Land by Maggie O'Farrell

First Impressions

“Land” is Maggie O'Farrell's tenth novel, and this is clearly a skilled writer at the height of her powers. She's already a beloved, award-winning author, but she's having quite the year: alongside this major new book, she received an Oscar nomination for co-writing the adapted screenplay for the “Hamnet” film with Chloé Zhao.

I read “Land” with my online book club, and we've had some really great discussions about it. It was such an immersive, atmospheric experience — first off, this is a family saga, and I have a passion for good family sagas. I wouldn't say I unreservedly loved this novel; I did have some issues with it, which I'll get to. But it's genuinely impressive how O'Farrell balances so many things in this story and packs so much into it, and the quality of the writing at a sentence level is such a pleasure to read.

Premise

The novel opens in 1865 on the west coast of Ireland, a decade after the Great Famine. We follow Tomás, an Irish mapmaker working for the British Ordnance Survey, and his reluctant ten-year-old son Liam, as Tomás sets out to map a certain section of the country. Their dynamic felt especially moving to me: quite quickly, Tomás undergoes a transformation that destabilizes their relationship, and Liam — who'd previously hated the work and didn't even want to be on this trip — suddenly just wants things to go back to normal, because he realizes he can no longer rely on the parent he'd always depended on. There's something so heartbreaking about a child recognizing that.

That split motivates the very different directions Tomás and Liam's lives take afterward, and it casts a shadow over the whole story. At first, Tomás's sudden change of course felt like it came a little too easily, but as the novel digs into his backstory, it becomes clear his turn is rooted in trauma from his own difficult past rather than being arbitrary.

It's a dramatic, surprising opening, and there's real suspense throughout — surprises I didn't see coming, both narratively and in terms of plot. O'Farrell sustains real tension across a relatively long book, though I think it could have been even longer, honestly, since there were other elements I'd have gladly read more of.

This novel is about so many things at once: a family story, emigration from Ireland, the relationships between family members and how they transform over time, connections and breaks within families, the history of Ireland and British colonialism, mythology, and the psychology of its characters. It intertwines all of these elements into a genuinely riveting tale.

Details in the Cover

One of the joys of this book — at least the UK edition — is that there are design elements embedded in the cover that click into place once you've read it. I have to credit members of my book club for pointing some of these out. Renee spotted a small embossed gold fish on the back cover, which turns out to carry real weight once you know the mythology underneath this novel (more on that below). Nancy noticed that if you turn the cover on its side, the black shape in the middle looks like a dog sitting at rest — and there is indeed a dog in this novel, part of a lineage of dogs that matters a great deal to the story. I love how O'Farrell included a non-human animal this way; the land in this novel doesn't just belong to the humans, but to other inhabitants too, living, dead, and mythological.

The Weight of History

It's impressive how O'Farrell balances the real history of people who suffered through the Great Famine with the rest of the story. We see a village that's been decimated, and there's a very moving early scene where Tomás meets a local widow while trying to remap the area — she recounts, house by house, which homes are empty and which have only one or a few survivors left. There's a heartbreaking moment where she sorts through clothes she made for her now-deceased family, conveying the scale of the collective grief in that community.

The occasional references to the Viscount are genuinely chilling — a figure of imperial greed who holds sway over the locals' lives while living in his own separate, privileged reality, physically close to Tomás and the villagers but worlds apart socially and financially. It's a legal requirement of tenancy, we're told, for locals to salute the Viscount whenever they encounter him — which is absolutely outrageous, and it made me think about how the demarcation of borders on a map isn't just an abstract exercise in geography. It has legal ramifications that shape the tangible, daily reality of whoever lives on that land.

Early on, the book also carries real Dickensian notes, especially in the sections touching on Tomás and his wife Phina's early life together and the hardships they endured.

Part of the emotional anchor of this book, as O'Farrell has discussed in interviews, is her own strong connection to it. She was born in Ireland (though raised mostly in Scotland and Wales), and her great-great-grandfather — also named Tomás — was commissioned by the British Ordnance Survey to map the land, just like the character. He also had a son who became a Jesuit, which is the basis for Liam's storyline.

She's exploring her own family history and imagining what life must have been like for these ancestors — something I think most of us wonder about, usually with only scattered fragments of information to go on. That's really at the heart of this book: wondering about people from the past, the struggles they faced, and putting ourselves in their shoes. It ties into Ireland's long history of diaspora, where economic and political hardship forced people to leave and try to build better lives elsewhere, fragmenting families across the world.

A major theme of the book is disconnection, and O'Farrell renders it in some genuinely moving ways — there are several instances throughout the novel of family members who lose touch, or who come close to each other without ever realizing it, because of everything that's been severed by displacement and time. It's a far-fetched kind of coincidence in places, but this sort of thing has probably happened many times throughout history — so much gets lost between generations as people move and family connections are severed. O'Farrell uses this to show how large historical forces and institutions can transform a family from a single unit into disconnected individuals struggling to survive on their own. There are also moments where connections are painfully, movingly reformed, and even with the coincidences involved, it felt believable to me given how common this kind of dispersal actually was.

A Note on Tone

Some people in my book club found this book, while an excellent reading experience, quite depressing overall, and I'd agree that a few specific moments feel almost overwhelmingly sad, on top of the reverberating effects of the Famine that shadow the entire story. I think it's partly a somber book because it's representing the lives of people caught up in real historical tragedy, both on a large scale and an individual one.

But O'Farrell tempers this with instances where hope is possible. There are several moments where things could easily have gone much worse for these characters than they actually do, and O'Farrell includes a real amount of hope alongside the awfulness. It builds genuine dramatic tension — I couldn't predict how things would turn out for these family members, and I mean that as a compliment.

Structure

Technically, this novel is quite unusual — O'Farrell puts it together in a structurally ambitious way, but it never left me confused, even when I was surprised by where it went. It's broken into parts rather than chapters. The first part switches between three timelines: Tomás and Liam in 1865, Tomás's own childhood, and a future point involving Liam. It keeps moving between these until you really understand these characters, and it builds a larger, more complex picture of Tomás.

At another point, the narrative plunges into the deep history of the land itself, centered on a sacred spring in a copse that Tomás and Liam stumble across — I found this section genuinely inventive and fun, and it clearly shows the influence of “North Woods” by Daniel Mason, which O'Farrell has cited in interviews: if you've read it, you'll know it centers a single house as its own protagonist across centuries of inhabitants. O'Farrell has taken this kind of experimental approach to narrative and time before, too — most notably in “Hamnet”, which tracks the bubonic plague's journey as it reaches England.

Later, O'Farrell springs a genuinely clever structural surprise involving the siblings that I didn't see coming and won't spoil here. Techniques like this add a great deal of suspense to the reading experience, and it's part of why I think this book works so well specifically as a novel, and not just as a cast of characters waiting to be brought to life on screen, which was a criticism Melissa Harrison raised in her Guardian review of the book.

Irish Mythology Woven Through

O'Farrell folds a handful of Irish myths into this family saga so that the prehistoric past and 1865 feel like the same ground remembering itself. It's a poignant detail that the author's father used to read her these myths when she was a child — something she resented at the time but is grateful for now. I've been enjoying reading more about these and how they might have inspired O'Farrell in writing this novel.

The spring that Tomás and Liam discover draws on the legend of the Salmon of Knowledge: a salmon that eats the hazelnuts of wisdom that fall into a sacred well, so that whoever eats the salmon in turn gains all the world's knowledge — this is how the boy Deimne becomes the hero Fionn mac Cumhaill. It's a lovely detail that the golden fish embossed on the back cover turns out to be a quiet key to the whole novel once you know this myth. The spring the family finds isn't just a pretty piece of landscape — it's the well of wisdom from the oldest layer of Irish myth, and the cover is quietly signalling that from the start.

Sacred wells with healing powers are an important strand of real Irish folk practice, and this was clearly a major influence on O'Farrell, who has described visiting a number of these wells scattered around Ireland. There's also the legend of Oisín, a man who leaves for the Otherworld and returns to find centuries have passed, aging instantly the moment he touches Irish soil again — I think this legend was on O'Farrell's mind while writing the novel's emigration strands, even if (as I get into below) those sections abroad aren't quite as engaging as the ones set in Ireland.

The family dog is named Bran, after Fionn mac Cumhaill's own legendary hound — and in the myth, Bran isn't an ordinary dog at all, but a transformed human, born to a woman who was turned into a hound while pregnant. O'Farrell draws on that myth in a way that blurs the line between human and animal, in exactly the way the cover's hidden dog silhouette hints at.

Irish folklore is also full of people turning into animals, and of changelings — uncanny children who carry a wisdom beyond their years. That idea is embodied in Eugene, the novel's nonverbal son, who can be read simultaneously as a child with a real, grounded condition and as something more mythic. There's a genuinely satisfying payoff to this thread by the novel's end, which I'll leave for you to discover.

Where It Loses Some Steam

O'Farrell has said she deliberately set out to write a different kind of Irish emigration story, since there are already so many excellent ones. The novel follows Liam and Enda as they move abroad, and how their individual stories unfold is genuinely surprising. Enda, who has natural musical talents, has a story I found fascinating, if harrowing. Liam's strand — training with the Jesuits — I found less engaging; it felt more plodding, and I kept wanting the book to return to the main family story back in Ireland. I suspect O'Farrell became especially invested in Liam's section because of how directly it mirrors her own family history: her great-grandfather joining the Jesuits (a significant thing for a rural boy at the time) and later leaving the order (also significant). It's understandable she wanted to imaginatively fill in so many details about this occurrence, but I felt it did pull focus from the stronger core of the book.

Characters and Where It All Lands

I was deeply engaged by Tomás and Phina's relationship, which changes over time as circumstances pull the two of them in different directions. The split between Tomás and Liam is painful, but it's moving to watch how their relationship evolves over the rest of the book. I also appreciated the tense, prickly relationship between Tomás and Enda, which shifts in some rewarding ways as the story goes on. Rose, understandably, has real friction with Enda over the course of the novel, and following where that relationship goes was one of the more affecting threads for me.

There's also a lovely recurring object: a shawl connected to Phina's side of the family, which survives only as a single tassel by the story's end — the kind of small, seemingly inconsequential object so many families keep passing down long after its original meaning has been lost.

Where the novel ultimately lands is dramatic and genuinely hopeful — O'Farrell gives the story real emotional light amid the tragedy and puts a clever new spin on the mythology she's built up throughout its final pages. Even with some reservations, and a few coincidences that stretch credulity, I was completely swept into this novel and really enjoyed the experience. What Maggie O'Farrell has done here is genuinely impressive.

If you've read this book, I'd love to know what you thought: what were your favourite elements, what did you make of the structure, did the mythology woven through it work for you? And if you're thinking about reading it, or have another favourite Maggie O'Farrell novel, I'd love to hear about that too. Of her other books, a couple I've found completely immersive are “The Marriage Portrait” and “This Must Be the Place” — though “Land” might now be my favourite of hers. It's a great achievement, and I had such a wonderful time reading it.

My Top 10 Books of 2026 So Far

We're at the halfway point of 2026, so it's time to go through my favorite books of the year so far. I've read 64 books in total, but as always, it's not about the quantity of what you read — it's about the quality of the reading experience. Plenty of those 64 have been great, but these 10 in particular are the ones that have really stuck with me: I keep thinking back on them, they linger in my mind, and I keep recommending them to other people.

A Family Matter by Claire Lynch

This novel follows a fractured family across two timelines: a present-day thread in 2022 following a man named Heron who is struggling to tell his adult daughter Maggie that he has a terminal diagnosis, and a thread 40 years earlier following a young mother named Dawn who falls in love with another woman. The ending is so emotional it brings me to tears just thinking about it, and the pacing is so beautifully calibrated that I was gripped at the end of every chapter, desperate to know what happens next. It also raises a devastating piece of relatively recent history: in the 1980s, courts would routinely strip custody from mothers deemed "unfit" simply for being in a same-sex relationship, shattering families in the process. This novel deservedly won the Gold Prize at the Nero Book Awards.

Floodlines by Saleem Haddad

This sweeping family epic follows three estranged adult sisters in 2014 who are pulled back together to decide what to do with the legacy of their late father, one of Iraq's most famous artists. Each sister and the wider family — their mother, and one sister's son — are drawn so richly and distinctly that I can still recall them all clearly, and the novel is packed with dramatic, messy family-dinner-party energy alongside its meditation on art, politics, and Iraq's recent history. I also had the pleasure of interviewing Saleem Haddad at Hatchard's Bookshop, where he named The Waves by Virginia Woolf — my own favorite novel of all time — as one of his inspirations, which made the whole experience even more special.

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje, translated by David McKay

Set in the aftermath of the First World War, this immersive novel follows a soldier who has lost his memory and Julienne, a woman who arrives at his hospital claiming he is her long-lost husband and takes him home with her. What follows is a rich, complex exploration of whether she's telling the truth, threaded through with real insight into memory, identity, and the lingering damage of war. A story about amnesia could easily tip into soap-opera territory, but there's nothing gimmicky here — I was completely gripped, and its exploration of love and romance under such strained circumstances is remarkably nuanced. I honestly couldn't believe this didn't make the International Booker Prize shortlist this year.

In Late Summer by Magdalena Blažević, translated by Anđelka Raguž

Set in the Bosnian countryside in the summer of 1993 as war sweeps through the region, this novel follows two adolescent girls and renders their daily lives with such poetic, evocative writing that it creates an overwhelming sense of place. It captures how the war gradually reshapes the individual, sensory lives of everyone in this village, and while the subject matter sounds like it would be relentlessly bleak, the writing instead gives real dignity and grace to ordinary people caught up in much larger events. The prose struck me as startlingly, piercingly beautiful — I found myself thinking of comparisons to Toni Morrison in how closely it ties environment, memory, and human relationships together. It was shortlisted for the Dublin Literary Award this year, and I think it deserves a much wider readership.

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

This year's winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction — somewhat contentiously, though I was thrilled by the result — is told entirely in letters, and I fell head over heels for it. It follows Sybil Van Antwerp, a woman with a steely, reserved exterior but a real hunger to connect, and the novel slowly reveals the whole web of her relationships, including an unlikely, moving friendship with a struggling teenage boy. It took me a little while to adjust to the epistolary format, but once I was in, I couldn't put it down, especially as Sybil confronts a crisis point in her life while losing her sight. I loved all the literary references threaded through it too, since Sybil is a voracious reader who corresponds with a number of authors.

Dominion by Addie E. Citchens

This one really took me by surprise: set in a small Mississippi town, it follows the wife of a local reverend and a teenage girl who falls for the reverend's son, known as Wonderboy, with the dual perspectives slowly revealing who this young man really is. It's about the tense, evolving relationship between the two women at its center, and about stripping away the façade of the town's supposedly pious men. The structure — moving between the women's voices and documents establishing the town's history — is genuinely clever, and it shows how deeply religion is woven into the community and how that has constrained these women's lives in different ways. The writing throughout is sharp and precise; it's just a wonderfully clever book.

London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe

This nonfiction book investigates the life and death of Zac Brettler, a teenage boy who was filmed falling from the balcony of a luxury London apartment complex and died in the Thames in 2019. Keefe traces how Zac got pulled into a murky criminal underworld, becoming increasingly unknown to his own family before his death, and the family's subsequent search to understand what actually happened to him. I read it at an increasing pace, desperate for more detail, and Keefe's research is as diligent and thorough as ever, raising genuinely intriguing questions about the case itself. It also becomes a wider lens on how commerce and politics have shaped London over decades.

Ladies of the Rachmaninoff Eyes by Henry Van Dyke

This reprint of a novel first published in 1965 was an amazing discovery for me, centered on Oliver, a teenage Black boy in Michigan living with his aunt and her close friend, a wealthy white Jewish woman who is also his patron and is funding his education. I loved following Oliver's precocious observation of these two women — who bicker and reconcile constantly, often fuelled by copious amounts of rum — especially once a charlatan medium arrives claiming he can contact the patroness's deceased son, and Oliver becomes determined to protect both women from being conned. Underneath the surface-level farce there's real feeling in how the novel explores Oliver's Blackness and his latent queerness. I had a particularly special experience with this one: I read the entire book aloud to my husband on a trip around Scotland, and it made me want to seek out much more of this author's work.

John of John by Douglas Stuart

So many people have been reading and loving this one, and rightly so — it's an emotionally complex story following a young man named Cal who returns to the remote Scottish island where he grew up, to his devoutly religious father John and his eccentric grandmother. The novel is steeped in the atmosphere of their daily work with textiles and sheep, and in a particular form of claustrophobia that comes from living in an isolated village where everyone knows everyone else's business, leaving little room for privacy or self-expression. It explores repressed desire and the real, tangible limits of living somewhere with so few options, and I got completely emotionally wrapped up in it. Visiting Scotland and seeing that coastline for myself afterward brought the novel back to life all over again.

Transcription by Ben Lerner

This is a short novel that packs in an enormous amount: it initially feels almost random, told in three distinct parts whose destination is genuinely surprising, but it all coalesces into something that left me with so much to think about regarding memory, technology, and how we live now. It opens with a man traveling to interview his 90-year-old mentor — a hugely respected intellectual figure — only to drop his phone in the sink before the interview, leaving him unable to record it. What follows explores how knowledge and ideas are actually passed down and altered across generations, rather than existing in some pure, unchanging form, all wrapped in an unexpectedly emotional story about fathers and their children. This deservedly won this year's Orwell Prize for Political Fiction.

A bonus mention: The Frenzy by Joyce Carol Oates

Before wrapping up, I have to mention Joyce Carol Oates' most recent short story collection, which is full of stories that are incredibly gripping and engaging. It was a genuine pleasure and honor to interview her about this collection — Joyce Carol Oates just turned 88 and is still so sharp, with so many ideas, that talking with her was truly inspiring.

Those are my favorite reads of 2026 so far — there's so much more to say about all of them. I'd love to hear if you've read any of these, if any of them have caught your interest, or what your own best reads of the year have been so far.

The Frenzy by Joyce Carol Oates

In this arresting new short story collection, Oates evokes the lives of a diverse group of characters, many of whom have reached a crisis point in their lives, in such a mesmerising way that I felt swept up in the momentum of these tales. From an abusive affair gone wrong, to strained parent-child relationships, to individuals who've lost their spouses, we witness the worlds of these characters being completely upended. The book is divided into three distinct parts, which move from stories that are piercingly realistic to the more hallucinatory or surreal. Some take place over a compressed amount of time, while others span a lifetime. Of course, each tale can be read individually. However, I read the book from start to finish, and when read together, these stories enter into a kind of conversation with each other. The result is very engaging, moving and haunting.

I especially enjoyed how there are many powerful descriptions of the natural world throughout these stories (especially of the sky and bodies of water). For example, in different tales Oates describes "Wintry Atlantic churning, frothing, glittering like a gigantic skin shaking itself, great galleon-clouds passing overhead torn and tattered by winds"; "mists rise languidly as exhaled breaths"; "the vast shimmering river... of the hue of molten metal, that could not possibly move swiftly, treacherously. But it does." I've read so many descriptions of rivers and skies throughout Oates' many books, yet she always has a way of presenting them from a unique angle which is packed with emotion. This creates an atmosphere akin to a stage upon which the various dramas of these stories unfold.

Some of my favourites include the title story, 'The Frenzy,' which details an ill-advised affair between a middle-aged man, Cassidy, and his friend's daughter, Brianna. Cassidy's affair is partly about longing for his own youth and how his options have narrowed at this point in his life. The end of this particular tale is so satisfying. 'The Bicycle Accident' also has a disturbing quality, in which a mother named Arlette is so concerned with social status and throwing a party that she neglects to truly see the challenges her daughter, Evie, is going through until it's too late. The stories 'The Call', 'The Return' and 'The Redwoods' have a fascinating way of considering alternative paths in life through a variety of narrative techniques and unique situations. 'Night Fishing at Antibes' poignantly considers two individuals' different approaches to grief and how they find an uneasy camaraderie with each other. The later stories also have a reassuringly hopeful quality, given how much hardship the characters endure.

It was a pleasure to interview Oates (who recently turned 88 years old) about this book: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVNf6uh3vww

Son of Nobody by Yann Martel

The most noticeable thing when starting to read “Son of Nobody” is how the story is divided into The Psoad, an imagined newfound epic poem which follows the Trojan war from the point of view of a foot soldier from Midea, and footnotes by their translator, the Classics academic Harlow Donne. I usually read footnotes in books if they are brief and interesting enough not to disrupt the flow of the story. Of course, in Martel's novel these footnotes are an integral part of the novel since Harlow's personal tale runs alongside and, in a much more humbler and more domestic way, mirrors the dramatic tensions raised in this alternative version of the Greek-Trojan war myth recorded on pottery fragments. I enjoyed how much space was given to these notes on the page to emphasis how they really need to be read. I was also glad the book included some maps of these ancient regions alongside (maybe less necessary) illustrations of animals. Once I got into the rhythm of the story I enjoyed going back and forth between these sections and how The Psoad comes to take up more space towards the end.

Of course it's not necessary to have read “The Iliad” to read and enjoy “Son of Nobody”. In fact, Martel wrote this novel mindful that many readers probably won't have read it. In some ways “Son of Nobody” could serve as a helpful primer for going to read “The Iliad” afterwards since he gives a useful breakdown of which Gods support which side of the war and goes to great lengths to explain the overall story and context of Homer's epic. I started reading “The Iliad” for the first time a couple of weeks ago, but I'm experiencing it through the complicated process of both listening to the Emily Wilson translation on audiobook and reading sections of the translation by E.V. Rieu (revised and updated by Peter Jones and D.C.H. Rieu) and I'm enjoying it immensely. I think it helps that I had some familiarity with the Greek Myths and the overall story of Homer's epic before going into it. I won't go into much detail about my reaction to “The Iliad” here but, as Martel points out, the only voices we hear in “The Iliad” are almost exclusively from leaders or Gods. “The Iliad” does give small insights into the lives of many others and I've been most struck by descriptions of soldiers on the battlefield knowing they are probably about to die. While I enjoy rolling my eyes at the pettiness and arrogance of many of the authority figures I have found myself longing for the points of view of common people caught up in this drawn-out war.

In recent years there has been a slew of novels whose stories revise the famous Greek myths, many of which focus much more on a female or queer point of view. But I like that Martel has taken a slightly different approach focusing on class rather than gender. I appreciated the (mostly) believable imitation Martel gives with The Psoad as it matches the tone and manner in how the famous epic sounds as it began as an oral tale. I especially liked how The Psoad creates a sense of atmosphere and drama, the anticipation of the soldiers reaching Troy and the tragedy of ships initially lost in the approach. There's one story about a citizen of Troy and his table which is gradually left with four empty sides which was especially poignant. The choice to reveal the bard of this epic as Thersites was clever as he's the sole voice of dissent and a representative of the common people in “The Iliad” questioning the authority figures. It was especially pleasing the way that the voice in The Psoad slyly mocks the arrogant powerful figures calling the shots, especially when Hades enters at one point to deliver hilarious views and comments on these supposedly great men. I really like how Hades enters Martel's narrative because he's always struck me as one of the most interesting Greek gods. He never initially wanted to rule over The Underworld but it was the realm he was obliged to oversee so he feels like a fascinatingly conflicted figure. The end of “Son of Nobody” is especially poignant and I like how it ties back in with the beginning of The Psoad.

Then there are the footnotes which are a combination of Harlow writing to his daughter Helen/reflecting on the disintegration of his relationship with his wife Gail and commenting upon the text of The Psoad. While there are some emotional moments in the story of Harlow's family life the majority of this aspect of the novel felt a little thin to me. The novel's structure didn't allow him to get into too much detail because it would overwhelm the footnote. So, while I appreciated Helen's pluckiness demanding a story from her father, the intimidating professor Franklin Cubitt and a harrowing storyline about illness and loss, I didn't feel as engaged by his family drama and the way Martel sometimes strained to draw parallels between Harlow's life and the lives in the epic. However, I did find it interesting to think about Harlow's dilemma pursuing his passion as opposed to staying with his family. It made me think about the way I spend so much time on my own reading in isolation rather than engaging with my partner or friends. Despite this, I was more drawn to Harlow's analysis of “The Iliad” vs The Psoad. He makes a lot of good points about inconsistencies and illogical aspects of Homer's epic and the actions of the Greeks and Trojans. It made me eager to return to “The Iliad” and newly consider aspects of it. As much as I appreciated this it also slightly distracted from my enjoyment of The Psoad because it came to make this poem feel more manufactured and gimmicky to suit Martel's points about egalitarianism rather than making it seem like an authentic found document.

Overall, I mostly enjoyed “Son of Nobody” and admire its big ambition (Martel really took on a huge task with creating both a classic and contemporary story) but some parts did feel a bit flimsy. I appreciate how this book prompts thoughts on the nature of storytelling and the role it plays in our civilisation, whose stories get told and why, and the way it points the reader back to “The Iliad” because there is a reason this tale is a foundational text in Western society. It's also fascinating to think about the point that so little in “The Iliad” or the gospels of the Bible can be verified: “It is curious how two stories that have so changed history are so very hard to place in history.” As Martel describes, the point of such stories aren't really about fact or fiction but serve another purpose in being a touchstone to the human condition. But “Son of Nobody” doesn't have the space to get into the full complexity of trying to connect the Bible and “The Iliad” including how it might have played into the formation of the gospels. So the links Harlow strives to make towards the end feel like a big stretch! But, of course, given the way professor Cubitt is so dismissive of Harlow's work perhaps we're supposed to question the rigour of his research and his findings. However, I reckon that Martel is more on Harlow's side with his sense that the traditional academic rigour applied to studying the classics can be too limiting. I felt “Son of Nobody” was an engaging and entertaining read. I was glad I read it but it's not a new personal favourite.

A Beast Slinks Towards Beijing by Alice Evelyn Yang

It took me a little while to settle into this debut novel though the author establishes some intriguing mysteries from the outset. At the beginning we meet Qianze who works a demanding job in New York City when her long lost father Weihong suddenly reappears. Where has he been? What is the prophecy that he's forgotten? Why is Qianze keeping Weihong's return a secret from her mother and boyfriend? What's the meaning of the apparitions which appear to Qianze? I really felt the monotony and claustrophobia of Qianze and Weihong's routines in her small NYC apartment with her gruelling financial office work days and his excessive drinking. Weihong's resentment towards her father abandoning them but her begrudging sense of obligation to look after him were palpable. I was glad when the story moves to Weihong and his mother Ming's history in China. However, as the narrative slides between periods of time I was initially confused about how this family tree fit together. It was only as more about their backstories were revealed that it made sense to me.

I felt it was impactful how the novel shows the terror of these periods of Chinese history including foot binding, the Japanese occupation of Manchuria and the Cultural Revolution. Though I was familiar with these aspects of the country's past, reading about them in this story and looking up brief overviews of them felt no less shocking. The widespread violence, betrayal, starvation, rape and murder which occurred during these upheavals is staggering. I felt the author did a good job of immersing readers in particular examples of these periods of time showing how it impacted her characters. In addition to the resentment her parents have that she was not born a boy and being betrothed to the physician's son from birth, Ming experienced the effects of food shortages and the Japanese reforms that were responsible for “turning girls' education into a sham”. The terrible emphasis and pressure placed upon her to “become a woman” and start getting her periods was particularly striking.

Equally the author shows in Weihong's upbringing that joining the Red Guard was a matter of survival for him, but also partly the result of inherited trauma taking the form of violence. The scenes where students butcher members of the community was horrific, but I felt one of the most striking sections in Weihong's tale was when he came after his sister Kangmei's beloved chicken. Though the shifts in time made it challenging to always know how this family fit together, it felt unique how the author braided the stories of these different generations to show that the past can't simply be forgotten because it manifests in their personalities and in the supernatural encounters they experience. The cumulative meaning of this only became clear to me towards the end of the novel. I don't think it was entirely successful for me, but the author was effective in making me feel the way this traumatic history severely wounded each individual and was carried between generations.

It was creative how the author incorporated mythological/magical realism into the story where supernatural elements appear, but some instances felt jarring to me. I appreciated the scenes where Qianze is “haunted” by nightmares and real world encounters in a subway station. It also felt effective when Ming first encountered an ominous hare with horns. However, I was less convinced by Weihong and Kangmei meeting the mysterious woman in the alley and how the woman's voice has a continued presence in Weihong's mind. Weihong's encounter with a man who sees people's auras was odd. And I was really put off by Ming's encounter with The Oni/demon while she's trapped in a comfort house and an odd scene where she seems to turn into a preying mantis. I suppose this could be a result of the massive amounts of opium she was imbibing, but I didn't know what to make of her reencountering this figure later and the role he plays in the plot. It felt like too much of a stretch for me to take this storyline seriously.

There are some powerfully evocative moments in this novel and I mostly enjoyed her prose style. However, parts of it felt overwritten. For instance, I got a real key into Weihong's character when it's stated “He was damned to continue circling his wounds like tub water around the drain, the old emotions still raw... his past resisted chronology. It looped. It wound.” but it felt unnecessary to further describe this as a “Fibonacci sequence” (which, of course, I had to look up to understand.) I felt the author used dough and hand-pulled noodles as a metaphor too often. A line I appreciated was when Weihong initially leaves his wife and daughter and Qianze hears “That creaky screen door that could never hide anything.” This really immersed me in what it was like to live in this house where certain sounds are so well known. I felt all the main characters of Qianze, Weihong and Ming were well developed. But I wanted to know more about some of the more peripheral figures such as Kangmei (who disappears for so long until the very end) and Ming's mother-in-law whose character/motivations could have been elaborated upon.

After all the horrors and heartache in this story I was glad the author also offers some hope but the ending felt a little too neat to me. Overall, I appreciated this novel and its ambition, but its somewhat convoluted structure wasn't entirely successful for me. I love a family saga and I understand why she used so many time shifts, but part of me longed for a linear tale. It was interesting to learn in an interview that she initially wrote the stories of the different generations separately and I wonder how its impact would have changed if she'd simply fitted them together chronologically. Nevertheless, it's impressive how much she did in this first novel and I think she's a promising writer.

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout

For the past several years Strout has created a beautiful tapestry of novels about the intersecting lives of a number of her characters – most notably Lucy Barton, Olive Kitteridge and Bob Burgess in titles such as “Oh William!”, “Lucy by the Sea” and “Tell Me Everything”. So it's notable that she has written a new novel which is entirely outside of this set of books – although keen readers will notice there is an easter egg within “The Things We Never Say” that refers to a previous Strout novel and definitively establishes that this story is entirely outside of that fictional universe. Though the setting and characters are somewhat different, Strout's characteristic style of fiction persists. We follow idiosyncratic characters having conversations and privately contemplating the world. The narrative dips into the past and gives small snapshots into the future. The author has such a moving way of representing her characters' thoughts where memories intrude upon the present to produce a ruminative and lightly philosophical sensation. The genius of Strout's writing is that it is both highly relatable and profound as it guides the reader through what matters the most.

This new story focuses on Artie Dam, a history teacher who lives on the coast of Massachusetts. He's been married to his wife Evie over thirty years, has an adult son and enjoys taking meditative solo afternoon sailing trips. And in this strange new post-pandemic world Artie finds himself preoccupied with a sense of loneliness and the question of whether we really have free will. Not only does he contemplate the possibility of incompatibilism but he boldly raises this issue in casual conversation. Naturally many people are quick to bat away discussing such a ponderous question. Gradually Artie finds truer understanding with the people in his life by daring to speak about things which aren't normally verbalised, but this isn't a sure method of achieving real connections. The results are both surprising and humbling as the story concerns the nuances of human communication. Sometimes his exchanges are tenderly moving and sometimes they're just awkward in a way which is true to the ebb and flow of our personal networks. Some friends turn into strangers and some strangers become close friends. The central father and son relationship in this story is especially poignant. There is also a narrative tension as Artie discovers a dramatic secret about his family which may or may not completely upend his life.

The novel begins in the lead up to the 2024 US presidential elections and Artie has a terrifying feeling about what the result will be. In a conversation it's remarked “He's going to win, you know... People want authority. They crave authority. And she doesn't have the kind they want, and he does. In his cult following kind of way.” Everyone who has lived through this recent period of time will know exactly what is being said here. Though Strout possesses a seemingly gentle style of storytelling this novel is also excoriating about the present state of the country and the very real threats we may face in the near future. It's no coincidence that Artie is a teacher of history and his class openly discusses the lives of ordinary people from the Civil War and WWII. The anger and frustration with the state of our present times is palpable in this story. Artie witnesses bursts of violence and firm political lines being drawn. Yet surprising love can also be found between people who are seemingly diametrically opposed. What can we talk about and what can't we say? At one point it's stated: “to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand. It was a private thing, to be alive.” Though Artie is preoccupied with the question of free will, Strout seems more concerned with the question: what's happened to decency?

The Women's Prize for Fiction 2026 shortlist

Here are the 6 novels on the Women's Prize for Fiction 2026 shortlist! A new video is up on my YouTube channel reacting to each title as it is revealed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3ziiBgasQ4

I managed to read 13 of the 16 longlisted novels and I've read the entire shortlist. This is an interesting group of books with a few surprises. I was very much rooting for “The Correspondent”, “Flashlight” and “Dominion” to become finalists. I absolutely loved Virginia Evans' epistolary novel which balances several compelling plot lines and it's a many-faceted celebration of the power of the written word. Susan Choi's novel has already received a lot of praise – and rightfully so – as this story gradually explores a complex family dynamic and hidden cross-national history. Addie E Citchens' debut novel is so accomplished in how it explores the perspectives of two women in a predominantly patriarchal community. It's both a meditation on the impact of religious faith and the sometimes misplaced faith we have in those closest to us.

When I first started reading “Heart the Lover” I thought the story of a young woman's academic life was fine, but the second half of the novel completely hypnotised me as it meditates on the road not taken, longterm secrets and explores life going forward. “Kingfisher” is such a surprising novel as it follows a creative writing academic in a gay relationship who lives a very passive existence until he discovers a passion for an older female poet/essayist. It's refreshing how this story gives a reversal of the familiar older man/younger woman romance tale. “The Mercy Step” is a moving episodic story that follows a young woman of Caribbean heritage from the womb to a point in her life when she's establishing independence from her tight-knit family unit and abusive father. I loved her first experience going to a panto and how she becomes a passionate reader spending all her free time in the library.

I was disappointed that “Gloria Don't Speak”, “A Guardian and a Thief” and “The Benefactors” didn't make the shortlist. These were such wonderful, surprising reading experiences and I'd highly recommend them. In particular it's been great to see debut novelist Lucy Apps and talented Northern Irish writer Wendy Erskine getting some well-deserved recognition.

What do you think of the shortlist? Are there any titles on the list you're eager to read? Any novels which you were hoping would be a finalist?

The International Booker Prize 2026 shortlist

The International Booker Prize 2026 shortlist has been announced and what an interesting group! It's a female strong group of authors with five out of the six being women, and four of the six translators are female. Two debut novels feature on the list including “She Who Remains” and “The Nights are Quiet in Tehran”. Two authors have been listed for the award previously including Daniel Kehlmann for “Tyll” and Marie NDiaye.

I'm thrilled that both “The Director” and “She Who Remains” have been shortlisted! Kehlmann's story powerfully describes what happens to an artist that becomes trapped in a tyrannical government and Karabash's novel follows the dilemma of an individual who has been living in an extremely isolated conservative community. I also greatly enjoyed the gentle, evocative and tricksy tale in “Taiwan Travelogue” which also says something much larger about inherited privilege and translation. Following the fates of a family forced to leave their native Iran in “The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran” is a moving experience in itself, but reading it in the context of the current conflict in Iran makes it all the more poignant. Just yesterday I finished reading “On Earth As It Is Beneath” and it's such a disturbing and impactful story about humanity at its worst (and best) as individuals struggle to survive in an isolated prison run by a mad man. I'm looking forward to reading “The Witch” but it's not published yet.

I'm most surprised that “The Remembered Soldier” hasn't made the shortlist! It's a brilliant and complex story that's thrilling and emotionally impactful. Also, “Women Without Men” was such a surprising discovery and imaginative tale. “The Wax Child” was also a great surprise as this novel is about so much more than a historical witch trial. While I ultimately appreciated “We Are Green and Trembling” and love that it fictionalised a fascinating figure from history I'm not surprised it didn't make the shortlist as its narrative style is a bit frustrating. I'm currently reading “The Duke” and really enjoying it!

What do you think of the shortlist? Are there any which didn't make the list which you were really hoping to see? Will you be reading any from this group of six books? Let me know your thoughts!

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje (translated by David McKay)

“The Remembered Soldier” by Anjet Daanje follows a WWI veteran nicknamed Noon who has lost his memory and resides in a Flanders asylum. It's fours years after the end of the war and a woman named Julienne comes to the facility claiming this veteran is her husband Amand. The novel traces this couple's story as they adjust to life together but there are questions about her motives amidst the debilitating effects of his shell shock. This is an emotional tale which took me a bit of time to ease into with the way it presents a cascading mountain of detail regarding Amand's psychological state and the dramatically fluctuating condition of his relationship to Julienne. But it feels so effective in conveying the horror of PTSD and the terrifying confusion from his amnesia. Moments of being fully present and aware come to feel so precious as his state of mind is often a blend of uncertain memories, nightmares, surreal fantasies and paranoia. The reader is also drawn into the tension about whether Amand is paranoid or is Julienne really hiding something about their past because of inconsistencies and questions regarding what she tells him. Daanje teases this out and, while I sometimes grew impatient with the way that Amand and Julienne's relationship ran hot and cold, I did feel very involved in their story. I wanted to know the truth about Amand's history, what Julienne is concealing and whether they'd be able to establish a stable and happy life.

I found it interesting that Noon or Amand seemed to be in a place of relative stability in the asylum with his routine gardening and his connection to some of the other patients, but of course there are terrifying undercurrents with the patients' nightmares and the time some former soldiers must spend in the ominously named “unruly pavilion” when things get too bad. The periodic pressure which comes from women who visit to see if Noon is their lost husband/relative seemed like another kind of needling agony as he's presented with so many possible lives to slot into until he's finally identified as Amand. It felt poignant when at one point in the story he returns to the asylum and finds he's outgrown it because he's established a place in Julienne's home. Yet he still sometimes longed for the tranquility he found in the asylum garden and this seemed to manifest in the way he occasionally walked out of the city until he found himself in a field.

Most notably, Daanje establishes an interesting form for the book where nearly every paragraph begins with the word “and”. The lines build into one long continuous extended description and the dialogue is compressed into the sentences. It gave me the sense of being swept into a river as we followed Amand's experience from being found by Julienne at the asylum to re-establishing himself in his family and work life. I think it's effective in conveying how there is barely ever any relief from the turmoil of Amand's condition as at any moment the ground beneath his feet might become unstable and he's be swept back into a nightmare. Are Amand and Julienne moving towards the truth or are they building an intricate illusion in their life together? At one point it's stated “he thinks she knows it too, their life is built on quicksand, one false step and they'll drown together.” This uncertainty builds a persistent sense of uneasy tension.

Amand comes to be wholly reliant on Julienne as “without her he has no idea who he's supposed to be.” He knows he can't trust his own mind and his memories are unknown but “there are also times he thinks it must be her, there's something about her, something unnameable.” There are several indicators of Julienne's potential untrustworthiness with how she concealed that she moved their family from Meenen while he was away at war, the question over their daughter Rose's parentage, how it's revealed Julienne used to be Amand's mother's maid, the way Julienne uses Amand to pose in photographs for financial gain and how their neighbour Felice accuses Julienne of falsifying her memories with Amand when the women have a fight. It's also so significant how Julienne spends much of her time retouching photos in an effort to both preserve and manipulate the past. However, there are plausible explanations for these things where Julienne might be tactfully withholding things or massaging the truth about the past to make their future together easier. It also might be that Amand finds it too difficult to accept a loving relationship after having lived in the dark about his life for so many years. It's remarked how “it's a safe world, this life he shares with her, but beneath it lies a nameless threat, whatever he does, thinks, says, it's there in the background, always, as if he glimpses it out of the corner of his eye and it moves again before he can look at it straight on, and the strange thing is somehow his fear always comes as a relief, his love for her was unknown territory, his fear is familiar.” Paradoxically there is a kind of comfort he finds in his fear rather than embracing the happiness which can be found with Julienne. But if the relationship turns out to be based on lies will that all collapse and he'll find himself in a new kind of horror?

Amand is also understandably wary about knowing the truth of his past and his time at war. It's remarked how “he's afraid for himself, for what his mind has managed to conceal from him all these years, it must be something terrible.” Yet there is no way for him to escape the past as memories might resurface unexpectedly and even amidst pleasurable experiences such as when the taste of chocolate reminds him of the chocolate he plundered from a dead soldier's pack while on the front. So he's trapped in a kind of limbo and this is poignantly symbolised in the way Amand and Julienne paint a backdrop of a no-man's-land for him to pose in front of to be photographed. Psychologically he's still there on the battlefield and can't escape it. And the widows who come to pose with him in front of that backdrop remind them of how many men didn't return from war. Though they know they are lucky and that finding each other was a “miracle” it's also fraught with so much difficulty, heartache and a tangle of complexity which might ensnare them.

I think it's masterful the way this novel presents an untrustworthy point of view. Amand losing his memory because of PTSD serves as both a testament to the trauma caused by the experience of war and a narrative device to create a lot of tension and mystery throughout the story. It's very impactful the way the novel roots us in his experience where the sense of disorientation and paranoia reach such terrifying levels. Since the narrative is filled with a profusion of detail following his experience with the repetition of the word “and” it felt all the more terrifying when there is a gap in his memory about what's occurred in the present. Amand realises that he can't trust himself and Julienne realises that she's inevitably going to lose the man with whom she's built a familiar relationship and love over the past year. As much as I felt suspicious of Julienne I also grew increasingly anxious for her and their children because of Amand's unpredictability.

The narrative style shifts in such a marked way in the final section of the novel. It's so striking that this is when the story moves from the intense often claustrophobic environment of their household with its familiar routines to the chaos of the larger post-WWI world. I found it so powerful how the novel describes the degraded existence of the collapsed German nation with the hunger, hyper inflation and highly skilled people forced to perform unskilled labour to try to get food. I don't think I've read any other fiction that depicts this post-war environment so vividly. Part of me wishes that this section had been longer with less time spent on fluctuations Amand and Julienne's relationship. Walking through this devastated landscape is such a wake up call for Amand who learns that “the war is over for the people it never really touched” but everyone else's lives have been shattered and existence is a constant struggle.

One of the most poignant characters in the story is a black dog named Issie. It almost feels paradoxical that an animal would stand out more than the couple's own children. A frequent criticism I've seen of this book is how small a role the children play in Amand and Julienne's life. I felt this as well while reading the book but my assumption is that this was a period of time when many parents weren't heavily involved in the emotional lives of their children. Parenting is more a practical obligation. But also Amand and Julienne were so wrapped up in each other there seemed little space for them to care about anyone else.

I think it's so compelling how this story raises larger questions about our relationship to the personal and collective past. There are the alternate realities we build for ourselves because we can't cope with the actual reality, but what is the cost of denying or manipulating the truth? There are also many specific questions to consider relating to the story. Of course, one of the big ones is can we really trust Julienne? Knowing the full truth about her and her motives is something I don't think we can ever know because this story is entirely from Amand's perspective, but it's clear she's a passionate survivor. One of the reasons I'd like to reread this novel one day is to see if I feel differently about her now that I know the entirety of this novel's plot. Even after certain plot points are answered larger uncertainties remain and ambiguities which can be debated.

Overall, I think this is such an impressive and moving novel! I admire the way it presents a tantalising mystery and gives a different perspective on post-WWI. Though it's a historical novel it feels relevant to consider how the effects of war last much longer than whenever politicians declare that a conflict has ended. It's also so moving how this story meditates on the meaning of memory and how it functions as the basis of understanding ourselves and our relationships to other people. Do our photographs give an accurate representation of the past or do they idealise the past? Is love an early commitment made after a passionate affair or is it found in the familiar routines where the challenges of daily life must be faced together? Daanje's story has left me with these lingering questions which I keep thinking about and I'm grateful the novel offers such a unique perspective.

The Women's Prize for Fiction 2026 longlist

Here are the 16 novels on the Women's Prize for Fiction 2026 longlist! A new video is up on my YouTube channel unboxing and discovering each of these titles: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkJPxwYL3ng

What an intriguing and diverse group of books! I'm so thrilled to see “The Benefactors”, “Audition” and “Flashlight” listed – especially Erskine's novel as it feels like this impactful portrayal of a community and the way different individuals react to a crime deserves more attention. There are other books included such as “A Guardian and a Thief”, “Heart the Lover”, “The Correspondent” and “Wild Dark Shore” that I've been wanting to read. It's surprising to see “Moderation” on the list because I felt there are good elements to this story but its central premise concerning a romance and venture in to virtual reality fell flat for me. And there are many other books I'm not familiar with and which I'm eager to discover now.

I was glad I read Lily King's “Writers & Lovers” at the start of this year as “Heart the Lover” is both a prequel and sequel to that first novel. It's made me look forward to reading more about writer Casey's life. I'm most excited to get to “A Guardian and a Thief” and “A Beast Slinks Towards Beijing” but I've started reading “Gloria Don't Speak” first.

What do you think of the list and which titles would you like to read?

Vigil by George Saunders

When George Saunders' first novel “Lincoln in the Bardo” came out in 2017 I instantly fell in love with it and was thrilled to see it win that year's Booker Prize. So I've been highly anticipating this new book and it was a thrill to interview him about “Vigil” in London: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xyuMp5X7uM It's impressive that Saunders has such a towering literary reputation given this is only his second novel though, of course, he's also published multiple acclaimed short story collections and non-fiction as well as being very active in the reading community with different organisations and his 'Story Club' substack.

I found it somewhat surprising at first that, like his previous novel, “Vigil” follows a similar format where the narrative treads between the living and the very chatty dead. In addition to the dying protagonist/wealthy oil man KJ Boone, we're introduced to many idiosyncratic (and sometimes flatulent) individuals caught in a realm like the bardo, a state between living and rebirth that comes from Tibetan Buddhism. There are references to how these figures aren't ready to “move on” yet because of some unfinished Earthly business. However, the heroine of this novel Jill 'Doll' Blaine is in a state of “elevation” where she continuously returns to Earth to comfort those who are passing. I enjoyed the creativity, inventiveness and humour of how Saunders describes the way in which the dead act. But I'm aware that this sort of action can quickly slide into the puerile and feel flippant. I felt Saunders mostly kept to the right side of this as I was consistently entertained and surprised by the ghosts' actions. There's also a tragi-comic element to all the ghosts encountered as many are caught up in their own obsessions and unable to break free or find peace. To be caught in such an egotistical loop is its own kind of hell!

It feels timely that this novel focuses on a businessman whose decisions and unconscionable actions have led to so many painful deaths and the destruction of the environment. I'm sure many people are frustrated that a small group of powerful elite in this world find ways to work around the law and use their influence purely to enhance their personal wealth/status to such ridiculous proportions. So I'm sympathetic with this novel's central drive to hold such a man to account and confront him with the destructive effects of his decisions by surrounding him with ghosts. Through all his self-justification and denial, some small hidden part of KJ Boone knows that what he has done is wrong. The spirits which surround him appeal for him to acknowledge this but KJ is on the brink of death. Is an acknowledgement of this truth enough even though there is nothing he can tangibly do to correct his wrongs? What form of repentance is suitable for someone who has caused such destruction? Is it right to hold KJ Boone responsible when he's merely part of a capitalist and social system that encourages individuals to pursue enterprise without a conscience? This story raises these questions and many more.

I don't think these questions have any easy answers but the story interrogates these issues through the ghosts, some of whom are former colleagues to the dying man who take radically different positions. Their designs upon KJ Boone seem wrapped up in their own logic and understanding about whether humanity should be sought in those who act in an inhumane way. The Frenchman feels: “To comfort one who remains wilfully ignorant of what he has done is to provide no comfort at all, he said. If you truly wish to comfort him, bring him to admit his sin, then repent of it.” Of course, the most insistent voice we're closely aligned with in the story is Jill Blaine who merely wants to give KJ Boone comfort as he passes over into death. Naturally her intentions seem angelic, but her reasoning behind this is complicated by discoveries about her own past. Her killer Paul Bowman who unintentionally blew her up when he was targeting her husband has entirely forgotten about his crime and her beloved husband started another family shortly after Jill's death. As her short life has almost entirely been forgotten it seems natural that Jill wants to leave behind any sense of selfhood and devote herself instead to what she believes to be her mission in a state of elevation: “Elevation was true. It was. For sure. Me, elevated? Was real. Realer by a mile, at this point, than “Jill 'Doll' Blaine.” Nevertheless, she keeps being drawn back to her memories through the wedding taking place next door and her own investigations into the physical landscape of her former life. Though a state of elevation is her new reality it doesn't provide any solution to the dilemma regarding KJ Boone's guilt beyond offering an all-encompassing benevolence which is offered to anyone merely because they are human.

I felt Jill was a tragic character who I was highly sympathetic towards but I don't agree with her logic and I think Saunders is interrogating her reasoning as well. At the same time, I don't think there's necessarily any other alternative or solution about how to resolve KJ Boone's fate. I want to see him held accountable but I don't agree that anyone should be doomed or subjected to torture for eternity like a comic-grotesque duo known as the two Mels' want to inflict upon KJ. I think the novel itself bypasses offering any solution and instead we follow Jill as she's about to embark on another mission to provide comfort to someone who is dying. Instead of this being an admirable state of benevolence I think Saunders is suggesting that it's another kind of loop her spirit is caught within and a fate that she's subjecting herself to for eternity. Surely if more and more people like KJ Boone negatively impact the world in the destructive ways that he has done there will come a time in the future when no dying humans are left to comfort because humanity will have been wiped out. So the dilemma that Saunders presents in this novel is very dark and sombre.

I think this is a very creative and thought-provoking book, but its brevity made it feel less impactful and meaningful to me than “Lincoln in the Bardo”. I know it's perhaps unfair that this new novel should continuously be compared to the last. But the ending of “Vigil” felt somewhat rushed and Jill's supernatural intervention a bit forced. Nevertheless, I enjoyed reading it and the experience was naturally enhanced by discussing it with Saunders himself. It was interesting that he acknowledged at the beginning of our talk that reviews have been “all over the place.” A review in the NY Times calls this novel “a hot-water bottle in print form” and the Guardian commented that Saunders' writing is “starting to feel like a gimmick” with a familiar “repertoire of tricks and tics.” Meanwhile a piece in the LA Review of Books comments “the novel sometimes feels weightless, even frivolous.” Since he mentioned reviews of his book, I was tempted (but too shy) to ask Saunders if he felt that any of the criticism being made about it was reasonable and made him rethink how he wrote it. It's difficult to see where his fiction might go from here and I wonder if he is more of a natural short story writer than a novelist, but I always find it writing extremely creative and thought-provoking.

Women Without Men by Shahrnush Parsipur (translated by Faridoun Farrokh)

Although “Women Without Men” was first published in Persian in 1989 and translated into English in 2011 it wasn't published in the UK until recently by Penguin's International Writers series. It's wonderful that it's become more widely available as this is a modern classic which incorporates magical realism and feminism to convey the story of five Iranian women seeking independence from the patriarchy. The first chapter ends with the line “It is always the heart's desire that drives one insane.” I think this is the key to understanding how the repression which these women from different levels of society experience drives them to radically break free from the circumstances of their reality. The story follows as these very distinct women use different methods to obtain independence whether that be literally becoming part of nature or scheming to evade the control of men. It's a work of great imagination that is a testament to the creativity and resilience of the human spirit.

Shahrnush Parsipur is an Iranian-born writer who just recently turned 80. While living in Iran she was an advocate of free speech and under the Islamic government she was imprisoned for many years. She's written about these experiences in a memoir called “Kissing the Sword” which I'd also like to read. Parsipur was jailed again specifically for the content of “Women Without Men” because of its frank portrayal of female sexuality and it's still officially banned in Iran. This title is a novella which rotates between the perspectives of five different women who converge on a property with a vast garden and orchard. It's set in 1953 which is significant as this was the year in which a US and UK backed coup d'etat overthrew the democratic government to reinstate a monarchy which was more favourable for Western interests. Prior to this women were gradually being granted more rights within Iran, but with this change in government that was hindered by years of disruption which eventually led to the Iranian Revolution and an Islamic Republic. The historical events of this year don't play a direct role in the story, but there are references to the severe disruption and violence which is taking place outside.

The stories of these women mostly take place within domestic spaces where they come into conflict with each other and the domineering men in their lives. There is an emphasis placed upon whether or not different women are virgins and stereotypes about menopause are made by one of their husbands. They long for financial and social freedom, education and a place where they can truly realise their desires. It's so interesting how some of the women liken themselves to film stars including Julie Andrews and Vivien Leigh. Mrs Farrokhlaqa's husband thinks his wife resembles Vivien Leigh and it feels apt that she is inspired by Scarlett O'Hara because this was a character determined to forge her own destiny and survive no matter what it took. I felt one of the most striking characters is Munis who longs to understand her own body, but has been prevented from learning about female anatomy and sex. Her friend Fa'iza diminishes Munis and schemes to become romantically involved with Munis' brother. This relationship plays out in an entertaining way and it's engaging how all of the women in this novella embark on journeys of discovery. It's extremely imaginative how this breaks with reality in various ways where a woman turns into tree, a woman rises from the dead multiple times, a woman can read minds and another woman only sees men who are headless. These surreal occurrences grant freedom which can't be obtained in ordinary reality, but it's far from fanciful. There are also many realistic horrors depicted in this story including domestic violence, rape and murder.

So when the various women in this tale arrive at a point to live in a vast garden owned by the now financially independent Farrokhlaqa there is finally the wonderful possibility for them to control their own destinies. But this isn't a utopian space. The women disagree, some progress onto elevated states of existence while other regress back into more subservient roles within the patriarchy. However, the vital thing is that they are allowed to decide the direction of their lives for themselves rather than having their choices controlled. So it's very touching how we follow the fates of each of these complex and passionate women. While I admire the extremely creative way that Parsipur evokes their stories and created a kind of modern myth, I did feel that some of the accounts of their lives were too brief. Also, some scenes felt more cartoonish than fantastical. There's a section where a number of characters come upon murder scene and faint. When they wake up they've forgotten what they witnessed or dismiss what they saw as a dream which felt a bit too convenient. There are also some peripheral characters such as a maid whose story is cut off when the novella suggests it would continue. Nevertheless, this is such a striking and significant book which captures the stories of ordinary Iranian women in an impactful and memorable way. It's inspired me to read more about Iranian history, want to see the film adaptation of this novella and to read more by Shahrnush Parsipur.

This novel is currently listed for the 2026 International Booker Prize.

The International Booker Prize 2026 longlist

The International Booker Prize 2026 longlist has been announced! A new video is up on my YouTube channel discussing this pile and each book: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=942Z9MacfSU

It's an intriguing group of fiction ranging in subject matter from war to witches! I'm so thrilled to see “The Director” and “She Who Remains” nominated as they are both excellent. I've also read “We Are Green and Trembling” which is a challenging book but it's also complex, artful and worthwhile– I'd recommend reading a brief bio about its fascinating historic subject of Antonio de Erauso before starting it.

I'm curious about reading all the other titles although the ones which most immediately appeal are “Taiwan Travelogue”, “The Remembered Soldier”, “Women Without Men” & “The Wax Child”. Since I loved Olga Ravn's “The Employees” I'm eager to read more by her.

I've just launched a poll with my online book club to choose which title we'd like to read first before having an in-depth discussion about it: https://www.patreon.com/c/TheLonesomeReaderBookClub

I'm excited dive into more books from this year's nominations.

Which book from the list will you pick up first?

The Melancholy of Resistance by László Krasznahorkai (translated by George Szirtes)

I'm always keen to try reading something from the most recent winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. This novel is a thoughtful exploration of a breakdown in society and the different philosophical positions people adopt to navigate through increasingly difficult circumstances. With its blocks of text, often confusing plot and unsettling atmosphere, this is most definitely a challenging read. But, given it was first published in the late 1980s, it also feels surprisingly relevant to disruptions we're seeing in the world today. It was written at a time when the author himself had witnessed the breakdown of communism in Hungary. There are parts of this book that are also filled with dark humour and a profound sense of wonder. I took a few hours to go to the Natural History Museum in London and spent time reading by a giant model of a whale to really add to the experience of this moody tale.

It took me a bit of time to get over the physical challenge of reading this novel. In order for my vision not to blur and keep my place I had to run my finger down the margins as I read. The run-on sentences and prose that flows like lava (as Szirtes has described it) requires a lot of attention and patience. It was difficult to know when I could take a break from the book and whenever I came to the end of a sentence at the start of a page it felt like I could finally exhale. I think the layout of this text is meant to reflect the sense of claustrophobia and overwhelming sense of doom felt by the citizens of this Hungarian town. I appreciate the effect the author is going for but personally I'm not convinced it's necessary. There are many instances where paragraph breaks could naturally be inserted and make the reading experience easier on a practical level. But, as it was, it certainly became a different kind of immersive experience and at times I felt hypnotised by the way it locked me into the details of these characters' increasing sense of dread and the chaos unfolding around them.

Though the format of the text was difficult, I was immediately compelled by the story as stuffy and snobbish Mrs Plauf has such an awful train ride being sexually pursued and struggles to make it home. I appreciated how we're gradually introduced to unsettling details occurring on the periphery giving a sense that things aren't quite right. I found the eeriest detail to be about the weather where it was freezing cold but it no longer snowed and the trees were uprooting as if the environment itself had died. The arrival of scheming Mrs Eszter brought a compelling dramatic element to the story though the full extent of her motives to acquire power and control only became clear to me as the novel went on. I did like the comically absurd scene in a bar as Janos assigned roles to the drunks to simulate planetary movements while the weary bartender waited for them to leave. However, as the narrative moved deeper into Janos Valuska and Gyorgy Eszter's stories it became increasingly unclear and hard to follow. I think this is intentional as the town descends into a state of lawlessness and all the characters were equally disorientated. But also these two central male characters had such strong idealistic values regarding the symmetry of the cosmos and the harmony found in a perfect piece of music that following their intense logic and philosophical positions was demanding.

I found the best way to read this novel was just to go with the flow and the overall atmosphere rather than getting bogged down in trying to understand the details of what was occurring. My favourite part was when Janos goes to see the stuffed whale from the travelling circus and the intense experience of being confronted with such an immense formerly-living creation. The writing here felt very beautiful and moving to me. It can be debated what the whale actually means or represents. Certainly there are religious, mythological and literary reference points for it. For me, it felt like an embodiment of how all life and every civilisation will eventually end no matter how enormous or seemingly indestructible.

Another striking element of the story was the Police Chief's two sons who start out as wannabe thugs when we're first introduced to them and then we meet them again later as crying children who have been completely overwhelmed by the chaos and abandoned by their drunken father which means their safety is no longer guaranteed. This felt poignant as it shows how impressionable young people can be so drawn to power but they desperately need help from others when they are left powerless. It makes me think of this notable line in the story: “there was ‘neither good nor evil’, and that there was one law and one law only, that of the strong which dictated that ‘the stronger power was absolute.’” This feeds into what I perceive to be a larger message of the novel which is that all systems of order, government and justice collapse when all sense of morality disappears. What is right and wrong no longer matters because life in its rawest form is about survival of the fittest.

I found it absolutely chilling reading the account from the mob which Janos discovers describing their rampage through the city and how they preyed upon cats and a random family trying to get home. The extended terror they subject this family to taps into a sense of the perverse pleasure the powerful take in dominating and controlling those who are vulnerable. I didn't find Gyorgy Eszter to be sympathetic because of his selfishness and misogynistic attitude toward his wife (though, of course, she is a horrible individual.) However, it was touching how he realises his platonic love for his friend Janos and develops a deep concern for this wellbeing. Given his complete inability to protect Janos, I found it moving how Gyorgy resigns himself and takes solace in the music he loves. No matter how much he tried to block out the rest of the world (literally boarding up his windows and staying in bed as much as possible) his need for human contact and a connection with beauty took precedence. I wonder if this is a thin sliver of hope or a sense of humanity which the story offers amidst so much destruction. Nevertheless, the final section is one of the most sombre endings to a novel I've ever read.

I found the majority of this book alternately frustrating and intriguingly bizarre to follow. But mostly it gives this unsettling sense of the city and society breaking down on every level so I found it to be an intensely atmospheric experience. I'm sure it touches upon many philosophical ideas and concepts I haven't quite grasped or couldn't entirely follow. “The Melancholy of Resistance” felt to me like a cross between Cartarescu's “Solenoid” and Paul Lynch's “Prophet Song”. This is all extremely weighty and complex fiction, but I think they are books worth reading and taking the time to meditate on. Personally, I'm glad I read this novel though I realise it's not for everyone or, maybe, not the right kind of read for someone if they're not in the mood for it. I'd like to read more by Krasznahorkai but I need to take a break from him for a while.

The Women's Prize for Non-Fiction 2026 longlist

Here are the 16 titles on the 2026 Women's Prize for Non-Fiction longlist! Have you read any of the books from this group? A new video is up on my YouTube channel discussing all these titles: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CDYPDYC-1c

I'm thrilled that “Mother Mary Comes To Me” has been nominated as it was one of my favourite books I read last year. The way in which Roy discusses navigating her difficult family circumstances, not letting them defeat her and living a productive existence is truly inspiring! “Daughters of the Bamboo Grove” is an engaging and informative story looking at the final years and aftermath of China's one child policy. I also just finished reading “Death of an Ordinary Man” which is such a touching meditation on losing a family member, honouring his life and the mourning process. I'd highly recommend all three of these books!

I love that these titles cover such a wide variety of subject matter: art, history, health care, law, nature, politics, relationships and... surprisingly... there are even two books about the history of specific hotels! It's especially interesting how many books seem to offer different perspectives on overlapping topics.

What are you most interested in reading from the list?