Comfort Me with Apples by Catherynne M. Valente | Book Review

Comfort Me with Apples by Catherynne M. Valente
Published by Tordotcom, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this short, quasi-horror novel, we follow Sophia, a devoted wife living in a seemingly idyllic gated community, where residents are promised a life of safety from the dangers of the outside world as long as they abide by the strict set of rules. Troubled by strange objects she begins to find around her home, intrigued by the locked cellar, and suspicious of her husband’s increasing absences, Sophia begins to worry that her perfect existence isn’t quite what it seems.

There is, as you’d expect from the setup, an element of mystery that lies at the heart of this slim yet impactful story. In that respect, it is arguably best to head in knowing as little as possible. That said, most of the twists and turns are ultimately derivative of works we’ve seen before. Parallels with Ira Levin’s novel The Stepford Wives, the classic fairy tale Bluebeard, and Darren Aronofsky’s film Mother are impossible to ignore. If you’ve seen and/or read these, nothing will prove especially surprising, despite how clever the gradual eking out of the truth may initially seem. While this meant much of the story’s potential impact felt somewhat dampened for me, the quietly sinister atmosphere, striking imagery, and swift delivery kept me compelled nonetheless.

The prose itself is lush and flowery. In some instances, it would feel overwrought, but here it feels reflective of Sophia’s naive, sickly-sweet worldview, foreshadowing the rude awakening that lies ahead.

This wasn’t the knockout favourite I hoped it could be – given how many of its elements appeal directly to my taste. But while it may not be all that original, I certainly found it worthwhile and well-executed.

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The Fell by Sarah Moss | Book Review

The Fell by Sarah Moss
Published by Picador, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set during November 2020, at the height of the UK’s covid lockdown, the events of The Fell take place across a single day and night. We follow multiple perspectives: Kate, who, struggling to get through a 2-week quarantine period after testing positive for the virus, takes to the hills for a solitary walk despite this breaching government guidelines; Matt, her teenage son, also forced to isolate at home; Alice, their widowed next-door neighbour who is shielding due to ongoing cancer recovery; and Rob, a volunteer mountain rescuer, called in to search for Kate when she fails to return.

Thematically, it’s impossible for the book not to resonate to some extent, given how close to home it all is. It’s very much about the physical and mental ramifications of loneliness and isolation, and how compassion and community must ultimately triumph over fear if we’re to make it through. Though Kate is the narrative lynchpin, Alice is by far the most interesting character. Through her voice, Moss does a great job of reflecting the constant stream of contradictory thoughts that many of us will be able to relate to; simultaneously thankful for and angry about the limitations forced upon us by covid restrictions; feeling at once personally victimised by the pandemic, and grateful for the privileges we have compared to others. Moss also captures the strange reality of how boring, monotonous and domestic living through a real-life dystopian plague has proven to be, despite the situation sounding so alien and dramatic if it had been pitched to us some 2 years ago.

The trouble is, while I admire Moss’ efforts, by attempting to write a book so of-the-moment, its publication in 2021 feels at once outdated and too soon. Though covid anxiety is still very much a constant in most of our lives, most of us also have far greater freedoms than we did this time last year – not to mention the breakthrough of the ongoing vaccine rollout. Living in such bizarre and ever-changing times, as we are, the lockdown of winter 2020 somehow feels a world away already, and yet, having not emerged at the other side of the tunnel just yet, true reflection and hindsight on life-in-covid-times feels premature.

Plow wise, there’s not a huge amount to talk about, and what there is follows a predictable trajectory. As seems to be the case quite often in Moss’ novels, much is left unresolved; the plot more a vehicle to explore her characters and themes. While I can understand that decision from a creative standpoint – given that we are still now in the midst of the pandemic about which she is writing, hence we don’t have all the answers yet either – its open-endedness will likely frustrate some.

Where Moss really excels, as always, is her keen human observation, and her ability to write beautifully and evocatively about the landscape. This latter point is particularly relevant in this instance, given the importance of the hills to the action itself, and the almost mythical alure of open countryside that many felt throughout lockdown.

All-in-all, I found this an admirable if slightly clumsy attempt to give voice to our collective experience of living through a pandemic. It’s far from my favourite Moss novel so far, but it hasn’t dampened by desire to check out more.

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Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan | Book Review

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
Published by Faber & Faber, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set in the run up to Christmas in 1980s Ireland, this understated yet powerful little novel looks at the ideas of compassion and secrets; those we cannot see and those we choose not to.

We follow Bill Furlong, a coal merchant working hard to provide throughout the harsh winter for his wife and five daughters. After inadvertently uncovering a distressing truth about the goings on within the local Magdalene Laundry, he must wrestle with the reality of complacency and wilful ignorance within the Catholic Church. His discovery also prompts a re-evaluation of events from his own childhood, emphasising the idea of cycles repeating themselves throughout time, unless someone is brave enough to defy the status quo.

Keegan’s prose is deceptively simple. With few words, she paints vivid pictures of a very specific time and place within Irish history. The dialogue also feels authentic and considered, with just as much importance lying in what remains unsaid. Indeed, she chooses to forgo any hint of sensationalism, the true horrors inferred without the need for gratuity.

Sad yet full of hope, Small Things Like These perfectly captures the feelings of charm, nostalgia, melancholy, and longing that so often go hand-in-hand during the festive period. It’s a tender ode to the resilience of the working classes, and the quiet yet vital heroism of those who choose not to turn a blind eye.

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The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave | Book Review

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave
Published by Little, Brown and Company, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The divide of gender, the dark side of religion, and the resilience of the human spirit are placed beneath the microscope in this evocative historical novel, inspired by real life tragedy.

It’s 1617 and a violent storm has claimed the lives of 40 fishermen off the coast of Vardø, a remote Norwegian settlement. Aside from a handful of elders, this amounts to almost the entire male population, leaving behind a devastated community of women and children. These women spend the next three years establishing a newfound self-sufficiency while navigating their immense collective grief. This matriarchy is interrupted by the arrival of Absalom Cornet, a God-fearing Christian and renowned witch hunter from Scotland. He is summoned by the King of Norway to bring the women of Vardø to heel once more, and to stamp out any lingering trace of native Sámi culture—its spiritualism and strong ties to the land considered an obstacle to establishing absolute reverence for his own God.

With subtlety and tact, Kiran Millwood Hargrave explores the ingrained societal roles that define and separate us, with a particular focus on the trappings of gender and religion. Though distressed by their losses, the women of Vardø experience an unexpected liberty when forced to take over duties once reserved for men.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. You can also find a piece I wrote about the real-life victims of the Vardø Witch Trials.

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You can pick up a copy of The Mercies from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Dominicana by Angie Cruz | Book Review

Dominicana by Angie Cruz
Published by John Murray, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐

My biggest issue with Dominicana is its paint-by-numbers approach to reflecting the immigrant experience. We follow 15-year-old Ana, who moves to New York from the Dominican Republic in the 1960s following an arranged marriage, with the hope that her family will soon be able to follow. Instead, she finds herself trapped in a loveless relationship, largely confined to a cold apartment.

From there, we hit pretty much every narrative beat you’d expect, with the story adhering to a very predictable and uninspiring trajectory. Harmful stereotypes (like Ana’s abusive, immigrant husband) go frustratingly unexplored; historical details (like the assassination of Malcom X, which takes place right outside Ana’s door) are so plonked in and glossed over they feel like a lazy attempt to establish emotional resonance; and the supporting characters are entirely one dimensional, resulting in a lot of untapped potential.

This may have been easier to contend with if the prose had been outstanding, but sadly this wasn’t the case either. Though Cruz’s prose is certainly readable on a technical level, it’s also very clumsy at times, weighed down by overblown metaphors (“César [is] the color of the crunchy skin off of juicy roast chicken thigh, creamy hot chocolate, buttered toast, dark honey, the broth of slow-cooked sancocho.”).

The one thread that holds initial promise is Ana’s sense of isolation and cultural bewilderment when she first arrives in the US. But as with everything else, it feels underdeveloped – and it’s arguably undone when Ana falls for another man with whom she quickly finds the connection and company she lacked.

I’d like to give this the benefit of the doubt and say my mind wasn’t best equipped to engage with it given everything that’s going on right now, but I suspect even that is being generous. In truth, this just wasn’t for me, unfortunately. Perhaps those with experiences closer aligned with Ana’s will feel a connection to the story; for me, it felt familiar, flat, and underwhelming.

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If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or if you’re also making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist, you can pick up a copy of Dominicana from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships | 6. Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line

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Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara | Book Review

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara
Published by Chatto & Windus, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

When fellow children from his community begin to disappear, 9-year-old Jai resolves to use the skills learned from his beloved detective shows – and the aid of his two best friends – to figure out what’s going on. Anappara uses the naïve yet charming perspective of a child to dive into the underbelly of India’s slums, interlacing a gripping narrative full of intrigue with deft social commentary on class, gender, corruption, and religious division.

Pulling off a convincing child narrator can be tricky, but I felt Anappara handled it very well on the whole. She did a great job of reflecting just how perceptive and intuitive children can be, without having her young protagonists feel like mere mouthpieces for adult ideologies. Choosing to frame everything through the eyes of a 9-year-old was a clever move, in fact. It allowed her to touch on big and potentially upsetting subject matter with suitable reverence and realism, while always maintaining a lightness of touch, and successfully avoiding any trace of gratuity.

As the number of disappearances begins to grow, so too does the tension between Hindus and Muslims living within Jai’s basti; the former singling out the latter as potential suspects. The book thus comments on the societal structures that incite fear of the other, and the violence and segregation born from religious intolerance. With Jai and one of his closest friends being Hindus, and their other friend being a Muslim, Anappara is able to show just how observant children are of the prejudices around them, and how much more tolerant of difference they tend to be than adults.

I thought the commentary on education throughout the novel was interesting without ever feeling heavy-handed. Anappara shows both how an unreliable school system puts children at risk, and how applying yourself to education can grant you a ticket to a better future. I also really appreciated the commentary on gender that was woven into the story. By simply showing the different expectations placed on Jai and his male friend, Faiz, compared to his sister and his female friend, Pari, she manages to say a lot about ingrained societal roles. It’s also very interesting to note how differently the community reacts to the disappearance of younger, ‘innocent’ children in comparison to a 16-year-old girl rumoured to be somewhat promiscuous, and who favours a Westernized style of dress.

In terms of class divides, Anappara reflects how literal a sense of disconnect has become, with the rise of gated communities separating the rich from the poor. The latter struggle to get by in destitute slums that wallow in the shadows of the luxurious tower blocks that house the wealthy. By exploring the money that is to be made from preserving the suffering of the poor, the reasons behind the seeming disinterest of the police concerning missing children become frustratingly clear. It’s also true that the actions of certain characters may prove infuriating given the seriousness of their situation (like adults continuing to leave their children unattended for large chunks of time), but Anappara justifies this by showing the impossible reality they face; if they don’t work, their families don’t eat.

I can’t say the prose itself particularly wowed me, but anything too ornate would have felt unrealistic given the age of the narrator. In that sense, it served its purpose well, driving the narrative forward and painting vivid, immersive pictures of India’s claustrophobic, heady slums.

Without dipping into spoiler territory, I will say I thought the ending was pitched pretty well. It offered a sense of conclusion without falling into the trap of tying up every loose end in a neat bow. Having drawn inspiration from the many unsolved (and often undocumented) cases of missing children who disappear in India every day, it would have felt unjust to imply that every family is granted the happy ending and concrete answers they desperately crave.

There’s a real subtlety to Anappara’s execution that I greatly admired. She has crafted a story so readable and driven by intrigue that you fly through the pages. It’s only upon reaching the end that you realise just how extensively she has dissected modern Indian society and the many struggles faced by its poorest residents.

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You can pick up a copy of Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl | 5. A Thousand Ships

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A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes | Book Review

A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes
Published by Mantle, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A Thousand Ships is a paradoxically exciting and underwhelming read; a great example of how the timing of a book’s publication can make or break its impact. Attempting to retell the story of the Trojan War and its aftermath from an entirely female perspective, the novel’s aim is to give voice to those usually pushed to the periphery, and to reframe classic mythology from a more feminist angle. This is an ambitious concept, but its similarity to recent high-profile releases – notably Circe by Madeline Miller and The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker – leaves it open to inevitable comparison, and a frustrating, if unfair, feeling of familiarity.

First off, the book is incredibly readable, and I found myself flying through it. Haynes does a fantastic job of showing the myriad ways a war can be fought beyond physical combat; the upsetting lack of bodily autonomy experienced by most women in times of conflict; the heartbreaks both big and small that must be endured; the sense of sisterhood between friends and enemies alike; and the stoicism shown by those left to pick up the pieces once the dust begins to settle. Her handling of both goddesses and mortals within the same sphere is also effective; the former feeling suitably powerful and ethereal, yet engaging and approachable on an emotional level.

The book’s greatest ambition – to inhabit the voice of almost every major female figure touched by the war – was ironically one of its greatest missteps for me. With so many point-of-view characters, certain perspectives are inevitably more compelling than others. The anguish of Cassandra, doomed to foresee the future but never be believed, and the sorrow of Gaia, the Goddess of the Earth who must watch mankind destroy everything she loves, are particularly well portrayed, for example. I also liked that the initial ingrained misogyny shown towards Helen (by both men and women) was directly challenged by the character herself; Helen asking other women why they hold her solely responsible for the outbreak of the war, and not her abductor or her husband (though I do wish this thread had been pushed much further moving forward).

Other characters, like Calliope and Penelope, are much less convincingly drawn, sadly. The former often feels like a mouthpiece for the author, a character through whom Haynes clumsily declares her book’s themes. The latter’s chapters are presented in the form of letters to her absent husband, recounting in the second person his own adventures (à la, “You did this, then you said that.”). Not only does this make little narrative sense (why would he need a detailed description of his own recent actions?), it also does little to offer Penelope a sense of worth or independence beyond her link to her husband, which feels like the exact opposite of the book’s intention. On the contrary, her contribution comes off as a thinly veiled means of shoehorning the story of The Odyssey into the narrative without utilising a male perspective.

Moving between so many characters at such a fast pace can also lead to some confusion as to the many links between them all, and how everyone slots into the bigger picture. For people completely new to mythology or retellings, I can see it proving more than a little daunting trying to make sense of the intricate web entangling the many players. All that said, I feel the book would have been stronger had it had a greater sense of focus, with Haynes choosing a few key women and homing in on their viewpoints.

I enjoyed this, but never felt wowed or moved by it in the way I – or the book – hoped I would be. A few years ago, this book would arguably have broken ground by offering a very underexplored take on beloved myths. Though not the author’s fault (this will almost certainly have been written long before publication of books like Circe or The Silence of the Girls), it now feels like a solid enough if lukewarm entry in a genre that is at risk of becoming oversaturated.

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You can pick up a copy of A Thousand Ships from Book Depository by clicking here.

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WOMEN’S PRIZE 2020 REVIEWS SO FAR:

1. Girl, Woman, Other | 2. Hamnet | 3. Fleishman Is in Trouble | 4. Girl

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Girl by Edna O’Brien | Book Review

Girl by Edna O’Brien
Published by Faber & Faber, 2019
My rating: ⭐

This novel is inspired by the real-life kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls at the hands of the terrorist organization Boko Haram in Nigeria, 2014. Given the subject matter being explored, and the extremist views of the group responsible for the act, this is understandably an upsetting read, with major trigger warnings for everything from rape and mutilation, to emotional abuse and murder.

From the off, I want to make clear that I found it difficult to reconcile my feelings towards this book. Aside from the obvious fact that the content is horrifying, making this the kind of book you’re never going to ‘enjoy’ anyway, its very authorship is grounds for possible discomfort. On the one hand, I have considerable respect for what O’Brien has set out to do. A vast amount of research has clearly gone into the novel’s creation, and it’s fuelled by anger, empathy, and humanity. Stories like this one need to be told, and I admire her for using her platform to try and spark conversation, and amplify voices that have otherwise been silenced. On the other, part of me will always feel this simply wasn’t her story to tell. For as long as marginalised groups are pushed out of the mainstream, it’s important that allies with the comparative privilege of an audience pave the way for ‘own voice’ literature. But I can’t deny an undercurrent of unease reading a story about real-life, modern-day enslavement, human trafficking, terrorism, and abuse in Nigeria, as interpreted by the gaze of the white, Western world. To justify her decision to write this story, O’Brien’s perspective needed to add some kind of additional insight that amplified things in some way. As it is, I was simply left wondering why a white, Irish author would choose to tackle this subject at all. The right to freedom of expression through fiction is always going to be a complex issue with no easy answers, and I can respect arguments on both sides of the debate. In this particular instance, I felt the author’s intentions were absolutely in the right place, but that she fell short of inhabiting the culture, experiences, and voice of her heroine in an authentic and believable manner.

Even looking beyond these hesitations, I had several issues with the book’s execution, unfortunately. In the first half, the pace is relentless, walking us through a rapid succession of ghastly events at breakneck speed, with no time given over to reflection or analysis. With nothing being granted the necessary space to breathe within the narrative, I was left feeling strangely numb to everything that was happening; the lack of emotional resonance particularly notable given the distressing nature of the subject matter. I can understand that this may have been a deliberate attempt to avoid gratuity, and to reflect the relentless nature of the girls’ suffering, but a book as heavy as this is begging for greater nuance. Indeed, though the pace slows down substantially in the second half, the look at the lasting impact of our heroine’s experiences is still very base level. Any semblance of character development is reserved for her desire to be a mother to the child she conceived in captivity, with little exploration of her own psyche, despite the huge amount of potential that lay in the trauma, PTSD, and survivor’s guilt that were merely hinted at. Without wanting to spoil any plot specifics, I will say the author did at least attempt to explore the ideas of lost innocence, societal stigma, and the long journey to freedom that lies beyond escape. But again, these threads lacked any kind of satisfying emotional connection.

On another negative note, however, O’Brien’s matter-of-fact prose also did little for me. Again, in fairness, the simplistic nature of the language and the dot-to-dot narrative style arguably make sense given context. After all, the book is written in the first-person from the viewpoint of a young woman who was robbed of the chance to even finish her education; it’s unlikely she would be concerned with showcasing much in the way of literary merit. From a reader’s perspective, however, greater linguistic beauty may have helped to counter the narrative’s immense darkness, and to lift the book well above the realm of shock value; something I can see several accusing it of from time to time. It also would have made the book’s listing for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction considerably more understandable.

In short, as much as I sympathise with what O’Brien likely set out to achieve, this just didn’t work for me on any level. Whether stylistic choices in search or realism or not, the spare approach to character, plot, and emotion kept me held at too great a distance. For a story that should have kicked me in the gut, I was left feeling frustratingly apathetic.

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If you think you’ll have better luck with it, or you’re making your way through the Women’s Prize longlist like me, you can pick up a copy of Girl from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner | Book Review

Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner
Published by Random House, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Fleishman Is in Trouble follows a recently divorced, middle-aged man whose newfound sense of sexual freedom is brought to an abrupt halt when his ex-wife Rachel disappears and he must assume sole responsibility for their children. A social satire in many respects, Brodesser-Akner uses this setup to dissect the nature of marriage, gender roles, class disillusionment, and the pressure felt (particularly by women) to live the seemingly ‘perfect’ life.

The author is very successful in establishing complex and frustrating characters, with none of them being particularly easy to root for. Fleishman’s pompous and often selfish behaviour makes him instantly unlikable, but we soon see how much of this stems from a sense of insecurity and abandonment, as well as how eager he is to be a good father. Rachel too is painted as a cold, distant mother, but the book really hits its stride in the final quarter when we begin to unravel the true reasons behind her apparent disconnect, and eventual disappearance. This is where the strength of the novel really lies, with Brodesser-Akner exploring the idea that how we view a situation is entirely dependent on perspective; with society’s judgement almost always falling in favour of men.

What I found really interesting to consider are the gender stereotypes Brodesser-Akner employs; which ones she chooses to indulge, and which she chooses to subvert. Do we judge Rachel more harshly for being an absent parent because she is a woman? Do we feel more sympathetic towards Fleishman’s single parenthood, and more blasé towards his sexual promiscuities, simply because he is a man?

There’s also some interesting critique of the unique brand of delusional, self-inflicted struggles that can affect the middle and upper classes. Both Fleishman and Rachel have successful, high paying careers, affording them a comfortable existence and many luxuries they take for granted – like nannies and expensive summer camps for their children. As such, any financial stresses they experience are born purely out of their desire to relentlessly climb even higher on the social ladder, making them seem entirely unaware of their own privilege.

On the other hand, the novel’s weak point was its narrative framing, which I found needlessly convoluted. Though ostensibly focussing on Fleishman for much of the novel, in reality, this is Rachel’s story. While Brodesser-Akner could have said something interesting here about women having their voices silenced by the weight of patriarchy – how society reframes female suffering as male inconvenience – Fleishman himself is not our narrator either. Instead, every intimate detail of their lives is relayed to us via Fleishman’s female college friend, Libby. Her wholly unbelievable omniscience added nothing thematically that couldn’t have been explored as effectively from Fleishman’s and Rachel’s own perspectives. It’s arguable she was trying to represent the complete breakdown of communication between the couple by involving a third-party, or to comment on a lack of privacy when people are navigating difficult times, but it’s also possible that’s just me reaching to try and make sense of a stylistic choice that didn’t provide enough of a pay-off to justify how much it slowed down the narrative.

This was altogether surprisingly readable. I must confess to only picking it up because it was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and I fully expected to dislike it. I was pleasantly surprised therefore by the depth and nuance it had to offer within its social commentary. If only the narrative structure had been less contrived, allowing for fewer distractions and a more incisive look at the psychology of Fleishman and Rachel. The bones of a great novel are in here somewhere. As it is, I thought it was fine.

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You can pick up a copy of Fleishman Is in Trouble from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Women’s Prize for Fiction 2020 | Reaction and Reading Plans

The 16 books on this year’s longlist.

Last year was the first time I read the entire Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist before the shortlist was announced. Though I didn’t necessarily love all of the titles, I adored the experience of following the prize, and the friendships that were forged from discussing it with fellow bloggers. My initial reaction to seeing this year’s longlist was, “How can I possibly have read so many eligible titles, but only two of them made the list???” Once I calmed down and got over myself, however, I realised it was a pretty interesting selection, nonetheless. So, let’s chat about it!

Ironically, I think one of the most notable things about this year’s list is which books are absent. Whether it’s titles that have had huge media coverage (The Testaments by Margaret Atwood); titles from well-established authors (Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson); titles that have had previous award success (The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins, 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak); titles that have generated big buzz within the bookish world (Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann, Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid); or simply some personal favourites from this year’s eligible titles (The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, Long Bright River by Liz Moore), to name just a few; there are lots of big hitters that didn’t make the cut. In some ways, avoiding many of the ‘obvious’ picks is exciting, and once I started looking into the list properly, I started feeling more excited and optimistic about the prospect of committing to reading (almost) all of them once again.

The two I’ve read thus far are Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo and Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell (click on the titles if you’d like to check out my reviews). I enjoyed both, and am perfectly happy to see them make the list. Weather by Jenny Offill, and Girl by Edna O’Brien were both already on my TBR, so I’m happy for the excuse to try and pick them up sooner rather than later.

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams, A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes, The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, and Actress by Anne Enright were already firmly on my radar, and I’ve heard sufficiently good things about each of them to now officially add them to my TBR as well.

I knew next to nothing about Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie, Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson, or How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee before the list was announced. Having looked into them, I’m definitely intrigued enough to want to give them a shot, and I’m really pleased I discovered a few exciting new-to-me books through the prize!

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara, Dominicana by Angie Cruz, and The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo don’t immediately jump out at me. Depending on how well I get on with the ones I’m planning to prioritise, and the reviews I see coming in for them from fellow bloggers over the coming weeks, I may reach for them.

The only one I don’t want to read is Fleishman is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner. It doesn’t sound like my kind of thing at all, and I’ve seen a few ‘meh’ reviews from people I trust. We’ll see…

And last but not least, the only one I definitely won’t be reading is The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel. It’s the third in a trilogy of historical behemoths, none of which I’ve read yet, and none of which particularly appeal to me – despite Mantel’s immense success and reputation (I know, don’t come for me, okay?). With a longlist this extensive already, there’s no way I can commit to making my way through that whole series within the next month or two.

So, taking stock, there are 11 titles that I would ideally like to have read by the time the shortlist/winner is announced, 3 that are maybes, 1 that’s unlikely, and 1 that’s a definite no. Honestly? I’m pretty happy with that. In an ideal world, I’d be able to wholeheartedly commit to the entire list every year, but as it is, I’m looking forward to following this one as best I can, and seeing where it takes me.

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What about you? How many of the longlisted titles have you read? How many others do you plan to pick up? Which titles are you most surprised and/or sad didn’t make the cut? Let me know your thoughts!

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