.

The stakes do rise as the novel progresses, so I was hopeful that Hook would develop more of a personality under pressure, but no. Whilst everyone else is facing their imminent mutilation or dying of dysentry, Hook is developing his reputation as the best archer in the whole army and having a great time with his zero-needs French girlfriend, Melisande, who simply goes where he goes without it ever being discussed. The relationship is too underdeveloped to read as a true romantic subplot, and seems to have been included only to burnish Nick’s macho credentials with virility.

Azincourt is a very violent book. Of course, any book about a battle will contain bloodshed, but the tone here is much gorier than Cornwell usually indulges. There is no real question that things cross the line into gratuitous violence, with regular depictions of disembowelment, castration and torture. It soon feels repetitive, and downright tiresome. Personally, there are only so many times I can read about someone getting stabbed through the eyeball (an almost comically frequent occurance in this novel) before it gets old.

‘I leave you the fingers for the string, yes? For her sake. But when the wolves close on you, Englishman, you and I shall play our game. If you win, you keep her, but if you lose, she goes to his marriage bed,’ he jerked his head at his slack-mouthed squire. ‘It’s a stinking bed and he ruts like a boar. He grunts. Do you agree to our game?’

‘God will give us victory,’ Hook said.

The sexual violence is just as bad, with the amount of times the book depicts women being raped, or being raped and then murdered, making for seriously bleak reading. Military fiction is not where I expect to find complex discourse about female emancipation, and it’s true that sexual violence is one of the realities of war, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect male-on-female sexual violence in fiction to be portrayed in a way that affords the women and girls some humanity. In this book, Cornwell essentially uses sexual abuse (actual and threatened) as a plot device to goad Hook into his own Christian salvation, presenting the issue entirely as a matter of male honour.

In terms of the setting, Azincourt is a very stereotypical depiction of Medieval times. The book is certainly researched, but the depth of Cornwell’s reading outside archery and the facts of the battle seems questionable. The world around Hook feels flat, and the book gives the impression that it does not understand – or want to understand – the code of chivalry, despite its major influence on knightly conduct at the time.

In essence, to believe this book is to believe that Medieval people, from the lowest peasant to the richest king, were ignorant savages who could only be motivated to goodness by the promise of heaven or the threat of damnation. Frankly, I think this is a very tired and reductive cliche. Overall, Azincourt is far from Cornwell’s best.

Review: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s ‘The Beautiful Ones’

★★★★☆

This 290-page novel is a romance with a pinch of fantasy thrown in. Though it deals with themes of deception, betrayal and heartbreak, it is nevertheless a dose of pretty-people-in-pretty-places escapism.

Nina Beaulieu, 19, is new to Loisail, where she is experiencing her first Grand Season. The glamorous parties of the city’s wealthy and beautiful were supposed to be a chance to find her Prince Charming, but her rustic ways have made it difficult for her to fit into the cosmopolitan circles that her guardian cousin and his elegant wife frequent. Nina also has her ‘talent’ to contend with, which sends crockery flying across the room and shakes books off their shelves whenever she loses her composure.

Hector Auvray also has a telekinetic ability, one so perfected that it has taken him around the world as a touring performer. A rags-to-riches success story, but heartbroken, he has come to Loisail in search of his one true love, the beautiful woman who promised she would wait for him, then didn’t.

Young, trusting and naïve, Nina is ill-prepared to navigate the passions and pains of falling for a man with a complicated, unresolved past, but each passing day tangles Hector deeper in his own web of romantic deception. Will Nina’s love steer him from disaster, or will he remain caught by the spell of the woman who has always held him in her power, and who wants him to break his young friend’s heart?

“You said you wrote me a letter,” he told her. “What did it say?”

“Nothing important.”

“Nina, please,” he said knowing instinctively that it was important. And there was a coldness to her eyes, which had been gentle and honest. There were seeds of disappointment in the curve of her mouth, melancholy in her movements where before he’d only ever found a vibrant joy of the world.

Hector knew what she’d written. Not the words but the meaning. It was engraved in the space between them.

Though not particularly complex, The Beautiful Ones is a touching, heartfelt love story. It is fairly chaste (kisses and cut-to-black), but no less passionate for it. Together with the setting, the focus on manners and matters of honour lends a charming, old-fashioned vibe. If you enjoyed the writing style in Mexican Gothic, this book is similarly gorgeous to read. Like Noemí, though not as forthright, Nina is a passionate woman who lives life true to her heart. The two books are very different in tone, however – The Beautiful Ones lacks the darker, horror element that gives Mexican Gothic its edge.

Towards the end, I did find myself wishing that this book had a few more teeth. I liked its conflicts and the characters’ growth, but I found the ending a bit too tidy, and there are few passages of hammy description that lose some of the novel’s power as an illustration of the bittersweet perspective that comes from heartbreak.

I also think the book would have been a better one had Valérie been a more complex and well-rounded antagonist. As Nina’s rival in love, she is a naturally unsympathetic character, but I don’t think it was necessary for her to be written as such a pantomime villain. Particularly in the chapters that show us Valérie’s thoughts and motivations, things feel a little cartoonish.

Overall however, I did thoroughly enjoy this book. Far too much to rate it any lower. I absolutely love the lush, verdant quality of Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s writing, and will definitely continue to work my way through the rest of her books.

Review: Benjamin Liar’s ‘The Failures’ (#1 The Wanderlands) (ARC)

★★★★★

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd July, 2024).

In short, wow! The afterword mentions that the author has been working on the worldbuilding behind this book (their debut) for decades, and the devotion certainly shows. The Failures is a heavy slice of literary high fantasy, and a real treat of a read. Worlds this clever and creative do not come along every day.

We are in the Wanderlands – a strange, subterranean realm that is falling steadily into darkness. The Silver Age is ancient history, and the scant light that lingers, scattered between rogue city states and the ruins of once glowing empires, is failing. The scheming Wise toy with the last pockets of civilisation, the encroaching night brims with strange machines, old magic and monsters, and there are rumours that the end is truly nigh. After all the long years of his imprisonment, the Giant lies still awake.

No doubt about it: this is a world in need of a hero. Too bad the one it once had has fallen from grace. Sophie Vesachai saved the world way back when, but now, 20 years later, she is just one among many lost souls trying to drink their way through the endtimes. As the past converges with the present, however, Sophie finds herself once again figuring in the calculations of powerful forces. Ready or not, willing or no, it’s time to rise to the occasion.

The Failures is a book of several stories which gradually tie together as the narrative progresses. The end result is a tapestry of interwoven plotlines that it is no exaggeration to describe as seamless. So often with books like this, stronger elements of the overall narrative are undermined by weaker plot threads, but I remained thoroughly invested throughout. Aside from Sophie’s narrative, I also really liked the tension in the Deader plotline, and the complex sibling relationship between James and Chris.

The worldbuilding is one of the best elements of the book. It is clever and complex, but not overbearing. The extensive lore of the Wanderlands bleeds through very naturally, and it feels like there is always more left to reveal. Though there is a steampunk element to the setting, the overall vibe is much less derivative than that word might imply. This is a machine world that melds machines with strange, ancient magics, often blurring the line between. None of the characters are quite what they seem, even to themselves, which deepens the narrative’s sense of eeriness. The book also makes excellent use of foreshadowing, whilst still holding some of its secrets until the very end.

The dialogue is often coarse, which I would usually find irritating, but in this instance I think it does help in making the book unpretentious, which might not be the case if the characters took themselves more seriously. This is a book that deals in big ideas and complex, deeply flawed personalities – I liked that this is balanced out by a lack of pomposity. In essence, this is a book that shows its intelligence without showing off.

I do think The Failures could have been better titled. Personally, I think the title is unappealing, and I would argue it does not reflect the substance or character of the narrative. Otherwise, I think this book is simply fantastic, and I am really looking forward to revisiting the Wanderlands in future. Given that this book is the product of so many years of work, I sense it might be a while before we hear anything about a sequel, but this is an incredibly strong opening to the series, and not a book I am likely to forget.

Review: Grace Curtis’ ‘Floating Hotel’ (ARC)

★★★☆☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 19th March, 2024).

The Ritz of interstellar sightseeing, the Grand Abeona Hotel is the best way to see the Milky Way. Cruising from star to star, guests can enjoy the landscapes and luxuries of the entire galaxy. Just make sure to take your bags with you when you disembark. Once the Abeona moves on, any forgotten luggage will be light years out of reach.

We meet our first character, Carl, initially as a young stowaway, then 40 years later, now the dad-style manager of the entire hotel. The Abeona is still the height of space travel, but things are fraying around the edges. With staff morale at a low and the overheads piling up faster than guests are booking in, Carl has his work cut out if he wants to save the hotel he loves.

You could call Carl the heart of the book, but he is not a protagonist in the traditional sense. Floating Hotel shifts perspective every chapter, offering a brief window into the lives of various long-suffering hotel staff and several hotel guests. My favourite chapters followed the hotel concierge, Uwade, and a disillusioned conference attendee, Professor Azad.

As is often the case with narratives that focus closely on more than one character, some of the perspectives are well-written, others less so. Some (Rogan), I found irrelevant and annoying, and others (Carl) were too cheesy for me. There are also some inconsistencies with the narrative voice throughout the book, including distracting patches of omniscient narration and random shifts between multiple characters within the same chapter. In places, the writing is insightful and heartfelt, but I found the unending string of new viewpoints and inner conflicts wearying.

My main issue with this read was its structure. The episodic, unconnected nature of the chapters just never quite allows things to come together as a satisfying overall narrative. Ultimately, the book reads as a series of vignettes. There are a handful of jigsaw pieces that string loose connections between some chapters, but for the overarching story to read as a single, cohesive whole, I think the individual perspectives needed to interweave much more tightly. Greater overlap and interplay between the characters would also have made this book seem more clever and less gimmicky.

It is difficult to determine how seriously Floating Hotel wants to be taken. The fact that the book is set in the cold dark emptiness of space does not diminish the overall flavour, which is oddly whimsical. A few moments of violence and the dystopian worldbuilding (which is anything but ‘cosy’) contrast with the gentle, humorous tone of the writing.

Overall, this book is less epic in scale and ambition than the majority of sci-fi novels, which gives it an intimate vibe. Whilst the plot does touch on space politics and the crimes of its authoritarian empire, there is no deep investment in anything beyond the hotel. This is a departure from the genre’s conventions, but the absence of desperate jeopardy and grim fights for survival is in some ways a pleasant change.

Unfortunately, I did think the ending of this book was a bit underwhelming, and the ‘message’ at the heart of the story – a random love letter to the hospitality industry – did not really resonate with me. However, all things considered, the strength of the writing does largely carry things off, and the unique character of the book does incline me to overlook most of my gripes. This is not a read I would recommend as a must-add for your TBR list, but if you are looking for a kooky slice of light entertainment, Floating Hotel fits the bill.

Review: Thomas Hardy’s ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’

★★★☆☆

3.5 stars. Maybe I missed something here, but The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886) was not quite my cup of tea.

At 260 pages, this novel is one of Hardy’s shortest works, but that is not to say it lacks complexity. Michael Henchard, the eponymous ‘hero’ – antihero may be a better description – is a complicated, challenging character whose inner conflicts do not allow him to be easily categorised, and the plot is full of twists.

It would also be an injustice to describe the narrative as uneventful, because it delivers drama from the opening scene. The start of the narrative features Henchard, in a drunken freak, auctioning off his wife and child at a country fair. Though sobriety brings Henchard to immediate contrition, and though the incident motivates him to undergo a dramatic transformation, the consequences of this shocking episode are inexorable. The resulting events, which play out two decades later, powerfully depict the futility of trying to outrun one’s mistakes.

“For my part I don’t see why men who have got wives, and don’t want ‘em, shouldn’t get rid of ‘em as these gipsy fellows do their old horses… Why shouldn’t they put them up and sell ‘em by auction to men who are in want of such articles? Hey? Why, begad, I’d sell mine this minute, if anybody would buy her!”

In many ways, the comeuppance this book serves its protagonist seems entirely deserved. However, though Henchard’s terrible actions and questionable choices weigh heavily against his redeeming qualities, Hardy never allows the narrative to boil down to the simplicity of a definitive moral judgement. Henchard may not be a straightforward, likeable character, but his human qualities and weaknesses make him very real. We are not encouraged to root for him, exactly, but his initial triumph over his failings makes us hope that he will ultimately prove himself as a man of honour, even though we know he is owed a reckoning from the outset.

The Mayor of Casterbridge embodies the Heraclites quote, ‘a man’s character is his fate.’ Though many of Hardy’s other novels feature this theme, this narrative carries it further, ultimately seeming to express the belief that people are what they are, and will always be thus. The humbled, disgraced man we meet at the start of the book differs little from the broken man we recognise Henchard to be at the close. In revealing his main character’s initial transformation as a kind of desperate illusion, Hardy forces us to question whether transformation is even possible.

This makes The Mayor of Casterbridge a rather depressing book. Hardy is not known for coddling his readers, but I found this narrative cold, even harsh. Character development is often cited as one of the pivotal qualities of a good story, and this book does have it, but in this case it turns the protagonist into the person he always was, which is inherently rather unsatisfying.

Happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.

Whilst Henchard is one of Hardy’s most developed, complex characters, I am not sure the same can be said of the secondary cast. The female characters, Susan, Elizabeth-Jane and Lucetta, are all rather weak and wearying. Henchard’s destructive rivalry with Donald Farfrae, a fellow grain merchant, causes and carries most of narrative’s conflict, but Farfrae does not offer much interest as a character in his own right. Indeed, most of his individual qualities are born out of stereotypes that Hardy’s contemporary Englishmen held about Scottish people.

Also, though I am usually a great fan of Hardy’s descriptive writing style, here I found the bucolic setting overbaked. All of Hardy’s Wessex novels reflect the author’s great appreciation for country landscapes, but here the descriptions are ladled on with particular indulgence, slowing the narrative. The plot is one of Hardy’s sharpest, but the weighty prose confounds this, making the book feel much longer and slower than it actually is.

In short, I do not think this is Hardy’s best novel. The Mayor of Casterbridge does offer a somewhat different flavour to the author’s other famous works, and its complex protagonist, clever plotting and unflinching follow-through do make it a worthwhile read, but I would say an appreciation for particularly fibrous Victorian literature is necessary for real enjoyment here. To the casual reader, this book is heavy going.

Review: Hanya Yanagihara’s ‘A Little Life’

★☆☆☆☆

I decided to review A Little Life (2015) because of how much mental space and energy it has sucked from my existence. Generally, I avoid one-star ratings, but in this instance no amount of reflection could convince me of the book’s better qualities. In truth, it has been a long time since I have read something that I disliked so intensely. I would go so far as to say this is probably the most depressing novel I have ever read.

The narrative follows Jude, Willem, JB and Malcolm, who meet as college roommates. A friendship of circumstance, this period of intimacy nonetheless keeps them connected, a band of brothers, long after graduation. Though the novel ultimately focuses on Jude, A Little Life keeps tabs on all four of these ambitious New Yorkers, following them from their bright, hopeful twenties through to their worldweary fifties.

Perhaps it is true that ‘to live is to suffer’, but Nietszche also said that ‘to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’ Yanagihara obviously never read the second part of the quote, because A Little Life is a book defined not by Jude’s attempts to respond to misery, but by his misery itself. If the plot was a plant, its soil would be anguish, its water the characters’ tears. Indeed, so intense, varied and prolonged is the suffering which forms the shape and substance of this 723-page narrative that the book is ultimately less a human story than a snide argument for the meaningless cruelty of existence.

This isn’t fair, he would think in those moments. This isn’t friendship. It’s something, but it’s not friendship. He felt he had been hustled into a game of complicity, one he never intended to play.

Many people experience periods of intense cynicism about life and the pain that goes with it. Bad things happen, darkening our worldview, and a natural part of adolesence is a painful awakening to the world’s imperfections. The thing about cynicism, however, is that it is not clever, worldly or profound. One reason most of us become less angsty in adulthood is because we mature. In the vast majority of cases, we learn to accept the ugliest facets of reality and our own flaws by developing a deeper, more nuanced perspective – one that also encompasses love, hope and an individual sense of life’s meaning.

A Little Life does not, even slightly, encompass the good of existence. In this bleak narrative, suffering is inevitable, personal growth is an illusion, and there is no such thing as healing. Those who suffer are destined to be defined by nothing but that suffering; the more they are hurt, the more inevitable it is that they will be hurt again. The book also expresses reductive and backward views about mental healthcare, to the extent that the overall thrust seems to be that anyone in severe mental distress might as well just lay down and die – there is no real help, and trying to live with one’s vulnerabilities is a futile effort, infinite in pain.

There is a meaningful purpose to literature that explores the darkest outcomes of mental illness with compassionate honesty, but A Little Life does not fall under this category. Instead, this book exists simply to state the author’s opinion: some people are too traumatised to live. In an attempt to portray this oversimplified worldview as indisputable, Yanagihara takes us on a ramble that is less a narrative journey than a complete departure from reality. From the blatant malpractice of every medical professional Jude ever encounters to his unconditionally loving but non-intervening support network, A Little Life is not just unrealistic, but progressively unbelievable. The novel does have emotional force, but this is achieved through what amounts to a cheap trick. Rather than presenting its subject matter with enough authenticity to elicit the reader’s empathy, the narrative simply ladles suffering upon suffering until the protagonist becomes an object of abject pity. We are not encouraged to sympathise with Jude, but instead forced to feel a kind of patronising sadness for the ludicrous indignities of his tortured existence.

The person I was will always be the person I am, he realizes. The context may have changed: he may be in this apartment, and he may have a job that he enjoys and that pays him well, and he may have parents and friends he loves. He may be respected; in court, he may even be feared. But fundamentally, he is the same person, a person who inspires disgust, a person meant to be hated.

In a sense, the narrative’s baseless dismissal of therapy for trauma survivors renders the entire book nothing more than an elaborate straw man argument. Jude never gets the help he needs, and this is terribly sad, but it is also plainly irritating, because the reasons are so completely uncredible. After a while, it seems the only roadblock preventing a genuine intervention is the narrative’s unwillingness to admit that men as a species do have the capacity to process complex emotions. A Little Life never really addresses the possibility of professional mental healthcare having something to offer, I suspect in the awareness that any concession to reality would fundamentally undermine Yanagihara’s argument. In this aspect, and in dealing with the many forms of suffering the narrative portrays – everything from child rape to amputation – the book comes across unresearched, a kind of sick romanticisation written from a perspective of glaring, wilful ignorance.

A Little Life is certainly heartbreaking – I feel emotionally drained from having read it – but make no mistake. This is an incredibly callous book. Because it pities its characters instead of empathising with their struggles, the narrative voice is cold and voyeuristic. The endless suffering (so much of it extreme sexual violence) is not framed in a way that allows us to understand it, nor that humanises the characters experiencing it. Instead, the whole book reads like a sneering judgement: ‘look how pointless and pathetic it is when mentally ill and disabled men try to exist.’ Given that the depiction is so incredibly crude, exaggerated to the point of grotesque cariacature, I would argue it is downright facetious. 

Particularly grating, in my opinion, is this novel’s faux literary intellectualism – such a shabby veil over its scoffing dismissal of men who have lived through serious trauma and who remain determined to recover. There is also the complete absence of meaningful female influences in all the characters’ lives, the paedophile-rings-on-every-street worldbuilding, and the fact that neither the characters nor their world develop whatsoever throughout the course of the narrative. And don’t even get me started on how little imagination the book shows in utilising the characters’ (ludicrous) wealth. I do not wish to turn this review into a full-length essay, but I could go on.

In short, A Little Life made me think, but only about why I disliked it so much. As for that review describing this book as The Great Gay Novel? Please. If you have read other LGBTQ+ novels (literally any), you have read better, more honest depictions of queer existence than this.

Review: Thomas Hardy’s ‘The Woodlanders’

★★★★☆

4.5 stars. Thomas Hardy’s novels are known for their melancholic beauty, and The Woodlanders (1887) is no exception. A somewhat farcical tragedy of love and betrayal, this 440-page novel follows the hearts and heartaches of childhood sweethearts, Giles Winterborne and Grace Melbury.

Returning to her native Little Hintock with all the airs and bookish learning of her expensive education, Grace is no longer the rustic timber merchant’s daughter who grew up among the cider-makers and forest labourers of the woods around her father’s home. Giles is a good man, certainly, but the ambitious Mr Melbury, impressed by Grace’s newfound refinement and the opportunity it poses, soon sets his heart on securing his daughter a husband of higher social standing, no matter that he promised his dead friend, Giles’ father, that their children would one day marry.

Too obediant a daughter to exert much influence over her destiny, and quickly mesmerised by the schmoozing self-confidence of the new local doctor, Fitzpiers, Grace acquieses to her father’s wishes. Too honourable to pursue her beyond the bounds of propriety, Giles accepts that their longstanding engagement is over. As Grace rises higher in the world and Giles’ fortunes take several turns for the worse, it seems that Grace may have had a lucky escape, but the comforts of wealth are not always an indicator of happiness. Continually tormented by mistaken choices and lost chances, Giles and Grace’s unhappy paths keep crossing, reminding them of what might have been.

He knew that a woman once given to a man for life took, as a rule, her lot as it came and made the best of it, without external interference; but for the first time he asked himself why this so generally should be done.

The plot is not Hardy’s strongest, relying heavily on chance encounters, some of which strike as a little too convenient. Also, neither Giles nor Grace are as psychologically complex as some of the author’s other characters. The Woodlanders distinguishes itself by being a somewhat gentler, funnier novel than Hardy is usually known for – I rather liked this, and there are some incidents in the first third that made me laugh aloud – but overall this book is a shade lighter than might be expected.

I did really enjoy the read, however. Though it may be fairly described as a more forgiving tale than Far From the Madding Crowd and Tess of the D’Urbervilles, The Woodlanders is in its own way a complex narrative, weighing honourable conduct by its pains and sacrifice, and by its priceless reward. This might not be this author’s most famous novel, but perhaps that is our loss – Hardy rated it as his own favourite work. Characteristically perceptive in its analysis of human behaviour, this tale of wrongful societal pressures and belated realisation embodies quiet poignancy.

Of all the Victorians, Hardy is certainly one of the most readable authors. Here, as in his other works, his profound understanding of the human condition and taste for the bittersweet lend his writing incredible depth and a wealth of human sympathy. Clever, moving and evocative in its green, earthy settings, The Woodlanders is a classic worth reading.

My Best Books: Spring/Summer 2020

After a week of torrential rain and flooding in my hometown, it’s clear we’re now heading into autumn, but if I live my life by any particular flavour, that flavour is late.

2020 has so far been a troubling, turbulent year for many, and given that I am writing this in self-isolation (I live with my brother, who has a severe respiratory illness), I can’t say I’ve made it through unscathed.

Despite it all, however, I have had a fantastic eight months for reading. Working from home has been excellent, even rejuvenating. I’ve read and read and read, and am on track to hit my 100 books in a year, which is a target I’ve been trying to hit since 2016.

Before we get to my top five so far, here are my honourable mentions:

I have been really lucky with my recommendations from both algorithms and friends this year. I was determined to get diverse on all fronts, from genre to colour and culture, and the results have been delightful. It may be that I haven’t really left my house since February, but in my books I’ve been on a journey through the centuries, and all around the world. Extra special mentions go to Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko, and Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime, both of which I found very inspiring.

I’ve not just been visiting the foreign and far flung, however. I’ve also taken a few detours into the factual realm. Non-fiction is something which I find challenging, and I know I should read more of it. My highlight so far has been Adam Rutherford’s A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived, which stuffed me full of more science than I ever knew I had the interest for.

It’s a testament to how great my book year has been that these were not even my favourites, so no more suspense! In countdown style, here are my top five reads of 2020 so far.

#5 – The Broken Earth Trilogy – N.K. Jemisin

I said I was going to get away from fantasy, at least a bit, but no one (myself included) was under any illusion that this was going to be a full departure. N.K. Jemisin’s triple Hugo-award-winning trilogy is a trip. This sci-fi/fantasy/dystopia is unlike anything else I’ve ever read. A gripping plot, and amazing characters to boot. It is, on many fronts, as good as it gets.

You can read my review of The Fifth Season by clicking here.

#4 – Strange Weather in Tokyo – Hiromi Kawakami

This one really was a push beyond my comfort zone. Contemporary, romance, and between a middle-aged woman and an elderly man? None of it is my usual territory or taste, and yet I fell strangely in love with this short, sweet novella.

Sedate and steady, it is nothing like a cinematic romance, but it is a tender human story in the first degree. For my full review, click here.

#3 – The Summer Book – Tove Jansson

Another short one, but a delight. The Summer Book is such a serene, tranquil book that at a glance it seems almost without substance, but I found it a beautiful and moving portrait of the love between a grandmother and her young granddaughter.

It is aptly named. Full of beachy haziness and days in the sun, reading it is the next best thing to taking a holiday in the Finnish archipelago. For my full thoughts on this book, click here.

#2 – The Bees – Laline Paull

Simply un-bee-lievable (I’m so sorry). This piece of anthropomorphic eco-fiction is an unequivocally strange book, but I loved it. Although it is grounded in the science of bees and their life cycle, The Bees reads as an unusual fantasy/dystopia. It is one of the most unique books I have ever encountered, and although its characters are alien, I think it is the best portrayal of motherly love that I have ever read.

You can read my full review by clicking here.

#1 – Burial Rites – Hannah Kent

The winner! I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but Burial Rites might be the perfect book. It is tragically beautiful, and it brought me close to tears. Not only is the finest piece of historical fiction that I have read in my life so far, it is one of the best books that I have ever been lucky enough to find.

I do not have the words, and I cannot commend it highly enough. For my full (rather gushing) review, click here.

If you’ve read any of the books in this post, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and if you have any recommendations as to what else I should read this year, please let me know. Stay safe, and I wish you all good reading. ❤

It Still Has No Title.

I’ve been busy! But here is a little more. Please note this is a continuation, so new readers may wish to start here.

I can travel many miles in the space of a night, and so long as the night outlasts the day there is no need to return here.

I do not look behind me, for I experience no sentiment which renders that particular yew with the warm colours of a comforting home. I would surrender it in a moment, if I thought its secrecy compromised. There are as many trees as there are summers, and this yew is only one among its brethren spread across the world. In any I come across I will find the same hollow heart, pearlescent and smooth, the same promise of safe haven.

It is quiet here. Not silent, for I can hear the wind whispering and the clink of my hauberk, but quieter than most places in the world. I hear no owls screeching on the wing, no foxes panting as they run. It is unsurprising, given how long I have lain. Though snow will come soon, and those creatures which abhor it have already curled inside their hovels, this quiet is no work of nature, save that nature you may call my own.

I admit it has never ceased to be unsettling, the way that my lingering in a place can serve to ward other hunters away. If I stay here for the whole year, the quiet will deepen into the shadows of a death I should have met long ago. Look at those other trees, surrounding the yew. You can already see it. Those funguses sprouting, the black cracks spreading through the wood. I choose yew trees for good reason, you see. The forever tree, with all its own poison, has no mortal span my presence might shorten.

At the border of the wood the land gives way to grass hills, and I run. It was what seduced me, the promise of this speed, this fleetness which rivals the quickest of the fey. I cannot quite pace a horse at full gallop, but so long as darkness pervades I have stamina beyond mortal calling.

It was long ago, so long ago that I doubt you believe me, but I tell you that I do remember much of my human years. They took place in a land like this, but far, far from here. There, in the first years of our acquaintance, I would race Kazimir by moonlight. Me on my palfrey, whilst he ran.

I loved him, of course, because beside him I felt free.

This work continues. Find the next part here.

The Opening of my New (and Currently Untitled) Gothic Fantasy Novella/Novel.

Note: It is a time of great change in my life at the moment, so my writing has been pretty patchy of late. That being said, after a few weeks of dashing about to attend interviews, and re-orientating myself, I have settled into a new job. At last, life has let me be busy with a pen, so here is the opening of my latest project. And yes, that’s a monster of a blog post title, but at this stage, you know as much as I do about where this is going… ‘:)

Waking up for the winter is always an unpleasant experience. Tonight is no exception, but after months spent slumbering, the right moon has risen. It is time for me to emerge from my hollow beneath this old yew tree, where I have lain for a season or more, waiting for the short summer nights to deepen into the lingering gloom of autumn.

My body does not, in these moments, remember what it is. Amongst the tangles of roots my limbs forget themselves. A pale fire is in my flesh, an ache than shivers in my bones and rakes my back. As I scrabble my way out, clawing through the damp earth which has shielded me from prying eyes, I am in as much pain as a living thing.

There is no one waiting for my emergence save the moon, who sees me creep out and collapse among the yellow leaves that mark the change of season. I am, of course, filthy, but we must stay here for a moment, wait for my body to cease this false quickening. It will soon recall how far from mortal sufferings it is.

Darkness deepens as the moon is blinded by a bank of cloud. Before the sky clears, I am on my feet, walking barefoot like any animal which passes in the night.

I must bathe, and feed.

The pond gleams silver, not as deep as it was at spring’s thaw, but deep enough that the water cradles my limbs. It will be a wet autumn, chill, if the temperature is anything to go by, but it has been centuries since any cold made me shiver. The sensation merely tickles my awareness, reminding my body of what it once was.

How long has it been?

A long time. That is all I can say.

The water is silky, and I close my eyes as I lay back, letting my hair fan and sink below the surface, down to the abode of skulking things as averse to sunlight as me. They do not dare touch me, of course.

This wood is my small kingdom, and I know it like my own skin. I can tell you where to find each of its spiders, and how many leverets burrow here in spring. I know, in the snows, how to find the thinnest ice, and drink. I know the dangers of this place, and do not fear the wolves who howl by night, or the bears who scratch the trees. True, there are other hunters, but none can rival me.

Ripples touch my hand, a shadow shrinking back, smelling poison in my skin.

Update: I continued it! Find the next extract here.