First, of course, is Ali Smith’s ‘Winter’, a sort-of sequel to ‘Autumn’ which has been nominated for just about every book prize this year, but won none. I’m about a third of the way through it already and it doesn’t disappoint: like ‘Autumn’ it is concerned with the world in the now and doesn’t pull any punches. But, like ‘Autumn’ it reflects these concerns through a human lense: particularly intriguing is how Smith peeps into the mind of someone with dementia, presenting us with a unique vision of how such a person’s mind might be working. Playful and angry.
Next up is ‘The White Book’ by Han Kang. I LOVED ‘The Vegetarian’, the first of her novels to be translated into English and this week was lucky enough to attend a signing session. It was a strange and wonderful evening, Han Kang reading from her work in Korean and then her translator reading it in English, the author talking about how to classify this new work – poem? novella? – and explaining how it came to be. It seems odd that I am now looking forward for ‘Winter’ to be over so I can get into what promises to be ‘a book about mourning, rebirth and the tenacity of the human spirit. It is a stunning investigation of the fragility, beauty and strangeness of life.’. P.S. At the signing we also discovered that Han Kang has written many novels in Korea and the three currently translated (including ‘Human Acts’) are the tip of the iceberg. Hurrah!
Ah, Armistead Maupin. A memoir (‘Logical Family’) from the man who brought us the truly wonderful ‘Tales of the City’ sequence of books. Every home should have a copy of these big, beautiful, funny and sad novels, all adding up to create a grand – and often surreal – panorama of gay life in the US, from the 1970s onwards. These are characters which live on with you, so much so that – confession alert! – I still haven’t read the final volume as I can’t bring myself to say goodbye.
Finally, a lovely charity shop find: ‘Vera’ by Elizabeth Von Arnim. I’ve never read anything by this writer, but the fact that she was a cousin and friend of Katherine Mansfield (who I love) intrigues me:
‘Lucy Entwhistle’s beloved father had just died; she is twenty-two and alone in the world. Leaning against her garden gate, dazed and unhappy, she is disturbed by the slightly sweaty presence of Mr. Wemyss, also in mourning – for his wife Vera, who hasL died in mysterious circumstances. Before Lucy can collect herself the middle-aged Mr. Wemyss has taken charge: of the funeral arrangements, of her kind aunt Dot, but most of all of Lucy herself – body and soul.’
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