Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops by Shaun Bythell

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I imagine you’ve probably read Shaun Bythell’s very funny accounts of running a secondhand bookshop in Wigtown, Scotland – Diary of a Bookseller and Confessions of a Bookseller. I love them and I’m hoping they go on and on. While we wait for another diary, though, there is Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshop – published last year, probably with an eye on being a stocking filler. It’s 137 pages and a pocket-sized book, so only takes an hour or so to whip through – but it’s a delightful hour.

As the title suggests, Bythell divides up his usual clientele into seven categories – though each of these has several sub-sections. For example, here is the genus Expert, species Bore:

This type of person often considers him- or herself to be a polymath, and will inveterately share their thoughts with you on any subject you choose to mention, or accidentally mention, once you are aware of their proclivity. It is best to maintain complete silence in their presence, as the slightest thing can trigger a lengthy tirade on the most unexpected of subjects, although often you don’t discover that customers fall into this taxonomic category until it’s far, far too late. They are not averse to listening in on conversations between other customers and interjecting with their (often wildly offensive) opinions, and on many occasions I have had to apologise to innocent bystanders who – having been quietly discussing something – have subsequently been subject to an unsolicited (and possibly racist) rant from a complete stranger who happened to be within earshot.

Bythell is always wonderful at spearing people who have no self-awareness about how difficult they make life for others – though he breaks his curmudgeonly persona every now and then to talk about kinds of people who are very welcome in the shop. He treads the line between wittily grumpy and mean with expertise, never falling on the wrong side of it – but these moments of appreciation are still like the sun bursting through clouds.

Naturally, as a frequenter of bookshops, I read nervously – trying to identify myself. The nearest I came was the posh old lady from the city, with whom I have little in common except for her taste: ‘She would never dream of taking the dog for a walk, and her interests, when she comes into the bookshop and wafts dreamily around, are a light touch of Bloomsbury (particularly Virginia Woolf) with a smattering of the Mitford sisters.’ Ouch!

I will read anything Bythell writes about bookshops and, though this isn’t a proper instalment in the series, it’s enough to keep us going for a while. If it wasn’t in your stocking at Christmas, then treat yourself to a copy to make January a bit more fun.

The Land by Vita Sackville-West [or a bit of it]

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File:Victoria-mary-sackville-west-vita.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

I am trying to be the sort of person who likes poetry, and picking some of the poems off my bookshelves. If I’m honest, it hasn’t been an enormous success yet – though I did enjoy some of the Yeats I read, and felt pretty unenthusiastic about quite a lot of it.

One of the poems I’ve been keen to try is The Land by Sackville-West – a book-length poem from 1926. It is perhaps best remembered now, at least to the non-poetry read fraternity, for Virginia Woolf’s teasing of it in Orlando. In that novel, published a couple of years later and inspired by Vita Sackville-West, Orlando spends years writing a long poem called The Oak Tree that is later lampooned by a noted Elizabethan critic.

So that is quite a starting point for trying The Land! And I can see why it might be lampooned. It’s essentially a rustic and atavistic take on nature, filled with farmers doing ancient things with scythes etc. etc. I’m going to be honest, most of it didn’t really work for me. That ‘poetic shepherd’ genre always feels a bit improbable and fey to me. BUT I am glad I read it for this small section alone, which I really liked.

Long story short – I don’t think I’m the right audience for The Land, but I love two particular pages. So, if you’re like me – here, I’m saving you some time and just sharing this bit, on comparing poets and artisans.

The poet like the artisan
Works lonely with his tools; picks up each one,
Blunt mallet knowing, and the quick thin blade,
And plane that travels when the hewing’s done;
Rejects, and chooses; scores a fresh faint line;
Sharpens, intent upon his chiselling;
Bends lower to examine his design,
If it be truly made,
And brings perfection to so slight a thing.
But in the shadows of his working-place,
Dust-moted, dim,
Among the chips and lumber of his trade,
Lifts never his bowed head, a breathing-space
To look upon the world beyond the sill,
The world framed small, in distance, for to him
The world and all its weight are in his will.
Yet in the ecstasy of his rapt mood
There’s no retreat his spirit cannot fill,
No distant leagues, no present, and no past,
No essence that his need may not distil,
All pressed into his service, but he knows
Only the immediate care, if that be good;
The little focus that his words enclose;
As the poor joiner, working at his wood,
Knew not the tree from which the planks were taken,
Knew not the glade from which the trunk was brought,
Knew not the soil in which the roots were fast,
Nor by what centuries of gales the boughs were shaken,
But holds them all beneath his hands at last.

For All We Know by G.B. Stern

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What a curious novel, which has left rather an impression on me, even though I find it a little complex to untangle. I bought For All We Know [1955] in 2011, based on having enjoyed her books on Jane Austen that she co-wrote with Sheila Kaye-Smith. She’s also one of those names you see a lot if you’re interested in women writers in the early/mid twentieth century – and years ago I did read her novel Ten Days of Christmas. But somehow it still felt like I was a Stern fiction newbie. Do Christmas novels feel substantially different? Like you haven’t really heard a singer if you’ve only listened to their Christmas album?

Anyway, I decided to see what was going on with For All We Know – the sort of title that isn’t really giving anything away. What I think of as an Alan Ayckbourn-esque title – trips off the tongue and doesn’t really mean anything.

I was daunted by a family tree in the opening pages. For me, a family tree in a book is a tacit way of admitting that they haven’t done a good job delineating characters. But onwards – the first section, of five, is a family group discussing Gillian’s recent biography of the whole dynasty. She has been working on it for years, and it has been a total critical and commercial flop. Gillian is a biographer of some note, and the family is well known in theatrical circles, so why has it not been a success? Well, because Gillian has ignored the noted Bettina, and devoted significant sections to Bettina’s son Rendal, who is of no public note.

This family gathering and sotto voce discussions over, we jump back a few decades – to an infant Gillian, encountering Bettina’s side of the family for the first time. Bettina is Gillian’s grandfather’s sister’s daughter, whatever that translates into in terms of cousins and removes. That side of the family has a whole range of siblings and cousins and whatnot, and you quickly work out why the family tree is needed. All you need to know is that Gillian’s grandfather is the head of the side of the family that isn’t famous, and Bettina’s mother is the head of the side that is.

It was Timothy, her cousin, who had casually referred to Gillian’s grandfather and her Uncle Conrad as the ‘failure branch’ of the family tree. Dear, dear Timothy! Happily able to say even worse than that, not to tease nor to be cruel but because he could not for the life of him see why she need mind, as it was true. Timothy had a thick blank spot, and though only twelve years old when he came forth with this chubby definition of Gillian’s immediate family as compared with his own, indisputably the ‘celebrity branch’, he would be just as capable of saying it to-day when he was sixteen, because the thick blank spot had not grown more delicately assailable and nor had he; just one of those get-away-with-murder-boys, every year handsomer, and brilliant at everything he undertook.

Gillian is a few years younger, and in awe of this daunting family – though also enamoured by them, and desperate for them to show her attention and affection. The strength of For All We Know is the Stern’s understanding of the power of embarrassing or upsetting moments. She is so good at children and the way they feel so strongly in the moment. There are a couple of incidents where young Gillian feels she is being laughed at by the family – and, even more powerfully, one moment of triumph that is later forgotten by the people she thought she’d impressed. In a biography, these moments wouldn’t even warrant a footnote – but in Gillian’s young mind, they are seismic. She decides that she will one day write the biography of the family, and begins to fill notebooks with observations and eavesdroppings.

The novel has a further three parts, jumping forward in time, seeing how Gillian’s life becomes more embroiled with the family. Timothy fulfils his early promise and becomes a big-name actor in Hollywood; Rendal has fulfilled the prediction that he will have a much less illustrious career. Gillian has grown in confidence, though still clearly in awe of what Bettina thinks, and capable of strong emotional reactions.

One of the interesting things about For All We Know is that, jumping in stages through this family’s history, Stern doesn’t land in the most significant places. We hear about marriages that have happened between sections, and of moments of success and fame. The chapters of narrative seem almost random, in terms of a timeline, but perhaps they are the places of biggest emotional impact – not the places that Gillian’s biography would highlight. Stern is more interested in the ways that relationships within the family change. And particularly between Gillian and Bettina. There is no big surprise twist or gotcha moment – I did wonder if Bettina would turn out to be Gillian’s mother or something, but there’s nothing like that. But there are times when their relationship shifts dramatically – largely because what they want and expect from it is so different.

Getting to the end of For All We Know, I was left with a really strong impression of the emotional weight of the narrative – and, yes, slightly disconcerted by the curious structure and the events that aren’t covered. I can see why Stern chose to pick the moments she did – and yet I feel a bit like Gillian in the early chapters. That I’ve been watching a family from the outside, not quite privy to their most significant memories. I like a novel to leave me thinking, and I’m not quite sure yet whether I’ll remember this novel as a brilliant success or as something a little off-kilter. Or perhaps both?

Nothing is Black by Deirdre Madden

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I absolutely loved Molly Fox’s Birthday a year or so ago, and so over Christmas I thought I’d treat myself to one of the other Deirdre Madden novels that I’d since been stockpiling. I went on Twitter for advice, but nobody seemed to have read the ones I had – so I picked the shortest one: Nothing is Black from 1994.

Claire lives in a remote coastal area of County Donegal. I have to admit that, until now, I hadn’t realised that Ireland had a north coast – but turns out that Northern Ireland is really only the north-east of the island. You probably all knew that. She lives in a stark and sparsely populated area, living an almost perversely minimalist lifestyle – only the barest, most functional furniture; few local friends; few efforts to stay connected with her past. She’s an artist, and practices each morning by making a quick watercolour sketch of the ever-changing landscape outside the window of her ugly, practical house.

Rather reluctantly, she lets her cousin Nuala come to stay. She lives in Dublin, but it might as well be a thousand miles away. This is the idea of Nuala’s husband. Neither of them are particularly enthusiastic about the idea – which Nuala combats with talking, and Claire with silence.

They drove out along the coast road. Claire would have admitted that the place where she had chosen to live was bleak, but she thought that it had its own magnificence too. It certainly didn’t have the lushness and prettiness people often expected to find in the countryside. To appreciate this area properly required a certain way of seeing things. Because of the wind coming in off the Atlantic, it was never static. Claire liked that about it, and she liked the colours, not bright, but often vivid, with the contrasts of the low, soft plants against stone.

This isn’t an ‘Enchanted April’ type of novel, where unlikely companions become firm friends. But Madden expertly takes us through the paths and wounds that have led to these two women’s unhappy circumstances. Nuala has started shoplifting. Claire has deliberately isolated herself. But these are only the outer signs of much deeper matters – and, even in a very short novel, Madden finds space to gently develop them.

Do you ever get that ‘difficult second novel’ feeling with an author you love, even if isn’t actually their second novel? This was Madden’s fourth, and actually written fourteen years before Molly Fox’s Birthday – but I suppose I was no longer surprised that she was such a wonderfully perceptive writer. Which is to say, Nothing is Black is beautifully, poetically, sensitively written – but at this point I’d have been surprised if it weren’t.

Throughout, Claire’s painterly mindset influences the narrative. Just as the playwright in Molly Fox’s Birthday was always thinking of words and staging, even if this only came through to the surface of the narrative in the subtlest ways, so colour and form threads through everything in Nothing is Black. It’s done so cleverly and naturally – it matches the world and characters that Madden has created, and their preoccupations and concerns. Unusually for me, I think this could have been longer. I suppose, because she has created fully realised people and is showing us their existence, rather than a particular set of plot points they go through, there is no end to the interesting things she can tell us about them.

Tea or Books? #91: Familiar or Unfamiliar Settings? and Two Elizabeth von Arnim novels

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Elizabeth von Arnim and settings of novels – welcome to episode 91!

In the first half of the novel, we look at the settings of novels, and ask whether we prefer familiar or unfamiliar settings. In the second half, we compare two recently reprinted novels by Elizabeth von Arnim – Father and Expiation.

You can listen above, on Spotify, via Apple Podcasts, or any podcast app. You can support the podcast at Patreon, or get in touch at teaorbooks@gmail.com.

The books and authors we mention in this episode:

O, The Brave Music by Dorothy Evelyn Smith
A Jane Austen Education by William Deresiewicz
Emma by Jane Austen
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Passing On by Penelope Lively
According to Mark by Penelope Lively
Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively
Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner
Dorothy L Sayers
E. M. Delafield
Charles Dickens
Winifred Holtby
Vera Brittain
Illyrian Spring by Ann Bridge
Maria Edgeworth
Brensham Village by John Moore
The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin
Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm
Gaudy Night by Dorothy L Sayers
The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi
Elizabeth Taylor
Elizabeth Bowen
Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The Behaviour of Moths by Poppy Adams
Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
Westwood by Stella Gibbons
The Matchmaker by Stella Gibbons
Bassett by Stella Gibbons
Here Be Dragons by Stella Gibbons
Nightingale Wood by Stella Gibbons
Barbara Pym
Alas, Poor Lady by Rachel Ferguson
Dangerous Ages by Rose Macaulay
Keeping Up Appearances by Rose Macaulay
Crewe Train by Rose Macaulay
Potterism by Rose Macaulay
Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo
Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

2020: Some Reading Stats

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Hopefully you’ve already seen my Top Books of 2020 – and now its time to do one of those fun reading stats posts, that delight other bloggers and blog readers and probably totally baffle normal people. Along the way, I’ll be comparing with my stats from 2019.

Number of books read
I read 147 books in 2020 – up from 133 last year, though down from 153 in 2018. The telling thing there, though, is that in 2018 and 2019 I did ’25 Books in 25 Days’ projects, which bolstered the total. 2020 was still a bumper reading year for me – thanks to the pandemic.

(My own mystery illness meant I couldn’t read for a bit, but thankfully my eyes have largely been ok since the summer. Other symptoms ongoing, and hoping for a diagnosis in 2021. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers.)

Male/female writers
92 of my 147 books were by women, with 53 by men and 2 by women and men. That’s 62.5% of my books by women – it’s usually about 55%. The difference is probably explained by all the reading I’ve been doing to find new titles for the British Library Women Writers series.

Fiction/Non-fiction
I read 97 fiction books (69 by women, 28 by men) and 50 non-fiction (23 by women, 25 by men, 2 by both). All of those stats are pretty similar to 2019’s. It’s funny how these things work out.

Books in translation
2019 was my all-time high for reading books in translation, at 11 – 2020 took a hit, at only five. They’re from Greek/Hebrew (guess that book!), German, and three from French.

Most-read author
Three authors tied for first, with me reading four books by them – E.M. Delafield, Beverley Nichols, and Marilynne Robinson. All big favourites of mine – though only two Robinsons and one Delafield were first-time reads.

Re-reads
Speaking of, I re-read 15 books in 2020, which is much more than usual. A few were pandemic-propelled comfort reads (Austen), some were Marilynne Robinsons because of Jack coming out, but almost all were connected with British Library Women Writers series.

New-to-me authors
I usually read about half new-to-me authors, but this year only 63 of the books I read fall into this category – 43%. Not my lowest ever, but apparently I needed some reliables this year.

Number of audiobooks
I thought all those government-mandated walks would have amped up my audiobook total, but I only read eight books that way. Some of them were very chunky though.

Shortest book title
A few four-letter titles: Home and Jack by Marilynne Robinson, Emma by Jane Austen, and Them by Jon Ronson.

Strangest author name
It’s not a strange name in itself, but reading Love, Interrupted by Simon Thomas was quite a surreal experience – glancing down to see my own name repeatedly.

Most disappointing book
I think Mr Kronion by Susan Alice Kerby. I’d loved Miss Carter and the Ifrit so much, but this one wasn’t in the same league at all.

Worst book I read
This wasn’t really a disappointment, because I was expecting it to be rubbish and it was: Self-Leadership and the One-Minute Manager by Ian Blanchard, that I read for work. Management books are not at all my cup of tea anyway, and they never will be if they’re all as appallingly written as this one.

Word that came up a lot unexpectedly
Three of the novels I read this year had the word ‘Citadel’ in the title – The Citadel by A.J. Cronin, Proud Citadel by Dorothy Evelyn Smith, and Citadel of Ice by my mum, Anne Thomas (you can order it here!)

Persephones
Last year I said I wanted to read more Persephones from my shelf, after reading three in 2019. Last year I read… one. Patience by John Coates, which was very good.

Names in book titles
After I read 72 books with names in the title for Project Names in 2019, I thought it would be interesting to see how many I managed when I wasn’t trying – well, it clearly made a difference, as I only read 20 in 2020.

Animals in book titles
Only three in 2019, which is lower than usual. In 2020, there were The Scapegoat by Daphne du Maurier, All the Dogs of My Life by Elizabeth von Arnim, The Birds of the Air by Alice Thomas Ellie, Nightingale Wood by Stella Gibbons, A Summer Bird Cage by Margaret Drabble. Apparently I was mostly drawn to birds last year.

Strange things that happened in books this year
A stepping stone tested chastity, two women swapped bodies, a husband and wife swapped bodies, three women stole identities, a serial killer tried to win a title, someone pretended to write a biography of Byron, a husband disappeared, two cities inhabited the same space, patients woke from comas, a man hunted the devil in Cornwall, someone gave birth in the Blitz, a body was found in a sealed tunnel, chairs were made of human skin, a shark crashed through a roof, and a borrowed overcoat led to abduction.

Rosemary’s review of Project Places

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In 2019, Rosemary joined me in #ProjectNames – one of the most rewarding reading projects I’ve done. Last year, she decided to keep going with #ProjectPlaces. I asked if she wouldn’t mind sharing her experiences – and she has kindly written the guest post, below. You can find Rosemary’s blog at Scones and Chaise Longues.

Most of us haven’t been further than the Co-Op this year (not that I’m complaining, as I’m privileged to have beautiful countryside on my doorstep – and the ladies in my little local Co-Op are lovely..)   By some happy chance, however, I decided in January to set myself a reading theme, and having so much enjoyed Simon’s #projectnames in 2019, I hit upon #projectplaces.

Reading only books already resident on my sagging shelves, I would choose titles that either were, or included, the name of a place – though as you’ll see, I interpreted that requirement rather liberally to say the least. So throughout these strange stay-at-home seasons I’ve been to France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, North America and even once round the world.  The majority of my travels were, though, in the UK, from Cornwall to Cumberland and the Hog’s Back to the Highlands and Islands. It’s been great.

I didn’t set out to choose mainly English locations, but when I think about it, it’s hardly surprising that my preference for certain types of novels kept me firmly in the villages of everyday and the country estates of days past. I went with Angela Thirkell to Pomfret Towers and (Christmas at) High Rising, to (The School at) Thrush Green with Miss Read and to Turnham Malpas with Rebecca Shaw (Trouble in the Village, Whispers in the Village, The Village Newcomers.) Turnham Malpas is a bit like Midsomer without the murders; there’s always some intrigue going on, whereas I’ve lived in my fair share of villages and, much as I love them, intrigue is not their USP – or maybe I just don’t notice.)

Beginning, though, in my beloved Scotland and one of my very best reads of 2020: O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker;

‘Janet lies murdered beneath the castle stairs, oddly attired in her mother’s black lace wedding dress, lamented only by her pet jackdaw…’

I’d never even heard of Barker before, and without the project in mind this strange and compelling story of Janet, a misfit child growing up in Auchnasaugh, the remote Aberdeenshire home of her eccentric, dysfunctional family – a place where eagles fly and hogweed flourishes – would probably have languished, ignored, for evermore. Now I recommend this haunting novel far and wide. (My full review is here) and I was delighted to find that it is being reprinted by Orion in October 2021

Still in Scotland, the project encouraged me to take up Compton Mackenzie’s Monarch of the Glen, which may have been the inspirations for the TV series, but is quite unlike it. (And no it’s not, as my husband, ventured to suggest, ’the book of the film’…) Persevere with Mackenzie’s slightly convoluted style and you will be rewarded with a light and entertaining story, one that is very much anchored to a time, and especially to a place.

I often find short stories frustrating – ‘What happened next?’ is my plaintive cry – but Thomas Clark’s Selkirk FC vs The World proved the exception. Selkirk is a Borders football club struggling in the middle of serious rugby country, and in 2015 – for reasons impossible to fathom – it appointed Clark its first ever writer-in-residence. The result was this outstanding collection of stories and poems.  Clark captures the cynicism, resilience and grimly morose nature of the area perfectly; some pieces are funny, some sad, and there is even an outstanding science fiction story, The Keys of Paradise – definitely something I’d never have looked at without the project to take me there.

The US provided me with comedy (Garrison Keillor’s Lake Woebegon Summer, 1956), black history (Margo Jefferson’s eye-opening Negroland), sagas (Joan Medlicott’s Covington books, and even Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove series – yes, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not proud…) and academic intrigue in the form of my much loved Amanda Cross’s The Theban Mysteries. Set not in Greece but New York City, this is another outing for Kate Fansler, professor of English, lover of Austen, ardent feminist and (usefully) rich as Croesus.  In the 1970s Virago published many women crime writers, and I have to say some of them did not deserve this honour – but Cross (pen name of Carolyn Heilbrun, first ever female professor of English at Cornell) was one who did, and I still re-read her books with great joy.

Back in Europe I went to Florence with the late Diana Athill, and to Lake Garda with Rumer Godden’s Battle of the Villa Fiorita. The Black Forest Summer by Mabel Esther Allan may be a 1950s children’s book, but it changed my ideas about Germany, a country of which I have seen only Berlin. Now I want to visit Freiburg, the setting of this perhaps unlikely but most enjoyable story of an orphaned London family being rescued by their father’s affluent brother.

Irish writers seem to have a particular talent for the short story, and so it was that I read William Trevor’s brilliant, memorable collection The News from Ireland. And although Maeve Binchy may not be in Trevor’s league, she remains one of the great tellers of tales, with a perfect ear for her native speech; I enjoyed Dublin 4 immensely.

The British Library Crime Classics were, of course, a great source of place-name titles. I can’t say I enjoyed them all, and I do wonder if the ‘Golden Age of Crime’ is really my thing, but I still travelled to the South Downs with John Bude (The Sussex Downs Murder) and with Freeman Wills Crofts to Surrey (The Hog’s Back Mystery.)  Better reads for me came in the shape of the ever-excellent Mary Stewart’s Rose Cottage, Jennifer Ryan’s The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir, Elizabeth Taylor’s At Mrs Lippincote’s and Miss Read’s School at Thrush Green.

And finally, off I went with Phileas Fogg in his attempt to go Around the World in 80 Days. I’d always thought of Jules Verne as a ‘difficult’ writer – goodness knows why, as this tale of adventure positively flies along. Great and unexpected fun.

Three books stand out: the aforementioned O Caledonia, Marghanita Laski’s wonderful, quiet, beautifully observed The Village (review here) and (predictable to all who know me) Kenneth Grahame’s story of humble Mole, clever, kind Rat, sage and sensible Badger, jolly Otter and impetuous Toad, living their rural lives through the changing seasons on the riverbank and in the Wild Wood. In a year in which comfort has been needed more than ever before, The Wind in the Willows gave it in abundance:

‘As he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden plot. For others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with Nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough , in their way, to last for a lifetime.’

I’m addicted to reading projects now; they are such a great way to focus my wavering attention. I’ve already thought of one for 2021, and this week I spent a glorious hour sorting out the books to fit it. So thank you again Simon, for setting me on this happy path.

Top 12 Books of 2020

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It’s been a terrible year, but it’s been a great reading year. I always wait until December 31st before I let myself compile this list – and going through the year’s reading, picking out the best books for a shortlist, is one of my favourite book-related moments of the year.

Often I already have a vague idea of which books will make the cut, but sometimes things leap out as reminders of wonderful times. This year, I couldn’t keep it just 10 – and there were another half dozen I’d have been happy to see on a Best Of list.

As always, I have firmly ranked – every year I hope for fewer ‘in no particular order’ lists on blogs! – and have excluded re-reads. That meant missing off Tension by E.M. Delafield, which I loved but apparently read in 2005. Each author can only appear once, otherwise Michael Cunningham would have taken up two places.

Each link goes to the original review. Without further ado…

12. Strange Journey (1935) by Maud Cairns

A body-swap comedy from the 1930s, where a lower-middle-class woman and an upper-class woman swap places. Cairns keeps it from getting stale by having them go back and forth a number of times – and, eventually, meet.

11. Told in Winter (1961) by Jon Godden

A beautifully written, dark, and atmospheric novel about a playwright, his male servant, a devoted dog, and the young actress who arrives to change things forever. So psychologically interesting. Rumer Godden is better remembered, but her sister deserves to be known too.

10. Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936) by George Orwell

A novel about poverty, pride, stubbornness, books, and class – all done with Orwell’s wonderful prose, totally unshowy and yet totally beautiful.

9. The Stone of Chastity (1940) by Margery Sharp

The first of two Furrowed Middlebrow titles that will appear on this list – Sharp’s comic novel is about a professor investigating the legend of a stepping stone on which unchaste women will stumble. A brilliant premise for a completely delightful novel. Even more to my liking than The Nutmeg Tree, which I also loved this year.

8. The Snow Queen (2014) by Michael Cunningham 

I wasn’t sure whether to include this or Flesh and Blood, but ultimately went with the more compact novel. Cunningham has such a gift for creating a real group of real people, and sprinkling it with magic. Here, a group of New Yorkers live, love, and lie to each other in the early 20th century.

7. Sally on the Rocks (1915) by Winifred Boggs

A total gamble on an unknown author that paid off – Sally is drawn back to her home village at the prospect of financial security in marrying the curate. The novel is a feminist crie de coeur about the moral standards applied to women, while also being witty and like a 1910s Cranford.

6. Doctor Thorne (1858) by Anthony Trollope

I only wrote a paragraph about this novel, which took me nearly a year to finish: “The plot is about secret inheritances and couples who might not be able to marry because of poverty, but the plot is dragged out and (especially in the second half) very predictable. What makes this wonderful is Trollope’s delightful turn of sentence, and the leisurely and assured way he takes us through each conversation, reflection, and narrative flourish. A protracted joy.”

5. Tea at Four O’Clock (1956) by Janet McNeill

A 1956 Club choice that I’ve owned for more than 15 years, hitherto unread. As it opens, Laura is returning from her sister’s funeral – free for the first time. Until her ne’er-do-well brother turns up, that is. A beautiful novel, in which even the suspect characters end up being (by the reader) understood and thus forgiven.

4. Inferno (2020) by Catherine Cho

An extraordinary memoir of post-partum psychosis. Cho writes brilliantly – about this, but also about domestic violence, fear, and love.

3. A House in the Country (1957) by Ruth Adam

How fictionalised is this memoir? Unclear, but this Furrowed Middlebrow about moving into an enormous mansion with seven friends is charming and funny, even when we learn in the opening sentences that the whole thing goes terribly wrong.

2. Business as Usual (1933) by Jane Oliver and Anne Stafford

The novel we’ve all loved this year, right? If you’re among the few yet to get hold of it – like me, you might be sold simply by its being a novel in letters about running the book department of a thinly-disguised Selfridge’s. It’s every bit as delightful as it sounds.

1. Jack (2020) by Marilynne Robinson

I was toying up between this and Business As Usual, but while Business As Usual is a charming wonder, Jack is an extraordinary masterpiece. The fourth in Robinson’s Gilead series, though can be read as a standalone, Jack is a prequel to Home, seeing Jack falling in love with Della. She is African-American, and their relationship is illegal in their state. Nobody writes like Robinson, every sentence a tiny marvel – and even more marvellous that she doesn’t edit or re-draft. What a gift to writing, and the character portraits in this novel will stay with me forever. Even more incredible, Jack went from being someone I hated in Gilead to someone I love here – while recognisably exactly the same person.