The books I read in November
There’s time for one more wrap up before the festivities hit full swing. Throughout November, I read 10 books, bringing my total for the year so far up to 115. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.
1. Another Day in the Death of America by Gary Younge
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Younge examines the epidemic of gun violence in America, particularly at the intersection of race and inequality. By humanising the victims normally reduced to mind-numbing statistics (by presenting us with case studies of 10 young casualties who were all killed on the same random day), he lays bare the extent of the problem and why drastic change is so necessary.
2. In the Cave of the Delicate Singers by Lucy Taylor
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] There’s some untapped potential in this unsettling story about a one-woman rescue mission in a mysterious cave, but the haunting imagery really lingers in the mind. The atmosphere is suitably claustrophobic, and I enjoyed the casual queer rep.
3. Blood Bath: The Bodies Issue, edited by Katy Lennon
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Images and ideas throughout the works featured in this lit mag were suitably haunting, but with a strong emphasis on surrealism, I would have preferred a little more grounding to help drive home the thematic implications of the horrors on show. More than worth it for the couple of standout gems.
4. Mary Toft; or The Rabbit Queen by Dexter Palmer
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Review to come for BookBrowse.
5. Exquisite Cadavers by Meena Kandasamy
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] This experimental novella is at once the story of a young couple attempting to navigate growing tensions within their home and across the globe, and a look at the wider context of the author’s life and musings throughout the book’s creation. The craftsmanship is fantastic, with stunning use of language, but I found the reading experience too fragmented to feel invested.
6. My Name is Monster by Katie Hale
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] The heroine of this post-apocalyptic survival story believes she is the last human on Earth, and so she must readjust her entire way of life when she finds and takes in a feral young girl. Riffing on many of the themes and ideas established in Frankenstein, the novel looks at identity, belonging, the enduring nature of societal roles, creator versus creation, and surviving versus truly living. The world-building is handled incredibly well, and I found the whole thing intelligent, nuanced, and compelling.
7. The Break by Katherena Vermette
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] When a teenage girl is brutally attacked, her extended family of Métis women rally to her side. An intergeneration domestic saga, I enjoyed its look at identity, community, inheritance, the shared process of healing, and the socioeconomic conditions that can push women to turn on each other. The many perspectives lacked enough definition, however, meaning I struggled to place the large cast of characters within the wider context of the family. Still, this is a solid novel, and I can see why it attracted such glowing reviews.
8. The Forester’s Daughter by Claire Keegan
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Tension brews within an Irish family as long-held secrets rise to the fore. There’s a fable-esque quality to this brief tale which makes its inevitable tragedy and off-kilter semblance of hope all the more impactful.
9. A Keeper by Graham Norton
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] Though things became a little convoluted towards the end, Norton can certainly weave a good yarn. This story about a woman delving into her deceased mother’s past eked out twists at a great pace, and I enjoyed its look at the depth of parental love, the pressures of society, the pain of living with secrets, and the idea of inheritance across generations.
10. The Ghost, The Owl by Franco, illustrated by Sara Richard
[ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ] The story in this whimsical graphic novel felt a little rushed, but I enjoyed the overall sentiment about overcoming our differences so we can stand together against injustice. Sara Richard’s accompanying artwork was stunning, and definitely the book’s highlight.
There we have it! My favourite read of the month was My Name is Monster. What was yours?
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This tale of secrets and wilful ignorance simmers with a quietly menacing tension. Set in rural Ireland, it chronicles the unravelling of long-guarded lies within a family, and the unique brand of loneliness that comes with sacrificing desire in favour of keeping up appearances. The climax feels tragically inevitable, and though the whole thing is full of supressed pathos, the ending delivers an unexpected sliver of hope that comes with new beginnings. Couple this with the straight-forward yet assured prose, and the story takes on a fable-esque quality that I really enjoyed.
When her mother dies, Elizabeth returns to her home in rural Ireland to sort out her belongings. Uncovering a box of hidden love letters, she delves into a past she knew nothing about, finally coming to understand her own origins, and the woman her mother truly was. Using a dual narrative structure, Norton explores the depth of parental love, the pressure to adhere to societal norms, the pain of keeping secrets, and the cyclical nature of family drama across different generations. Twists are eked out at a good pace, and I remained intrigued throughout. The separate time periods and the general tone of pathos are evoked well, but I felt things became a little convoluted towards the end. Still, Norton can weave a good yarn, and I would be open to trying more of his fiction.
I picked this graphic novel up on a whim after seeing some of the art online a while ago and thinking it looked gorgeous. Very fable-esque in tone, it centres around an owl helping a ghost to make peace with her life and death, and struggling with the rule that forbids animals from interfering with human lives. Story-wise, it was fine. Things felt a bit rushed and there were a couple of plot holes (even within the context of such a whimsical story), but I did like the allegorical message about overcoming difference so we can stand together against injustice. The highlight was definitely Sara Richard’s art, however. She forgoes traditional panels entirely, the whole thing blending together into one continuously flowing visual narrative. The attention to detail is stunning, and I would certainly seek out more of her work.
A woman with a rare form of synaesthesia (a condition where she feels sound waves as vibrations on her skin) launches a one woman rescue mission when her caving colleagues fail to return from an infamous cave with a dark history. Though the protagonist’s synaesthesia is established as a key plot point early on, it becomes weirdly irrelevant and feels very underused. On the plus side, there is some great writing, good casual queer rep, and striking imagery throughout this short horror story. Taylor creates a suitably claustrophobic atmosphere, and I enjoyed the unsettling climax.
Blood Bath is a lit mag based in Scotland that publishes short fiction and poetry from within the horror genre. There are 13 contributors featured in this inaugural issue, and as with any anthology of work, I connected with some voices more than others.
This fantastically dark spin on a classic tale poses the following questions: What if Snow White was a liar? What if everything we’ve been led to believe about the so called ‘wicked Queen’ was a means of covering up her own evil? What if her stepmother was only ever trying to protect people from an unspeakable horror?
Self-conscious teenager Anya is desperate to fit in. When she falls down an abandoned well (I kid you not), she unwittingly befriends the ghost that has been stuck in its depths for a century. At first, the ghost seems to offer the perfect solutions to all of Anya’s problems, but as its motives are revealed, its intentions become more sinister. Even putting the supernatural element aside, the whole setup of this story is a little silly, so you definitely have to suspend your disbelief somewhat. That said, it’s a fun read that becomes pleasingly creepy towards the end.
Decent tension and intrigue build towards an ending that is unsettling in its implications, if a little too understated to fully drive home the horror. There is, however, a good emphasis on the characters for such a brief tale, and a couple of moments that stand out visually.
This anecdotal memoir focusses on Cannon’s time spent as a junior doctor, working on both A&E and psychiatric wards. Its primary aim is to humanise the overworked and underappreciated staff who keep the NHS afloat in times of unrest and austerity, and to explore the ethical grey area between maintaining professional protocol and extending the hand of human kindness. From heart-breakingly tender interactions with patients, to moments of gut-punch trauma, she highlights the physical and emotional burnout that comes with the job. By doing so, she shows us why it’s imperative we stop seeing health workers as miraculous, indomitable heroes, and start treating them like the fallible human beings they are, by putting better support systems in place.
Everything about this book is entirely inoffensive. Plot, characters, writing, themes; there’s nothing wrong with any of them, they just fail to spark any kind of emotional or literary resonance. The biggest problem is mis-marketing. Billed as a ghost story, published by renowned horror publisher Hammer, and described using words like ‘atmospheric’, ‘haunting’, and ‘flesh-creeper’, I expected something suitably chilling. On the contrary, this would have been far more accurately described as a paranormal romance that looks at the concept of the past haunting people and places. A solid idea, just not what I was looking for here. I missed the evocate prose and arresting atmosphere of Dunmore’s A Spell of Winter, and was left feeling wholly apathetic.
Described as a Victorian chiller, The Corset follows two young women in very different circumstances. Ruth is a teenage seamstress awaiting trial for murder. Dorothea is a wealthy socialite, whose fascination with phrenology leads her to Oakgate Prison, where she hopes to uncover the truth behind Ruth’s case. An air of mystery and threat bubbles throughout, with the book exploring notions of female autonomy, the horror of poverty, and the psychological impact of trauma. Flirtations with the possibility of something supernatural are handled incredibly well, elevating this gothic gem to the heights of subtle literary horror.
Written in sumptuous, evocative prose, A Spell of Winter is a strangely beguiling tale that explores forbidden love, the burden of secrets, and the struggle to escape the cloying inheritance of family. Set largely in the build up to WWI, we have many hallmarks of the gothic genre, including an imposing manor home, a family cutting themselves off from the outside world, and dangerous secrets that threaten to tear them all apart. Tense and quietly eerie without ever boiling over, I was utterly enthralled.
Clara, a young woman with a rare brittle bone condition and a passion for botany, is invited to establish a glasshouse at Shadowbrook, an infamous country home. Upon arrival, she finds an owner conspicuous by absence, and residents terrified of a supposed haunting. Clara soon sets her practical mind to solving the crumbling manor’s mysteries. In many ways, this is a book of opposites; of truth versus lies, logic versus faith, and reality versus the supernatural, as we follow the unravelling of long-held secrets, and examine the devastating ways women’s lives were ruled by scandal, rumour, and reputation. This is gothic historic fiction at its best, and is easily one of my books of the year so far.
There’s no one reading this who hasn’t heard of Dracula. It’s one of those books that is so iconic, we tend to think we know all about if before we even read it, leaving us to wonder if it’s worth the time and effort. Having finally picked it up for myself last year, I can confidently say that it absolutely is. So much more nuanced than I expected, I loved its fascinating take on gender roles, the Victorian fixation with bodily and sexual corruption, and the timeless fear of the unknown. As a lover of gothic and horror fiction, it was really fun to see many of the foundations upon which those genres would flourish being set down. There is some very interesting use of queer coding to examine too, but above all else, it remains a gripping, atmospheric page turner.
It’s worth pointing out that this is very, very different from the recent Netflix adaptation, which only shares the book’s name and generally creepy nature. Jackson’s novel is a masterclass in the less is more approach to horror, completely forgoing gore or jump scares. Far more psychological than its screen counterpart, it creeps beneath your skin, forcing you to question what is real and which characters can be trusted. A rumination on the invasive influence of storytelling and fear, and the dangerous power of the imagination, themes of suppression, sisterhood, and belonging simmer to reach a breathless fever pitch. Intelligent, understated, and downright unsettling, this take on the classic haunted house narrative is all the better for its ambiguity.
