Golden

Golden by Jade Timms has been short-listed for the CBCA Awards, and it's immediately obvious that it's a cut above the average YA title. Eddy (Edwina) is dealing with untreated PTSD after the drowning death of her brother-in-law Jackson three years earlier; in fact, her entire family is still struggling with his loss. Eddy feels haunted, angry, miserable and very much alone. The story of Golden tracks her turning toward recovery.

I really liked the big cast of characters, mostly Eddy's teen cohort from her small coastal town, including her twin brother Pat. (Timms really likes unisex names -- as well as Eddy, we have girls called Stevie, Joss and George.) The cast is nicely diverse, too, and there's a satisfying web of cross-currents that link and divide the friends/boyfriends/girlfriends/ exes/wannabes. The adults are all pretty useless, though Eddy's dad is doing his best. I also enjoyed that Eddy didn't discover a miracle silver bullet to cure her trauma; it's the sum of a whole lot of different things that end up helping her, including messing with art (I feel as if this might have been intended to take up more of the story at one point, it fades away toward the end), running, friendship, finally talking about her experience, cooking, and first love all playing their part.

While it's not action packed, Golden is thoroughly engaging and kept me turning the pages. Eddy is appealing but plausibly flawed, and I kept wanting to make an appointment for her at a therapist (at the end of the novel, she's going to try therapy again); it was hard to believe that no one in her circle had recognised how badly she needs help in three years. But then, maybe I come from a therapy-positive background! I won't be surprised if Golden wins a medal to match its title.

Agatha Christie: A Very Elusive Woman

Lucy Worsley is a well known English historian who has presented many television and podcast series and written several books of historical fiction and non-fiction. I must admit that in the media I sometimes find her 'isn't this thrilling' presentation a bit much, but I must also admit that I found her biography of Agatha Christie utterly beguiling and illuminating. Worsley has a knack for intertwining Christie's personal history with social movements of the time which makes for fascinating reading.

Naturally the hinge of the book lies with the mysterious events of 1926, when Christie disappeared for several days, after her husband had told her he was leaving her for another woman. Her car was found abandoned and foul play or suicide was suspected. She was eventually discovered in a Yorkshire hotel, and the official story was that she had lost her memory. The whole episode was a press sensation, and it didn't take long before nasty aspersions were cast: was it a publicity stunt? A hoax to cast suspicions of murder on her husband? Or an elaborate scheme to lure him back? Worsley takes the view, informed by modern psychological knowledge, that Christie was acting in a genuine fugue state, a recognised psychological condition which is not exactly amnesia but certainly involves acute mental distress and delusion. It seems highly unlikely that Agatha Christie, who fiercely guarded her privacy all her life, would have deliberately staged such an attention-seeking stunt.

Worsley points out that the notion of Agatha Christie stories as cosy and nostalgic has largely arisen from the TV and movie adaptations of her work; the actual books were often acutely modern (for their time) as well as technically adventurous. Though she lost her grip as she grew older (Worsley suggests that perhaps dementia was setting in in her later years), at her peak she was a sharp psychological observer as well as a fiendish mystery plotter. I'm quite tempted to go back and revisit her classics -- I acquired loads of Christie collected volumes from various library sales, but I think they are all in storage with my daughter's stuff...
 

Summerwater

Almost exactly a year ago, I was blown away by Sarah Moss's Ghost Wall (thanks to Penni Russon for the recommendation). I wasn't aware when I borrowed Summerwater that a TV miniseries of it was released last year -- the reviews I've found have been lukewarm at best, but it's a weird coincidence, and if it pops up on my screen I'll probably at least have a look at it. It's an odd choice for an adaptation, because each of the chapters in Summerwater is so internal -- each voiced from the point of view of a different character, and with some overlap of events, but each with a very distinct attitude and each one very self-absorbed. It's not easy to dramatise a narrative which depends so heavily on internal monologues, and it sounds as if the TV writers didn't quite pull it off.

I do love a book written from different perspectives, even one like this which relies on a mounting sense of tension rather than any startling events, until the very end. It traces a single day in a rainy Scottish campground, where half a dozen families and couples are marooned by the weather. It's not a long book, and it would make a good teaching aid for demonstrating what 'voice' is and how it works. My one quibble would be that we don't get to see inside the heads of the 'outsider' family, the Ukrainian mother and her young daughter, in whose cabin noisy parties are held every night to the fury of the other guests. I'm guessing this was a deliberate choice, to keep them firmly in the role of outsiders, but it still makes me slightly uneasy that we don't get the same insight into their lives as we get into everyone else's.

Sarah Moss is a beautiful and skilful writer, but her subject matter is unrelentingly dark. In a way I'm glad that Summerwater and Ghost Wall are no longer than they are.
 

Unhallowed Halls

Lili Wilkinson just gets better and better, she is right at the top of her game (disclaimer: we've been friendly for years, she lives near me and we run into each other sometimes). Over the course of her writing career, she has produced delightful rom-coms, gripping realist novels about cults and apocalypse, and lately she's turned to chunky volumes of fantasy, all of which have been standalone stories with a fresh world and magic each time. Gee, she's good.

Unhallowed Halls has been deservedly shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year, and at this stage (without having read all the shortlisted books), I hope it wins. It's a terrific tale of elemental magic, set in a remote Scottish school for troubled, rich teenagers (surely there is a nod to Hogwarts here). Page has been brought from Florida to Agathion on a scholarship -- but why? Among a host of gifted adolescents, her gift is a particularly dark and mysterious one. For the first time in her life, Page finds herself part of a friendship group, and even falling in love with a boy. But a web of lies and a horrifying history of deception and murder lies beneath Agathion's seductive surface.

There is a lot of body-swapping in this story and Wilkinson does a stellar job of helping the reader keep track of whose soul is inhabiting who, and when. Underlying the plot (and surely this too might be a gesture toward the weird cruel creature that JK Rowling has become) is a concern with minds, souls and bodies -- are they, and can they be, split? What if mind and body don't feel as if they belong together? Is the body a gross flesh machine to be despised and mortified, or a gift to be relished? These deep questions are wrapped in a thoroughly thrilling and often beautiful fantasy tale that weaves together the boarding school, magic, romance and sacrifice in a fresh and gorgeous way.
 

The Correspondent

  

I heard about Virginia Evans' novel, The Correspondent, at the Sorrento Writers' Festival, where it was discussed by a panel of psychiatrists. I was going to reserve it at the local library, but balked when I realised there were 143 people ahead of me in the queue! Eventually I found it on the shelf at my reliable Athenaeum so I was able to gobble it down.

The Correspondent is that delightfully old-fashioned thing, an epistolary novel, something which has become much rarer since texts and email have pretty much replaced the snail mail letter. Most of Sybil's correspondence is via pen and paper, but there are also emails. The short format of most of the letters keeps the pace humming along, and the elliptical references to past events and current relationships let the reader do just enough work to piece the story together -- it's very cleverly done.

Of course a clever structure is wasted if the central narrative isn't also engaging, but Sybil's story has plenty of hooks. She's old, she's isolated, she's stroppy and doesn't mind picking a fight; she's estranged from her daughter and divorced from her husband, who now both live overseas; one of her sons died as a child, and we suspect that Sybil's troubles can be traced to this source. But she also seems to have a sinister stalker, and a couple of suitors, and a teenage boy to mentor, and it's through all these relationships, hostile, friendly and affectionate, that Sybil is gradually drawn back into the world. 

The Correspondent is a satisfying, fun and gently moving read, a perfect marriage of form and substance.

The Worst Perfect Moment

I'm usually pretty positive about the books from the CBCA Notables list, and Shivaun Plozza's The Worst Perfect Moment has an intriguing premise: sixteen year old Tegan is dead, and she's landed in an afterlife that recreates the worst weekend of her life. She needs the help of cute, annoying angel Zelda to figure out just what the Marybelle Motor Lodge has to teach her, or they are both in serious, eternal trouble.

Unfortunately, The Worst Perfect Moment didn't quite work for me. To start with, I think the cover is pretty awful -- that murky green is true to the story, but it's also one reason why the Marybelle is such a horrible place. I know it's important for Australian authors to appeal to an international (ie US) readership, so Tegan is American, her mother is 'Mom,' and the Marybelle is in New Jersey. But I have a visceral aversion to Australian stories pretending to be American. I also felt uneasy about the casual co-option of the architecture of Christian heaven, angels and even God to unpack teenage angst -- I couldn't help feeling that all these supernatural beings must have bigger problems to occupy their time? For me, the whole tone of the novel felt slightly off: in focusing on Tegan's past friendship dramas, I felt as if we were losing sight of the fact that she's just died-- her father and her little sister, who obviously love her to pieces, are going to be absolutely shattered, let alone her mother, who has left the rest of the family and will now no doubt be burdened with a lifetime of irredeemable guilt.

I can understand that it's a tricky mix to pull off a humorous take on the afterlife, existential life questions, queer romance, grief and death in one young adult cocktail, but for me, this time, the recipe didn't quite work. 
 

Stories I Only Tell My Friends

I'm not usually a great reader of celebrity biographies, but when I saw this Rob Lowe autobiography on the sale trolley at the local library, I felt it was worth shelling out the two bucks. I'm a bit of a fan of Rob Lowe; the family are in the middle of a West Wing re-watch, in which he stars as Sam Seaborn, and I'm comfort-watching Parks and Rec, in which he's extremely funny as super-fit and positive Chris Traeger. Also my daughter made me watch Bad Influence, an eighties movie in which he plays a villain who uses a sex tape to bring down his hapless victim, and which unfortunately came out at the same time as Lowe himself was the focus of a sex tape scandal (which almost permanently ruined his career).

It's hard not to feel some sympathy for the young Lowe, who was in his early twenties when the sex tape scandal occurred, and who'd been making movies since he was fifteen, but without anyone to provide him any wisdom or guidance. Young men aren't known for their sage judgement, and Lowe shows compassion for his younger self and his over-indulgence in girls and alcohol. Interestingly, he describes himself as being a giant nerd at school, which is sweet, and he lost his head when he suddenly found himself a member of the coolest gang in town.

What saved him was meeting his grounded and sensible wife, Sheryl, and going to rehab. He's still married and sober till this day, which in itself is pretty impressive. I love the way he turned himself into a comedy star, from being a very pretty heartthrob and a serious dramatic actor. Stories I Only Tell My Friends is predictably packed with celebrity anecdotes: he was high school mates with Emilio and Charlie Sheen, he dated Melissa Gilbert and Princess Stephanie... But Rob Lowe is genuinely fun to hang out with, all by himself.
 

Big Sky: when the emu left the earth

I heard astrophysicist Professor Ray Norris (born in the UK, now living in Australia) and beloved and controversial First Nations elder Bruce Pascoe talking on Radio National about their collaboration, Big Sky: when the emu left the earth, and immediately reserved it from the library. As anyone who's read The January Stars will know, I'm a sucker for astronomy and space (Duane Hamacher, who was the consultant on January Stars, is quoted often in this book).

I was a little disappointed by the astronomy volume of the otherwise excellent First Knowledges series, and Big Sky fills in some of the gaps. It really is remarkable to think that some sky stories, like the Seven Sisters myth, which carries extraordinary similarities all over the globe, may have travelled with the first humans out of Africa. There are other stories from parts of Australia that might recall celestial events like supernovae, comets and meteor strikes, that occurred tens of thousands of years ago. Star maps can act as mnemonics, along with stories, to guide land journeys. The Emu of the title of course refers to the Dark Emu figure visible in the dark patches of the Milky Way.

I was particularly struck by the different explanations of solar and lunar eclipses, often described as Sun-woman and Moon-man having sex, but showing an understanding of who is on top of whom! Some of Norris and Pascoe's examples show that Aboriginal cultures had a more sophisticated understanding of the skies than Renaissance scientists.

I'm not sure that books are the best way to pass on First Nations knowledges; the ideal way is to have an elder explain to you what you're ready to understand. But in the absence of that firsthand experience, books like Big Sky are the next best alternative. 

This Stays Between Us

Margot McGovern's second YA novel, This Stays Between Us, has made it to the shortlist for the CBCA Older Readers award, which is fairly unusual for a genre novel (not that it should be). Perhaps the CBCA judges are making a belated attempt to recognise the excellent work being achieved by Australian authors in these categories, or perhaps it's a recognition of their popularity with readers. No shade on This Stays Between Us, which is a sharp, accomplished novel that ties together a scary horror tale with a distinctly feminist message about violence against women.

Set in the early 2000s (so no one has mobile phones), four teenage girls are spending two nights at a remote South Australian school camp. Between ghost stories by the campfire, rumours of a phantom haunting the old settlement, ambiguous experiences that might be imaginations running riot, or might just be a real threat, McGovern expertly ratchets up the tension to a bloody climax.

There is a lot packed into these two nights and one day. Sexual harrassment, queer love, friendship tensions, power imbalances and peer pressure, all bring a texture of reality to the horror content. I'm not usually a horror fan (I keep making exceptions to this rule!) but I'm not surprised This Stays Between Us made it through to the next round. 

Mariana

My adult fiction pile has been a bit slender lately, so I was casting around for something to read, when I remembered that there were a couple of novels in this collection of Monica Dickens' books that I hadn't ever got around to reading. I'd bought it yonks ago mostly for One Pair of Hands (memoir about working as a domestic servant in the 1930s) and One Pair of Feet (memoir about working as a nurse).

Mariana was first published in 1940, after One Pair of Hands, when Dickens was only about twenty three, and apparently it's quite autobiographical. It's very much a young author's book, focused on Mary's childhood and adolescence, and her various misadventures in love and career. Ostensibly the message of the novel is something about becoming an individual and growing into one's own unique personality -- it's just a shame that Mary seems to accomplish this mostly by meeting the perfect man. 

Mariana is a gently funny novel, but plot-wise there is not much at stake here (though Dickens does her best to ratchet up the tension by making Mary's husband's ship sink on the third page -- and of course we don't yet know exactly who that husband might be). Nonetheless it's engaging, and the details of daily life in 1930s London are the main drawcard for me: dances, theatre, nightclubs, fashion, fog, appendicitis (which means weeks lying luxuriously in hospital and then convalescence at the seaside afterwards). Nowadays they probably kick you out the same day as the surgery!

Himalaya

I'm not much of a traveller. I did a couple of obligatory backpacking trips through Europe and the UK, and I spent a few days in New York, but most of the continents of the world remain untrodden by my feet and seem likely to stay that way. However, I do enjoy a vicarious journey on TV or through books, and Michael Palin is a reliably engaging companion who can suffer all the discomforts and uncertainties of travel on my behalf while I stay cosily on the couch. After tracking him around the world and from pole to pole, this time he tackles Himalaya.

To me, the Himalaya region always evokes the books of Rumer Godden, who has written so magically about her year of living in Kashmir in a simple mountain house with her two young daughters after her marriage fell apart in the early 1940s. Even though her family's time there ended in a nightmarish fashion when one of her servants tried to poison them, her deep delight in the beauties of the landscape, house and people glows through her prose. Sixty years later, Michael Palin journeyed through what was in some ways an utterly altered world, but in some ways still very much the same.

Palin and his team travelled through more than half a dozen countries as they made their way through the mountains, but despite differences in politics, forms of government, and degrees of military presence, the solid fact of the mountains themselves is always present: the sublime beauty, the hardship, and the tough, hospitable people. I don't think I'd be up to a hundred and twenty five days of butter tea and oxygen deprivation, not matter how gorgeous the landscape; lucky for me Palin was willing to do it for me.

The Locked Room

Adam Cece's The Locked Room was my next read from the CBCA Notables list, and it was such an entertaining ride, I raced through it at top speed. Andy and three other teenagers wake up in a locked room with no idea of how they got there or what they are supposed to do next. It turns out that this locked room is just the first in a series of escape rooms to be solved before they can leave the maze in which they're imprisoned, and discover why they were put there.

Each of the rooms provides a puzzle to solve, challenging enough but not impossible, and each of the teens has their own personal issues to grapple with. Andy, our narrator, has learned passivity and hopelessness from his father; Chad is a bully; 'Nameless Girl' has been struggling with depression, while even popular high achiever Gabriella Lee has her own secrets. And of course there are twists and surprises along the way.

I'm not familiar with Adam Cece's books but apparently he usually writes for younger readers; you can see the traces of that background in the fast pace of the story and broad brushstrokes of the characters. The whole book unfolds over a matter of hours, so arguably there isn't much room for depth or complexity. The Locked Room is an immensely appealing and engaging novel for readers looking for a fast, satisfying plot and, dare I say, some escapism? Upper primary readers will enjoy this, too.

The Death of the Heart

I have very dim memories of reading this copy of Elizabeth Bowen's 1938 novel, The Death of the Heart, as a teenager in the 1980s. I have a feeling that my mother might have been studying it when she did HSC English as an adult.

The Death of the Heart is regarded as Bowen's best work. Sixteen year old Portia comes to live with her half-brother and sister-in-law in London after the death of her parents, and finds herself lonely and adrift in a social world whose rules she struggles to comprehend. Frankly, her sister-in-law Anna is a bit of a selfish bitch, who reads Portia's diary and makes no attempt to welcome her; her brother is at a loss; Anna's erstwhile toyboy, Eddie, is a self-absorbed dick who can't resist flirting with Portia. The only person in the household who seems to have any real relationship with poor Portia is the maid, Matchett, inherited from Thomas and Portia's father.

This is an incredibly sad novel, in which various isolated and self-loathing or bewildered characters orbit around each other without ever making any real contact. The figure of Major Brutt, in his shabby hotel, imagining he's friends with Thomas and Anna, is absolutely heart-breaking. The one character I couldn't feel too sorry for is the 'charming' Eddie, whose company I couldn't bear even for a few pages; of course Portia falls in love with him, but he's such a pretentious little shit, I felt like throwing him across the room. 

It's possible that I didn't finish reading The Death of the Heart the first time around, because I found a possible bookmark wedged in its pages about how to care for ear-piercings, which would have to date from 1990 (so slightly later than I first thought). If that's the case, I only made it about a third of the way through. 

Plainsong

I had never come across the American author Kent Haruf until my friend Elizabeth put Plainsong into my hands. What a revelation! I'm not usually drawn to American novels, but I was completely won over by Haruf's spare, deceptively simple prose, which matches the austere landscape of (fictional) Holt County, Colorado.

This is a very cinematic novel, though the action is mostly subtle, with occasional bursts of violence. We are never told how characters feel or what they're thinking; instead, we witness their words and actions and make our own interpretations. Haruf takes 'show, don't tell' to the extreme, but it works beautifully across a range of characters, who are all isolated in their different ways, and who end up interacting unexpectedly. A pair of elderly brothers on their remote farm; a pregnant teenager; middle-aged teacher Tom Guthrie, whose wife has withdrawn and finally left him with his two young sons; warm, humorous fellow teacher, Maggie Jones, who is the catalyst who brings the McPheron brothers and young Victoria together.

Plainsong is true to its title -- unadorned, no fuss, but deeply moving. Elizabeth has promised to lend me two more Haruf novels and I can't wait.

Book of Lives

Another quite big brick of a book and another surprisingly speedy read (well, Margaret Atwood is a very good writer). I have been an Atwood reader for most of my adult life. The Handmaid's Tale blew my mind very soon after it was published and I was captivated by Cat's Eye, with its tale of childhood bullying. I faithfully bought and excitedly read the big thick novels that followed: The Robber Bride, Alias Grace and The Blind Assassin, but I think The Blind Assassin must have exhausted me or else I ran out of time for big thick novels because I dropped off after that. I did try Oryx and Crake (which began life in Australia as Emu and Crake) but at the time it didn't engage me. The good news is that I now have several Margaret Atwood books still waiting patiently for me to plunge into.

Atwood's life makes for an interesting story in itself. Famously her naturalist father carted the family into the wilderness for half of every year, which left Atwood with a legacy of environmental awareness and a love of birds in particular. She writes enjoyably about the beginnings of the Canadian literature scene, which I imagine has a lot of parallels to the Australian situation -- it was difficult to persuade publishers to risk printing local stories, and aspiring writers were advised to try their luck in the UK or USA (sadly, I fear that 'global' appeal is again becoming a requirement for publishers to risk their money).

The latter part of Book of Lives is overshadowed by the decline and death of Atwood's second husband, Graeme; another story of grief and mourning. It's remarkable to think that Atwood is now in her late eighties, and yet she is as sharp or sharper than she ever was, making films during Covid and still experimenting. I suppose we might not have her for much longer, but what a blessing to have this chunky, rich and funny memoir from a real literary legend before she leaves us.
 

Nest

I am a huge fan of Inga Simpson's writing (her novel Willowman and memoir Understory are just so beautiful), but for whatever reason, her second novel Nest didn't quite do the trick for me. Perhaps this quiet, reflective, observational novel suffered from being read simultaneously with big, blustery King Sorrow; perhaps it was my state of mind, where I was looking for distraction rather than meditation. Perhaps even the very short chapters, which is something I usually enjoy, meant that it took a long time to make my way through the story, to the point where I'd sometimes forgotten characters or events by the time they were referred back to (did I mention my concentration is not great at the moment?)

The actual writing and the nature observations were as usual absolutely gorgeous, in fact I think I would have enjoyed Nest more if it has been presented as a piece of nature writing or memoir rather than a novel. There is hardly any plot, and what there is, moves slowly and quietly. There is a missing child, harking back to a missing friend of Jen's own childhood; an absent father, an unsatisfactory ex. But these are elements that hover around inside Jen's head as memories and speculations, rather than playing out on the canvas of the novel. Gradually, very gradually, tense loner Jen starts to unfreeze, through her close relationship with the trees and birds on her land, tending to her house and garden, and her tentative friendships with the townsfolk and neighbours, and her drawing pupil Henry. The novel ends in quiet hope, but anyone looking for high stakes drama will not find it here. 

I think I would have loved this book more if I'd been in a different frame of mind! I have another Inga Simpson novel on my pile, but I might wait a while before I open it; I want to meet it in the right spirit.

How To Be Normal

Ange Crawford's How to Be Normal is the next book on my CBCA Notables List. Astrid has been homeschooled for years, but when her dad's business collapses (record store, no surprise), her mother has to go back to work and Astrid goes to high school for the first time.

There is quite a lot going on for Astrid. Her older brother has left home, her father is controlling and sometimes verbally abusive, and Astrid has never mixed with 'normal' teenagers before, so she has a lot of new friendship politics to negotiate, complicated by her father's 'strictness' and rules around behaviour. Though Cliff isn't physically violent, Astrid and her mum are always walking on eggshells, placating, soothing, forestalling his outbursts, and it's uncomfortably tense to read about. I must admit I was more engaged with the domestic drama than the high school situation.

Astrid's passion is electronic music, which was a refreshing novelty for me and worked really well as a method for her to communicate her isolation and her tentative reaching out, as well as a pathway to a future course of study and career. Sound became a really effective element of the story and a fascinating window to a field I know nothing about.
 

The Foal in the Wire

  

In terms of size, there could hardly be a bigger contrast between the whopper King Sorrow and The Foal in the Wire, which barely tips over a hundred pages, with lots of blank space and wide margins. As a verse novel, The Foal in the Wire covers a lot of ground with few words.

Sam's older brother is dead, his parents are fighting and he's struggling to find anything to make life worthwhile when he and the girl on the neighbouring property rescue an injured foal. Together, they nurse the young animal back to health, and in the process, discover companionship and then love in each other.

While The Foal in the Wire doesn't exactly have a happy ending, it does offer the prospect of change, and ultimately, hope. And how beautiful is that cover, by artist Tannya Harricks?

King Sorrow

It's been quite a while since I ventured to read a 900 page brick of a book; my attention span hasn't been up to it. King Sorrow was like reading four normal sized novels strung together, but it's a real roller coaster ride. It's the story of six friends who summon a dragon from another realm, ostensibly to do their bidding, but of course, as in all the best fairy tales, it turns out that they end being in his thrall. Every year they have to choose a victim for King Sorrow, or else one of their own lives will be forfeit, and inevitably a lot of innocent victims fall prey along the way (dragons are not known for their restraint).

To start with, King Sorrow reminded me of The Secret History -- a group of college students negotiating a dreadful secret, and the intra-group politics and shifting loyalties and betrayals that play out over the years that follow. But there's also a terrifying mid-air adventure, a chilling conspiracy and abduction episode, and a mythic quest for a magical sword, led by a troll deep underground. All this before the final confrontation. King Sorrow is also a fascinating meditation on the power of imagination and reality. 

I probably wouldn't have picked up this book if I hadn't heard it recommended on the ABC's Book Shelf program, but it was fun to explore something off my usual track. Joe Hill is the son of Stephen King, and has evidently inherited his father's gift for story-telling. I did have to renew it as I was ploughing through, luckily there wasn't anyone else on the library's waiting list.

The Impossible Fortune

How lovely to be back with the Thursday Murder Club gang again! Though I must admit that the Netflix movie has irreversibly influenced the way I picture the characters now -- and there was a nice cheeky reference to Pierce Brosnan being the best James Bond (which may be the case, but he still isn't quite how I imagined Ron). 

Sinking into The Impossible Fortune was like stepping into a warm bath -- totally comforting and nourishing, and exactly the kind of book I feel like reading at the moment. My only complaint was that there was not quite enough Bogdan; mind you, there are so many gorgeous characters milling about Coopers Chase by now that it's hard to give them all full air time. There are some lovely Joyce-Joanna moments in this novel that make up for it.

The Impossible Fortune takes our octogenarian crew into the world of Bitcoin and old-fashioned 'cold storage,' a service providing physical storage in an age where digital security has become vulnerable. There are explosions and secret codes and double crossing, but there is also another parallel plot involving Ron's daughter and grandson which is less showy, but possibly more important.

I know the Thursday Murder Club can't live forever, but please, can they have lots more adventures before we have to say goodbye?
 

Death of an Ordinary Man

Novelist Sarah Perry's first non-fiction book, Death of an Ordinary Man, was recommended by Susan Green a few weeks ago. Looking back at Sue's review, I see that she used the exact words I was planning to write here: almost unbearably moving. Perry's father-in-law was diagnosed with advanced oesophageal cancer, worsened rapidly and died at home just nine days later. How well I could relate to Perry's panic and bewilderment, her pleas for help, for someone to come round now, now, now, we don't know what to do. And yet surprisingly quickly, caring for David becomes routine and manageable and not scary at all; Perry describes a sensation of a woman's hand on her shoulder and feels the reassurance of generations of carers behind her who have faced this challenge and met it, as she and her husband do, too, folding the process death into part of life.

I was amazed at the speed and compassion (mostly) of the health workers who rolled swiftly into action, delivering a hospital bed, nursing care, morphine, special sheets to David's home with a minimum of fuss. I have no idea if similar systems are in place here; I guess I might find out one day. It might not have been the best time for me to read this book, as I'm currently caring for my ninety-year old mother who was recently in hospital with an infection and is taking a while to recover. But I was also able to recognise myself as one of that long line of carers who find themselves able to deal with incontinence, dirty sheets, coaxing tiny spoonfuls of ice cream into a reluctant mouth, organising medication and all the rest of the work of caring. 

The very last image of the book was so incredibly beautiful, it made me cry.

Sometimes I stand at an upstairs window after dark when the city is getting ready for bed, and watch the lights go out one by one in rooms where strangers live. And if I stand there long enough I find, in compensation for the gathering dark, other lights arriving out of nothing -- the passage of a car turning for home, lamps switched on in bathrooms and bedrooms on the outskirts of town, streetlights marking roads I know quite well. Then I imagine I've walked out of the city and up what passes in Norfolk for a hill, and that I can see spread all around me  this same pattern going on over and over: lights, everywhere, coming on where there was no light, then shining for a moment or an hour before fading slowly to an ember, or being suddenly extinguished. On and on it goes, far ahead and behind me, over borders, horizons, seas, summoned up and going out in their own time -- illuminating barely half an inch or fully half a mile, and each light particular, never to be repeated or replaced: all those other lights. All those other towns.

Eleanor Jones is Playing with Fire

Eleanor Jones is Playing with Fire is the third novel in Amy Doak's tremendously enjoyable series; the first two are Eleanor Jones is Not a Murderer and Eleanor Jones Can't Keep a Secret. In this book, Eleanor is still a new-ish student in country town Cooinda, but she's managed to gather a group of friends around her and some of her social awkwardness has mellowed, though she still speaks her mind. She's even got a kind of boyfriend! But Eleanor seems to attract trouble -- or does she go looking for it, as her friend Holly the police officer seems to believe? This time, in a tinder-dry rural community, someone is setting fires. But who could it be? And why?

Amy Doak has created an appealingly forthright and funny protagonist in Eleanor Jones, but she doesn't carry the story alone. Doak is adept at exploring issues of friendship, loyalty, small town politics and toxic masculinity in this novel, all wrapped up in a satisfying mystery plot (not actually a murder this time, though initially it seems like it might be). I really enjoy the way that Eleanor has collected some adult allies, and her willingness to ask questions about things that other people take for granted. I really hope there are some further installments to Eleanor's adventures!
 

Ancestral Journeys

Jean Manco's Ancestral Journeys was a Brotherhood Books impulse buy, and I didn't really know what I was getting. It's actually quite a scholarly book, though packaged up appealingly with lots of pictures and break-out sidebars to break up the text. It's a multi-disciplinary approach to tracking the movements of peoples across (mostly) Europe during prehistory, drawing on archeology, genetics and linguistics to piece together the likely shifts of population, whether by invasion, wandering, retreat or expansion.

I must admit that some of the detailed explanations of DNA haplo-groups made my eyes water and I tended to skim those sections! But Ancestral Journeys excels at painting a big picture of climate changes, the spread of agriculture, and the rise and fall of empires. I found the sections about language the most engaging -- I'm always up for a discussion of Proto-Indo-European and its descendants in modern languages. Ancestral Journeys covers millennia, from the very first humans emerging from Africa, right up to the Vikings, in a relatively short and easy to digest package: a great overview.
 

Impossible Creatures: The Poisoned King

This sequel to Katherine Rundell's Impossible Creatures takes us back to the Archipelago, that magical world peopled by talking animals, dragons, flying unicorns and other incredible beasts. The Poisoned King introduces us to twelve year old Princess Anya, whose wicked uncle is hell bent on taking over the kingdom at any cost, even murder. Guardian-to-be Christopher, from our world, joins forces with Anya to solve the mystery of who is killing dragons (spoiler: it's the wicked uncle) and to save Anya's father, the true heir.

As usual, Rundell delivers a pacy, magical adventure with plenty of heart. I wonder if she was influenced by Eva Ibbotson, because Rundell set her first book in the Amazon, a beloved Ibbotson location, and there is something about the emphasis on love, courage and compassion, and the love of the natural world, that reminds me very much of Ibbotson's novels. I also loved the fact that hereditary royalty is dismantled at the end of the book! Now that wouldn't happen in an Eva Ibbotson novel.
 

Light and Shadow

Mark Colvin was a veteran ABC journalist who died in 2017, about a year after this autobiography was published. Sadly we never got to read the second volume he hinted at in this book. It doesn't seem like nearly ten years since he died; I well remember his mellifluous tones on Radio National.

The subtitle of Light and Shadow is Memoirs of a Spy's Son; clearly the publisher felt this was the strongest hook to draw people in, and it is a fascinating element of Colvin's story. His mother was Australian, his father English, and it was confirmed when Mark was an adult that John Colvin was actually an agent for SIS (MI6). John's most exotic postings (under cover of being a diplomat) were to North Vietnam during the Vietnam War, and Ulan Bator in Mongolia to keep an eye on the border between China and Russia at the height of the Cold War. (It was while young Mark was visiting his father during this time that he was given the information about the death of Lin Biao who significance he totally failed to realise!)

But Mark's own life also makes a gripping narrative. He fell into journalism at a young age, worked at Double J when it was just starting up, covered wars in Iraq and the Whitlam crisis, started The World Today and for many years hosted the evening current affairs show PM. It was a remarkable career and his family background, which he kept secret, made it all the more dangerous -- he'd been warned by his father never to visit Russia, for example (though he did). Light and Shadow is a thoroughly absorbing and informative read, one of those unknown gems that you pick up sometimes and provide rich rewards.
 

Wild Swans

I am extremely late to the party on Jung Chang's international bestseller from 1991, Wild Swans. If you've been living under a rock for the last thirty years, Wild Swans is the story of three generations of women living in China through the tumultuous decades of the twentieth century. Jung Chang's grandmother was a warlord's concubine; her mother was a dedicated Communist Party official; and Jung herself eventually studied English and emigrated to the UK.

Wild Swans has been a school text almost from the moment it was published. My younger daughter used it in studying Revolutions and the copy I've been reading is hers. My ignorance of China's history is shamefully almost total, and Wild Swans filled in quite a few blanks for me. I vaguely knew about the Cultural Revolution, but not quite what a horrific period it was, nor the extent of the arbitrary violence and cruelty it unleashed. The tides of being in and out of favour washed Chang's family to and fro; sometimes they enjoyed quite a lot of privilege, sometimes things were absolutely desperate.

For me, Wild Swans started slowly and it took me a while to become captured by the story. The book really came alive for me when Jung Chang herself appeared, and I sometimes found the parts about the internal machinations of the Communist Party head-spinning. However, I was excited when simultaneously reading Mark Colvin's autobiography, Light and Shadow, to come across a section when Colvin was travelling through China in the early 1970s and he was told about the death of important general Lin Biao -- a very deliberate piece of information-planting whose significance young Colvin completely failed to recognise! Thanks to Wild Swans, I already knew the background story of Lin Biao, so this story meant much more than it would have otherwise.

 

Helm

I feel like there's been a bit of a buzz around Sarah Hall's novel Helm, which is centred around the only named wind in the UK (I must admit I hadn't heard of Helm and didn't realise that it was a real thing: a unique, powerful, occasional force). It's such a cool concept for a novel and Hall has constructed a rich narrative of interweaving strands through the history of human interactions with the wind. Hall has given Helm a wild, poetic voice, and it has motivations and desires of its own, which adds a distinctive flavour to the novel.

For me, some of the narrative strands were more successful than others, though Hall has obviously expended a lot of effort in creating authentic and researched stories for each time period. Most of the narratives are focused on attempts by humans to tame or measure Helm: a medieval churchman who sees Helm as a demonic force; a Victorian scientist who wants to set up an elaborate machine to dye the air flow; a modern climate scientist who becomes paranoid in isolation; a Bronze Age wise woman who sees a sacred stone in a vision and dedicates her life to finding and erecting it. Often the protagonists are women who develop a special relationship with the wind, like Janni, a victim of 50s psychiatric treatment who is eventually reclaimed by Helm as Helm's own.

I especially loved the Janni story and the Bronze Age narrative, perhaps because they both came to a satisfying conclusion. Some of the other plotlines petered out or ended anti-climactically, but there is more than enough meat here to compensate, and the actual prose is rich and wild and gorgeous.
 

A Glove Shop in Vienna

I pulled this Eva Ibbotson book off the shelves at the Athenaeum just because I knew I hadn't read it yet; it wasn't till I got home that I realised that it was actually a collection of short stories. I hadn't known that Ibbotson wrote a large number of short stories for magazines like Good Housekeeping and Women's Journal before she became established as a novelist -- when A Glove Shop in Vienna was published, she had only two novels to her name.

It's possible that a whole volume of Eva Ibbotson short stories might be a bit much to consume in one go. The usual Ibbotson ingredients are all here -- intense romance, love at first sight, tragic partings, gentle humour, Russia and France, beautiful and trusting young girls, brave and sensitive young men... It's all very lovely and perfect comfort reading, but I was happy to intersperse these stories with other reading material.

Maybe my favourite was the final story, 'A Question of Riches,' which is in some ways not a typical Ibbotson story at all: it features a young boy at boarding school who sent to stay with each of his grandmothers in turn -- one is rich and haughty, one is poor and loving. Have a guess which grandmother Jeremy chooses to spend Christmas with?
 

Drift

Drift, a free verse novel by Pip Harry, is next on my list of CBCA Notables -- this one didn't make it to the short list, but I ended up enjoying it very much. Nate has just moved back to Australia from Singapore; girl next door Luna is struggling after becoming the victim of a viral video. Nate's dad is still in Singapore, and his mum Amber is almost incapacitated by a back injury. When a swarm of bees invade the walls of Amber and Nate's house, it opens up a new world of beekeeping to Nate and Luna, and enables community bonds to form.

This is a gentle story, despite the violence of Luna's history, filled with tentative connections and slow unfurling. Luna's salvation is running; Nate makes friends with the musical theatre kids. And of course, their developing friendship becomes a source of strength. Traditionally I haven't been a huge fan of verse novels, but Drift (still not quite sure what the title refers to, but it does capture the atmosphere of the book) won me over -- it's so warm and tender, and it was lovely to come back into the world of bees and beekeeping (my first fantasy novel, The Singer of All Songs, had bees in it, and I had to do lots of research). 
 

The Body Keeps the Score

Apparently, trauma-informed care is all the rage in psychology at the moment, and a large part of that is probably due to this book by Bessel van der Kolk, which has become a word of mouth bestseller since its release twelve years ago. Clearly the message of The Body Keeps the Score has struck a chord with readers and practitioners, and it definitely struck a chord with me. I'm fortunate that I haven't experienced childhood trauma myself, but people close to me have, and so much of this book rang true as I read about people under stress reverting to childhood states of high arousal, fear and helplessness (of course, it can also manifest in anger, aggression or running away). 

The core of van der Kolk's work turns on the realisation that talking or medication alone can be inadequate to touch the deep, embodied memory of trauma (he began his trauma work mostly with returned soldiers suffering from PTSD, but the same conclusions also apply for sexual assaults, accidents or childhood abuse). Van der Kolk uses a variety of techniques to release the deeply held tension in his patients' bodies: breathing, yoga, theatre and singing, as well as quite theatrical role-playing therapy which might seem a little woo-woo to some but apparently can be very powerful in integrating traumatic experiences into a coherent sense of self.

Most intriguing to me is EMDR (Eye Movement Desenstisation and Reprocessing), which at first blush does seem completely woo-woo -- patients relive traumatic memories while watching the movement of the therapist's finger in front of their eyes -- but is in fact extremely effective. This does make sense when you consider that this process mimics the rapid eye movement stage of sleep, during which memories are integrated. A member of my family, who has had a lot of conventional talk therapy, swears by EMDR. 

The Body Keeps the Score is a gripping, lively and persuasive read, and I'm not surprised it's been such a huge success and so influential. 

No Fond Return of Love

No Fond Return of Love (1961) is a minor Barbara Pym work, and I think it might have been the last one published before the long hiatus which led to Quartet in Autumn in 1977 and her rediscovery by a new audience of fans. It's not her best work, but it features the usual cast of middle-aged spinsters and attractive clergymen; there are also some young people floating about. There is a strong sense that the world is changing and that these young people are inhabiting quite a different reality from their elders -- where women are expected to work and live independently, rather than be content to perform volunteer 'good works' attached to some church, where they can go out drinking and dancing with relative freedom.

But even a second tier Barbara Pym is worth reading, for comfort if nothing else, and I am in the mood for comfort reading. It's so relaxing to escape into a world of seaside boarding-houses, sherry before dinner, pink velvet hats and jumble sales for the organ fund. It's a small, self-contained world, untroubled by politics or protests or violence or passion -- even love, though a disruptive force, is still obliquely expressed and sensibly regulated. It's weird that the momentum of the novel, such as it is, is provided by Dulcie becoming a kind of stalker of Aylwin Forbes, who she's met briefly at a conference: she checks out his brother's church, she goes to stay at his mother's hotel. And ultimately it seems that her obsession is going to be rewarded, which is perhaps not the best message! Dulcie and her eventual friend Viola are freelance indexers, and the original title of the book was A Thankless Task, which in some ways fits it better.

The Edge of Everything

Next read on the CBCA Notables list was The Edge of Everything by Miranda Luby. This is Luby's second novel and I liked it a lot. Lucy's older brother Charlie has died in a freak accident and thrown everything about Lucy's life into chaos. Her former best friend is being too sensitive around her; her new friend doesn't even know that Charlie is dead; the boy she'd been kinda-sorta starting to get together with has backed off. Her parents seem to be coping okay -- but are they really? And an existential black hole is opening up inside Lucy that she's afraid to confront.

The Edge of Everything is a solid, satisfying novel packed with poignant moments and big life questions. The characters are well-rounded and sympathetic, and Lucy is an attractively dorky protagonist. There is a deep and realistic sadness hanging over this book, but it's countered by humour, friendship and love. The message is that life can be painful and unpredictable, but that makes it all the more worth cherishing, is something that we all need to hear, whatever our age.

The October Man

The October Man, from 2019, also takes us away from London, though not as far as Winter's Gifts. In this novella, we are in Germany and our narrator is Tobias Winter, who basically has Peter Grant's job (and, it must be said, almost exactly Peter Grant's voice...)

Set in the wine-growing town of Trier, our first mysterious corpse has been choked by mould, which proves to be 'noble rot,' used in wine making. But there's a tangled backstory that involves German river goddesses, ancient wizards, a men's social group, an attempted rape twenty years ago, layers of German bureaucracy and fun compound words, and an over-enthusiastic assistant.

The October Man doesn't really contribute anything extra to the main Rivers of London narrative, apart from a vague warning that magic is increasing, but it's a fun excursion. What's the point of creating this rich, sprawling universe if you don't explore its outer reaches now and then?
 

Jilya

I can't remember where I heard about Tracy Westerman's book Jilya -- I think I might have seen a mention of it on Facebook (sometimes it is useful for some things!) Published in 2024, it's subtitled How one Indigenous woman from the remote Pilbara transformed psychology, and it is concerned with two of my favourite areas of interest: psychology and First Nations culture.

Jilya means 'my child,' and Westerman's focus is squarely on Aboriginal child suicides. The rates of children taking their own lives, especially in remote or disadvantaged First Nations communities, are truly horrific, and should be a huge mental health priority. Westerman has zeroed in on the shortage of psychological supports in these areas as a primary factor, as well as multi-generational trauma and multi-generational difficulties in forming secure childhood attachment.

Jilya outlines some fascinating differences between mainstream Western assumptions and Aboriginal culture -- for example, Aboriginal child-rearing practices that might look like 'neglect' to white, middle class social workers. There is a lot in this book about trauma, including everyday racism, deep grief and loss, and the legacy of familial disruption -- such a heavy burden for individuals, let alone whole communities to bear. But Jilya is also the story of Westerman's own life, and her decades of struggle to establish better data collection and protocols for dealing with Aboriginal communities. There is another whole story there about politics, trying to run a private business, and philanthropy, which I won't begin to try to untangle.

I found the middle sections of the book, about applying specific techniques and practices to First Nations individuals, families and communities, the most compelling, but the whole of Jilya is a riveting and powerful read. More power to Tracy Westerman's arm -- she is accomplishing some amazing work.
 

Bad Behaviour

I was intrigued to read about Rebecca Starford's memoir, Bad Behaviour, on Susan Green's blog (my go-to source for interesting next reads). Starford writes about her year on a rural school campus at fourteen; it's not stated, but it's probably Geelong Grammar's famous Timbertop. Year 9 is a notoriously difficult time for adolescents (though I have heard that Year 8 is the new Year 9). I remember my own Year 9 experience as horribly painful, as friendship groups shifted and I found myself excluded (it all worked out fine in the end).

Bad Behaviour reads like a novel, with memories of events at Silver Creek intercut with reflections of Rebecca's later life, especially her relationships, which were clearly affected by patterns that were set up in that fateful year. I have to say that Silver Creek sounds awful, Starford's experience of it at least. Her dormitory house was ruled by a bully and her clique, who egged on Bec and others to escalating feats of cruel and stupid rule-breaking. It takes a long time for Bec to realise she'd be better off with different friends, and it's hard to comprehend the appeal of the mean girls (I am a steadfast goody-goody, so the glamour of bad behaviour is lost on me). 

Starford writes with compelling immediacy about the ebbs and flows of teen friendship and the weird power that charismatic individuals can wield, though I was less invested in the later relationship dramas of her twenties. Mostly Bad Behaviour made me thankful that I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'd be interested to find out how teenagers would respond to it.

Your Name is Not Anxious

Anxiety sucks. I've been there, so have most of my family and some of my friends. It's not a place you want to dwell, or even visit for very long. Stephanie Dowrick, who has had her own mental health battles, has written a friendly, approachable guide for sufferers, reminding us that while anxiety can feel overwhelming, it is not our whole identity; that it's vital to treat ourselves with compassion and kindness, rather than blame and guilt; that anxiety is a whole-body experience, not just 'in our minds;' that there are emergency measures we can take in a moment of crisis (breathing techniques, cold water, reducing causes of stress (can be easier said than done!)).

It's all great advice, delivered in short, easily-digested chapters, and the book is designed for dipping in and out as needed, rather than being read cover to cover, which is what I did. Much of the material is reinforced in more than one place, which is helpful -- in my experience, these messages need repeating over and over, and even then they sometimes don't sink in. I can imagine Your Name is Not Anxious as a comforting bedside companion, to be used in times of crisis along with professional therapeutic help, exercise and medication if needed; I don't think it would be enough to pull you out of an episode on its own. There are also personal stories from others who have wrestled with OCD, body anxieties and addiction, and come out the other side, which is always a good reminder. The dark valley can seem like a long, deep crevasse at times, and it's helpful to remember that it can and does end.

Grace

I bought Grace on impulse from Brotherhood Books because I love Jill Paton Walsh, even though I knew nothing about the book. It's a young adult novel, published in 1991, telling the story of 1830s heroine Grace Darling. I knew the broad outline of her feat -- that Grace, a lighthouse keeper's daughter, had helped to row a boat to rescue survivors from a shipwreck, and became famous enough to have a pub in Collingwood named after her, on the other side of the world -- but no more than that.

Maybe because I had no expectations, I thought Grace was amazing (see what I did there). The first part of the novel faithfully recounts the events of the rescue and what followed: Grace swiftly became a folk heroine, an exemplar of courage and strength which went against Victorian expectations of what a young woman could achieve. In the second part of the novel, Paton Walsh allows herself to imagine more freely the effect of this sudden and overwhelming attention on Grace, who was only twenty two, though she sticks to historical sources where they're available. Grace is showered with gold medals, public concerts raise money for her, she receives thousands of letters and gifts, all of which require a reply. 

The dark side of this fame is something that I had never suspected. An official lifeboat from the mainland also set out to rescue the survivors from the rock, but arrived there just after Grace and her father had plucked them to safety. Though they were equally brave and faced the same violence of sea and storm, lifeboat crews were rewarded according to the number of survivors they saved, and the Darlings had gazumped them. Grace and her father did their best to make sure that the crew were also recognised and paid for their efforts, the avalanche of public attention and money heaped on Grace caused bad feeling in the local town. In Paton Walsh's story, Grace becomes increasingly tormented that she might have performed her brave deed for the sake of the reward, not from pure altruism. Tragically, Grace died from tuberculosis only a few years after the Forfar rescue.

I found Grace a totally engaging ethical and moral examination of fame and courage, and the consequences of celebrity. As Grace herself recognises, it became impossible for her to marry -- she was too rich to be a suitable mate to a simple, ill-educated fisherman, but at the same time, she was too socially lowly to marry a man from a higher station in life. She became famous all over the world, but her fame was a terrible burden from which she could never be free. This was an unexpectedly moving and thought-provoking novel.
 

Winter's Gifts

Another Rivers of London novella from Ben Aaronovitch. Winter's Gifts takes us across the Atlantic to snowbound Wisconsin, with FBI agent Kimberley Reynolds as our protagonist. While she mentions (and once telephones) Peter Grant and the Folly in London, the focus is entirely on her and her hunt for a mysterious and vengeful supernatural creature.

I very much enjoyed this foray onto another continent, and Kim is good company: smart, resourceful and capable. There's a satisfying amount of action, with explosions, severed limbs, several frantic pursuits, a tentacled beast rising from a frozen lake, and even some pashing. We meet a Native American spirit in the form of a fourteen year old boy, which is a nice touch. I must admit that I wasn't entirely clear at the end of the story exactly what the evil object was, but maybe that was due to my inattentive reading -- I do tend to let the details wash over me when I'm reading Rivers of London books and just enjoy the ride.

Darkest Night, Brightest Star

Darkest Night, Brightest Star is a fantastic inclusion on the CBCA Notables list -- a really timely, pertinent and immediate book about Australian masculinity. Barry Jonsberg is an elder statesman of Australian YA writing, and he turns his former teacher's eye on the kind of boy I bet he saw a lot of in his classrooms. Morgan is thirteen, not interested in school, growing up with his dad and older brother after his mother left the family when he was just two. Morgan is not articulate; he keeps himself to himself, and not surprisingly, he's internalised a lot of not-great messages from the men in his family, who believe in never showing emotion (especially not vulnerability or fear), belittling women, and physical toughness as the measure of a man. But Morgan befriends Gray (who turns out to be gay); he'd rather look after plants than kick a ball on the soccer field; and his innate kindness comes to the fore when he starts helping out an old woman, Mary, who has a muddled idea that Morgan might be her own long-lost son.

Darkest Night, Brightest Star has a tight cast of characters. Sometimes the reader is able to draw connections that Morgan is a little slower to make. Morgan makes plenty of mistakes as he goes along, but he's lucky to have a handful of people in his life who really care about him, and at the end of the day, that's all any of us can ask for. The book doesn't wrap up everything in a tidy bow, but there is hope for Morgan (maybe not for his dad, who is not a great guy -- though Jonsberg drops us some hints about he became the damaged person that he is, and how he's passed on that legacy to his elder son). I hope boys read this book and perhaps see something of themselves in Morgan. I really liked it. The only element that Jonsberg hasn't tried to deal with here is the pernicious influence of the online 'manosphere' (I wish we had a better name for it), but maybe that's too big a topic to shoehorn into a short novel.

Fahrenheit 451

It came out during dinner with friends that I had never read Ray Bradbury's classic, Fahrenheit 451, and Sue immediately jumped up to pull it from her shelves. It made a big impression on her when she studied it at school, and many of the details, as well as the central message, had stuck with her for decades.

I can see why it's become a school text staple. Fahrenheit 451 is a novel of ideas, first and foremost. In a society where books are outlawed and ritually burned when they're discovered, the population are kept docile on a diet of shallow entertainment provided by screens and ear-'seashells' and war is a constant threat, it's no wonder that in some ways Bradbury's novel seems even more relevant today that it was in 1953. Fireman Montag works at setting fires, not putting them out, and over the space of a few days, becomes first quietly questioning, then fully radicalised to oppose the prevailing social structure, ending in a thrilling pursuit and a cataclysmic ending.

But... it didn't really work for me. Apparently it was written in a frenzy and needed quite a bit of editing to pull it into shape. I wasn't totally convinced by the world-building, though the ubiquitous screens certainly seem prescient -- there are plenty of logical holes in the story and the characters' reactions don't always make sense. But the size of the concepts and the breathless pace of events would sweep younger readers along, and the ideas the novel raises definitely need to be aired. Maybe if I'd read it when I was 14, it would have worked magic on me?