Amy Levy & Ananda Lima | Mini Reviews

Reuben Sachs by Amy Levy
Published by Persephone, 2007
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

First published in 1888, this forgotten classic was revived by the wonderful Persephone Books. I really admire the ideas Levy was exploring, with the novel essentially serving as an indictment of the strict hold societal rules held over people’s lives, with particular regard to class, wealth, reputation, and religion.

While I can appreciate that it would be somewhat revolutionary in its day for a woman to write an outwardly critical view of life as a Jew in Victorian London, by today’s standards it all feels a bit pedestrian and lacking in drive, with little in the way of outright conflict or development beyond what the blurb sets out.

Still, Levy’s prose remains very readable, capturing the look and feel of the era in which she lived, and though the delivery underwhelmed, her themes of expectation, hypocrisy, and suppression remain relevant.

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Mother/land by Ananda Lima
Published by Black Lawrence Press, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

An interesting dissection of language and identity within the context of life as an immigrant mother. The success of poetry depends almost entirely on whether you click with the poet’s style, and that’s a wholly subjective thing. So while I have no specific complaints about this collection, per se, it hasn’t become a new favourite either.

That said, there are a few gems to be found, and those who see their own experiences reflected in Lima’s will likely find it a considerably more powerful read.

Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.

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Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir | Book Review

Magma by Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir
Translated from the Icelandic by Meg Matich
Published by Grove Atlantic, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This strangely enthralling read documents one young woman’s experiences within a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. The stripped back style creates a sense of constant momentum, which in turn establishes a stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere that saw me immediately drawn in. In fact, I felt so invested in our heroine’s fate that I found myself racing through the book in a single sitting.

For a relatively slight novel, the author does a fantastic job of showcasing the realities of isolation and depression. With a deft hand, she shows the devastating impact of abuse, and just how easy it can be for perpetrators to coerce and manipulate those around them; forcing them into modifying their own behaviour and gaslighting them into self-blame.

My only gripe with the book comes with the ending, which is inherently tricky to discuss without resorting to spoilers. Suffice to say that, while I appreciated the outcome from a narrative perspective, the potentially clumsy message it conveyed worked less well for me.

Still, this slight blip didn’t detract from the overall success of the sucker punch that is this little novel. It’s brutally honest in its portrayal of a woman in decline, without ever feeling gratuitous, and it serves as a poignant reminder that even the most outwardly strong and carefree among us can be broken.

I sincerely hope more of Thóra Hjörleifsdóttir’s work is translated into English in the future!

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Thank you to the publisher for a free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review.

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The Others by Sarah Blau | Book Review

The Others by Sarah Blau
Translated from the Hebrew by Daniella Zamir
Published by Pushkin Press, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The Others blends the intrigue of a thriller with pertinent social commentary. The book opens with the news that one of Israel’s most prominent feminist scholars has been murdered. Even more distressing, her body was displayed in a horrifying tableau clearly designed to send a message: tied to a chair, a baby doll glued to her hands, the word mother scrawled across her forehead. Sheila, a former college friend of the victim, understands right away: someone takes serious issue with their long-ago pact to remain childless. But that means she and her other old friends could be next in line – or the ones responsible.

Blau does a great job of crafting an anti-heroine. From the off, it’s clear that Sheila is not only holding back information, she is also a highly flawed person, capable of intense jealousy, vanity, and even cruelty. This serves to make her narration somewhat unreliable, forcing the reader to remain on their toes as to where the guilt truly lies.

Employing such unlikable characters is also a clever way of highlighting the complex nature of feminism. The central group’s desire to defy the rigidity of ascribed gender roles – to gain autonomy over their own lives and bodies despite pressure and derision – is an admirable cause that is easy to get behind. But this ferocity of spirit does not make them exempt from treating each other to the kind of catty, underhand behaviour that feels indicative of everything feminism should stand against. In short, we contain multitudes, and women are each other’s worst enemies as often as they are their greatest allies in their fight for equality.

The novel is chiefly concerned with women seeking the freedom to make – and change – their own minds, the pressure to become a mother, and the fine line between friendship, love, and hate. The setting of contemporary Israel allows the author to weave in commentary on the likes of religion, politics, and gender, but that’s not to say the story ever feels dry. On the contrary, the book moves along at a canter, well-placed reveals keeping you hooked and making this a compelling read despite – and because of – the big themes it tackles.

That said, things can get a little heavy-handed at times. On occasion, the book also deliberately leans into genre tropes, but rather than tackle them from an unexpected or original angle, a character simply declares, “This is like something out of a bad crime book!” – a device I find a little grating. But that was never enough to hinder my enjoyment of the time I spent with this genuine page-turner. It’s rare you find a book that would just as likely spark debate in a serious gender studies class as it would a casual book club, but this just might.

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Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi | Book Review

Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi, translated from the Arabic by Sherif Hetata
Published by Zed Books, 2007 (first published in 1975)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Set in the author’s home country of Egypt, and inspired in large part by the real life of a woman sentenced to death in Qanatir Prison whom she met during her research into female neurosis, Woman at Point Zero is a damning exploration of systemic misogyny.

The book continues to resonate strongly on a narrative and thematic level despite being written more than forty years ago. This is testament both to Saadawi’s perceptive writing, and her grasp of just how prevalent the patriarchy was (and continues to be). By having Firdaus narrate her own story to us, from early childhood to imprisonment, we see the relentless influence and abuse inflicted upon her by men throughout her life, both on an individual level and by the system at large.

From enforced genital mutilation to having her passion for education ignored, and from domestic violence to rape and exploitation; Firdaus certainly endures a lot of suffering. And yet, I thought Saadawi did a good job of allowing her heroine’s fierce spirit to consistently shine through, opting for a sense of tragic realism over needless gratuity.

Given that we know from the off the story will culminate in Firdaus being convicted and sentenced to death for killing a man, the author is able to explore the notion of culpability; asking us to consider at which point Firdaus crosses the line from victim to criminal, or if, indeed, she ever does. For a relatively brief and seemingly straightforward novel, there’s a nice amount of nuance along the way; from commentary on suppressed sexuality and corruption within religion, to the deception of power dynamics within the sex industry.

There’s certainly an argument to be made that Saadawi perpetuates the stereotype of Middle Eastern men being ruthlessly violent towards women, but given the narrative’s real-world basis, the timing of the book’s creation, the wider context of everything our heroine endures, and the thematic purpose of the novel (to show how women, particularly those who threaten the status quo, are browbeaten and silenced by society), I felt it was largely justified in this case.

It’s easy to see why Woman at Point Zero is considered something of a modern classic when it comes to feminist literature. It’s both impressive and upsetting how relevant much of its message continues to be, and I’m glad to have experienced its power for myself.

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You can pick up a copy of Woman at Point Zero by clicking here.

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Things We Say in the Dark by Kirsty Logan | Book Review

Things We Say in the Dark by Kirsty Logan
Published by Harvill Secker, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Sometimes a book sounds so tailored towards your taste that it could never possibly live up to your sky-high hopes. I fear that was the case for me with Logan’s Things We Say in the Dark, a collection of feminist horror stories that was easily one of my most anticipated releases of the year.

There are definitely lots of things to admire here. Logan’s prose is always readable, but it’s punctuated by moments of linguistic beauty, with vivid and evocative imagery peppered throughout. Some of these disturbing tableaus are sure to linger in the mind. The stories themselves are mostly contemporary, but there’s a timeless quality to the themes being explored. Namely, the domestic fears of everyday life – particularly those that haunt young women. Logan takes the things we’re told by society to aim for – the gorgeous home, the perfect family, the successful life – and spins our apprehensions about them into what reads like a series of fever dreams, as though she has literally documented her nightmares in the form of a dream diary. What if our houses aren’t the safe spaces we always imagined? What if you find the experience of pregnancy and childbirth horrifying rather than beautiful? How would you cope if your child wasn’t healthy or happy? What if you wished you’d never become a parent at all? What if you can never escape the horrors of your past? These fears and more are explored in claustrophobic, hypnotic ways by employing a dash of fairy tale, a twist of the supernatural, and a generous pinch of magical realism.

With around 20 stories in all, this is a generous collection. Though I very much enjoyed the dark, ethereal tone employed throughout, there were comparatively few that stood out as individual highlights. Those that did were Birds Fell From the Sky and Each One Spoke in Your Voice, which follows a man haunted by the long-ago death of his brother, and Good Good Good, Nice Nice Nice, a semi sci-fi tale about a woman who works at a baby growing farm (it’s hard to explain), who is struggling with the care of her own sickly baby. Other stories I enjoyed included one about a woman who feels isolated after moving to a new country, one about a woman who has fallen in love with her friend, and one about a woman who discovers disturbing realities regarding her deceased grandmother when she inherits her house.

Sadly, most of the other stories began to blend into one, making this a collection I’m far more likely to remember for its overall mood than I am for its specific plots and characters. Whilst I was consistently hooked by the fantastic concepts and themes at play, a few too many stories tipped into ‘weird for the sake of being weird’ territory for my personal taste. It’s a shame, as when this collection is good, it’s very, very good. I’m more than willing to accept that my own high expectations contributed to my slightly lukewarm response. Logan is still an author I very much admire, and I will continue to follow her career with excitement.

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If you’d like to give Things We Say in the Dark a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here.

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What Red Was by Rosie Price | Book Review

What Red Was by Rosie Price
Published by Harvill Secker, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This nuanced exploration of sexual assault and the resulting trauma manages to completely avoid the trap of salaciousness. It is in this understated and honest approach that the book’s true power lies. The story begins by showing the wonderful friendship that blossoms between Kate and Max throughout their years at university and beyond. The two are inseparable and unwaveringly honest with each other. When Kate is raped at a party by someone in Max’s inner circle, however, she must face not only the physical and mental implications of her attack, but a near impossible question: Should she tell Max the truth, and risk losing their friendship?

The friendship between Kate and Max is one of the most convincing and endearing that I’ve come across in fiction. The dynamic and chemistry between them is fantastic, and not once does Price cheapen its validity by questioning the entirely platonic nature of their relationship. It makes Kate’s dilemma following the assault all the more painful to watch unfold. It’s incredibly poignant to see Kate selflessly carry the burden of her secret alone, seeing it as an attempt to protect Max from a truth she knows will hurt him, potentially derailing their friendship.

The supporting characters are well developed and interesting in their own right. Through them, Price explores the notion that we are all dealing with our own private traumas, and the toxicity that can arise when we internalise that pain or turn to unhealthy vices for escape. She also touches on class divides. With Max’s mother, Zara, being a respected film director, he comes from a considerably wealthier background than Kate, and we soon see the privileges this has afforded his family – even if it hasn’t necessarily brought them happiness.

Throughout Kate’s attempts to understand and open up about what has happened to her, Price offers unflinching insight into the ramifications of rape, with major trigger warnings here for the likes of PTSD and self-harm. She shows us that rapists can come in many forms; that language and perspective can be used to try and warp the truth; and the frustration that can arise when the scars left by an assault are not outwardly discernible. Through Kate and Zara, however, she also explores the role that art can play in facing up to and processing trauma.

As much as I love a lot of what this book has to say, and how intelligently it says it, there were a couple of stumbling blocks right at the end that stopped me from giving it the full five stars. Being wary of spoilers, Kate presents a viewpoint in the final chapter, the wording of which I found very problematic. It was understandable given everything she’d been through, but for it to be presented as though the conclusion of her journey, rather than a mindset that could be challenged and overcome, left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I also felt that a few too many questions were left unanswered. Whilst deliberate to some extent, reflecting the idea that real stories don’t wrap up neatly, the lack of closure on certain key points was still frustrating from a narrative standpoint.

It’s a shame the book ended on a slightly negative note for me. I don’t want that to detract from the fantastic achievement this book is overall. It offers one of the most developed, thoughtful, frank, and important commentaries on sexual violence and coping with trauma that I’ve ever read.

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If you’d like to read What Red Was, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Women in Translation Month | Recommendations

Women in Translation Month is just around the corner! Having shared my own TBR for this year, I thought I would also share some recommendations, highlighting a few of my favourites from the past few years. If any catch your eye, simply click on the title and it will take you over to Book Depository, where you can find out more or pick up a copy in time for #WITmonth!

The Diving Pool by Yoko Ogawa (translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder)

This book is comprised of three quietly unsettling novellas that creep beneath your skin in an uncanny way. They explore the sordid, sinister side of human nature that lurks beneath the surface of normal life, caused by suppressed emotion that manifests in a sense of detachment from society and casual everyday cruelty.

The History of Bees by Maja Lunde (translated from the Norwegian by Diane Oatley)

Set in the past, present, and future, this ambitious novel follows three seemingly disparate narratives that increasingly weave together. Lunde highlights how intimately our fate is tied to that of bees and why it’s so important we protect them. Drawing beautiful parallels between them and us, she asks us what kind of legacy we want to leave behind.

The Last Children of Tokyo by Yoko Tawada (translated from the Japanese by Margaret Mitsutani)

A strange, understated little book that focusses on mood and message more than plot, this is carried by a singular narrative voice, and a tone that balances pathos and whimsy. Set in a society where older generations are living ever longer, whilst children are dying young, it touches on many prescient themes, including the rise of nationalism, gender fluidity, the use of language and law-making to incite fear of the Other, and how our pursuit of self-gain is harming the planet.

The Distance Between Me and the Cherry Tree by Paola Peretti (translated from the Italian by Denise Muir)

This bittersweet novel follows a young girl as she attempts to come to terms with her failing eyesight, before she is left completely blind. Exploring difference, self-acceptance, and friendship, it’s also a great example of own-voice literature, with Peretti having the same degenerative eye condition as her protagonist.

Out by Natsuo Kirino (translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder)

When a young woman murders her deadbeat husband, she enlists the help of her female co-workers to help her dispose of the body and cover up the crime. The book then follows the way this act impacts the various people involved, whilst exploring the role of women within Japanese society at large.

The Vegetarian by Han Kang (translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith)

Hypnotic and at times disorientating, The Vegetarian explores the fear and misunderstanding levied at those who are bold enough to be open about their differences, particularly where mental health is concerned. Its allegorical approach won’t be for everyone, but it offers a boldly original look at our inability to understand what’s going on inside someone else’s head, and men’s stifling desire to control women.

Irmina by Barbara Yelin (translated from the German by Michael Waaler)

Inspired by the life of the author’s grandmother, this graphic novel is a look at how easy it was for those on the periphery of war to abandon their former beliefs and slip into a life of quiet complicity. It offers unique insight into a generation that looked the other way during Nazi rule, through choice, necessity, or wilful obliviousness. Though its somewhat abrupt ending lacked a sense of development or revelation, in many ways this was reflective of the book’s main theme: the impact and meaning of what is left unsaid.

The Travelling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa (translated from the Japanese by Philip Gabriel)

This is a touching and surprisingly nuanced story about a young man reconnecting with old friends, to try and find a new home for the beloved cat he can no longer house. Throughout their journey, we learn about the man’s past, and the ways each of the people he meets with helped to shape his life. This had a lot of potential to become overly sentimental, but I found it genuinely affecting.

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I’ll leave it there for now, but I’d love to know what some of your favourite books are by women in translation!

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Women in Translation Month | TBR

August is Women in Translation Month; the perfect opportunity to champion international literature written by women that has been translated into English. The initiative was set up to counter the fact that the majority of works translated in and out of English are written by men. This post may be a little early, but I’m already excited to get going, and wanted to share my own TBR in case anyone else is keen to get involved and is looking for some ideas.

Depending on how well I get on, I may well reach for a couple of others, but I will be prioritising the following titles:

1. Lust, Caution by Eileen Chang (translated from the Chinese by Julia Lovell)

I’ve been meaning to try Chang’s work for years, and it’s about time I stopped putting it off. The title story in this collection is described as an atmospheric look at ‘love, espionage and betrayal in wartime Shanghai’. That’s more than enough to pique my interest!

2. The Good Lover by Steinunn Sigurðardóttir (translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton)

I picked this up during my most recent trip to Iceland, drawn in by the striking cover, and the claim that the writer is one of the country’s most successful contemporary authors within the international market. The story follows a wealthy businessman returning to Iceland from New York as he attempts to reconnect with his childhood sweetheart.

3. Asleep by Banana Yoshimoto (translated from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich)

This is a bind-up of three novellas. Each story follows a young woman afflicted by a strange sleep habit: The first, mourning her lover, begins to sleepwalk; the second, embarking on an affair with a married man, is unable to stay awake; the third, once embroiled in a love triangle, finds her dreams haunted by the ‘other woman’ she was pitted against. Described as ‘sly’, ‘mystical’, and ‘surreal’, I’m excited to try more of Yoshimoto’s work.

4. The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist (translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy)

This dystopian novel is set in the near future, when people who remain unmarried and childless by the time they turn 50 are taken to a retirement facility known as The Unit. Here, they live a life of luxury, but they must donate their organs one-by-one until the ‘final donation’. We follow one such patient, whose peaceful resignation to this fate is called into question when she falls in love with a fellow inmate. This is giving me major vibes of another popular novel, which I won’t name for the sake of spoilers, but if you know, you know.

5. The Iliac Crest by Cristina Rivera-Garza (translated from the Spanish by Sarah Booker)

A surreal, atmospheric hybrid of horror and mystery, this novel is set on a dark and stormy night (as all the best stories are). In it, a man is visited by two women who claim to know his greatest secret: that he is, in fact, a woman. In increasingly desperate attempts to assert his masculinity, the book purportedly goes on to explore the roles of gender and language.

6. Blue is the Warmest Color by Julie Maroh (translated from the French by Ivanka Hahnenberger)

I’m not generally a big re-reader, but WIT Month feels like a great excuse to pick up this graphic novel again. It’s a queer coming of age story that explores love and identity. I enjoyed it first-time around, but wasn’t as floored as some people, so I’m curious to see how it fares upon a second reading, several years on.

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I’ll leave it there for now! There are lots of books by women in translation on my TBR, and as I said, I may well reach for a couple of others depending on how well I get on. The ones listed above are all books I already own a copy of, however, hence why they’re my priority. Plus, that should leave me enough wiggle room to pick up a few books on a whim throughout the month.

I’ll put together a recommendations post highlighting a few of my favourite women in translation soon, to hopefully get us all even more hyped! If you’d like to know more about any of the books mentioned above, or if you’d like to pick up a copy in time for #WITMonth, simply click on the title and it’ll take you over to Book Depository.

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The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer | Book Review

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer
Published by Penguin, 2015 (first published in 1962)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

With biting hints of the rise in feminism that was to come, Penelope Mortimer’s The Pumpkin Eater chronicles the breakdown and attempted mental reconstruction of a woman left deeply unsatisfied by her role as wife and mother. There are whispers of scandal and rumour bubbling beneath the surface, and an oddly gripping quality to the somewhat scant narrative. That said, the book focusses on a perceptive look at society, and a sense of subtle power, over any salacious shock value. In that respect, it’s the kind of feminism that feels quietly revolutionary for its time, rather than anything particularly ground-breaking for the modern reader.

Speaking of this book feeling ‘of its time’, there are several uses of uncomfortably outdated racial and queer slurs. There’s an argument for making contextual allowances for this kind of thing in classic literature, but I can’t pretend it didn’t jar me out of the story. Once you get beyond this (and thankfully most examples come early in the book), Mortimer’s prose feels very sharp, particularly in her use of dialogue. There’s a bluntness to the heroine’s narrative voice, and this allows for moments of dry, deadpan humour.

By moving back and forth through time to examine several formative relationships and experiences, we see how often the protagonist has sought happiness in the wrong places, based on external pressures and societal expectations more than genuine desire. We also see how often she has lacked autonomy, with various men (her father, her doctor, her therapist, and her husbands) repeatedly assuming they know exactly what she wants and how she feels without bothering to ask her. In this respect, the book looks at the everyday ways in which women were (and sadly still are) betrayed by the men in their lives, the roles ascribed to them, and sometimes even the fellow women they thought they could trust.

Having divorced several times, and accrued an ‘army of children’, the protagonist remains nameless throughout, having been consistently defined by her relationship to the man in her life at any given time. Her many children also remain nameless and numberless, hinting at the sense of disconnect she feels from her own life. There is one notable exception to this rule – her adolescent daughter, Dinah. Beautiful, on the cusp of adulthood, and thus beginning to emerge from the indeterminate mass of children as her own person, the reason for singling her out remained frustratingly unexplored. I wondered if perhaps the narrator, and Mortimer, saw Dinah as something of a second chance; a glimmer of hope that the next generation of girls may have the power and opportunity to forge their own identities. There was real potential in this thread, and I wish more had been done with it.

When the book is at its most honest and observant, it can be wonderfully poignant, like this section, in which our heroine realises she’s been left so jaded by life that she doesn’t even know how to be happy anymore: “I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I’m like, how can I know what I want? I only know that whether I’m good or bad, whether I’m a bitch or not, whether I’m strong or weak or contemptible or a bloody martyr – I mean whether I’m fat or thin, tall or short, because I don’t know – I want to be happy. I want to find a way to be happy.”

If there had been a little more of this, a little less casual prejudice, and a little more punch and cohesion in the overall delivery, this could have been fantastic. As it is, it’s still a worthwhile read, and a perfectly valid cornerstone in the literary feminist canon.

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If you’d like to give The Pumpkin Eater a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia | Book Review

Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia, illustrated by Katy Horan
Published by Seal Press, 2017
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This gem of a book celebrates some of the most ground-breaking and inspiring female writers from throughout history. The title, and the book’s overarching theme, comes from the assertion that their way with words – their ability to conjure worlds and incite emotion – is in itself a kind of magic. Like those accused of witchcraft, many of these writers were vilified for refusing to adhere to societal expectations, but by challenging the norm and embracing their talent, they were able to forge their own power and agency.

Each writer receives a double-page spread. On one side, we are presented with a stunningly surreal and suitably gothic portrait produced by Katy Horan. Drawing on iconography from their work to add subtlety and meaning, I could happily display each and every one on my wall. Here are some examples to whet your appetite:

Audre Lorde, Emily Brontë & Virginia Woolf

Forugh Farrokhzad, Toni Morrison & Sandra Cisneros

Alejandra Pizarnik, Angela Carter & Anne Carson

On the other page, we get a few short, third-person vignettes about the writer in question. Poetic, magical, and hugely evocative, they too draw on themes and ideas from the writer’s life and work to offer a unique and artistic snapshot of their experiences, inspiration, or mindset. Do they occasionally dip into self-indulgence? Arguably so. But the fairy tale-esque tone works perfectly within the context of the book’s framing. Here are a few excerpts from different writers’ sections to give you an idea of what to expect:

On Jamaica Kincaid: ‘By day, the island of Antigua sleeps like a white, sandy lion. At night, the lion opens his jaws to swallow young girls whole. When her childhood ends, Jamaica fights her way out of the lion’s mouth and swims all the way to America. […] Jamaica puts a pot of soup on the stove. It is hearty with hurt, the hurt of nations and families. She leaves the house and goes about her business. By evening, the soup boils down to a thick black sludge. Jamaica scoops it up with her pen and writes.’

On Virginia Woolf: ‘Crossing the street on a rainy day, Virginia leaps easily from one pool of consciousness to another. She loves these puddles, the creatures wrapping around her ankles in each. But before she can get to the next street, Virginia sees her own pool: it floods with rain, rises higher, becomes a deep, turbulent river. She will not survive this one.’

On Mary Shelley: ‘At night, no matter what she does, Mary’s laboratory becomes a cemetery. Lantern becomes moon, instruments become shovels, tables turn to coffins. Mary sighs. She places her hand into the enormous, awkward paw of the waiting Creature, and they walk together among the graves.’

Following several such paragraphs for each writer, we have a brief, more traditional biographical note, as well as some recommended reads from their oeuvre.

I was thrilled by how diverse this is. There’s a fantastic mix of literary giants and virtually unknown writers from across the world. I was reminded to pick up some of the greats, and discovered some fascinating new figures I’d love to learn more about. By not limiting itself to the widely accepted literary canon, we are also presented with lots of women of colour.

Informative, creative, and beautifully presented, I know I will come back to this regularly, both to pick up recommendations, and to enjoy Horan’s gorgeous artwork. This would make a fantastic gift for anyone who loves literature, feminism, art, and a little dash of the uncanny. But don’t just get it for others. By all means, treat yourself to this little treasure trove.

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