From Christmas Day until the end of January, here are the books I've read and my review of each of them. A whistle stop tour into my mind between long pub shifts, auld lang sines, and many, many hours on the road.
Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson
★★★★★
Read in bed (the duration of which saw the sun both set and rise).
To be completely honest, this book was one that has been sitting on my TBR pile for years, gathering dust. I finally picked this up because it was on my Old English reading list, but don’t worry—it’s not in Old English at all. Once I started to read it, I could not put it down. This was inevitable because Winterson is a brilliant writer.
A coming-of-age, coming-out story, Oranges follows the deeply religious Jeanette. Stuck between herself and her religion, and the story itself stuck between fiction and memoir, Jeanette’s love affairs pan out. For me, the main relationship within the story is between Jeanette and her Mother, who homeschooled her for years and raised her within the Church’s teachings to be a missionary. It is this relationship that the reader follows throughout all the chapters (named after books). It really is such a personal book that it feels almost undefinable, though I will say I think I preferred it to Written on the Body, which is another favourite of mine. I will say that it was easily a five-star read, and I am so glad to have picked this book back up. Jeanette’s struggle with identity, religion, and sexuality within her evangelical town is not only heartfelt but also incredibly relatable and, most importantly, beautifully written. Winterson’s prose is elegant and stunning, particularly on matters of religion.
‘To eat of the fruit means to leave the garden because the fruit speaks of other things, other longings.’
If you liked this then read literally any other Jeanette Winterson. Trust me. But if you really insist on non-Winterson lesbian classics then The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith should have you covered (but seriously, read more Winterson).
Dark Places by Gillian Flynn
★★★
Read in bed, at night [dangerous actions, do not imitate].
Anyone who has read (or watched) Gone Girl knows that Flynn does two things very well: writing twisted women and torturing her characters. These traits are both very much present within Dark Places, in fact, Flynn takes ‘Kill Your Darlings’ perhaps a little bit too literally here.
The book follows the sole-survivor of a mass murder, Libby Day, who (due to depleting finances) attends a True Crime Convention and ends up re-embroiled in the truth of the murders (the ‘Dark Place’) that she’s spent her life avoiding. However, unlike Flynn’s other novels, this book doesn’t merely follow Libby’s perspective but bounces between multiple points of view. Tracking through the ‘one very bad day,’ the story jumps between family members, and ends with the mass murder introduced at the beginning whilst showing the truth behind the mythology. Like most of Flynn’s work, this book had its strengths and weaknesses, particularly in terms of suspension of disbelief. The entire premise of the book is that it follows the day of the murders, however the sheer number of revelations within a single day can feel slightly unrealistic— in fact it reminded me slightly of Pretty Little Liars and the sheer amount of meetings Alison DeLaurentis fit in before she ‘died.’
Flynn’s strength is, as always, the characters. Libby is a terrible (albeit lovable) person and Patty is the most sympathetic hot mess. I did find Libby’s perspective to be my favourite, focused on her familial memories’ vs the murders. I also loved how judgemental she was as a person; every description felt realistic. So, if I loved this book so much then why did it only get 3 stars?
Simple: the ending. Flynn writes her novels without any planning, and this is functionally a whodunnit; the entire text revolves around a question of whether Ben murdered the family. For me, the final reveal about what happened that night felt just a little bit ridiculous. Much like how much happened in a single day, the suspension of disbelief became too great. The final few chapters are full of revelations that are dichotomous, either they work, or they fall flat.
Overall, I enjoyed the book. Flynn’s character work was impeccable, her depiction of poverty was so heart wrenching, and the premise is fascinating. However, I feel it was much weaker than both Gone Girl and Sharp Objects. I always feel kind of hollow after finishing a Flynn novel, and this was no exception. I think it’s the relentless trauma and pain that seems to exist within every line. I enjoy horror, though not true crime, and I think Flynn’s novels veer towards True Crime on the spectrum. I would recommend, but look at the Trigger Warnings and be prepared for the ending.
If you like to read Flynn’s work for that slightly-unlikeable-female-protagonist vibe, then I’d recommend shifting slightly towards Shirley Jackson. If you like to read Flynn’s work to be traumatised and want to lean more into the horror, then I’d recommend Perfume by Patrick Süskind.
I who have never known men by Jacqueline Harpman
★★★★★
Bought in the airport, read on the plane.
I don’t know what I expected, but this still surprised me.
Thirty-Nine women are forced to live in a cage, constantly observed by male guards with whips. The story is told from the perspective of the youngest prisoner, who came to the cage as a young child and has no recollection of the outside world. The world through this unnamed narrator’s eyes is a strange one, as her fellow inmates remember a past (one familiar to the reader) that she cannot comprehend. She studies the guards with confusion, does not understand or know men, and eventually manages to coordinate an escape. There is no need for a spoiler alert here. I thought the entire book would be consumed by this cage living but the early escape caught me entirely off guard. The rest of the book was dedicated to these women trying to find a place for themselves in this strange new land.
I was a little shocked by this sudden tonal shift but quickly understood why—the book is incredibly bleak, with little hope. Its final sentence left me in tears on the plane, and its philosophising is incredibly beautiful. It is not a book that can really have individual quotes pulled out from it, it really deserves a full read. It’s not very long, but is definitely worth all five stars.
I've honestly never read a book like this. Please just read it.
The Memory Police by Yōko Ogawa
★★★★★
Also bought in the airport (buy one get one free is murder on my limited bookshelf space), read in Paris.
An incredible book run for me (as someone who dislikes giving out 5-star reviews) but this book is worth every single star. The Memory Police is (another) dystopian novel, this one exploring memory. In a world in which things disappear, how long does humanity have left? These habitual disappearances have become a part of life, only dangerous if you decide to keep a disappeared object, or if you are one of the few who can remember. In either case, the Memory Police will fix the problem—with their vicious covert (to overt, around the midpoint of the text) tactics.
When a writer realises that her editor is one of those people who can remember, she hides him from the Memory Police. However, as more of her world disappears, how long until she herself is gone?
The book follows a traditional dystopian style to begin with, a totalitarian government, the fears of the Memory Police, and the covert operation. However, it quickly becomes something very different—something more philosophical, eventually theorisation on existence. It’s a slightly odd shift but one that I appreciated as the protagonist loses herself to the regime.
In this book, Ogawa beautifully approaches a totalitarian regime through the perspective of a bystander. Throughout the book there is one question that keeps reappearing: What is the point of rebelling if you, yourself cannot remember how life was before? And a less prominent secondary question of ‘How long until you stop being a bystander and start becoming a part of the regime yourself?’ Or, at least, that’s how I interpreted the disappearances myself. It’s a beautiful book, and I especially loved the story within the story—the typewriter taking over a voice is incredibly resonant with the narrator’s struggle. The prose itself is quite simplistic and easy to follow, which makes the book more accessible and horrifying. I definitely recommend this book, and, if you liked this, then I’d recommend Brave New World by Adolphous Huxley for people questioning whether they are in a dystopia or not.
A Girl's Story, Annie Ernaux
★★★★★
Stamped by Shakespeare & Co., read almost immediately afterward over a crêpe around the corner.
The BookGods wanted me to read this book. I was blessed with a relatively unchaotic first visit at Shakespeare & Co., Paris' most instagrammable bookstore (despite the majority of TikTok warning about horrific queues). It was busy, but no worse than Toppings on a weekend. I also snagged the last translated copy of Mémoire de Fille, the book I had selected to complete my one-book-by-an-author-from-the-country-I'm-visiting challenge. Written by Nobel Prize winner Annie Ernaux, I had high expectations for the book. Not only this, but I had high expectations for the translation.
I have read books that have been translated beautifully, I have read books that have been translated terribly, and I myself have terribly translated books (thank you, Latin degree). This book was translated to perfection by Tanya Leslie. I must admit, I'm a sucker for emotional mother/daughter relationships and reflections on familial dynamics, as well as questions about approaches to writing (autobiographical, historical, fiction, where to draw the line?) so maybe I’m a little bit biased—but then again, this is a Nobel Prize winner so I’m probably right.
It's a quick read, but one worth savouring.
Ernaux’s book is an exploration into the life of her mother who has just died. It is a way to honour the life of the woman she knew, and the one who she did not know, the one who was before her time. Whilst another book I read this Christmas (The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion) was mostly an introspective account into grief, this is more of a memorial with occasional introspective moments. These moments, brief flashes of the author, are mostly questions about genre and about fictionalising her mother’s life and about her own biases from their relationship. The rest of the text is dominated by her mother’s life, which was a fascinating one, having lived through occupation, depressions, and, in her final years, Alzheimer’s. The prose is packed full of brutal honesty which gives it a tenderness, strong despite the translation process; it is a painfully beautiful read, and I would recommend it for its relatability.
If you enjoyed this book, I have a couple of different recommendations. If you want to read something focusing on complicated Matriarchal relationships, then I’d recommend Paula by Sandra Hoffman. If you want a French text that questions its own genre, then I’d recommend HHHH by Lauren Binet. And if you’re looking for books on grief, then I would recommend The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
★★★★
Read over a café créme in the square of Vincennes.
I think I tend to read books in pairs: two Dolly Alderton, two horror, two dystopia, and now two memoirs. Another book that has been on my list for a while, though this one I had not been able to find anywhere. When I spotted it in the single bookshelf for English books in the bookstore in Vincennes, I knew that it was a sign.
The first thing to know about this book is that it is sad. In fact, it’s a near unrelenting exploration into the madness that surrounds grief. Where Ernaux copes with her grief through memorialisation, Didion does not cope. This book is difficult in many places, as tragedy after tragedy seems to hit Didion without reprieve. It is not a fun read.
But, it is an excellent book. It is not one I would like to reread, but one I know that at some point I will have to re-read. From its opening lines, this book is human—it is an exploration in what it means to love and lose love, and how humans handle their grief—it is a discussion on how the world isn’t fair.
Life changes fast. Life changes in an instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. The opening lines capture you and the book doesn’t let you go, not even as it shares its deepest darkest secrets. It was haunting and beautiful, and I cannot for the life of me comprehend how it keeps ending up in BookTok lists alongside fantasy romance. Not that I want to shame (if you like that genre, do what makes you happy) but these two books are stylistic and thematic opposites to a degree that I don’t comprehend equating them.
I think it is worth reading, even if you yourself are not currently grieving but it won’t be an especially joyous read. Didion’s prose is easy to follow and utterly heartbreaking, and this book will leave you with tears in your eyes and a hole in your heart—that’s just how it works.
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