(More) Most Anticipated Books for the Second Half of 2026
Yesterday, I reported back on how I’ve done with the 25 Most Anticipated books I chose at the beginning of the year. I have another dozen to add to the list today. These are in release date order by genre, with the UK publication info given first if available. The blurbs are adapted from Goodreads and I’ve taken the liberty of using whichever cover I prefer.
Fiction
Heartstopper: Volume 6 by Alice Oseman [2 July, Hodder Children’s Books – out now! / July 7, Graphix]: I have simply adored this YA graphic novel series, so much I read it twice. Oseman seems to be having trouble figuring out how to end it, which isn’t surprising given how long it’s been a part of her life and how popular it’s become. “The final installment in the bestselling LGBTQ+ graphic novel series about life, love, and everything that happens in between. Everyone in school knows Nick and Charlie. Everyone knows they’re going to be together forever. But Charlie’s busy with his bid to become head boy. And while Nick is preparing to leave for college, he’s starting to wonder who he’ll be… without Charlie.”
Astronaut! by Oana Aristide [July 14, W. W. Norton & Company; out in the UK from Headline since March, but I missed it!]: I really enjoyed Aristide’s McKitterick Prize-shortlisted debut, Under the Blue, and I wondered if this might be similar to Spaceman of Bohemia. (Nothing to do with astronauts, actually?) “Romania, 1989, the twilight of Ceausescu’s dictatorship: A time when every neighbor, every friend, every family member may be an informant for the regime. When news emerges of a man-eating bear terrorizing the country, two bright lives collide. Constantin, an idealistic police detective [… and] Lia, a rebellious, inquisitive schoolgirl … unwittingly drawn into an elderly neighbor’s secret plot against the regime.” (Edelweiss download)
The New People by Andrea Uptmore [July 21, Little, Brown]: “A searing and strikingly intimate debut set in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, about a newly married lesbian couple who move into a flipped foreclosure, unaware that the former homeowners are still living in the attic. … As Rachel immerses herself in her new role as a tenure-track professor and bestselling novelist, adjunct Emma struggles in the shadow of her wife’s success. Desperate to build something of her own, Emma secretly pursues IVF, even as Rachel insists they wait to have children.” This sounds like a fun blend of Leave the World Behind, The Underground Railroad, and Detransition, Baby. (For BookBrowse review)
Under Story by Chloe Benjamin [1 Sept., Tinder Press /G.P. Putnam’s Sons]: I loved Benjamin’s previous novel, The Immortalists, which had some speculative/magic realist elements. It looks like she’s now really leaning into the (literary end of) science fiction. This should be a good one to sink into this summer. “Biologist Laurel Salter … works as a dishwasher at McMurdo Station, an isolated research base in Antarctica. … But even in this remote outpost, Laurel can’t outrun her past. … Laurel is captivated by the Arc: its surreal glow; the way it seems almost alive. … Laurel is convinced that the Arc leads down a rabbit hole, and into a world, they can barely imagine. … A breathless page-turner and a love letter to our planet.” (Review copy from publisher)
Stations by Louise Kennedy [24 Sept., Bloomsbury Circus / Nov. 3, Riverhead]: I admired Kennedy’s McKitterick Prize-winning debut, Trespasses, very much. “In 1982, Róisín and Red meet as teenagers in their hometown in Ireland. Red’s reputation for trouble might precede him, but Róisín finds in him an intelligent and funny – if unlikely – friend. … As the years pass, they grow up and apart. [… A] devastating story of love and friendship, and the choices we blithely make when we are young, unaware that the consequences will reverberate throughout our lives.” (Edelweiss download)
Dodge City by Patrick deWitt [29 Sept., Fourth Estate / Ecco]: DeWitt is reliable for his deadpan humour and quirky plots. “It’s 1967 in Los Angeles and Lee Clarke has received his draft notice, calling him up to fight in the Vietnam War. … He signs up at a drive-away car-delivery service, chancing into a showroom-new Jaguar bound for the East Coast. … In four different towns strung out along the northern United States, Lee visits each member of his immediate family. … An arresting portrait of a country in flux and a family in disarray.” (Edelweiss download)
The True Confessions of First Lady Freeman by Deesha Philyaw [29 Sept., Transworld / Mariner Books]: Philyaw’s short story collection, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, was terrific, and her debut novel sounds like more of the same: (religious) Black women behaving ‘badly’ (make that sexually). “From the moment Scharisse Freeman ditched her humble roots and married a megachurch pastor fifteen years her senior, she’s been labeled too brash and too ‘of the world’ by church folks. … On the eve of her 40th birthday, Schar gets the final bit of validation she’s always dreamt a coveted invitation to participate in the First Lady USA pageant.”
Peck & Peck by Bonnie Garmus [13 Oct., Manila Press / Scribner]: It feels like it’s been a long time (but only four years, actually) since Lessons in Chemistry, which everybody and their aunt’s book club read. “Batter Gray is … in his early twenties, living in New York City, and he wants something different; something that alienates some readers and bores most. Poetry. And yet—to him and exactly thirty-nine editors at a company called Peck & Peck—poetry not only represents the power of humanity but holds the key to its survival. Batter is named after his mother’s heroic dog. An identical twin who lost his brother at birth, he finds himself confronted by the everyday dualities that make up life.” (Edelweiss download)
Luna, Phoenix, Queen by Julie Orringer [Oct. 13, Knopf]: Orringer is one of my favourite authors, especially after the brilliance of The Invisible Bridge and The Flight Portfolio. This sounds very different (more like Elizabeth Strout, maybe) but equally good. “Dava and Barr Pennington, professors at a Midwestern university, both harbor potent secrets. [… Dava is] secretly in love with a colleague, Svetlana White; [… and] tests reveal that she’s suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. … Soon afterward, her husband, alone in the house at night, discovers her hidden manuscript. … [A] tale of artistic and marital betrayal in a chorus of voices.” (Edelweiss download for Shelf Awareness review)
The Brightness by Chad Harbach [27 Oct., Fourth Estate / Little, Brown]: Fifteen years between novels must be some kind of record. Will it be worth the wait?! I read his debut, The Art of Fielding, when it was newly out in 2011, but I reckon I’ll need to reread it before deciding whether to embark on this doorstopper of a sequel. “At 27, Pella’s life looks settled: she’s a recent college graduate, engaged to Mike, her longtime boyfriend, and helping her friend Owen pull off his own destination wedding on Block Island. But over that wild wedding weekend, Pella’s past and present collide spectacularly, blowing up her plans and sending her spiralling toward an unplanned future in New York City.”
Nonfiction
Animals Taught Me Everything by Pam Houston [Oct. 13, Torrey House Press]: Houston is fab in any genre, but I do especially appreciate her writing about nature and her dogs. “From Icelandic mares and Irish wolfhounds to elephants, leopards, hyenas, and a desert-adapted lioness named Charlie, Pam Houston has learned life’s most important lessons from animals. How to play. How to rest. How to love. How to die. How to be present with the dying. How to be present with the living and with the Earth. How to find joy in the least likely places. How to find joy, literally, everywhere. With playful sincerity, Houston finds power and promise in the teachings of our fellow creatures and reminds us that animals are here for us, every day and everywhere.” (Edelweiss download for Shelf Awareness review)
Frost Will Come: Essays from the Bardo by Mary Cappello [Oct. 27, University of Wisconsin Press]: An illness/grief-themed memoir-in-essays = right up my street. “When her octogenarian poet mother was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer, Mary Cappello and her wife moved into the living room of Rosemary’s one-bedroom apartment in Philadelphia to help fulfill her wish to live out her life at home. A memoir in the form of lyric essays—with her mother’s own writing interspersed—Frost Will Come is a daughter’s tribute to her mother’s months-long transition from a deeply lived life to a difficult, beautiful, and uneasy death.” (PDF review copy for Shelf Awareness review)
Are any of these calling to you as well?
The Best Books from the First Half of 2026
Hard to believe it, but it’s that time of year already. For a decade now, I’ve been making a first-half superlatives list. It remains to be seen how many of these will make it onto my overall best-of year rundown, but for now, these are my 15 favourite current-year releases that I’ve read so far (representing the top 23% of the 2026 releases I’ve read this year; or the top 10% of my overall reading so far). It’s been a brilliant year for fiction! Links are to my full reviews where available.
Fiction
Daffodil Days by Helen Bain: Bain’s remarkable debut novel builds a slantwise biographical portrait of Sylvia Plath through her interactions with friends and acquaintances in the last years of her life. It’s everyone from her midwife to her brother to a washing machine salesman. The vignettes proceed backward through the book’s 17-month span: a determined metaphorical move from resignation to optimism. The focus is therefore not on the end of Plath’s life but on the full flow of her genius.
The Half Life by Rachel Beanland: In Beanland’s enchanting third novel, a young Navy wife has a sexual awakening and discovers her scientific vocation while stationed on an Italian island. The title cleverly suggests both nuclear fallout and how secrets constrain people. Beanland adeptly depicts grief, homesickness, and culture shock, and illuminates American and Italian politics. Sensual and intriguing, this belated-coming-of-age story reminiscent of Beautiful Ruins and The Atomic Weight of Love is an absorbing summer read. [Forthcoming from Simon & Schuster on July 14.]
Brawler by Lauren Groff: The nine short stories in Groff’s exceptional eighth book profile women in states of desperation and probe legacies of loss and violence. Themes of midlife reinvention and latent queerness recur. There’s also a startling Jamesian fable; a 1950s Southern gothic black comedy that would do Flannery O’Connor proud; and the masterful novella-length examination of privilege and obsession. The prose is stellar and the endings breathtaking. Groff is a first-rate novelist, but her short stories are truly peerless.
Mare by Emily Haworth-Booth: This work of autofiction circles the question of becoming a mother and posits the writing life and other relationships as partial substitutes for parenthood. The narrator spends three days a week riding at a local stable and tending to a black and white mare. Haworth-Booth makes caring for an animal analogous with motherhood, but doesn’t stop at easy symbolism. Cultivating bodily bonds with other creatures is part of how we find purpose when life is threatened by chronic illness and climate breakdown.
Whistler by Ann Patchett: Patchett is a master on the subject of family dysfunction, and her 10th novel, a stepdaughter-stepfather love story, is as wise as ever on secrets, traumatic memories, and storytelling. The bittersweet tone is perfectly judged. Daphne’s banter with her loved ones is a delight. The plot whisks along, its satisfying full circle returning to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she saw Eddie Triplett for the first time in 40 years, and incorporates a clever metanarrative twist. Quiet but surprising, witty yet heartrending.
Nonesuch by Francis Spufford: A grown-up fantasy book for those of us who were Narnia-obsessed children. It’s a rollicking blend of realistic WWII-set fiction and alternative history, with some magical and time travel elements. I was impressed that Spufford voices a young woman as protagonist and takes her ambitions and sexual desire seriously. There are witty turns of phrase throughout yet never an inappropriate levity. This parallel world is cleverly imagined and carefully reasoned, and the whole is shot through with a clear love of London.
John of John by Douglas Stuart: In Stuart’s superb third novel, set on the Isle of Harris in the 1990s, Cal seeks to reconcile his sexuality and artistic goals with his family’s expectations and his devout upbringing. An absorbing, deliciously melodramatic story is built around the contrast between modernity and the old ways. The characters’ power plays and acts of desperation are heartrending, but mischief and love of colour and crafts lend lightness. Stuart’s every observation is profound; the simplest phrase is memorable for its beauty.
Nonfiction
The Irish Goodbye: Micro-Memoirs by Beth Ann Fennelly: Fennelly takes the same approach as in flash fiction: some of these 45 pieces are as short as one sentence, remarking on life’s irony, poignancy or brevity. Again and again, she loops back to her sister’s untimely death; other topics are her mother’s worsening dementia, her happy marriage, her continuing 28-year friendships with her college roommates, the pandemic, and her ageing body. One of the most in-depth pieces revisits a lonely stint teaching in Czechoslovakia in the early 1990s.
Leaving Home by Mark Haddon: Eighty-seven nonchronological vignettes range across Haddon’s life and his parents’. Most are awful: his cold, invalid mother; his father’s adultery; cruel treatment at boarding school; medical crises. Impressive that he’s a functional person given the lack of love and empathy in his early life, and that he’s so honest about mental health. Haddon is also an artist and there’s a wealth of comics, portraits and family photographs here (plus cynical captions on stock photos to puncture any potential nostalgia).
Ghost Stories by Siri Hustvedt: Paul Auster died of non-small cell lung cancer on April 30, 2024. “I’m living in a haunted house,” his widow writes. This isn’t a straightforward bereavement memoir but moves back and forth between past and present and incorporates various documents, such as e-mail updates she sent to friends and family during Paul’s illness. It’s particularly interesting to learn about their mutual influence on each other’s work. Recommended to fans of either or both authors, as well as those interested in grief stories.
Vessel: The Shape of Absent Bodies by Dani Netherclift: One scorching afternoon in 1993, the author’s father and brother drowned while swimming in an irrigation channel near their Australia home. A joint closed-casket funeral took place six days later. Eighteen at the time, Netherclift witnessed her relatives’ disappearance but didn’t see their bodies. Must one see the corpse to have closure? she wonders. “The presence of absence” is an overarching paradox. The contradictions and ironies of the situation defy resolution.
Emmie Arbel: The Colour of Memory by Barbara Yelin: An illustrated biography of a child Holocaust survivor based on interviews. Survival is not a one-time event because trauma is complex and ongoing. In Emmie’s case, her foster father (himself a Holocaust survivor) molested her for years. The colour palette is appropriately sombre. And yet there is vibrant colour in the depiction of Emmie’s home and garden in Israel. This is a work of real courage, of speaking out in spite of a suspicion that all is bleak and meaningless.
Poetry
Visitations by Julia Alvarez: Like a miniature autobiography in verse, Alvarez’s radiant fifth collection offers snapshots from her life: a childhood in the Dominican Republic, immigration to 1960s New York City, the vicissitudes of adulthood, and the bittersweetness of later-life love. In a prose afterword, she calls the poems “visitations from selves of the past and present.” With its vivid scenes and alliterative phrasing, this gorgeous collection presents food and family, memory and companionship, as talismans to hold against the darkness.
Scrap Book by Nick Martino: Martino’s debut poetry collection draws on his mother’s journals and 1980s Polaroids to capture a family dynamic overshadowed by divorce and his father’s incarceration. The imagery spotlights Midwest farm country. Love and meaning are salvaged from family wreckage in the same way one might “look/ for fugitive beauty in the bulldozed” orchard. Free verse alternates with forms: an unrhymed sonnet, an aubade, and a “duplex.” Alliteration and assonance sparkle, and two poems employ anaphoric rhetoric.
The Way the Water Held Me by Catherine Redford: Redford was 35 with a young child when her wife died of cancer. We don’t hear so much about being widowed early, or in a same-sex partnership. Redford interrogates the expectations of widowhood through biographical poems about Mary Shelley. I loved the archival vocabulary of “Obituary” and how belongings left behind take on outsize significance. The alliteration and nature imagery are just right. From the hardest of circumstances came something tender and lovely.
Have you read any of these, or might you now based on my recommendation? What other 2026 releases should I catch up on?
June Releases by Fiona Mozley, Heather Sellers & Myfanwy Tristram
This month I have a fiction–poetry–nonfiction trio covers fake memories, Florida’s beauty and weirdness, and the past 50 years of protests in the UK. I also excerpt my reviews of five June releases I read in advance for Shelf Awareness, including one that’s in the running for my Book of the Year.
Awake Awake by Fiona Mozley
When writer Mary Mooney dives into her memories during appointments with her therapist, Sita, most of what comes up is the everyday stuff of her childhood in York: mild shenanigans with her younger brother, Jos; her friends Amelia and Eve plus Eric, a newcomer from New York City; and their wider circle. Early on, though, she warns readers that she’s untrustworthy. “In recent years, I have had difficulties with my memory,” she confesses. “It was not a sickness of forgetting. I did not have too few memories, but too many,” some of which couldn’t possibly be real – the best example being her conviction that her grandfather assassinated Hitler. She also tells Sita of a hotel fire and her rudeness to a couple of right-wing writers and journalists – things one does in dreams but not generally in real life.
The focus is on Mary and her peers’ formative teen years around the start of the Iraq War. In the final chapter, she offers a where-are-they-now for her closest friends. “Most of this is a verifiable journey through a life I really lived,” she notes, but “from hereon the fabrications begin.” This should have been an exciting revisiting of recent history in the company of an unreliable narrator, but everything about the novel is so dull that it was impossible to stay interested. It feels like pedestrian autofiction (insomuch as Mozley is from York and came of age in the same period as Mary, who is nominated for a major award for her first novel) drawing on a Blair-years upbringing. Mozley’s Elmet, which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award, is one of my favourite debut novels of the last decade, so it’s a real shame that her subsequent work hasn’t lived up to that potential. Hot Stew (2021) was a DNF for me, a caricature-heavy London state-of-the-nation novel, and Awake Awake reads like a half-baked debut, not a world-class novelist’s third. Unless I hear rave reviews about a return to form in future, that’s it for me with Mozley.
With thanks to John Murray Publishers for the free copy for review.
Women in Tampa Talking about Alligators by Heather Sellers
With such a title, how could you not want to read it?! In her fifth poetry collection, Sellers, a Florida native, recounts conversations with her neighbours, backyard sightings, and boat trips through swamp country. An appreciation of beauty rubs shoulders with awareness that it is threatened by climate breakdown and the state’s existential identity crisis. She describes Florida as “the thumbs-down thumb”; it “hangs on, for now, bobbing, / as she lowers into the dull warm blue sea.” Lovely poems about birds spin delightfully unexpected imagery: “watching the great white egret / stiletto across the jasmine fence, / black patent legs shining”. But they also contain barbs about the polluting influence of modern life (spot the alliteration and internal and slant rhymes):
Someone’s silvery phone gleaming underwater.
A fleet of rays flew between our little boats, skin kites on roller skates.
We discovered the things slung around the channel marker
was not a bird, just a plastic sack: the common, grey Florida Wal-Mart bag.
Cormorants dove into the chests of mangrove.
High above, paragraphs of frigates cursive-d land, land, land.
As winter and summer swap, the advantages and downsides of living in an identikit suburb mostly inhabited by retirees from elsewhere become clear. Nature is red in tooth and claw even in her garden, where crows prey on baby mockingbirds. Alligators are everywhere, and when “removed” for being a “nuisance” – in other words, interfering with human activity – their end reveals our inhumane priorities. “No? Seriously? They are euthanized? Euthanized for what, for living?” This is a terrific free verse collection at the intersection of the edenic and the diminished everyday. I would definitely read more by Sellers.
Published by Lynx House Press. With thanks to publicist Jeffrey Yamaguchi for the free e-copy for review.
Noisy Valley: The Art of Protest by Myfanwy Tristram
This is not a comprehensive history of protest but a snapshot of it over the past half-century or so, focussing on the Rhondda Valley in South Wales (not far from Cardiff), where a surprising number originated. The frame story is an exhibit of Tristram’s protest drawings at the Workers Gallery in Ynyshir, where she meets those featured. Each story is then expounded in turn, based on interviews with someone who led the protest or participated in it. We learn of miners’ strikes, a protest against a hospital closure, outrage over toxic runoff from a landfill, and a campaign to save Northern Meadows. One impetus was the worrying trend in the UK (and elsewhere) of governments cracking down on peaceful protests with overly harsh punishments.
I was surprised to find that two of the chapters had local relevance for me: the Greenham Common women’s peace camp and the Aldermaston marches (part of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament). I was additionally taken aback to spot Martyn Joseph, a Welsh singer-songwriter we’re familiar with from Greenbelt Festival, turning up to sing a new bespoke version of “This Land Is Your Land” for a protest. I’m not fond of the talking heads approach to graphic nonfiction (also seen in Sexuality: A Graphic Guide and Trans History) or of the particular style here – monochrome in the main text with a few full-colour pages plus in the asides on the history of protest and changing regulations. I preferred the spreads focusing on landscapes. However, this is a worthwhile project and I particularly appreciated the below quote, which captures my feeling about the environmental marches I’ve been on in London.
You might find this a bit weird, but I never really thought that protest ever achieves its purpose. We still have nuclear weapons, you know. But it is worthwhile. My feeling is that protest is wonderful because it brings people together as a social group. The meeting of hearts and minds. I would argue that’s very positive.
~David Hurn, Aldermaston photographer
With thanks to SelfMadeHero for the free copy for review.
Reviewed for Shelf Awareness:
The Daffodil Days by Helen Bain: A remarkable debut novel about the last years of Sylvia Plath’s life. I’ve already discussed it here.
Catching Sight: How a Guide Dog Helped Me See Myself by Deni Elliott with Graham Buck: Elliott was diagnosed as legally blind as an adult, though she’d always had limited vision. She explores her relationships with five very different dogs and introduces the process of training guide dogs in this heartwarming story of human–animal connection and resilience.
Instructions for the End of the World: Homilies of Comfort and Resistance by Maggie Helwig: Helwig is the rector of inner-city Toronto’s St. Stephen-in-the-Fields. Her stirring sermons espouse a practical, progressive theology and affirm the power of solidarity and the commitment to social justice in turbulent times (including the pandemic years).
Scrap Book by Nick Martino: Martino’s formally inventive debut poetry collection draws on his mother’s journals and 1980s Polaroids to capture a Midwestern family dynamic overshadowed by divorce and his father’s incarceration.
Whistler by Ann Patchett: Patchett is a master on the subject of family dysfunction, and her tenth novel, a stepdaughter–stepfather love story, is as wise as ever on secrets, traumatic memories, and storytelling. This is one of my top three books of 2026 so far, along with Brawler and John of John.
Which of these June releases have you read, or will you seek out now? What am I missing out on?
#ReadingtheMeow2026, Part I: Chinese & Japanese Authors
I’m a couple of days late, but here we go. It’s my fourth time participating in the annual Reading the Meow challenge, hosted by Mallika of Literary Potpourri. Chinese and especially Japanese authors are famous for their literary love of cats. For my first post, I’m giving brief thoughts on a couple of Japanese novels – one of them a classic that may be responsible for the entire cat craze – and two examples of cute cat-themed manga.
I Am a Cat, Volume 1 by Natsume Sōseki (1905; 2025)
[Translated from Japanese by Nick Bradley]
Translator Nick Bradley makes a strong case for this as the “beginning [of] the Japanese cat book trend,” and I wondered if it was one of the earliest examples of the animal narrator, too. The unnamed feline antihero values brains over beauty: “Even though I am just a cat, I often like to philosophize. … Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have an admission to make. As far as cats go, I am no oil painting.” He’s lazy and fatalistic, contented to live out his days with the dyspeptic schoolteacher who has taken him in off the street. I’ll have to take Bradley’s word for it that this popular serialized novel (of which this is the first of three volumes) is a satire in which the cat is “a mirror to Japanese Meiji society at the time the novel was written.” The voice is amusingly lofty and snobbish, but I was uninterested in the story and set it aside at 35%, unsure whether to return to it in future. (Read via Edelweiss)
She and Her Cat by Makoto Shinkai and Naruki Nagakawa (2021; 2022)
[Translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori]
Shinkai is an anime filmmaker and I think this originated in his manga. I could spot the enduring influence of Sōseki in the setup of strays interacting with fellow cats and dogs. Most of these linked short stories involve young women grappling with turbulent careers and uncertain romantic relationships. When cats show up in their lives, they offer uncomplicated friendship and reliable tenderness. Narration, whether first- or third-person, alternates between owner and cat in each. I started reading this against my better judgement, as from The Guest Cat onwards I’ve found Japanese cat books bland and twee. It’s the combination of a flat style, my unfamiliarity with the context, and (magic) realism, which has worked for me with Murakami but hardly anyone else. This was a half-hearted skim. (Little Free Library)
Cat manga, though: that’s the ticket!
Chi’s Sweet France by Kanata Konami; illus. Catherine Bouvier (2025; 2026)
[Translated from Japanese by Akiko Indei and Pierre Fernande]
I had read The Complete Chi’s Sweet Home, Part 4 and really not enjoyed it (see above), but because this is a series of shorts, and set in France, it was palatable. I thought about saving it for Paris in July but ended up reading it on my computer in one sitting last month. Chi’s family (a mom, a dad and a little boy) moves from Japan to Paris. She wants to go outside and join the French cats in prowling the rooftops, but the mother says it’s too dangerous. Only when they move out to the countryside from the Paris apartment can she go outside. I don’t love the simplistic drawing style – no noses, a triangle or trapezoid for the mouth – or the cutesy writing (e.g. “Chi’s territowy”). Still, reading this was a pleasant way to spend half an hour. (Read via Edelweiss)
Mobu’s Diary: Earning Your Paté by Kathy Lam (2022; 2026)
[Translated from Chinese by Cindy Ko and Kevin Wang]
We have a winner! This comic was delightful through and through, and I hope more adventures are to come. Mobu is a three-year-old, slightly neurotic calico. This noble kitty decides she wants to earn her keep (imagine that!) and scans feline-suitable job listings: yoga teacher, massage therapist, pest exterminator, tuna sales rep… When she sees an opening at a cat café, she knows it’s right for her. The only issue is that she doesn’t really like being petted, so she mostly naps on higher shelves. All the same, just by being herself – playful, sleepy, cute and rotund – and observing human behaviour, she manages to be truly helpful. She comforts a distressed student who’s freaking out about a bad grade. She also notices and sometimes intervenes when ‘friends’ are really competing, a couple is fighting, and a boss is trying to take advantage of a worker. Her fellow cats are equally well drawn, and their antics could easily inspire a whole series. (Read via Edelweiss) Forthcoming from Andrews McMeel Publishing on 22 September.
Bonus:
Kitten by Stacey Yu – Yu’s first novel is a peculiar, endearing fable about a young Chinese American woman who identifies with her boyfriend’s cat as she works to overcome codependency issues with him and her mother. On a beach vacation, James cooks for Katie and does all the driving. “I liked being with James because he made it easier for me to be alive,” she admits to herself. James’s family pet, Silver, is the first cat she has met. James found Silver on this beach a decade before, and the cat regularly swims in the ocean with her owners. Katie is “struck by the intensity of my affection for her”—somewhere between maternal instinct and envy of the cat’s comfort and security. Yu maintains the uncomfortable ambiguity of the central relationships as literal realities and psychological explanations coalesce. That Katie’s estranged mother’s nickname for her is “Kitten” connects the novel’s major elements.
Forthcoming from Sceptre (UK) on 30 July and Random House (USA) on August 4. (See my full review for Shelf Awareness.)
Coming up tomorrow: An anthology of cat-related letters and a couple of short memoirs about life with a beloved cat.
April Releases by Victoria Bennett, Ben Lerner and Barbara Yelin
A memoir of gardening to come to terms with midlife and a new island home, a work of autofiction about memory and technology, and an arresting graphic novel tracing the life of a child Holocaust survivor: it was a real variety last month. (But then again, I say that every month, don’t I?)
The Apothecary by the Sea: A Year in an Orkney Garden by Victoria Bennett
I’ve been hankering to get back to the Orkney Islands after two decades but haven’t managed it yet; reading about it was the next-best thing. There’s a similar make-do attitude to Bennett’s second book, which is about adapting to the unexpected and being in tune with nature. After being forced out of their rented home in Cumbria (and, disastrously, having to raze the abundant garden they’d made there), Bennett and her husband and son resettled in South Ronaldsay. Moving to Orkney was a long-held dream that allowed the couple to become property owners for the first time in their fifties. Chronic illness restricts what she can do, but over the course of a little over a year, she slowly, steadily turns their little outdoor space into a bountiful apothecary garden when not out exploring a new landscape.
I loved Bennett’s 2023 debut memoir, All My Wild Mothers. Both employ a similar structure of short chapters named after plants with medicinal uses. However, the first book is a lot richer, distilling as it does the experiences and wisdom of an entire life. The format is fresh there, whereas this sequel needed new strategies to set it apart. It’s so short – with sections of gardening tips, further plant rundowns, and recipes for padding – that I suspected the author and publisher were scratching around for enough material to fill a book. The editing is also lacking this time around; dangling modifiers and minor typos abound. This could have been more substantial had Bennett waited a few more years to develop an intimate knowledge of Orkney and make connections with people to draw on. Still, there are reassuring sentiments about accepting one’s limitations, welcoming the changes of age, and setting humble goals (“The garden, like life, is not perfect. Start with what you have”), and the black-and-white illustrations by Bennett’s husband, Adam Clarke, are gorgeous. Though it’s fairly niche, I can, offhand, think of several people to whom I would recommend Bennett’s work.
Written while listening to Doing This for Love, the fab new album by Kris Drever, everyone’s favourite Orkney singer.
With thanks to Elliott & Thompson for the free copy for review.
{SPOILERS IN THE NEXT TWO}
Transcription by Ben Lerner
The UK cover
You know what you’re in for with a Ben Lerner work, in much the same way as when you pick up something by Rachel Cusk, Katie Kitamura or Deborah Levy. The narrator resembles Lerner in that he is a 45-year-old writer who graduated from Brown University and has spent significant time in Madrid. The novella opens with him on a train to Providence, Rhode Island to write a long profile of his mentor, a German writer named Thomas. Thomas is turning 90 and there is a sense that this is to be his “exit interview” – yet he’s as sharp as ever, describing his early life as if composed of film scenes.
There is a strong emphasis on the visual here, but also on the oral. Thomas’s first memory is of hearing Hitler’s voice on the radio, and the narrator fully intended to record this conversation, but dropped his phone in the sink at the hotel and now it won’t turn on. He decides this evening will just be a pre-chat, and tomorrow they’ll get into things properly. For some reason, though, he can’t admit his technological failure to Thomas and instead brings his dead phone out, puts it face down on the table, and pretends that this is all on the record.
I prefer the U.S. cover, as per usual!
The book is in three long sections, named after different hotels. The second is set in Madrid, where, a few years later, the narrator gives a talk as part of a Festschrift for Thomas. He’s turned the story about his phone into a self-deprecating joke, but it turns out that his conference co-organizer, Rosa, is not the only one angry with him for what she perceives as falsifying Thomas’s last testament. This causes him to second-guess himself.
The third section is, ostensibly, a conversation between the narrator and Thomas’s son, Max – except the former can hardly get a word in edgewise (as was the case with Thomas, too), so it’s really more of a monologue. And, strangely, the subject is Max’s young daughter Emmie’s extreme food issues: a sort of pre-anorexia. Except Thomas would philosophize his granddaughter’s struggle, or query her screen time. Max remembers that when Thomas was hospitalized with Covid, apparently near death, he poured out many warm words to his father. Then Thomas recovered. On their first post-Covid visit, Max recorded his father’s speech without telling him he was doing so – an ironic counterpart to the narrator’s actions.
The themes drew me in, and the writing is addictively lucid. But what does it all mean? Lerner’s repeated references to father-and-son glassmakers and their beautiful glass flowers indicate his interest in questions of talent, (metaphorical) inheritance and legacy. The narrator’s version of Thomas’s memories being presented as gospel raises the question of whether fiction is the more appropriate vehicle for biography. There is also a message about overreliance on technology. The narrator feels helpless without his phone, even for one night: He can’t communicate with his family or confirm his walking route with online maps. But I wasn’t sure how Max’s daughter fits in, except perhaps as an emblem of multigenerational mental health struggles. This was an odd little book that I might like to discuss in a book club but found stubbornly unsatisfying to ponder on my own. (Read via Edelweiss)
Emmie Arbel: The Colour of Memory by Barbara Yelin (2023; 2026)
[Translated from German by Helge R. Dascher]
Edited by Charlotte Schallié and Alexander Korb
Barbara Yelin’s Irmina was the subject of an early review on my blog (just over 10 years ago!); I called it “one of the most visually stunning graphic novels I’ve ever come across” and noted that it was “based on a fascinating family story.” Such is even truer of this illustrated biography of a child Holocaust survivor. Yelin met Emmie Arbel at Ravensbrück Memorial in 2019 and over the next several years they had many conversations in person and online, which Yelin has memorialized in this solemn, powerful graphic novel. Emmie was born in the Netherlands in 1937 and first sent to a transport camp at age five. She then spent time in Ravensbrück and Bergen-Belsen, where her mother died. After the war, she and her brothers were displaced persons in Sweden before returning to the Netherlands to live with a foster family. Since then she has had a career, raised three daughters, divorced, retired early, lost a daughter, and traveled extensively but mostly lived in Israel. Yelin recreates scenes from Emmie’s life but mostly recounts recent conversations (and so is herself a repeated presence in the book). The narrative moves back and forth in time in imitation of memory. Emmie’s ever-present cigarette is a crutch as she tries to find words for the unspeakable.
A key motivation for this book is to face the facts that survival is not a one-time event and that trauma is complex and ongoing. In Emmie’s case, her foster father (himself a Holocaust survivor) molested her for years. The memory of rape remained locked inside until a breakdown in 1977, when she started seeing a therapist – which, she insists, saved her life.
The colour palette is appropriately sombre: lots of dark blue and grey shading into black, which is the colour of memory for Emmie. And yet there is vibrant colour in the depiction of Emmie’s home and garden in Tiv’on, and in her interactions with her children and grandchildren. I can’t revisit particular spreads of this book without crying. One is the final few pages before the epilogue, in which Emmie remembers lying in a camp with typhus.
“They put me with the dying and the dead. I knew I was going to die. I was not afraid. I think I remember how it felt to be dying. It was a good feeling. There was no pain, no hunger, no noise. Nothing. It was quiet and good. But I live.”
This is a work of real courage, of speaking out in spite of a suspicion that all is bleak and meaningless.
“Humiliation. I was not a human being. I was a number, you know. I feel like no one can understand what I’m feeling. But if I don’t talk about it, the others can’t understand. They can’t understand what happened. And it must not happen again. And that’s why I have to speak.”
With thanks to SelfMadeHero for the free copy for review.
Three on a Theme: Works of (Auto)biography by Susie Boyt, Sarah Laing and Jenn Shapland
“If biography is peering through the windows of someone’s house and describing what you see … [then] memoir is peeking into the windows of your own life. A voyeurism of the self. An interior looting.”
~Jenn Shapland
This thematic trio has been in the works for an awfully long time: I read the Laing in 2022 and also started the Shapland that year but took an inexplicable pause and didn’t finish it until a couple of days ago. All three are about understanding the self by way of an obsession with a particular woman from history. Sometimes it’s also a matter of coming to terms with one’s sexuality. In each case, the premise is biographical but the pursuit and reflections end up being equally autobiographical. These are beautifully introspective works with such an appealing approach that they made me ponder who I would pinpoint as my (auto)biographical muse. All: 
My Judy Garland Life by Susie Boyt (2008)
After discovering Boyt through her brilliant latest novel, Loved and Missed, I was keen to try more from her. This Ackerley Prize-shortlisted memoir was just as fascinating as it sounded. Seeing The Wizard of Oz turned Boyt into a Garland mega-fan.
A daughter of Lucian Freud raised by a single mother, Boyt was a sensitive, earnest and lonely child who harboured hopeless dreams of being on the stage herself. She admires Garland’s talent, pluck, hard work and grit. After all, Garland remained the ‘world’s greatest entertainer’ despite struggling with mental illness and prescription drug dependency for three decades.
When I begin to listen to Judy Garland there is no joy or wound from the story of my life that isn’t with me. … Her central credo, and it always always comes to me as her voice begins to swell, is that to be the person with the strongest feelings in life is to be the best. This is an instinct I am quite sure I was born with.
Boyt meets fellow Garland mega-fans in person and online, and visits her hero’s Birthplace Home and Museum (in Grand Rapids, Minnesota) and mausoleum (then in Hartsdale, New York). She draws distinctions between “bad fans” with a morbid eye to Garland’s struggles (they memorise her suicide notes, for instance), “good fans” like herself who acknowledge she was no saint but choose to focus on her successes, and the “crazy-good fans” who won’t hear a word said against her. It’s reassuring that Boyt recognises ambiguity.
“I don’t claim to know Judy Garland, of this I am sure. I feel very close to her, I love her, but I don’t understand. Perhaps I never will. I accept there are layers and layers of things.”
I don’t retain a lot of the detail of this book after over a year (and no notes, silly me!), but I do remember that I felt it blends biography and memoir skilfully and incorporates illuminating discussions of addiction, mental health, celebrity, fandom and the search for love – Garland married five times. (Secondhand – Awesomebooks.com)
Mansfield and Me: A Graphic Memoir by Sarah Laing (2016)
(I’ve added a few lines to my original review from 2022.) Growing up in Aotearoa New Zealand an aspiring writer, Laing looked to Katherine Mansfield as one of her idols. Here she alternates between vignettes from her own past in vivid colour and scenes from Mansfield’s short life in black and white. The Mansfield material is drawn from her letters and notebooks as well as various biographies. Mansfield was friendly with the Bloomsbury Group and lost a brother in the First World War. Laing uses a few Mansfield story titles as chapter headings, has Mansfield’s ghost turn up to comment on her authorial choices, and compares and contrasts their careers and love lives. Laing published her first short story collection at 34 – the age at which Mansfield died of tuberculosis. They share a bisexual identity. Mansfield married twice and miscarried her only pregnancy by a lover; by the end of this book Laing is married and a mother of three. This made me want to read more of Mansfield’s stories; I’ve only read a few thus far. “Katherine’s stories were full of … little lamps – moments of illumination, flashes of truth. I don’t need to be famous, but I would like someone to really see me,” Laing concludes. I’ve also reviewed her Let Me Be Frank. (New purchase – Waterstones sale)
My Autobiography of Carson McCullers by Jenn Shapland (2020)
When Shapland was an intern at the Harry Ransom Center of the University of Texas, Austin (a famous literary archive), someone requested the letters sent by Annemarie Clarac-Schwarzenbach to the writer Carson McCullers. To Shapland’s surprise, these were basically love letters. “I had received letters like these,” she writes. “I had written letters like these to the women I’d loved. It was very little to go on, and yet I felt an utter certainty: Carson McCullers had loved women.” The discovery sparked a quest to know all there was to know about McCullers (she archived the writer’s clothing as part of the internship, too). It also, somehow, liberated Shapland to fully accept her lesbian identity. She was, by this point, in her mid-twenties and had been dating a fellow female student for six years, yet had been semi-closeted the whole time. The letters were, she acknowledges, “a turning point.”
Shapland later spent a month in McCullers’s childhood home in Columbus, Georgia* and worked through her archive at the state university there. Annemarie was by no means the only same-sex entanglement; Shapland lists another 21 possible girlfriends, with McCullers’s correspondence with her therapist, Dr. Mary Mercer, being particularly suggestive. But Shapland had hardly found some lesbian role model: McCullers married the same man, Reeves McCullers, twice, and called her special women “imaginary friends.” (Not to mention that she was an alcoholic, and struggled with chronic illness until her death at age 50.)
Dogged in her own search for evidence, Shapland nonetheless decries unjust expectations: “Historians demand proof from queer love stories that they never require of straight relationships.” How to prove happiness? she wonders. “Love … lives in the mundane, the moment-to-moment exchanges, and can so easily become invisible after the people who shared it are no longer alive. But, of course, it leaves traces.” I thought Shapland was perhaps too insistent on the word “lesbian” – only once entertaining the possibility that McCullers was bisexual, and never seriously considering fluidity or a change of sexuality. “I prefer the idea that we are all part lesbian, that we are lesbian to one degree or another,” she insists. “Is this semantics?” True to her dual vocation as author and archivist, Shapland continually interrogates how language and objects don’t just reflect reality, but create it. I was impressed by her willingness to call herself out on how she might be “shellacking, setting [McCullers] on my terms despite my desire to give her space in her own words.”
This debut work, a Lambda Literary Award winner and finalist for the National Book Award, is in titled sections that range in length from one paragraph to several pages. Shapland drifts back and forth in time and between her own life and McCullers’s, following thought and memory in loose loops but still conveying the sense of a chronological investigation. She doesn’t devote a lot of space to McCullers’s oeuvre– this is definitely not a work of literary appreciation or criticism – but I’m intrigued enough by the writer’s life and even a bare outline of the recurring themes and elements in her fiction to try her soon. Meanwhile, I have Shapland’s second book, the essay collection Thin Skin, on my e-reader. Her final plea for queer visibility here may be more for her own sake than for the historical McCullers, but either way it persuaded me. “Call it love.”
*I’ve not read McCullers but have always meant to, not least because my father is from Columbus, Georgia. His wasn’t a bookish family and I was never aware of the McCullers connection, though when I mentioned this book to my dad a few years ago he did know her name.
With thanks to Virago for the free copy for review.
March Releases by Emily Haworth-Booth, Roz Morris, Catherine Redford & Joann Sfar
Autofiction about beloved animals and ambivalence over motherhood, a witty memoir of house-hunting in the South of England, a poetry collection reflecting on bereavement and queer parenthood, and a graphic novel adaptation of a 20th-century classic: I had a real variety this month.
Mare by Emily Haworth-Booth
Is the entire novel built around a pun? The French for mother, mère, is a homophone for mare. Like Motherhood by Sheila Heti, this is a work of autofiction that circles the question of becoming a mother and posits the writing life and other relationships as partial substitutes for parenthood. But yes, there is also a literal horse. The narrator lives in London with her husband and scrapes together a living by teaching creative writing on Zoom and writing children’s books. They’ve recently lost their dearly loved dog and are friendly with the neighbours whose garden they share and whose noise they hear the other side of a wall – so much so that she thinks of the two girls as “not-my-daughter” and “also-not-my-daughter.” The narrator is contracted to write a book about plastics for children but can’t seem to land on the right tone somewhere between alarm and false cheer. Approaching age 40, she’s finally coming to terms with the fact that she won’t be a mother due to premature ovarian failure.
Into all this comes the love of a horse. She finds a stable two miles away and spends three days a week there riding and tending to a black and white mare. As a child she’d been horse-crazy, so this isn’t “a new feeling … but a resurgence. Deeply familiar. Lust and tenderness and hope mingled.” Time with the horse reminds her to be present, to live in her body despite its flaws, to take joy in the everyday. “Being with the horse has come to feel more and more like an exercise in metaphor.”
Haworth-Booth makes caring for an animal analogous with motherhood, but doesn’t stop at easy symbolism. The mare might stand in for female fear and vulnerability, but is also flesh and blood. Cultivating bodily bonds with other creatures is part of how we find purpose when life is threatened by chronic illness and climate breakdown.
This is Haworth-Booth’s adult debut and I hope it will be submitted for next year’s McKitterick Prize. Its wry honesty appealed to me, as did the narrator’s interactions with her mother (who forwards her “Childfree and fabulous” e-newsletters) and not-my-daughter, who share her interest in horses. There’s also the meta angle of the narrator assembling an “H folder” that eventually becomes this book. Hard to tell in my Kindle file, but some passages seem to be aligned like poetry. “The boundaries are blurring … this is the age of the non-binary, the hybrid, … the uncategorisable,” the narrator says to her students. “What about a collection of thoughts themed around a subject, themed around, for example, a horse?” I can see how some would find this insufferable, but it really worked for me. (Read via NetGalley)
Turn Right at the Rainbow: A Memoir of Househunting, Happenstance and Home by Roz Morris
Now that we’re four years on from the purchase of our first property, I can read about house-hunting without finding it too depressing! When Morris and her husband Dave decided to move out of London, securing a buyer for their house was a cinch, but finding a new place that they loved as much as their home of twenty-plus years seemed like an insurmountable challenge. She wrings much humour from the process by comparing house viewings with first dates – as in a romcom, you’re always looking out for “The One,” but all the potential suitors have various issues – and employing jokey nicknames (“the Rusty Tractor house,” “The Aardvark House”), and a financial shorthand of arms and legs.
Estate agents, potential buyers, and sellers alike are maddening in their quirks. There are so many inexplicable features in otherwise normal suburban Surrey properties: more toilets than bedrooms, giant air-conditioning units, a long bench that looks like it belongs in a bus station waiting room, and so on. In between details of the search, Morris remembers her upbringing in mining country made famous by Alan Garner and how she and Dave met and made a life together as childfree writers. This is a warm and funny read whose short chapters fly by, but it also made me ponder what is essential in a home. Though I was mildly taken aback by the ending, I came to think of it as fitting, in a T.S. Eliot knowing the place for the first time sort of way.
With thanks to the author for the free e-copy for review. (Published by Spark Furnace.)
The Way the Water Held Me by Catherine Redford
This isn’t your average bereavement story: Redford was only 35 and had a young child at the time that her wife died of cancer. We don’t hear so much about being widowed early, or in a same-sex partnership. Redford interrogates the expectations of widowhood (“If not Victoria, I can be Jackie O”) through biographical poems about Mary Shelley’s writings in the wake of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s untimely death. There’s a found/collage poem pieced together from one of Shelley’s letters; others quote from her Frankenstein and The Last Man. Elsewhere, Redford alludes to Woolf, Wordsworth and Wuthering Heights. Redford recalls feeling bombarded by people’s sympathy (“The flowers arrive like a tsunami”) and having no idea how to respond when asked how she’s doing. She relives moments from their carefree courtship days, lists the elements of “Her Last Day,” and documents the rituals that enshrine memory. I loved the archival vocabulary of “Obituary” (below) and how belongings left behind take on outsize significance: “I cross-examine every page of her notebooks, lay out the contents / of each drawer in a crescent on the floor as if they are grave goods // selected for her journey to the afterlife” (from “Circles”). The alliteration and nature (especially seaside) imagery were just right for me. From the hardest of circumstances came something tender and lovely.
With thanks to The Emma Press for the advanced e-copy for review.
The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1943)
Graphic novel adaptation by Joann Sfar (2008); colours by Brigitte Findakly
[Translated from French by Sarah Ardizzone, 2010]
Reading The Little Prince in the original French was a long-term project in my high school French curriculum. I can still remember snippets such as “Dessine-moi un mouton” (“Draw me a sheep”) and apprivoiser (to tame) – it was good for learning such random vocabulary words. You are probably familiar with this fable of a pilot who crashes in the desert and meets a strange, possibly alien boy and talks with him about his interplanetary journeys as well as a flower, a snake, a fox, and so on. Before he landed on earth, he alighted on six other planets where he met a king, a vain man, a drunk, a businessman, a lamplighter, and a geographer, all of whom appeared to be trapped in destructive patterns of their own making.
I had a few issues. The main one is that, these days, the story falls for me in the same category as other intolerably twee stuff like Jonathan Livingston Seagull and The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. Granted, “You can only see clearly with the heart. What matters is invisible to the eye” is profound in its simplicity. But much of the rest had me rolling my eyes. As for the adaptation, why was it deemed necessary? The original The Little Prince is illustrated. Plus the drawing style is rather grotesque. (I don’t remember this from the only other book I’ve read by Sfar, The Rabbi’s Cat.) I guess the idea was to contrast the boy’s innocence and blue-pool eyes with the essential ugliness of much of what he encounters. But what’s with most of the planets’ residents having noses like penises? (Unsolicited review copy from SelfMadeHero)
Miscellaneous for #ReadIndies: Grenville & Holman-Hunt, Trans History & Travel Poetry, Kathleen Jamie & Kristen Zory King
Squeaking in some more reviews on the last day of a challenge, as is my wont. Today I have mini-responses to a wide selection: a graphic novel companion to LGBTQ history, an exposé that will have you checking the ingredients lists on all your toiletries and other household cleaning products, a memoir of an eccentric Edwardian childhood, poems about modes of travel and the states of mind they produce, superb nature essays blending personal and environmental writing, and a mini collection of flash fiction about young women.
Trans History: From Ancient Times to the Present Day by Alex L. Combs and Andrew Eakett (2025)
Queer people of all varieties have always been with us; they just might have understood their experience or talked about it in different terms. So while Combs and Eakett are careful not to apply labels retrospectively, they feature a plethora of people who lived as a different gender to that assigned at birth. Apart from a few familiar names like Lili Elbe and Marsha P. Johnson, most were new to me. For every heartening story of an emperor, monk or explorer who managed to live out their true identity in peace, there are three distressing ones of those forced to conform. Many Indigenous cultures held a special place for gender-nonconforming individuals; colonizers would have seen this as evidence of desperate need of civilizing. Even doctors who were willing to help with early medical transitions retained primitive ideas about gender and its connection to genitals. The structure is chronological, with a single colour per chapter. Panes reenact scenes and feature talking heads explaining historical developments and critical theory. A final section is devoted to modern-day heroes campaigning for trans rights and seeking to preserve an archive of queer history. This was a little didactic, but ideal for teens, I think, and certainly not just one for gender studies students.
Readalike: Meg-John Barker’s Sexuality: A Graphic Guide
(Read via Edelweiss) [Candlewick Press]
The Case Against Fragrance by Kate Grenville (2017)
File this with other surprising nonfiction books by well-known novelists. In 2015, Grenville started struggling while on a book tour: everything from a taxi’s air freshener and a hotel’s cleaning products to a fellow passenger’s perfume was giving her headaches. She felt like a diva for stipulating she couldn’t be around fragrances, but as she started looking into it she realized she wasn’t alone. I thought this was just going to be about perfume, but it covers all fragranced products, which can list “parfum” on their ingredients without specifying what that is – trade secrets. The problem is, fragrances contain any of thousands of synthetic chemicals, most of which have never been tested and thus are unregulated. Even those found to be carcinogens or endocrine disruptors in rodent studies might be approved for humans because it’s not taken into account how these products are actually used. Prolonged or repeat contact has cumulative effects. The synthetic musks in toiletries and laundry detergents are particularly bad, acting as estrogen mimics and likely associated with prostate and breast cancer. I tend to buy whatever’s on offer in Boots, but as soon as my Herbal Essences bottle is empty I’m going back to Faith in Nature (look for plant extracts). The science at the core of the book is a little repetitive, but eased by the social chapters to either side, and you can tell from the footnotes that Grenville really did her research.
Readalike: Chris van Tulleken’s Ultra-Processed People
(Secondhand – gift from my wish list) [Text Publishing]
My Grandmothers and I by Diana Holman-Hunt (1960)
The author was the granddaughter of Pre-Raphaelite painter William Holman Hunt (The Light of the World et al.). While her father was away in India, she was shunted between two homes: Grandmother and Grandfather Freeman’s Sussex estate, and the mausoleum-cum-gallery her paternal grandmother, “Grand,” maintained in Kensington. The grandparents have very different ideas about the sorts of foodstuffs and activities that are suitable for little girls. Both households have servants, but Grand only has the one helper, Helen. Grand probably has a lot of money tied up in property and paintings but lives like a penniless widow. Grand encourages abstemious habits – “Don’t be ruled by Brother Ass, he’s only your body and a nuisance” – and believes in boiled milk and margarine. The single egg she has Helen serve Diana in the morning often smells off. “Food is only important as fuel; whether we like it or not is quite immaterial,” Grand insists. Diana might more naturally gravitate to the pleasures of the Freeman residence, but when it comes time to give a tour of the Holman Hunt oeuvre, she does so with pride. There are some funny moments, such as Diana asking where babies come from after one of the Freemans’ maids gives birth, but this felt so exaggerated and fictionalized – how could she possibly remember details and conversations at the distance of several decades? – that I lost interest by the midpoint.
Readalike: Gwen Raverat’s Period Piece
(Secondhand – Community Furniture Project) [Slightly Foxed]
In Transit: Poems of Travel, ed. Sarah Jackson and Tim Youngs (2018)
Some methods of transport are just more romantic than others. The editors’ introduction notes that “Trains were by far the most popular … followed by aeroplanes and then boats.” Walks and car journeys were surprisingly scarce, they observed, though there are a couple of poems about wandering in New York City. Often, the language is of maps, airports, passports and long flights; of trading one place for another as exile, expatriate or returnee. The collection circuits the globe: China, the Middle East, Greece, Scandinavia, the bayous of the American South. France and Berlin show up more than once. The Emma Press anthologies vary and this one had fewer standout entries than average. However, a few favourites were Nancy Campbell’s “Reading the Water,” about a boy launching out to sea in a kayak; Simon Williams’s “Aboard the Grey Ghost,” about watching for dolphins on a wartime voyage from England to the USA; and Vicky Sparrow’s “Dual Gauge,” which follows a train of thought – about humans as objects moving, perhaps towards death – during a train ride.
(New purchase from publisher) [The Emma Press]
Findings by Kathleen Jamie (2005)
As I found when I reread Sightlines in 2022, Jamie’s topics couldn’t be better suited to my interests: Scottish islands, seabirds, medical history, and the meaning we derive from mortality. She visits the Orkney Islands just before the winter solstice, which draws a faithful few to the tomb of Maes Howe. From her attic room in Fife, she watches peregrine falcons on a cliff face. A gannet’s skull is her prized souvenir from a boat tour to an uninhabited Hebridean island. Vigilance pays off when she hears, then sees, corncrake on the Isle of Coll. Although she has a penchant for empty places, she also writes about cityscapes and hospitals. “Skylines” looks out over Edinburgh, also the setting for “Surgeons’ Hall,” about the pathology museum on the Royal College of Surgeons campus (my 2018 visit). In “Fever” her husband has a scary bout of pneumonia. Jamie is one of our wisest writers on nature and human culture. She asks whether any creatures are truly wild given the pervasiveness of human influence. Even as she seeks out the ancient, she knows we are all ephemeral. “Sabbath” is the best single essay, combining a visit to Lewis with her worry for her mother, who’s had a stroke, and her grandmother, who is to move into a care home. She explores the island “relishing the movement of my body, its own small continuing strength. It wouldn’t last forever – that was the truth of it – but today I could cycle along a road, to see where it led.”
(University library) [Sort Of Books]
My rating in 2012:
My rating now: 
Ladies, Ladies, Ladies by Kristen Zory King (2025)
I’d never encountered “chapbook” being used for prose rather than poetry, but it’s an apt term for this 61-page paperback containing 18 stories. It’s remarkable how much King can pack into just a few pages: a voice, a character, a setting and situation, an incident, a salient backstory, and some kind of epiphany or resolution. Fifteen of the pieces focus on one named character, with another three featuring a set (“Ladies,” hence the title). Laura-Jean wonders whether it was a mistake to tell her ex’s mother what she really thinks about him in a Christmas card. A love of ice cream connects Margot’s past and present. A painting in a museum convinces Paige to reconnect with her estranged sister. Alice is sure she sees her double wandering around, and Mary contemplates stealing other people’s cats. The women are moved by rage or lust; stymied by loneliness or nostalgia. Is salvation to be found in scripture or poetry? Each story is distinctive, with no words wasted. I’ll look out for future work by King.
(Duplicate copy passed on by Marcie – thank you!) [Stanchion Books]
Which of these do you fancy reading?
Six more indie publishers spotlighted, for a total of 19 books and 18 publishers this month – job done!
Also covered:
Ansell, Farrier, Febos, Hoffman, Orlean, Stacey
Chevillard, Hopkins & Bateman, McGrath, Richardson
Victorian-Themed Novels by Annie Elliot and Livi Michael
There are plenty more indie books that I’m in the middle of, or picked out but didn’t get to in February. As much as possible, I’ll continue reading (indie) books from my shelves this year.
#ReadIndies Review Catch-Up: Chevillard, Hopkins & Bateman, McGrath, Richardson
Quick thoughts on some more review catch-up books, most of them from 2025. It’s a miscellaneous selection today: absurdist flash fiction by a prolific French author, a self-help graphic novel about surviving heartbreak, a blend of bird photography and poetry, and a debut poetry collection about life and death as encountered by a parish priest.
Museum Visits by Éric Chevillard (2024)
[Trans. from French by David Levin Becker]
I’d not heard of Chevillard, even though he’s published 22 novels and then some. This appealed to me because it’s a collection of micro-essays and short stories, many of them witty etymological or historical riffs. “The Guide,” a tongue-in-cheek tour of places where things may have happened, reminded me of Julian Barnes: “So, right here is where Henri IV ran a hand through his beard, here’s where a raindrop landed on Dante’s forehead, this is where Buster Keaton bit into a pancake” and so on. It’s a clever way of questioning what history has commemorated and whether it matters. Some pieces elaborate on a particular object – Hegel’s cap, a chair, stones, a mass attendance certificate. A concertgoer makes too much of the fact that they were born in the same year as the featured harpsichordist. “Autofiction” had me snorting with laughter, though it’s such a simple conceit. All Chevillard had to do in this authorial rundown of a coming of age was replace “write” with “ejaculate.” This leads to such ridiculous statements as “It was around this time that I began to want to publicly share what I was ejaculating” and “I ejaculate in all the major papers.” There are some great pieces about animals. Others outstayed their welcome, however, such as “Faldoni.” Most feel like intellectual experiments, which isn’t what you want all the time but is interesting to try for a change, so you might read one or two mini-narratives between other things.
With thanks to the University of Yale Press for the free copy for review.
What to Do When You Get Dumped: A Guide to Unbreaking Your Heart by Suzy Hopkins; illus. Hallie Bateman (2025)
Discovered through Molly Wizenberg’s excellent author interview (she did a series on her Substack, “I’ve Got a Feeling”) with illustrator Hallie Bateman. It’s a mother–daughter collaboration – their second, after What to Do When I’m Gone, a funny advice guide that’s been likened to Roz Chast’s work (I’ve gotta get that one!). Hopkins’s husband of 30 years left her for an ex-girlfriend. (Ironic yet true: the girlfriend was a marriage counselor.) Composed while deep in grief, this is a frank look at the flood of emotions that accompany a breakup and gives wry but heartfelt suggestions for what might help: journaling, telling someone what happened, cleaning, making really easy to-do lists. Hopkins interviewed six others who had been dumped to get some extra perspective. Bateman describes her mother’s writing process: she made notes and stuck them in a shoebox with a hole in the lid, then went on a retreat to combine it all into a draft. At this point Bateman started illustrating. It was complicated for her, of course, because the dumper is her dad. She notes in the interview that she couldn’t just say “He’s an asshole” and dismiss him. But she could still position herself as a girlfriend to her mother, listening and commiserating. The vignettes are structured as a countdown starting with day 1,582 – it took over four years for Hopkins to come to terms with her loss and embrace a new life. This is a cute and gentle book that I wish had been around for my mom; it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than therapy.
With thanks to Bloomsbury for the free e-copy for review.
The Beauty of Vultures by Wendy McGrath; photos by Danny Miles (2025)
I enjoyed McGrath’s Santa Rosa trilogy and was keen to try her poetry, so I’m pleased that Marcie’s review pointed me here. McGrath came to collaborate with Miles, a musician, after her son told her of Miles’s newfound love of bird photography. She writes in her introduction that she wanted to go “beyond a simple call-and-response,” to instead use the photos as “portals” into art, history, memory, mythology, wordplay. The form varies to suit the topic: “sonnet, pantoum, acrostic, ghazal, concrete poem, … even a mini-play.” (I didn’t identify all of these on a first read, to be honest.) One poem imitates a matchbox cover and another is printed sideways. Most of the images are black-and-white close-ups, with a handful in colour. There are a few mammals as well as birds. One notable flash of colour is the recipient of the first poem, the sassy rebuttal “A Message from the Peahen to the Peacock.” The hen tells him to quit with the fancy displays and get real: “I’ve seen that gaudy display too often.”
Other poems describe birds, address them directly, or take on their perspectives. Birds are a reassuring presence (cf. Ted Hughes on swifts): “I counted on our robins to return every spring” as a balm, the anxious speaker reports in “Air raid siren.” A nest of gape-mouthed baby swallows in an outhouse is the prize at the end of a long countryside walk. With its alliteration and repetition, “The Goldfinch Charm” feels like an incantation. Birds model grace (or at least the appearance of grace):
Assume a buoyancy, lightness, as though you were about to fly.
That yellow rubber duck is my surreal mythology.
Head above water. Stay calm. Paddle like crazy.
They link the natural world and the human in these gorgeous poems that interact with the images in ways that both lead and illuminate.
A female swan is a pen and eyes open
I try to write this dream:
a moment stolen or given.
Published by NeWest Press. With thanks to the author for the free e-copy for review.
Dirt Rich by Graeme Richardson (2026)
Dirt poor? Nah. Miners, gravediggers and archaeologists will tell you that dirt is precious. It’s where lots of our food and minerals come from; it’s what we’ll return to – our bodies as well as the material traces of what we loved and cared for. Richardson, the poetry critic for the Sunday Times, comes from Nottinghamshire mining country and has worked as a chaplain and parish priest. He writes of church interiors and cemeteries, funerals and crumbling faith. There’s a harsh reminder of life’s unpredictability in the juxtaposition of “For the Album,” about the photographic evidence of a wedding day; and, beginning on the facing page, “After the Death of a Child.” It opens with “A Pastoral Heckle”: “The dead live on in memory? Not true. / They lodge there dead, and yours not theirs the hell.” Richardson now lives in Germany, so there are continental scenes as well as ecclesial English ones. The elegiac tone of standouts such as “Last of the Coalmine Choirboys” (with its words drawn from scripture and hymns) is tempered by the chaotic joy of multiple poems about parenthood in the final section. Throughout, the imagery and language glisten. I loved the slant rhyme, assonance and sibilance in “Rewilding the Churchyard”: “Cedars and self-seeders link / with the storm-forked sycamore.” I highly recommend this debut collection.
With thanks to Carcanet Press for the advanced e-copy for review.
Which of these do you fancy reading?
The 2026 Releases I’ve Read So Far
I happen to have read a number of pre-release books, generally for paid reviews for Foreword and Shelf Awareness. (I already previewed six upcoming novellas here.) Most of my reviews haven’t been published yet, so I’ll just give brief excerpts and ratings here to pique the interest. I link to the few that have been published already, then list the 2026 books I’m currently reading. Soon I’ll follow up with a list of my Most Anticipated titles.
Simple Heart by Cho Haejin (trans. from Korean by Jamie Chang) [Other Press, Feb. 3]: A transnational adoptee returns to Korea to investigate her roots through a documentary film. A poignant novel that explores questions of abandonment and belonging through stories of motherhood.
The Conspiracists: Women, Extremism, and the Lure of Belonging by Noelle Cook [Broadleaf Books, Jan. 6]: An in-depth, empathetic study of “conspirituality” (a philosophy that blends conspiracy theories and New Age beliefs), filtered through the outlook of two women involved in storming the Capitol on January 6, 2021.
The Reservation by Rebecca Kauffman [Counterpoint, Feb. 24]: The staff members of a fine-dining restaurant each have a moment in the spotlight during the investigation of a theft. Linked short stories depict character interactions and backstories with aplomb. Big-hearted; for J. Ryan Stradal fans.
Taking Flight by Kashmira Sheth (illus. Nicolo Carozzi) [Dial Press, April 21]: A touching story of the journeys of three refugee children who might be from Tibet, Syria and Ukraine. The drawing style reminded me of Chris Van Allsburg’s. This left a tear in my eye. 
Currently reading:
(Blurb excerpts from Goodreads; all are e-copies apart from Evensong)
Visitations: Poems by Julia Alvarez [Knopf, April 7]: “Alvarez traces her life [via] memories of her childhood in the Dominican Republic … and the sisters who forged her, her move to America …, the search for mental health and beauty, redemption, and success.”
Our Numbered Bones by Katya Balen [Canongate, 12 Feb. / HarperVia, Feb. 17]: Her “adult debut [is] about a grieving author who heads to rural England for a writer’s retreat, only to stumble upon an incredible historical find” – a bog body!
Let’s Make Cocktails!: A Comic Book Cocktail Book by Sarah Becan [Ten Speed Press, April 7]: “With vivid, easy-to-follow graphics, Becan guides readers through basic techniques such as shaking, stirring, muddling, and more. With all recipes organized by spirit for easy access, readers will delight in the panelized step-by-step comic instructions.”
Monsters in the Archives: My Year of Fear with Stephen King by Caroline Bicks [Hogarth/Hodder & Stoughton, April 21]: “A fascinating, first of its kind exploration of Stephen King and his … iconic early books, based on … research and interviews with King … conducted by the first scholar … given … access to his private archives.”
Men I Hate: A Memoir in Essays by Lynette D’Amico [Mad Creek Books, Feb. 17]: “Can a lesbian who loves a trans man still call herself a lesbian? As D’Amico tries to engage more deeply with the man she is married to, she looks at all the men—historical figures, politicians, men in her family—in search of clear dividing lines”.
See One, Do One, Teach One: The Art of Becoming a Doctor: A Graphic Memoir by Grace Farris [W. W. Norton & Company, March 24]: “In her graphic memoir debut, Grace looks back on her journey through medical school and residency.”
Nighthawks by Lisa Martin [University of Alberta Press, April 2]: “These poems parse aspects of human embodiment—emotion, relationship, mortality—and reflect on how to live through moments of intense personal and political upheaval.”
Evensong by Stewart O’Nan [published in USA in November 2025; Grove Press UK, 1 Jan.]: “An intimate, moving novel that follows The Humpty Dumpty Club, a group of women of a certain age who band together to help one another and their circle of friends in Pittsburgh.”
This Is the Door: The Body, Pain, and Faith by Darcey Steinke [HarperOne, Feb. 24]: “In chapters that trace the body—The Spine, The Heart, The Knees, and more—[Steinke] introduces sufferers to new and ancient understandings of pain through history, philosophy, religion, pop culture, and reported human experience.”
American Fantasy by Emma Straub [Riverhead, April 7 / Michael Joseph (Penguin), 14 May]: “When the American Fantasy cruise ship sets sail for a four-day themed voyage, aboard are all five members of a famous 1990s boyband, and three thousand screaming women who have worshipped them for thirty years.”
Additional pre-release review books on my shelf:
Shooting Up by Jonathan Tepper [Constable, 19 Feb.]: “Born into a family of American missionaries driven by unwavering faith … Jonathan’s home became a sanctuary for society’s most broken … AIDS hit Spain a few years after it exploded in New York and, like an invisible plague, … claimed countless lives – including those … in the family rehabilitation centre.”
Elizabeth and Ruth by Livi Michael [Salt Publishing, 9 Feb.]: “Based on the real correspondence between Elizabeth Gaskell and Charles Dickens … [Gaskell] visits a young Irish prostitute in Manchester’s New Bailey prison. … [A] story of hypocrisy and suppression, and how Elizabeth navigates the … prejudice of the day to help the young girl”.
Will you look out for one or more of these?
Any other 2026 reads you can recommend?
Bookish Beck = Rebecca Foster. American transplant to England. Freelance proofreader and book reviewer.
Bookish Beck 