Category: Fiction

Absorbing, beautiful, detailed & precise in descriptions of everything from emotional states to the mechanics of bridge-building to the many herbs and spices that can be used to flavor gin. And the sense of place, the 18th-century New York family names that linger as place-names, street-names: Joralemon, Sands, Boerum, Schermerhorn, Luquer. I found myself daydreaming…

Wit and cleverness and social climbing and downfall: an epic that’s “a novel without a hero,” just so much hypocrisy and dissatisfaction.

Such a pleasing novel, a story of Boston in the early 20th century, Boston in the influenza epidemic of 1918, bits of the past and bits of the present, songs and newspaper articles, how different people see the same events, and oh, streetcars and accents and imagining how streets were different a hundred years ago,…

Long highways connecting the countryside, connections between places, connections between people. The sense of a vague and shadowy world: a world the narrator doesn’t know, not really, and a world that the reader can’t know, either. This book is about love and sadness, the relentlessness of motion and distance, how the past is lost to…

James’s sentences are often exquisite: sentences as long as paragraphs, sentences full of commas, phrases nested like Russian dolls. His style forces me to slow down, to re-read passages, and I appreciate his pacing, his rhythm. Even the long slow middle of the book, a period of waiting for Kate and Merton and Milly, and…

Woolf’s first novel is full of luminous detail, perfect descriptin: a boat moving along a river, a thunderstorm, the way night falls or morning breaks. Familiar themes of aloneness, the inadequacy of language, the difficulty of communication: but here that’s all combined with the disconnect between the sexes, which makes this book feel frustratingly dated…

Perfectly faux-Victorian, the twists & turns of the mind & of prison corridors, allusive and delicious and dark. A story told in the form of diary entries, secrets and private thoughts.

A story told backwards; a story of how people came to be where (who) they are. The start of the first sentence: “So this, said Kay to herself, is the kind of person you’ve become: a person whose clocks and wristwatches have stopped […]” Elsewhere, Kay remarks that people’s pasts are “so much more interesting…

I read an advance reader’s copy of Suite Française in March: it only contained the first section of the two part book (it was meant to be five parts, like a symphony, but Némirovsky was deported to Auschwitz and died before finishing it). “Storm in June,” the story of the Paris evacuation in 1940 and…

“Scraps and fragments,” swallows and starlings, bits of Shakespeare, bits of Byron, bits of Keats. Little pieces of literature and history that surface, little pieces of emotion, of meaning. The shifts in perspective, what is spoken and what is felt. Each person playing a role, whether aware of it or not; art and connection and…