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Hear me speak about British Library Women Writers

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Next Wednesday, at 7pm, I’m delighted to say I’ll be chatting with Gill at Lindum Books about the British Library Women Writers series. Lindum Books is based on Lincoln – but, of course, the event will be happening online.

Priority booking was for their reading groups – but now it’s open to everyone. It’s think it’ll be really fun, and I’m looking forward to telling more people about how great this series is – so do register to come along if you’d like to. (It’s free, but you do need to register in advance.)

H is for Hill

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This is part of an ongoing series where I write about a different author for each letter of the alphabet. You can see them all here.

How many books do I have by Susan Hill?

As always, I haven’t quite remembered to include all the books I have in the photo. Every time, I vow I will… anyway, there are 16 books in the pic, but I actually have 17 because I forgot to check my memoir shelves, where I would have found The Magic Apple Tree.

How many of these have I read?

Only seven of the ones that I own – Howards End is on the Landing, Jacob’s Room Is Full of Books, A Kind Man, Black Sheep, The Beacon, In the Springtime of the Year, and The Bird of Night. And a couple of the short stories from The Boy Who Taught the Beekeeper to Read but I don’t remember which ones…

How did I start reading Susan Hill?

Quite unusually – it was actually a book called The Battle for Gullywith, which I was sent as a review book in the early days of this blog. I don’t think it has been one of her greatest commercial or critical successes, and it certainly wasn’t aimed at me and my age group. But in that era of blogging, Hill was herself quite active – and, indeed, linked to my blog and occasionally commented on it. She was a forthright presence, for sure, and at some point decided it wasn’t for her – but she is the only author I’ve known to be a real part of the book blogging world. Her most iconic moment was doing a reply to a student who’d been asked to compare The Woman in White and its influence on The Woman in Black – and said ”I’ve never read The Woman in White.”

Anyway, it wasn’t much later that I read the wonderful Howards End is on the Landing, and that sent me off on a hunt for more.

General impressions…

I could be wrong, but I think Hill is best known for I’m the King of the Castle and The Woman in Black, and I haven’t read those. She is an astonishingly prolific author, and writes in quite separate genres and worlds. I don’t have any interest in her crime fiction or her children’s fiction, but I love the short literary novels and, of course, her books about reading. In the former category, In the Springtime of the Year is a brilliant book about grief, and I also really got a lot out of the spin on misery memoir The Beacon. I haven’t read a novel by her that I haven’t admired.

But the books for which I love Hill most are, of course, Howards End is on the Landing and, to a lesser extent, Jacob’s Room is full of Books. Reading memoirs are everywhere nowadays, and I will continue to lap them all up, but Hill was among the first and among the best. Neither book quite does what it says it’ll do, but they are wonderful nonetheless.

Any recommendations from the Hill books I have waiting?

One Woman’s Year by Stella Martin Currey

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There were several independent publishers I knew I wanted to read for #ReadIndies month, and of course Persephone was among them. But which one? Well, I was most excited about One Woman’s Year by Stella Martin Currey, published in 1953 but often seeming like it was a couple of decades earlier.

One Woman’s Year is a delightful journey through the year – an anthology of anecdotes, household hints, recipes, and so on. The story/anecdote bit is the longest and perhaps most delightful of each section – just tales from family life, about enjoying village life, the countryside, and everyday activities. From a very privileged position, of course, though they are not stories of expensive outings and excess. They are the sort of stories that would be brought out at family events – from a disastrous renovation project to a French exchange student. All are told with an enjoyably British sense of deprecating humour. I was often reminded of E.M. Delafield’s Diary of a Provincial Lady, which is about the best thing to be reminded of.

Then each month has a cheerful look at the favourite chore of each month, and a wry look at the least favourite. Often this is more of a story than a genuine application, particularly all these decades later, but the recipes that follow could still be followed today, for the most part. Yes, there is an unsettling predilection for curry powder, particularly for someone who spent time in India with her military husband, but I might well be giving the strawberry shortcake a go at some point.

Each month ends with a short anthology of literary passages from novels and poems. These are usually the sorts of things that leave me cold, as I like to read with proper context, but Currey’s choices are brilliantly and thoughtfully done. For instance, she brings together a section from Cold Comfort Farm with an anonymous chronicler of an early nineteenth-century village and a poem about laburnums. Each month’s anthology works beautifully together. All the more impressive because this was, of course, long before the internet – these are quotations that Currey has drawn together from a lifetime of reading.

One of my favourite things about this book is that it’s fully illustrated with woodcuts by Malcolm Ford. No publisher has a deeper appreciation for woodcuts than Persephone Books, and these are second to the ones in The Runaway among my favourites they’ve done, either in their books or in the magazine.

Initially I intended to read one section each month, and make it last a year – well, I couldn’t stop once I’d started. Thank goodness Persephone resurrected such a lovely and comforting read.

Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink

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I will read any book about reading, as you might be aware if you’re a regular reader of Stuck in a Book. Some of them are among my all-time favourites, and some of them are a little more – if you will – by the book. But I’d heard wonderful things about Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink, published last year, given to me by my bro, and which I read on Christmas Day. It turned out to be the perfect Christmas book – and one of my favourite books about books that I’ve read for years.

As I lie there, surrounded by boxes, looking up at the half-filled shelves, at the books that have followed me from place to place, I find my answer. I will be my own doctor and prescribe the best medicine: a course of rereading. I will make piles of my most treasured books and read through them, taking comfort not only in each book itself but also in the reassuring knowledge that there are many more to come. Something shifts in my body. I feel better already, just at the thought of turning off my phone and spending my evenings curled up with a good book. This what I have always done. When the bite of real life is too brutal, I retreat into made-up worlds and tread well-worn paths. I don’t crave the new when I feel like this, but look for solace in the familiar. It is as though in re-encountering my most-loved fictional characters, I can also reconnect with my previous selves and come out feeling less fragmented. Reading built me and always has the power to put me back together again.

I didn’t mean to quote that much, but I couldn’t stop once I started. I’m not a big re-reader myself, but I definitely retreat to familiar genres and authors, if not particular books – and I love that final line, there.

Despite this intro, Dear Reader isn’t really about a series of re-reads. It’s more of a memoir of reading life – one that feels universal, while also obviously being specific to Rentzenbrink. And her life has been fully surrounded by books. We see her first forays into discovering narratives and characters, and realising the joy that they could bring – and when she was having difficult times at school, books were a refuge. Many chapters end with a series of recommendations for books relating to the period of her life in question, and they are great lists, recommended with the happy fervour of any enthusiastic reader. Some themes are enjoyably unusual – like the list of books about pubs, when her dad became a pub landlord when Rentzenbrink was sixteen.

But books aren’t just part of Rentzenbrink’s social life. She goes into working in bookselling – and it’s a fascinating look behind the curtain. She starts in the book department of Harrod’s, and it’s always fun to read behind-the-curtain experiences of working in customer service. There are certainly stories of silly requests and unreasonable members of the public, but there is also a warmth to Rentzenbrink’s writing. We all love Shaun Bythell’s biting memoirs of bookselling, but this is not that – Rentzenbrink is thrilled whenever she can engage with an interested reader, and her favourite thing is to recommend books. We can all empathise.

The book follows her bookselling journey as she takes on more responsibility at other shops – organising events, arranging displays, choosing books. She goes up and up, and has such fondness for her colleagues and her experiences. What survives throughout is her passion for reading and for encouraging others in their reading lives. She is not a pollyanna, and there are difficult stages to her life too – but this is still a delightful read. The subtitle of Dear Reader is ‘the comfort and joy of books’, and there are few books about books that are more comforting or joyful than this.

The Opposite House by Helen Oyeyemi

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I got sent Helen Oyeyemi’s second novel, The Opposite House, by the publisher in… 2008, the year after it was published. Oops, sorry Bloomsbury. I’ve read four of her other books, and have finally read this one too. Better late than never? And what prompted me to finally read it? It was one of the 20 books I listed for the inaugural BookTube Spin, and its number came up.

My relationship with Oyeyemi’s writing is definitely a bit up and down. I really love Boy, Snow, Bird and often recommend it to people – others of her books I have liked a lot, but some have tipped over the edge of experimentalism into confusion, for me. How will The Opposite House fare?

Maya lives in London, having moved there with her family when she was five. She only dimly remembers her life in Cuba – there is really only one memory: sitting under the table at their farewell party, hearing a woman singing. It is her defining recollection of life in the land of her parents and their Yoruba gods. And speaking of those gods, among them is Yemaya Saramagua, an Orisha, who lives in the somewherehouse. Short sections between chapters show her existing in this mysterious, liminal place which opens out onto two very different worlds:

On the second floor, rooms and rooms and rooms, some so tiny, pale and clean that they are no more than fancies, sugar-cubed afterthoughts stacked behind doorways. Below is a basement pillared with stone. […] The basement’s back wall holds two doors. One door takes Yemaya straight out into London and ragged hum of a city after dark. The other door opens out onto the striped flag and cooking-smell cheer of that tattered jester, Lagos – always, this door leads to a place that is floridly day.

In London, Maya has discovered she is pregnant – though she hasn’t told her boyfriend Aaron, or her family. She is conflicted by the pregnancy but, in typical Oyeyemi style, it is a conflict that seems to swirl between reality and magical realism. There is no searing look at whether or not to have an abortion, but thought processes that look much more at the metaphysical and abstract implications of pregnancy. All of Oyeyemi’s novels seem to exist in a somewherehouse – a world between worlds, where reality, fairy tale, religion, and magical realism co-exist and inform one another. But reality is one of the ingredients. This cocktail doesn’t diminish the impact of real anxieties and burdens:

Slaves had to be Catholic and obedient or they’d be killed, or worse. The Word ‘slave’ is a big deal to Chabella and Papi; neither of them can get out from under it. It is a blackness in Cuba. It is sometimes bittersweet, for such is the song of the morena; it is two fingers place on a wrist when a white Cuban is trying to describe you. Papi tries to systematise it and talk about the destruction of identity and the fragility of personality, but he is scared of the Word. Mami hides inside the Word, finds reverie in it, tries to locate a power that she is owed.

I think quotes like that give a better sense of what reading an Oyeyemi novel is like than any description I can try to give. The Opposite House incorporates interesting and vital questions about, say, race – Maya and her family are black Cubans; Aaron is a white Ghanaian – and about mental health, portrayed through the ‘hysterics’ that live alongside and pursue Maya and her best friend. The prose never settles on conclusions, or even on the sort of imagery that allows the reader to make their own. Instead, everything is filtered through a beautifully written and imagined prose style that is uniquely Oyeyemi’s – so distinct that it is not just a style but a world.

I found the Yemaya elements beautiful and striking and confusing, but was most drawn to the scenes between Maya and Aaron. There is distance and uncertainty in their relationship, but somehow Aaron was, to me, a really lovely and warm character. Oyeyemi is very good at building up nuanced relationships – familial, romantic, or friendly – but I found something particularly special in that between Maya and Aaron, perhaps because he was kind without that kindness being able to solve problems. It was a twist on the sorts of boyfriends you often see in books.

Boy, Snow, Bird remains my favourite of Oyeyemi’s novels, though I have one yet to read – but The Opposite House is up there, a really vivid and intriguing novel that refuses to let you settle as a reader, and makes up its own rules to help penetrate to deeper, if less graspable, truths about relationships and human nature.

The Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley

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For #ReadIndies month, I had to pick up one of the many unread British Library Crime Classics I have on my shelf. Or, more precisely, piled high on top of a bookcase. Quite a lot of people have recommended The Poisoned Chocolates Case (1929) by Anthony Berkeley as one of the best ones, and I’ve had it for yonks.

It’s a great premise for a detective novel. Roger Sheringham, who apparently appears in other Berkeley novels, has assembled a group of people to help him solve a murder. I did have to make notes about who they all were, because he does a slightly unhelpful thing of telling you about them before he tells you their names – but it includes a dramatist, a detective novelist, an avant-garde writer, a solicitor, and a sort of timorous nobody.

The police have given up the case as lost. Can the Crime Club help? The dead person is Joan Bendix – poisoned, as the title suggests, by chocolates. The chocolates in question were given to her by her husband, but only because he bumped into Sir Eustace. He received them in the post, purporting to be from the chocolatiers, looking for a sponser. He rejects them – handing them to Graham Bendix. Later that night, both Bendixes – Bendices? – eat some chocolates, but Joan eats more. By the end of the evening, she is dead.

The brilliant thing about The Poisoned Chocolates Case is that each chapter gives a different solution, as the group take it in turns to present their detection and their conclusion. And, of course, the person they’re accusing of murder.

A couple of pretty unlikely solutions are given in the first chapters – but I have to admit that the third culprit/solution was the one I’d guessed from the outset. Oops! In the later chapters, Berkeley is very good at giving extremely convincing deductions – and then, in the next chapter, revealing why they were false conclusions and how the characters take false steps. Berkeley is clearly enjoying teasing the genre and exposing the tricks that detective novelists play. How often they use false syllogisms to make the denouement convincing. All of that.

Which does mean that the novel’s final solution is arguably no more convincing than any of the others – and the two extras at the end, contributing in the 70s by Christianna Brand and for this edition by Martin Edwards, are certainly not the most convincing – but it’s one of those rare detective novels where the satisfaction doesn’t come from the solution. It comes from seeing behind the curtain, at the construction of detection.

Riceyman Steps by Arnold Bennett

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Arnold Bennett is perhaps one of those names who is more remembered than read nowadays, though I know there is a very active Arnold Bennett Society that always seems to notice when I review one of his books. Hello! And I have read a small number of them now – Buried Alive, The Old Wives’ Tale, A Great Man. Now I can add Riceyman Steps (1923) which was given to me by my friend Simon when he was sorting out his late mother’s library.

Riceyman Steps is, I discovered, a real flight of steps in London – though without that name, I believe. George has done a lovely blog post, retracing the different places that are featured in the novel – but what I can’t quite understand, either from contemporary or contemporaneous photos, is the ‘tiny open space (not open to vehicular traffic) which was officially included in the title Riceyman Steps’. In the novel, this space is home to various domestic residences and, more importantly to the plot, a second-hand bookshop and a confectioner’s.

The bookseller is a man with extraordinary name Henry Earlforward, a man heading towards middle age whose abiding passions are running his bookshop and economy. His every move is motivated by saving pennies, whether that be underpaying the maid who comes to clean or in ensuring fires are only lit in rooms which absolutely cannot do without them. At the same time, he is not avaricious. He is content to make a profit on a book – to sell for two shillings something that cost him one, even if he suspects it is worth ten times as much. His miserliness is combined with a sense of decency.

His thoughts, as the novel opens, are also occupied with the woman who runs the confectioner’s. As Bennett’s witty narrative mentions, it is only some rather unloved chocolates in a display case that make the shop warrant the name ‘confectioner’s’; it is otherwise rather a standard corner shop, though I don’t think the term would have been used then. Mrs Arb is a widow of about Earlforward’s age, and they have in common the services of the maid Elsie.

For much of Riceyman Steps, this is a rather sweet novel of middle-aged love. Neither is demonstrative, and you get the sense that either of them would have managed quite well if romance had never knocked at their door – but, together, their straightforward competence finds something quite lovely kindling. Their admiration for each other begins with a recognition of the other’s good sense of economy. It never gets to any great belting passion – but it does lead to one of the more touching marriages that I’ve read in fiction. Mrs Arb moves into the bookshop – as does Elsie, now that she can be the live-in maid for a married couple – and life continues.

I love any descriptions of bookshops, perhaps particularly from this period. Much like the opening pages of Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell, I enjoy the shorthand of early 20th-century authors telling you who customers are. And I also love Bennett’s affectionately wry glances at the house of a bookseller who, in his bachelor days, had allowed the stock to run rather wild. Even his bath is filled with books.

Mrs Arb had to step over hummocks of books in order to reach the foot of the stairs. The left-hand half of every step of the stairs was stacked with books – cheap editions of novels in paper jackets, under titles such as ‘Just a Girl’, ‘Not Like Other Girls’, ‘A Girl Alone’. Weak but righteous and victorious girls crowded the stairs from top to bottom, so that Mrs Arb could scarcely get up. The landing also was full of girls. The front-room on the first floor was, from the evidence of its furniture, a dining-room, though not used as such. The massive mahogany table was piled up with books, as also the big sideboard, the mantelpiece, various chairs. The floor was carpeted with books. Less dust in the den below, but still a great deal. The Victorian furniture was ‘good’; it was furniture meant to survive revolutions and conflagrations and generations; it was everlasting furniture; it would command respect through any thickness of dust.

Bennett is out of fashion, but I think his prose is wonderful – he gives all those details that Woolf mocked him for in ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’, but he also has a dry sense of humour, and a genuine affection for the people he’s created. I enjoy him most when he sees their foibles but wishes them well, and as a god he dispenses small joys and small agonies equally.

The agonies get greater as the novel progresses, and I would have preferred something that didn’t veer quite so dramatic. But it is a drama that stems from his characters’ weaknesses – specifically their pecunious natures. The good sense that brought them together also threatens to pull them apart when it is taken to extremes. It’s a shame – for me, at least – that Riceyman Steps couldn’t just have been a sweet novel about a couple finding compatibility later in life than they might have imagined. Perhaps that wouldn’t have been as popular at the time. But there is enough of that in the novel, and of a depiction of a corner of London at a specific time, to relish and enjoy before hearts start beating faster and trouble enters this particular version of unshowy paradise.

A Jane Austen Education by William Deresiewicz

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It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Janeites will read anything about Jane Austen – and it’s also a truth universally acknowledged that this opening ‘bit’ is wildly overused. Sorry about that. Anyway, I can’t remember exactly where I heard about A Jane Austen Education (2011) by William Deresiewicz, but I was delighted when my friend Malie got it for my birthday last year. It seemed like the right sort of book for all this *gestures at world* – and I was sucked in straight away by this opening paragraph:

I was twenty-six, and about as dumb, in all human things, as any twenty-six-year-old has a right to be, when I met the woman who would change my life. That she’d been dead for a couple of hundred years made not the slightest difference whatsoever. Her name was Jane Austen, and she would teach me everything I know about everything that matters.

It’s rare to find a man writing a non-academic book about Austen, and Deresiewicz certainly owns up to some masculine prejudice at the outset. He was a graduate student at an American university, doing a six-year PhD programme. Apparently specialising comes quite late in the day in American PhDs, so the first years were spent covering a lot of literary ground – and that included reading Jane Austen. Deresiewicz was much more concerned with the big men of American fiction, and didn’t want to bother with the quiet manners that he perceived he’d find in Austen. Starting with Emma.

At first, he hates it. He hates Emma’s poor decision making and small world. Still more, he hates the boring Miss Bates and the interminable Mr Woodhouse. But he gradually realised that they were meant to be boring and interminable – and a whole lot more than that too, of course. It is the famous Box Hill scene that finally changed this mind.

And that was when I finally understood what Austen had been up to all along. Emma’s cruelty, which I was so quick to criticise, was nothing, I saw, but the mirror image of my own. The boredom and contempt that the book aroused were not signs of Austen’s ineptitude; they were the exact responses she wanted me to have. She had incited them, in order to expose them. By creating a heroine who felt exactly as I did, and who behaved precisely as I would have in her situation, she was showing me my own ugly face. I couldn’t deplore Emma’s disdain for Miss Bates, or her boredom with the whole commonplace Highbury world, without simultaneously condemning my own.

This passage does also reveal one of the few issues I had with A Jane Austen Education – that Deresiewicz leans a little too heavily on the idea of discovering ‘the’ point that Austen was trying to make, rather than landing on one particular interpretation. His moments of revelation are nuanced and intriguing – like Northanger Abbey helping him realise he should ask better questions, or Mansfield Park making him a better listener – but I wish he had more openly recognised that there is no singular conclusion that can come from any novel. As a PhD in literature, he surely knows this full well.

Through the book, each of Austen’s novels gets a chapter – his reading of the book going alongside his own life, including failed relationships (romantic and otherwise), stalled academic work, and a difficult engagement with his father who wanted a different career path for his son. I love books that interweave the personal and the interpretive. This has become increasingly the way that creative non-fiction is written, and I think it has enriched the genre no end; A Jane Austen Education is perhaps most similar to Nell Stevens’ wonderful Mrs Gaskell and Me, though without a particularly biographical slant to his writing. I would have welcomed even more autobiography, but he is excellent at intertwining literary criticism and self revelation. I’d love to know more suggestions in this genre.

Over the course of the book, Deresiewicz goes from an Austen sceptic to regarding her as his favourite author – and the reader, who probably started far further down that spectrum, can forgive him his early hesitancy. I loved seeing his unusual perspectives on the novel, learning about him, and marvelling again at the way that Austen speaks across the centuries in a way that very few other authors have managed or are likely to manage. And, like all of Austen’s heroines, Deresiewicz’s journey through A Jane Austen Education isn’t in learning more about literature or the people around him – it’s a journey to better understand himself, and start changing where he needs to change.

A round-up of #ReadIndies books

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I’ve been busy reading for Karen and Lizzy’s #ReadIndies month, and here are three of the books that came off my tbr pile for it. They could scarcely be more different!

Image result for brampton wick

The book: Bramton Wick by Elizabeth Fair
The publisher: Dean Street Press (their Furrowed Middlebrow series)
The date: originally 1952, reprinted by DSP in 2017

My friend Barbara bought me a whole pile of Furrowed Middlebrow titles, very excitingly, and a few people recommend I pick Bramton Wick off the pile. It’s a classic story of small village life – one of my favourite things – including a group of young people who might fall in love, and a host of wealthy neighbours and neighbours who used to be wealthy. The introduction compares it to Angela Thirkell, which is a fair comparison – perhaps the humour is a bit different, but the characters wouldn’t be out of place in Thirkell’s Barsetshire.

I particularly liked the dog-obsessive women living together, and enjoyed hating the venomous sister among the Misses Cleve. There an awful lot of characters, in fact, and I occasionally wondered if Fair should have narrowed her canvas a little – but I quickly determined the ones whose lives I felt most invested in, and they also turned out to be the ones who got the most focus. Unlikely to be an accident!

Image result for stardust nation

The book: Stardust Nation by Deborah Levy and Andrzej Klimowski
The publisher: SelfMadeHero
The date: 2016

I can’t remember if this was a review copy or if I bought it, but it came in a period where I was trying to expand my knowledge of graphic novels. This one is based on Levy’s earlier short story ‘Stardust Nation’ (2013), and is essentially a story of contagious trauma. Tom is the main character – one day his colleague Nick phones him to say that his (Nick’s) father beat him as a child. But this is Tom’s life, not Nick’s. Memories become shared and stolen and it’s all quite unsettling. I loved Levy’s words, but wasn’t sure about Klimowski’s illustration. A lot looks quite poor draughtsmanship to me, but I suspect it’s deliberate and I don’t fully understand it.

Image result for hello friend we missed you

The book: Hello Friend We Missed You by Richard Owain Roberts
The publisher: Parthian
The date: 2020

This novel won ‘Not the Booker Prize’, which is probably why my book group is reading it. It’s a novel on a small Welsh island where ‘Hill’ goes to visit his invalid father, have an affair with his father’s nurse, wonder if Jack Black is ever going to get back to him about his ‘promising’ film script. It’s all built up of minute, often banal, observations – usually on separate lines, and often ending ‘thinks Hill’. There are no speech marks, which seems to be a thing people do.

I quite enjoyed it, and it’s certainly an unusual and confident prose style. What confuses me is how funny the blurb and puff quotes claim Hello Friend We Missed You is, because I didn’t find it remotely funny – i.e. I would have no idea it was meant to be a comic novel if the back cover hadn’t told me. Confusing. Maybe book group will clear it up. Not really my cup of tea, overall, but always interesting to see something so out of the ordinary.

Notes From No Man’s Land by Eula Biss

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#ReadIndies naturally made me think of my unread pile of Fitzcarraldo Editions. I’ve yet to buy any of the blue fiction titles, but am amassing the white non-fiction – mostly spurred on by how brilliant This Little Art by Kate Briggs is. I don’t remember why I picked Notes From No Man’s Land – originally published in 2009, and published by Fitzcarraldo in 2017 – but I’m glad I did, because it’s excellent.

Let’s address the elephant in the room first of all: this is a collection of essays about racism by a white woman. At one point she refers to her family as ‘mixed’, but this turns out to be largely about the people her mother and aunt married, not her biological relatives. Well, her mixed-race cousin is her blood relative, of course, and there is an interesting essay on their relationship that I imagine would be very different if the cousin had written it.

Anyway, when I picked up the book I had assumed, from the title, that Eula Biss was herself mixed race – the no-man’s land perhaps being between two communities. That is not the case. Biss lives in various different places throughout the essays in this collection, and sometimes she is in a racial minority and sometimes in a majority, but she is always a white woman looking at an issue that affects other people far more than it affects her. That might mean you wouldn’t want to read Notes From No Man’s Land, and I’d understand that. What I will say is that she doesn’t claim to be anything more than an observer – of current day, of her lifetime, and of history.

The opening essay is a powerful example of the latter. ‘Time and Distance Overcome’ was initially intended to be ‘an essay about telephone poles and telephones’, exploring how people reacted to have poles and wires festoon their neighbourhoods and skies. We take them for granted now, but, as Biss writes:

The idea on which the telephone depended – the idea that every home could be connected by a vast network of wires suspended from poles set an average of one hundred feet apart – seemed far more unlikely than the idea that the human voice could be transmitted through a wire.

The essay starts out looking at this dawn of a new technology. But Biss’s searches for ‘telephone pole’ in newspapers of the early-to-mid 20th century revealed something else: how often they were used for lynchings. With a judder, the essay turns to lynchings instead. Biss doesn’t over-editorialise, but lets the horror of the facts speak for itself. In this essay, she shows something she is very good at throughout Notes From No Man’s Land: resisting the narrative urge to draw everything into a structured conclusion. Whether her essays are mostly facts or mostly subjective, and this collection mixes the two, she doesn’t tie a neat bow.

The first essay is the most objective of the lot. In others, Biss’s own experience is centred – living in so-called dangerous areas of New York, and trying to establish why they have that reputation; moving to Mexico and trying to improve her Spanish; being a teacher in New York during 9/11, and being a university professor at an insignificant university in Iowa. Some of her insights in the latter were among the most interesting things in the book – how clueless most of the students were about racism, but also how university students (en masse) fulfil many of society’s fears about ‘othered’ groups, but somehow without being the target of discrimination and fear.

I loved the way that Biss interwove the personal and the historical in many of these essays – sometimes jarringly, to great effect, and sometimes much more gently. A child custody case flows in and out of Biss’s frustrations working for local media; a Nina Simone song plays during a car journey and melds with thoughts on Irish racial identity; Biss’s experience as a teacher come alongside the idea of education post-slavery. Again, even when these comparisons jolt the reader, or seem poles apart, Biss doesn’t overplay her hand as an essayist. It doesn’t seem an affront to compare ex-slaves’ education with her teaching experience, because she never directly compares them. They are just both there, in the essay, allowing each other room and creating a landscape which the reader can explore.

Chiefly, Biss is a woman driven by curiosity, compassion, and an ability to see how seemingly disparate elements exist within the same universe. Here she is on ‘diverse’:

Walking down Clark Street I pass a poster on an empty storefront inviting entrepreneurs to start businesses in Rogers Park, ‘Chicago’s most diverse neighborhood.’ It takes me some time, standing in front of this poster, to understand why the word ‘diverse’ strikes me as so false in this context, so disingenuous. It is not because this neighborhood is not full of man different kinds of people, but because that word implies some easy version of this difficult reality, some version that is no full of sparks and averted eyes and police cars. But still, I’d like to believe in the promise of that word. Not the sunshineness of it, or the quota-making politics of it, but the real complexity of it.

And perhaps that’s what I liked best about this book. It resists any ‘easy version of this difficult reality’. It recognises complexity, and celebrates the un-simple.