Reading

Arnold-Foster offers a cultural history that traces nostalgia’s journey from a fatal medical diagnosis (a homesickness severe enough to kill C17th Swiss mercenaries) to the soft, wistful feeling we recognise today. She is compelling on nostalgia’s medical past, but earns contemporary relevance by showing how the emotion was gradually weaponised by advertisers, politicians and an industry happy to sell the feeling back to us. She’s admirably even-handed on its political use: the left have our own sentimental golden ages (the heydays of the NHS and BBC) as well as its recent association with the dreaded MAGA and Brexit. Her argument that nostalgia is rooted in selective, reconstructive memory gives the book genuine rigour. Occasionally the sweep outruns the depth, but as an introductory history of a feeling that quietly shapes how we vote, buy and remember, it’s illuminating.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Dickensian—in the ‘long book, even longer cast of characters’ meaning, rather than ‘jolly Christmases’ or even ‘failing NHS hospitals’. I frequently found myself flipping back to the list of characters page. It’s a bold, grand book with some richly developed individuals, inasmuch as everyone gives you one, two or a hundred reasons to dislike them. Even more challenging is the cringeworthy middle-class white man take on drill-adjacent dialogue which was outdated upon being written and massively more so in the couple of years since. I like this book’s ambition, and I recommend reading it, if only for the juxtaposition between what O’Hagan gets right—most of it—and what falls obviously, frustratingly, occasionally embarrassingly short.

What if, during the euphemistically named age of exploration, the Europeans had brought a milder version of smallpox to the Americas? One that didn’t have far-reaching and deadly effects on the Native American population? Spufford describes a continent, years later and between wars, full of economic, cultural and linguistic variety and conflict.

You could call this an alternative history novel. You could instead call it a hard boiled detective novel. It occupies the space between, much like its protagonist who is takouma, takata and taklousa without fully identifying as any. Highly recommended.

I have never been interested in (or even really aware of) novels written by celebrities, and this book had passed me by completely until I heard Bob on Bullseye a couple of months ago. I borrowed it from my local library, and it was pretty much as I expected—a straightforward yet entertaining story, written by someone who is extremely funny, knows a lot about the legal profession, but who is definitely not a seasoned writer. A qualified recommendation.

Murray’s 2010 boarding school tragicomedy “Skippy Dies” was the first novel I read end-to-end on my phone—a long process, with its 672 pages consumed in 20-30 minute chunks. It’s a great book. I was left with the impression that I could, on a good day and with a strong wind, write similarly good sentences, full of puerile jokes that encompass physics references, but that I would never be able to pile them up and achieve the sort of world-building required to birth a novel. My career as a novelist was over before it had begun. This was not a surprise to anyone else.

Murray achieves a similar end product here but now the sentences, the phrasing, the word choices are far beyond what I could dream of achieving. Murray’s ability to so credibly voice each character, bringing their thoughts to life while always advancing the plot in interesting ways, is a marvel.

The story revolves around the Barnes family. Father Dickie still lives in the shadow of his successful father and charismatic younger brother, and the family business that he runs is in chaos in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crash. His wife, Imelda, lives a life of stoic discontentment having escaped her own horrendous childhood. Daughter Cass is headed to university in the company of Elaine, with whom she shares a toxic friendship. 12-year-old son PJ suffers quietly (and painfully) in the vain hope that he can exert any control over the family’s fortunes. The family members take turns narrating the story, which also steps back in time, particularly to the set of events that culminated in the titular bee sting. If you enjoy glib comparisons, think Irish Franzen. If I read a better book this year it will be a miracle.

This short novel starts with a funny, fast couple of chapters on the life of Sy Baumgartner and the practical challenges of continuing into later life after the loss of his wife. The latter half of the book is a more introspective exploration of the literary careers of Baumgartner and his wife, his dalliances with a younger lover, a diversion to Ukraine, and the sudden appearance of a magnetic graduate student. The book isn’t long enough to sustain or resolve each of these separate threads, but what’s there is weaved together masterfully.

I started with misgivings. Games in other media typically don’t work very well. A few early, minor nitpicks: Zevin talks about ‘ground pounding’ in 1985’s Super Mario Bros., which might adequately describe the act of jumping on enemies but doesn’t acknowledge it as the specific term for an important part of Mario’s moveset much later in the series. But this isn’t a book about games; it uses games and the industry as vehicle and metaphor for exploring other things—pain and mortality, collaboration and relationships. It does so wonderfully. Strong recommendation.

What started as a rollicking bildungsroman gradually incorporated big- and small-c conservative themes: reinforcement of traditional family roles and the role of the church, overbearing governments, and pride in signing up to fight for your country in a pointless war. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find out that the author was a speechwriter for Jim Mattis. A qualified recommendation.

I never thought it possible to write a novel based on two words, but Lockwood drains everything possible from ‘terminally online’. Her skill in celebrating and skewering meme culture is, I think, unmatched. I didn’t cry until I read the acknowledgements but, then, boy howdy.