One of my December posts last year was a special edition on #NYRBWomen23, a great reading project hosted by Kim McNeill. I read so many fabulous books and when Kim announced a continuation of this readalong – #NYRBWomen24 – I was definitely in. The first book we read was Marina Tsvetaeva’s Earthly Signs, and it was an excellent start to the year.
Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries (1917-1922) by Marina Tsvetaeva is a fascinating selection of the celebrated Russian poet’s diaries and essays depicting the harshness of her existence during the horrendous Moscow famine post the 1919 Revolution as well as her poetic musings and thoughts on a variety of topics which showcase an author with a singular way of perceiving the world around her.
These Moscow diaries are edited and translated by Jamey Gambrell who also provides a compelling introduction to the book outlining her tragic life, and her creative output with an analysis of Earthly Signs itself. Generally, I don’t read introductions before starting a book, but I made an exception for this one. Since Earthly Signs is a compilation of Tsvetaeva’s private diaries with many pieces chronicling the extreme challenges of survival after the October Revolution, I felt I might better understand and appreciate her writings if I had some idea of her background first.
And what a harrowing, heartbreaking life she was forced to lead! Tsvetaeva’s early childhood was a comfortable one, a sharp contrast to the suffering she would have to endure later. Her father founded the Alexander III Museum of Fine Arts (subsequently renamed the Pushkin Museum), while her mother, Maria, was a concert pianist. Gambrell writes,
“From early childhood Marina and Asya were steeped in culture and the arts; they had governesses and tutors, and their mother read to them in several languages and took them to museums and the theater. Marina learned to read and began piano lessons with her mother at age four.”
In 1902, when Maria contracted tuberculosis, the family moved to Europe so that Maria could recuperate in a sanatorium, but she succumbed to the disease when Marina Tsvetaeva was just fifteen. Right from an early age, Tsvetaeva displayed a passion and flair for writing poetry and published her first collection of poems Evening Album to much acclaim cementing her reputation as a poet. Subsequently, she met and fell in love with Sergei Efron whom she went on to marry and had two daughters Alya and Irina.
We are told that Marina was an intense woman and although she loved her husband, was prone to having affairs which also in many ways sparked her creativity (“Marina is a woman of passions…Plunging headfirst into her hurricanes has become essential for her, the breath of life. It no longer matters who it is that arouses these hurricanes”). Those affairs would cause Efron much grief with the couple almost heading towards a divorce. Her family life was complicated – given her anti-Bolshevik stance and with Efron stationed in Moscow with the 56th Reserve, she was often perceived as a misfit in society. Meanwhile, with Efron away, Marina found it incredibly hard to provide for herself and her daughters, the hunger and starvation was too much to bear. Her decision to place her daughters in a state orphanage (thinking that they might have better access to food there) turned out to be horribly wrong, as her daughter Irina died of starvation while there.
In the early 1920s, Marina and Alya left Russia and joined Ephron in Berlin, after which they lived for some years in Prague amid crippling poverty. Thereafter, the family moved to Paris, where they would settle for more than a decade. But Marina remained unhappy in her life as an exile while at the same time, she had no desire to return to Russia either. Meanwhile, Efron’s political leanings changed, and his sympathies began to align with Russia. Becoming a spy for the state, his activities weighed heavy on Marina who also had to grapple with the growing alienation from her daughter who began to identify with the ideologies of her father. When Efron was finally caught and executed and Alya was imprisoned, Marina, unable to take it any longer, committed suicide leaving a note in which she implored her neighbours to look after her son Georgy who would go on to be killed later in the war.
In the turmoil that was her life which played out against the broader political upheaval of her country and which was deeply impacted by it, it is remarkable that her creative output rather than plummet, instead only flourished. Of course, while she was renowned as a poet, lack of food and money compelled her to turn to prose to earn a living. Earthly Signs is one of her earlier forays into prose, the broad outlines of which she defined as follows:
“…she described the broad outlines of the book, which was to be called Earthly Signs: 15 “It’s a book of notes (everyday life, thoughts, conversations, dreams, revolutionary Moscow – a sort of psychic chronicle), 2) unified by years (from 1917 to the end of 1918) and my essence: everything boils down to a common denominator, 3) between 4-5 signatures (at the standard 40,000 letters per signature), but the book itself will come out longer, for there are a lot of short notes, I often start with a new line break. All in all, a certain latitude with paper is required.””
As the title indicates, these prose pieces focus on the years between 1917 and 1922 just days after the Russian Revolution and the widespread famine thereafter. These pieces showcase Marina’s personality as well as chronicling the times she lived in, a first-hand witness to the terrible consequences of the Russian Revolution. We see her struggling to survive, as finding food daily becomes an insurmountable challenge. She is outspoken, often blurts out the wrong things, and with no qualifications to speak of struggles to find or sustain jobs that can support her and her young daughters financially. But despite the grimness of the situation, many of these pieces are laced with mordant wit and piercing observations.
The first piece “October on the Train” is a terrifying account of her train journey from Crimea to Moscow in the days after the Revolution. It starts compellingly:
Two and a half days – not a bite, not a swallow. (Throat tight.) Soldiers bring newspapers-printed on rose-colored paper. The Kremlin and all the monuments have been blown up. The 56th Regiment. The buildings where the Cadets and officers refused to surrender have been blown up. 16,000 killed. By the next station it’s up to 25,000. I don’t speak. I smoke. One after another, travelers get on trains heading back.
Marina fears for Efron who’s with the 56th Reserve and the overall news that trickles in are vague and questionable printed on newspapers that are “terrifying rose-coloured sheets, sinister. Theatrical death posters.” She is consumed by frightening dreams in which her husband is dead…
We’ll be in Moscow at 2 in the morning. And if I walk into the house – and there’s no one there, not a soul? Where shall I look for you? Perhaps the house is no longer there? I keep feeling – this is a terrible dream. I keep expecting that any second now something will happen and there won’t have been any newspapers, nothing.
Efron, however, is alive much to Marina’s relief, and the couple is subsequently reunited, although their daily troubles are far from over.
“Free Passage” is an account of her visit to a requisition station in the countryside in search of food which is becoming increasingly scarce. Marina carries an assortment of goods with her on the train for trade but is scornful of the roubles offered to her in exchange, they carry no value; what she wants is lard or wheat. Meanwhile, Marina encounters a cast of colourful characters onboard, one of whom refuses to believe that Marina has no gold on her.
I, timidly: “But I don’t have anything with me. Two empty baskets for wheat… And ten lengths of rose-colored chintz…”
She, almost cheeky: “And where did you leave your gold things? How can you leave gold behind and just take off?”
I, distinctly: “I not only left my gold, but… my children!”
She, amused: “Ach, ach, ach! You’re so funny! Are children so valuable? Everyone leaves their children nowadays, they set them up somewhere. What children, when there’s nothing to eat?”
“My Jobs”is wittier in tone highlighting her brief attempt to work at the People’s Commissariat of Nationalities in the winter of 1918-19. Offered a choice between working at a bank and the Commissariat, Marina opts for the latter – she has no aptitude for numbers, and the building in which the Commissariat is located catches her fancy – it’s the Rostovs’ house from Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Her work involves compiling an archive of newspaper clippings by copying them onto cards allowing her to come across a variety of people from varied nationalities, and giving her the raw material to record her caustic observations. But what stands out in this piece is the mad scramble for potatoes in the cellar of the building, as she and her co-workers rush to gather as much as possible in this dank place in the dark.
The potatoes are in the cellar, in a deep, pitch-dark crypt. The potatoes croaked and were buried, and we, the jackals, are going to dig them up and eat them. They say they arrived healthy, but then someone suddenly “prohibited” them, and by the time the prohibition was lifted, the potatoes, having first frozen and then thawed out, had rotted. They sat at the train station for three weeks.
Subsequently, Marina goes on to work in a card file division, but by then has had enough of the daily grind of jobs, the crushing soullessness of it. She just ups and quits and is ecstatic…
And suddenly – laughter! Exultation! Sun full on my face! It’s over Nowhere.
It wasn’t I who left the card file: my legs carried me. From soul to legs: without going through the mind. This is what instinct is.
Nowhere is the bleakness of her situation more apparent than in the piece called “Attic Life”; to me the best in this collection, but also incredibly sad…filled with haunting, shattering images. Holed up in an attic, Marina and her young daughters suffer from intense hunger (“There’s no flour, no bread, under the desk there’s about twelve pounds of potatoes, the leftovers of a bushel “loaned” by our neighbours – that’s the entire pantry”). The staircase to the attic is missing as is the banister (“We burned it”). What’s even worse is how she’s at the mercy of a slew of scoundrels who often cheat her by taking advantage of her helpless circumstances.
Marina’s days are monotonous – mornings are spent stoking the fire and washing up, followed by a stream of trips to various shops to procure enriched meals and bread if she’s lucky. Often, when Alya accompanies her on these trips, Irina, heartbreakingly, is tied to a chair in the attic, preventing her from eating all the food while her mother and sister are out.
Along the back stairs – homeward. Straight to the stove. The coals are still smoldering. I blow on them. Warm them up. All meals go into one pot: a soup that’s more like kasha. We eat. (If Alya has been with me, the first order of business is to untie Irina from the chair. I started tying her up after the time she ate half a head of cabbage from the cabinet when Alya and I were out.)
Subsequent chapters such as “On Love”, “On Gratitude”, and “Excerpts from the Book Earthly Signs” are more fragmentary and impressionistic in form and content; a blend of pithy statements and aphorisms that convey the uniqueness of her thinking and offer a glimpse into her poetry-leaning mind.
Marina Tsvetaeva’s life played out during a very turbulent period in Russian history, and her struggles were truly horrific. Besides her personal tragedies, she understandably hated the uninspiring, daily grind of living. That she was able to produce a remarkable body of work in spite of these distressing hardships only highlights what an extraordinary woman she was. To be honest, I didn’t always understand everything that I read, particularly in the later pieces, but much of the material here is rich, vivid, and powerful, and I’m glad to have been introduced to her work.
One of the biggest highlights of my reading this year was #NYRBWomen23, a brilliant reading project conceived and hosted by the lovely Kim McNeill (@joiedevivre9) on Twitter/Bluesky/Instagram. I read many good books; some were terrific as expected, others were fab discoveries, and three featured on My Best Books of 2023 list.
Group reading is not an idea that appealed to me at first. I can be a moody reader and also lack discipline, and I was wary of having my reading chalked out. But that changed last year with #PilgrimageTogether, a wonderful readalong hosted by Kim (see, she’s excellent at this). I wanted to read those Dorothy Richardson books, but also aware that they were complex. Hence, the idea of being part of an online reading group to appreciate her work sounded promising, and it turned out great. When Kim announced plans for #NYRBWomen23, of course, I jumped right in. After all, the combination of NYRB Classics and women writers was too good to miss.
Having now been introduced to the joys of reading together with like-minded bookish folks, I plan to participate in two year-long reading projects in 2024. One is #NYRBWomen24, which Kim recently announced (more on that later in this post). The other is #KateBriggs24, a slow read project of the Kate Briggs books (This Little Art and The Long Form), hosted by Kim and Rebecca (@ofbooksandbikes), again on Twitter, Bluesky and Instagram. So, lots of great reading to look forward to next year.
Meanwhile, coming back to #NYRBWomen23 and the year that was, this is a long write-up, and I’ve split it into three sections: (a) the books I read this year for #NYRBWomen23, (b) a brief look at the books on the list that I read in previous years, and (c) my reading plans for #NYRBWomen24.
SECTION ONE
#NYRBWOMEN23: THE ONES I JOINED IN FOR – AN EXCELLENT, ECLECTIC ELEVEN
I’m going to divide these books into four groups…
The Expected Winners
Over the years, these books were widely reviewed or rated quite highly and turned out to be winners as expected (I’m including the Baker in this too despite my initial mixed response, because at the end of the year, I find that the positive aspects have stayed with me more).
GRAND HOTEL by Vicki Baum (Translated from German by Basil Creighton)
Grand Hotel is a resounding triumph, in which by focusing the spotlight on five core characters from varied walks of life brought together by fate, Baum dwells on their internal dramas as well as their interactions; these are tragic, haunting characters grappling with their inner demons and insecurities while also wrestling with some of the bigger existential questions. The novel sizzles with a vivid sense of place (1920s Berlin) and the language is wonderfully tonal and visual. Also, Baum has a striking way with words that capture the essence of her characters in a few sentences.
If you thought a story centred on a 92-year-old protagonist was bound to be dull and depressing, think again. Leonora Carrington’s The Hearing Trumpet is a delicious romp, a stunning feat of the imagination, and an iconoclastic book if you will that refuses to be pigeonholed into convenient definitions and genres; and in Marian Leatherby, the nonagenarian in this superbly off-kilter tale, Carrington has created an unconventional heroine who is charming, feisty and memorable.
The book begins in a quiet, residential neighbourhood on the outskirts of an unnamed Mexican city where Marian Leatherby, our narrator, resides with her son Galahad, his wife Muriel, and their 25-year-old unmarried son Robert. Marian is not welcome in the house and with the aid of a hearing trumpet gifted to her by her charming loquacious friend Carmella who has a penchant for conjuring up unrealistic and improbable schemes and ideas, Marian learns of her family’s plot to park her in an old age home.
The old-age home is unlike anything she had imagined, and Marian soon begins to settle in, gets introduced to her fellow residents, finds herself entangled in various adventures, and is caught up in the fascinating life of an abbess. The Hearing Trumpet could be considered an extension of Carrington’s identity as a Surrealist artist; the novel is a unique montage of styles and genres that resist the laws of conventional narration to brilliant effect. Just superb!
Set during the Second World War and seen from Italy’s perspective, both A Chill in the Air and War in Val d’Orcia are Iris Origo’s real-time war diaries covering the periods 1939-1940 and 1943-1944 respectively, a record of daily life in her adopted country in conflict. Iris was Anglo-American married to an Italian, and much before the war the couple bought and revived a derelict stretch of the Val d’Orcia valley in Tuscany and created an estate. At the height of the war, and at great personal risk, the Origos gave food and shelter to partisans, deserters, and refugees. While A Chill in the Air captures the mood of the Italian people just before Italy entered into the war reluctantly siding with Germany, War in Val D’Orcia records a slew of events at the height of the war. Both published diaries are first-hand accounts of the complexity of Italy’s position, the politics prevailing at the time, and the difficulty of going about daily life. These are books filled with a mix of facts, anecdotes, and her astute observations on the extraordinary scenes unfolding around her.
IZA’S BALLAD by Magda Szabó (Translated from Hungarian by George Szirtes)
On the death of her husband Vince, Ettie goes to live with her daughter Iza in her flat in Budapest. Ettie is ecstatic at first, she looks forward to spending quality time with her beloved daughter, but alas things unfold quite differently. The first days of adjustment in the big, bustling city of Budapest are particularly hard for Ettie who has spent most of her time in a village taking comfort in its familiarity and sense of community. Pest frightens her, and with Iza too immersed in her career and social life, Ettie’s sense of isolation only heightens.
One of the biggest strengths of the novel is Szabó’s superb characterization. Ettie and Iza are such brilliantly etched, fully realised characters, and Szabó particularly excels in showing how their diametrically opposite personas and outlook set the stage for heartache and tragedy. The two are as unalike as chalk and cheese. Ettie is warm, Iza is frozen. For Ettie the past is an anchor, while Iza is forward-thinking, her gaze settled on the future. Ettie craves companionship, Iza wants to be alone. Iza’s Ballad, then, is a piercing, unflinching examination of a complicated mother-daughter relationship, a striking depiction of two women who are poles apart.
Tove Jansson’s The Woman Who Borrowed Memories is a sublime collection of short stories displaying Jansson’s delicate touch and mastery of the form complete with rich characterisations, evocative and often solitary settings, and keen insights on the nuances of human relationships. This collection comprises 26 stories assembled from five books (The Listener, The Doll’s House, Traveling Light, Letters from Klara, and Messages: Selected Stories) published between 1971 and 1998 and showcases Jansson’s incredible range.
“The Listener” is a beautifully expressed, poignant character study of an aging woman losing her sense of self as well as a meditation on loneliness and finding a purpose. “Black-White” is an homage to the talented artist and illustrator Edward Gorey; a story that dwells on the process of creating art with the artist’s sometimes obsessive tendency to strive for perfection. Another favourite “The Cartoonist” is a marvellous, unsettling piece on the price of ambition and the perils associated with the commercialization of art, while jealousy and rivalry take centre stage in “The Doll’s House”, which begins on an innocuous note but steadily descends into violence.
In graceful, sensitive prose that is filled with air and light, Jansson’s deceptively simple and enchanting writing style transforms into something profound as the stories progress often belying the darker undercurrents flowing underneath.
THUS WERE THEIR FACES by Silvina Ocampo (Translated from Spanish by Daniel Balderston)
In this anthology, Balderston has included around 42 stories from a substantial body of work, an exhaustive but brilliant collection that vividly gives a flavour of Ocampo’s astonishing imagination where she revels in challenging the conventional and distorting the way the reader sees things. We begin with “Forgotten Journey” and “Strange Visit”, two short sketches that dwell on the bewildering mysteries of childhood and the loss of innocence. Next, running to over 60 pages, the novella-length “The Impostor” is a dark, atmospheric tale of friendship and madness shimmering with mystery and menace with a surprising reveal towards the end. One of my favourites, “The House Made of Sugar”, is a masterful and enigmatic exploration of a doomed marriage and the idea of doubles.
Elsewhere, in “The Clock House”, a hunchbacked watchmaker is lulled into a village feast as the prominent guest where he becomes the victim of a monstrous turn of events; while in “The Photographs”, a girl with prosthetic boots is subject to a battery of photographs with her family and is so exhausted by the end that she appears ‘asleep’ at the dinner table. The stories listed here are, of course, just a few examples from a vast collection and there are many more to whet the appetite. These are tales that shimmer with dreams, visions, and fantastical happenings showcasing Ocampo’s vivid imagination, a flair for the sinister, and her refusal to conform to conventional structures of storytelling.
Young Man with a Horn has been inspired by the “music of Bix Beiderbecke”, an influential jazz soloist and composer in the 1920s, although the life and music trajectory of its protagonist Rick Martin has not been modeled on Bix’s life. The prologue at the start of the novel gives the reader a fair idea of Rick Martin’s short but dramatic career as a jazz musician – his gradual ascent in the world of music to become the golden boy of jazz only to culminate in a string of disappointments, heavy drinking, and death.
Rick is an orphan but from the very beginning, he displays talent and flair for music, although with not much opportunity to harness that passion largely because of his circumstances. Once employed at Gandy’s Pool Hall, he meets Smoke Jordan, a black aspiring drummer and a tentative employee and the two immediately slide into an easy friendship fuelled by their passion for jazz. At its very core, Young Man with a Horn is an exploration of music, male friendship, ambition, obsession, and transcending racial boundaries. Some of the racial terms used in the book might be hard to digest for modern readers (I did find quite a few of them jarring), but I was reluctant to judge Baker by today’s sensibilities given that the book was published in 1938. The novel is not always perfect, but Baker’s rendering of the jazz world – practice sessions, recordings, the kinship between musicians – and her beautiful portrayal of male friendship alone make it well worth reading.
The Five-Star Reread
I first read this novel about a decade ago and that too on Kindle, and I remember being so impressed then. So when NYRB Classics recently reissued it, I had to buy a copy, and #NYRBWomen23 was incentive enough to read the book again in its brand-new avatar.
In A Lonely Place is a terrific novel – a great combination of mood and atmosphere laced with Hughes’ brilliant, hard-edged, nourish-style writing and a fascinating protagonist (Dix Steele) whose actions are as shadowy and black as the fog that envelops and obscures the city of Los Angeles in the night. I also loved the portrayal of the two women, Laurel and Sylvia; personality-wise, like ‘fire and ice’ respectively.
Violence, paranoia, the banality of evil, and the emptiness of post-war life are some of the themes that form the essence of In a Lonely Place; it’s an intense, suspenseful tale, superbly crafted in the way it is told through a killer’s perspective.
The Dark Horse
In Kathryn Scanlan’s magnificent Kick the Latch is a striking vignette titled “This Horse, This Race”, in which a half-blind racehorse called Dark Side, expertly trained by our narrator Sonia, astonishingly goes on to win the race against all odds. I was reminded of that piece when thinking about my response to this novel – I was aware of this book/biography and the author it focused on (I’d read some of her novels several years ago), but I don’t think it’s been widely reviewed and so it always stayed on the fringes of my reading pile. I didn’t have great expectations, I expected to like it and that’s it. But I was surprised at how good it was, so much so that out of nowhere it went on to become one of the best books I read this year.
The Mirador is no ordinary biography. The byline below the title reads “Dreamed Memories of Irène Némirovsky by her Daughter” which is to say Gille has breathed life into her mother by giving her a voice and thus positioned this as a memoir. What we read, therefore, is a first-person narrative giving the impression that it is Irène herself who is speaking directly to us.
The Mirador comprises two sections – the first is Némirovsky’s imagined memoir penned in 1929 covering her childhood in Russia and Paris amid sweeping changes and a rapidly evolving political landscape; while the somber and hauntingly sad second section fast forwards to 1942, days before her arrest at a time when she was living in precarious circumstances with her husband and two young daughters in a small French village, isolated with a deep sense of foreboding with regards the future.
Élisabeth Gille traverses the zenith and nadir of her mother’s glittering but cruelly short life; The Mirador is not only a brilliant, immersive, and deeply humane account of Irène Némirovsky’s life lived in tumultuous Russia and France, but also a window into her legacy and fame as a writer par excellence.
The Hidden Treasure
I had absolutely no idea that this novel existed; the bigger revelation was that NYRB Classics published it! At least I had heard of The Mirador; of this novel I was clueless and it went unnoticed when I first glanced at Kim’s schedule. But somewhere in the third or fourth month, when I had read some excellent books and knew I was in till the end, I had a look at the list again and this book popped out. The blurb was intriguing, I bought it, and it turned out to be another amazing surprise really, a hidden gem discovered!
A novel of “shimmering strangeness” as aptly described by the blurb at the back of this NYRB edition, the opening chapter in Maria Dermoût’s magical and enigmatic The Ten Thousand Things reverberates with a mesmeric, otherworldly quality as we are transported to the verdant, exotic spice islands of Indonesia called the Moluccas. This chapter is a masterclass in scene setting, conveying a dazzling sense of place, a fascinating blend of myth with reality where the wonders of the island are as fascinating as the evils that lurk within it. Subsequent chapters dwell on Felicia who is our protagonist and in many ways the pulse of the novel, outlining the course of her life right from childhood to old age, a bulk of which is spent on the island with particular emphasis on her relationship with her grandmother and her son.
The novel is a glittering mix of stories of menace, myths, legends, and a lush, hypnotic vista against which the individual histories of Felicia and her family are juxtaposed. These are stories seamlessly woven into a rich tapestry of love, loss, loneliness, nostalgia, and memory transforming the novel into one of immense beauty.
SECTION TWO
#NYRBWOMEN23: THE ONES I READ IN PREVIOUS YEARS – A BRIEF GLIMPSE OF SOME SUPERB BOOKS
Because I had read them in previous years, I did not join in for these books, but I’ll just briefly write about them with links to my reviews and mini write-ups. I thought they were all excellent with most making it to my ‘best of’ list in the year I read them.
Set during the last few years of World War Two, a poignant, coming-of-age story of the young and orphaned Felix Latimer who arrives all alone in Jerusalem after his mother’s death to lodge with the miserly Miss Bohun. The acute loneliness felt by Felix in the initial pages has particularly stayed with me.
A beautifully written, nuanced story of love, aching loneliness, stifled desires, and the claustrophobia of a dead-end seaside town focusing on a memorable ensemble cast. Top-tier Taylor for me.
A gripping tale about a young woman’s life gone astray but narrated in a voice that is quite captivating and fresh. Our narrator is Sophia Fairclough, and despite her seemingly unending trials and tribulations, it’s the beguiling nature of her storytelling that makes the book so compelling.
An absorbing, immersive, and fabulous memoir in which Eleanor Perényi (who was American) writes about the time she spent managing an estate in Hungary in the years just before the Second World War broke out. It is also a fascinating look at history, particularly the dramatic upheavals in the Central and Eastern European region, and the profound and life-altering impact it had on the people living there.
Through these essays and striking pieces, Babitz talks about her love for L.A., the importance of beauty, her preference for individuality and life as an adventuress, her tryst with LSD, a stream of unforgettable people she meets including friends and lovers; all in her singular voice – chatty, intelligent, charming, witty and worldly-wise.
THE BRIDGE OF BEYOND by Simone Schwarz-Bart (Translated from French by Barbara Bray)
Set in the French Antillean island of Guadeloupe, this is a lush, intoxicating tale of love and wonder, mothers and daughters, the grim legacy of slavery, and the story of the protagonist Telumee and the proud line of Lougandor women from who she continues to draw strength.
SEDUCTION AND BETRAYAL by Elizabeth Hardwick
I never ended up writing about this collection of essays when I read it in 2019 (I wish I had) but I remember liking the pieces on Ibsen’s plays, the Brontës and Sylvia Plath. Sorry for not writing more!
A haunting, dream-like narrative of a Toronto housewife, an existentially trapped woman, seeking excitement and meaning in life by having an affair with the enigmatic Coenraad, a spy. I loved it, it was quite unlike anything I’d read then. The group’s discussion on Twitter was fabulous and I regret not having joined in for a reread.
A country house novel and a dark tale of a dysfunctional family set against the backdrop of Ireland’s fading aristocracy and crumbling estates with a naïve, lonely, and unreliable narrator at its heart.
SECTION THREE
#NYRBWOMEN24: WHAT I PLAN TO READ
So, as we approach Christmas and New Year, it’s time to look forward to #NYRBWomen24. As I write this, Kim has already released the schedule; a combination of books I’d read previously and ones I haven’t. So after much thought, I have decided on 12 books of the 23 as of now (picture below of the 11 books I have). Most are ones I’ll be reading for the first time with a couple of rereads thrown in.
Books I Have and Haven’t Read
The nine I’m definitely joining in for:
Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries 1917-1922 by Marina Tsvetaeva (tr. from Russian by Jamey Gambrell)
Other Worlds: Peasants, Pilgrims, Spirits, Saints by Teffi (tr. from Russian by Robert Chandler, Elizabeth Chandler, and Others)
Käsebier Takes Berlin by Gabriele Tergit (tr. from German by Sophie Duvernoy)
Last Words from Montmartre by Qiu Miaojin (tr. from Chinese by Ari Larissa Heinrich)
Life with Picasso by Françoise Gilot and Carlton Lake
The Fawn by Magda Szabó (tr. from Hungarian by Len Rix)
Don’t Look At Me Like That by Diana Athill
Divorcing by Susan Taubes
During the Reign of the Queen of Persia by Joan Chase
Two Potential Rereads (Taylor & Comyns) – An Interesting Coincidence
Of the books on the #NYRBWomen24 list, I’ve read nine; at first glance, I wasn’t planning to reread any, but then two names jumped out – Elizabeth Taylor and Barbara Comyns, two of my favourite authors in recent years. But here’s an interesting aspect – My first ever Taylor and my first ever Comyns was A Game of Hide and Seek and The Vet’s Daughter respectively, and I read both novels several years ago and loved them. So now I’m excited to revisit both books with a chance this time to write about them too.
Meanwhile, of the remaining seven books I’ve read, barring Anna Seghers’ Transit, I have written about all on this blog and will share my reviews as and when the books are in focus.
A Book I Don’t Have Yet But Wish to Read
Mary Olivier: A Life by May Sinclair
Here’s an enticing extract from the blurb – “Mary grows up in a world of her own, a solitude that leaves her free to explore her deepest passions, for literature and philosophy, for the austere beauties of England’s north country, even as she continues to attend to her family” – Okay, I’m sold, and I loved the cover too. I’ve placed an order on Blackwell’s and a copy is on its way to me.
That’s it, folks! Sorry for the rambling post, but I’m so glad that Kim is continuing with this reading project next year and I’m excited to discover some literary gems.
2023 turned out to be another excellent year of reading, where quality trumped quantity, and I’m so glad I chose my books well.
I read more translated literature this year as planned of which 9 translated works made the cut covering 6 languages (German, Spanish, French, Italian, Icelandic, and Japanese). Again, I’ve read more women authors this year, and this is reflected in the list as well (women to men ratio is 17:3). Publishers in the spotlight include McNally Editions, NYRB Classics, Daunt Books Publishing, Virago, Vintage, Pushkin Press, Charco Press, Boiler House Press (Recovered Books imprint), Faber Editions, and Counterpoint.
One of the highlights of 2023 was the year-long reading project – #NYRBWomen23 – hosted by the lovely Kim McNeill on Twitter and other social media platforms. I intend to write more about this in an upcoming piece (given the gems I’ve discovered thanks to this readalong, it deserves a blog post of its own!).
Other readalongs I participated in were as follows – Novellas in November; WIT Month in August; Reading Ireland Month in March; #ReadIndies in February; January in Japan, #NordicFINDS23, and A Year with William Trevor, all in January.
Coming back to this list of 20 books; it is a mix of 20th century literature, contemporary fiction, translated literature, novellas, short stories, diaries, and an imagined memoir. I simply loved them all and would heartily recommend each one.
So without further ado, here are My Best Books of 2023 in the order in which they appear in the picture below (from top to bottom and then to the right). For detailed reviews on each, click on the title links…
TWO SHERPAS by Sebastián Martínez Daniell (Translated from Spanish by Jennifer Croft)
In the beginning, two Sherpas peer over the edge of a precipice staring at the depths below where a British climber lies sprawled among the rocks. Almost near the top of Mount Everest, the silence around them is intense, punctuated by the noise of the gushing wind (“If the deafening noise of the wind raveling over the ridges of the Himalayas can be considered silence”). Wishing to emulate the feat of many others before him, the Englishman had aimed to ascend the summit but that ambition now is clearly in disarray. Assisting him in the climb are two Sherpas, one a young man, the other much older, but with this sudden accident, the Sherpas are in a quandary on how to best respond.
Thus, in a span of barely ten to fifteen minutes and using this particular moment as a central story arc, the novel brilliantly spins in different directions in a vortex of themes and ideas that encompass the mystery of the majestic Mount Everest, its significance in the history of imperialist Britain, the ambition of explorers to ascend its summit, attitudes of foreigners towards the Sherpa community to Shakespeare, Julius Caesar and Rome. This is a brilliant, vividly imagined, richly layered novel that gives the reader much to ponder and think about.
Two Thousand Million Man-Power is a brilliant, psychologically astute tale of a marriage with its trials and tribulations, the indignity of unemployment, and the wretchedness of poverty…in a seamless blend of the personal with the global.
The book centres on the relationship and subsequent marriage of Robert Thomas, a scientist at a cosmetics firm, and Katherine Bott, a teacher at a council school; both idealists who believe in progress and prosperity. As they marry, they enjoy a brief period of comfortable suburban living only to be followed by crippling poverty when Robert loses his job. Interwoven with Robert and Katherine’s lives and peppered throughout the novel are snippets of headlines depicting both national and international events. Encompassing a period from the early 1920s to a couple of years before the advent of the Second World War, Robert and Katherine’s relationship is placed in a wider context of astonishing technological advancements but also disturbing political developments. It’s this placing of the personal against a broader economic and political landscape that makes the novel unique and remarkable.
Jean Stafford’s The Mountain Lion is a wonderfully strange and unsettling novel about the trials of adolescence, tumultuous sibling relationships, isolation, alienation, and the alluring enigma of nature.
Ralph and Molly Fawcett, the novel’s pre-adolescent protagonists, reside in Covina, Los Angeles with their mother and their two elder sisters Leah and Rachel. That they are unlike the rest of the family is evident from the striking first chapter itself where we learn of Ralph and Molly’s tendency to get unexpected nosebleeds, the result of having suffered from scarlet fever. These nosebleeds often make them objects of ridicule, and they withdraw into their private interior world, but this shared affliction also forges a special bond between brother and sister. Once their beloved grandfather, Grandpa Kenyon, dies while on his annual visit to the Fawcetts, Ralph and Molly begin to spend the summers at his son Uncle Claude’s ranch in Colorado. For a few years, Ralph and Molly lead a double life flitting between Covina and Colorado, until a decision made by Mrs Fawcett to first travel the world with Leah and Rachel and then relocate with all her children to Connecticut, sets the stage for events to follow complete with the novel’s devastating conclusion.
Stafford’s writing pulsates with a dreamlike, cinematic quality evident in the way she depicts the interiority of her characters, particularly children when pitted against grown-ups, the intensity of emotions playing out against a mesmeric, unsettling, and sinister landscape; potent ingredients that make for an immersive reading experience.
GRAND HOTEL by Vicki Baum (Translated from German by Basil Creighton)
Grand Hotel is a resounding triumph, in which by focusing the spotlight on five core characters from varied walks of life brought together by fate, Baum dwells on their internal dramas as well as their interactions; these are tragic, haunting characters grappling with their inner demons and insecurities while also wrestling with some of the bigger existential questions. The novel sizzles with a vivid sense of place (1920s Berlin) and the language is wonderfully tonal and visual. Also, Baum has a striking way with words that capture the essence of her characters in a few sentences.
The Mirador is no ordinary biography. The byline below the title reads “Dreamed Memories of Irène Némirovsky by her Daughter” which is to say Gille has breathed life into her mother by giving her a voice and thus positioned this as a memoir. What we read, therefore, is a first-person narrative giving the impression that it is Irène herself who is speaking directly to us.
The Mirador comprises two sections – the first is Némirovsky’s imagined memoir penned in 1929 covering her childhood in Russia and Paris amid sweeping changes and a rapidly evolving political landscape; while the somber and hauntingly sad second section fast forwards to 1942, days before her arrest at a time when she was living in precarious circumstances with her husband and two young daughters in a small French village, isolated with a deep sense of foreboding with regards the future.
Élisabeth Gille traverses the zenith and nadir of her mother’s glittering but cruelly short life; The Mirador is not only a brilliant, immersive, and deeply humane account of Irène Némirovsky’s life lived in tumultuous Russia and France, but also a window into her legacy and fame as a writer par excellence.
If you thought a story centred on a 92-year-old protagonist was bound to be dull and depressing, think again. Leonora Carrington’s The Hearing Trumpet is a delicious romp, a stunning feat of the imagination, and an iconoclastic book if you will that refuses to be pigeonholed into convenient definitions and genres; and in Marian Leatherby, the nonagenarian in this superbly off-kilter tale, Carrington has created an unconventional heroine who is charming, feisty and memorable.
The book begins in a quiet, residential neighbourhood on the outskirts of an unnamed Mexican city where Marian Leatherby, our narrator, resides with her son Galahad, his wife Muriel, and their 25-year-old unmarried son Robert. Marian is not welcome in the house and with the aid of a hearing trumpet gifted to her by her charming loquacious friend Carmella who has a penchant for conjuring up unrealistic and improbable schemes and ideas, Marian learns of her family’s plot to park her in an old age home.
The old-age home is unlike anything she had imagined, and Marian soon begins to settle in, gets introduced to her fellow residents, finds herself entangled in various adventures, and is caught up in the fascinating life of an abbess. The Hearing Trumpet could be considered an extension of Carrington’s identity as a Surrealist artist; the novel is a unique montage of styles and genres that resist the laws of conventional narration to brilliant effect. Just superb!
THE TWILIGHT ZONE by Nona Fernández (Translated from Spanish by Natasha Wimmer)
Using the motif of the 1950s popular science fiction/fantasy show The Twilight Zone, Fernández delves into the unimaginable spaces of horror, violence, and murkiness of the cruel Pinochet regime where beatings, torture, and unexplained disappearances disturbingly became a part of the fabric of everyday life.
In March 1984, Andres Morales, a government security services agent, labeled by our narrator as “the man who tortured people” walks into the offices of the “Cauce” magazine and offers his testimony in exchange for safe passage outside the country. After years of imposing torture tactics on Pinochet’s detractors – members of the Communist party, resistance movements, and left-leaning individuals -something inside Morales snaps (“That night I started to dream of rats. Of dark rooms and rats”). Possibly aghast at the monstrosity of the crimes committed, Morales wishes to confess and in the process hopes to be absolved of those horrific acts.
Much of the book highlights crucial moral questions at play, and the fate of the man who tortured people is central to it – Should he be absolved of his crimes because he had a change of heart and now wants to do right? It’s a powerful, unforgettable book about loss, repression, and rebellion where the premise of the TV show is used to brilliant effect – an exploration of that dark dimension where strangeness and terror rule the roost, and is often unfathomable.
Comprising a series of crystal clear, pristine vignettes with eye-catching titles and nuggets of distilled information, Kathryn Scanlan’s Kick the Latch is such a joy to read – a book that brilliantly captures the panorama of a woman’s life on the Midwest racetracks where her sheer grit, fierce determination and unconditional love for horses enables her to make a mark in a tough field largely dominated by men.
Scanlan’s narrative is dexterously crafted, preserving Sonia’s distinctive style of speech (“there’s a particular language you pick up on the track”), a brilliant feat of ventriloquism if you will where Sonia’s engrossing storytelling skills artfully blend with Scanlan’s own style giving the impression of Sonia speaking through Scanlan. Lean and lyrical, the prose in Kick the Latch is stripped down to its bare essentials but it speaks multitudes, a whole way of life conveyed in as little space as possible but with remarkable tenderness and acuity.
THE WAITING YEARS by Fumiko Enchi (Translated from Japanese by John Bester)
Set at the beginning of the Meiji era, The Waiting Years is a beautifully written, poignant tale of womanhood and forced subservience; a nuanced portrayal of a dysfunctional family dictated by the whims of a wayward man.
Tomo, our protagonist, is married to Yukitomo Shirakawa, a publicly respected man holding a position very high up in the government ranks. In the very first chapter, she is sent to Tokyo to find a respectable young girl who will become her husband’s mistress, a terrible and heartbreaking task she is compelled to carry out. As far as themes go, The Waiting Years, then, is an acutely observed portrait of a marriage and a dysfunctional family, the heartrending sense of entrapment felt by its women who don’t have much agency, which is probably representative of Japanese society at that time. Enchi beautifully captures the internal turmoil that rages not just within Tomo but also within Suga, Yukitomo’s mistress. The subject matter might be bleak, but it’s a powerful book with unforgettable characters whose fates will forever be impinged on my mind.
I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman is a wonderfully strange, surreal novel of entrapment and survival set in a place that may or may not be planet Earth. It’s a bleak but powerful book in the way it explores the concepts of humanity and community when placed against a dystopian backdrop.
The plot of this novel is fairly simple. A group of forty women of all ages lives imprisoned in an underground cage outside which armed guards keep an eye on them continuously. These women have no idea of the catastrophic event that led to their capture and have a vague recollection of the lives they led before imprisonment. The youngest prisoner in this motley group is a young girl, our unnamed narrator, referred to as “child” by the other women. But then one day, an ear-shattering siren goes off. All of a sudden, the guards disappear, vanishing into thin air. Our narrator quickly takes charge, frees the other women, and the group in sheer trepidation climbs up the stairs out into the open, welcoming and embracing their newfound freedom.
But are they really free? This is a beautiful novel, equally devastating and hopeful, and one that sizzles with compassion and humanity as the characters grapple with dwindling hopes and mounting fear, frustrated by the illusion of freedom that gives them a window of optimism but fails to completely transform their lives.
SALKA VALKA by Haldór Laxness (Translated from Icelandic by Philip Roughton)
Salka Valka is a wondrous, 552-paged, ambitious novel; an immersive, brilliant, often harrowing tale of a beleaguered fishing community and the indomitable spirit of a woman who prides on her independence and strives to improve their lot.
In the opening pages of Salka Valka, a coastal steamer stops at the port of a small, remote fishing village called Oseyri. Nobody can envisage a life here, but on that cold, bleak winter’s night, two figures emerge from the steamer – a woman called Sigurlina and her 11-year-old daughter Salvor (Salka Valka). Sigurlina and Salka Valka have made this journey from the North, certain circumstances having driven them away, and while Reykjavik seems to be their final destination, Sigurlina reduced to a state of penury, cannot afford the cost of the trip further. Oseyri, then, becomes her destination for the time being, she hopes to find a job that will help her make enough money to embark on the journey south. However, fate as we shall see has other plans…
Salka Valka is divided into four sections, each section comprising two parts – the first section focuses on Salka’s time in Oseyri as a teenager, and the second section fast forwards to several years when she is a young woman, independent with her own house and a share in a fishing boat. One of the core themes that the novel addresses is the ugly side of abject poverty and the struggles of the working class, and the second half particularly becomes more political as the debate between capitalism and Bolshevism reaches a fever pitch. Epic in scope and ahead of its times, Salka Valka, then, is a simmering cauldron of various delectable ingredients – a coming-of-age tale, a statement on world politics, a strange beguiling love story, and an unforgettable female lead.
Barbara Comyns’ The Skin Chairs is a marvellous tale of family, abject poverty, and the bewildering, ghoulish world of adults seen through the eyes of a beguiling 10-year-old girl, a story that has all the elements of Comyns’ trademark offbeat worldview.
When the book opens, ten-year-old Frances is sent to stay for a few days with her ‘horsey’ relations, the Lawrences. Growing up in a family of five siblings (Frances has three sisters and two brothers), we learn that the mother often packs them off to various relatives so that she can have some respite and time for herself. However, Frances’ father dies unexpectedly and with this sudden development, the family is plunged into poverty after having led a life of comfort. Despite the subsequent horrors of their existence, Frances’ life is not without incident; she is an inquisitive, affectionate child and makes some unusual friends, and things do take a turn for the better led by a new arrival at the village which sees the fortunes of the family transform, while the holier-than-thou Lawrences finally get their comeuppance.
The Skin Chairs, then, has all the hallmarks of a characteristic Comynsian world – a child or child-like narrator whose unique, distinct voice manages to belie the hopelessness of the circumstances and take some edge off its horrors making the story not just easier to bear but also incredibly compelling. I was lucky to finally find a copy of this novel, it was so incredibly hard to find.
The Devastating Boys is a gorgeous collection of stories showcasing Elizabeth Taylor’s unmatched talent and remarkable range both in terms of the worlds she creates and her piercing gaze into the hearts and minds of her characters.
The title story in the collection – “The Devastating Boys” – is a subtle and beautifully written story of a marriage, of how doing things out of the ordinary holds the promise of joy and renewal, while “An Excursion to the Source” is a story about a diffident young woman Polly and her overbearing guardian Gwenda and the unexpected circumstances that confront them on a holiday. One of my favourites, “In and Out the Houses”, is a cleverly constructed tale focusing on the petty jealousies of village life complete with the unspoken disappointments and the secret tinge of envy that mark the lives of its inhabitants, while “Flesh” is another superbly crafted story of loneliness and the tragicomedy of middle-aged romance. It’s a collection that shows Taylor at the top of her game where each story is a joy to savour and treasure.
Edith Wharton’s Ghost Stories is a brilliant collection of eerie, chilling tales where she uses the medium of spectral visions to explore the familiar terrain of her themes that are so central to her New York novels and stories.
The first story “The Lady Maid’s Bell” is a masterclass in narrative tension, a tale of isolation and loneliness, an unhappy marriage, and devotion. One of my favourites in the collection, “Afterward”, is a superb tale of guilt, moral failings, the repercussions of ill-gotten wealth, and women suffering because of the terrible wrongs of their men. “Bewitched” is a suspenseful story of religion and old, primitive folklore set in the icy wastes and the claustrophobic boundaries of a desolate village; while “Mr Jones”, set in an isolated country manor, dwells on the themes of patriarchal control and dominance both real and ghostly.
Besides the ghosts lurking on these pages, the richness and allure of these stories are further accentuated by the complexity of themes lacing them such as moral corruption, greed, domestic strife, control, entrapment, and abuse; themes that typically form the core of her New York stories but also explored in these ghost stories in a singularly innovative way.
Maeve Brennan’s The Springs of Affection: Stories of Dublin is a superb collection filled with stunningly crafted stories of unhappy marriages and slices of Dublin life. The book is divided into three sections, and the first section is possibly more cheery of the lot, mostly comprising autobiographical sketches of Brennan’s childhood in Dublin on Ranelagh Road.
The next two sections focus on the Derdon and Bagot families respectively and are some of the finest stories she has written. The Derdon stories are savage and heartbreaking in their depiction of an unhappy marriage; these are six exquisitely crafted stories of loneliness, bitterness, and misunderstandings, encompassing more than forty years of Hubert and Rose Derdon’s married life. Each story unflinchingly examines the nuances of their relationship from different angles and perspectives, always focusing on the growing alienation and resentment between the couple. In terms of tone, the Bagot set of stories is not as fierce as the Derdon bunch but are still beautifully rendered sketches of an unhappy marriage. The highlight of the collection is the last story which also lends the collection its name – an astute, razor-sharp character study, unlike the relative gentleness of the previous Bagot stories.
The stories in The Springs of Affection are quietly devastating, perhaps even bleak, but they are thrilling to read because of the sheer depth of their themes, Brennan’s psychological acuity, and exquisite writing.
Encapsulating the heydays of the Jazz Age, Ex-Wife is a wonderful, whip-smart tale of marriage, relationships, freedom, and women’s independence set in 1920s New York.
The book begins with Patricia, our narrator, telling us that her husband left her four years ago making her the ex-wife of the title. Through Patricia’s reminisces, we learn of her marriage to Peter at a very young age, the events leading up to their separation, and how her life pans out thereafter post that tumultuous period. Luckily, Patricia is not completely down and out; she has her job after all, and a new friendship with Lucia, another ex-wife five years older than her. The two women decide to rent an apartment together and thereby Patricia is flung headlong into a world of freedom, endless partying, men, and one-night stands. Slowly and surely, after many hiccups, Peter recedes into the background.
Ursula Parrott’s writing is sassy, wise, and sharp – snappy one-liners, easy camaraderie, and an air of irreverence are abundant and belie some of the darker moments in the book marked by heartaches, tragedies, disappointments, and wistful yearnings. Patricia’s narrative is laced with the wisdom of hindsight and there’s much humour in her retelling as there is poignancy and understated sadness.
Maxine Clair’s Rattlebone is a gorgeously written, heartbreaking compilation of eleven interlinked stories that capture slices of life of an African American community in 1950s Kansas City. It sensitively depicts the journey of Irene Wilson our protagonist from when she is eight years old to her last days in high school; she and her friends traverse a particularly rough terrain of tumultuous family life, challenges and heartaches of growing up, and the blight of occasional violence. Irene is often the central feature in each story, at other times she is on the periphery – the points of view sometimes shift and there are stories where the focus zooms on other members of her family or the black neighbourhood of Rattlebone where she resides.
These are beautiful, sharply observed tales with their tender portrayal of characters who display a quiet strength, an inner reserve that compels them to dream big and carry on despite obstacles and hardships.
THE OPPERMANNS by Lion Feuchtwanger (Translated from German by James Cleugh, revisions by Joshua Cohen)
Lion Feuchtwanger’s The Oppermanns is a haunting, powerful story charting the rise and fall of a rich, cultured, liberal German Jew family during the years leading up to and during Hitler’s rise to power. The author takes his time setting up his cast of characters while simultaneously juxtaposing their situation with the broader grim political developments sweeping throughout the country making it an incredibly immersive read right from the very beginning.
The Oppermanns comprise the three brothers – Martin, Edgar, Gustav, and their sister Klara, married to the East European Jew Jaques Lavendel who is an American citizen but chooses to live in Germany. Established in Berlin, the family’s furniture venture is largely run and managed by Martin. Edgar is an eminent and respected doctor with a thriving practice of his own, while Gustav, the eldest brother, is relatively naïve and sentimental; a man of letters, Gustav is absorbed with his world of books and writing a biography on Lessing, fine dining and women, while oblivious and uninterested in matters concerning politics or economics.
As the Nazis come into power, the Oppermanns are shocked by the scale of the country’s moral breakdown while also unable to fathom the precariousness of their existence in this dramatically altered landscape of their homeland. In this volatile situation, the three brothers are faced with a terrible dilemma – should they flee Germany, or should they stay back?
FORBIDDEN NOTEBOOK by Alba de Céspedes (Translated from Italian by Ann Goldstein)
There’s a scene in Forbidden Notebook where Valeria Cossatti, our protagonist and the narrator, is having lunch with her glamorous friend Clara at her place, a penthouse apartment in Rome. Divorced from her husband, Clara is now an independent woman and a successful filmmaker, but by then Valeria’s position has become much more complex. Her outward façade continues to be that of a traditional woman confined to the role of a homemaker and catering to the needs of her husband and two children, but inwardly Valeria has begun to seethe and resist these conventional norms she is expected to adhere to. Clara believes that Valeria has been lucky to achieve all that she wanted by marrying, but by then Valeria and the reader know the reality to be entirely different – Valeria has been experiencing a deep sense of disillusionment, a feeling she is unable to share with Clara.
It is this intense conflict, growing resistance, and the dual nature of her thoughts and emotions that forms the essence of Alba de Céspedes’s Forbidden Notebook – a rich, multilayered novel of domestic dissatisfaction and awakening seen through the prism of a woman’s private diary. Set in 1950s Rome, not only does the book boldly challenge the validity of restrictive, orthodox roles thrust upon women, and the heartaches of motherhood, but it also dwells on writing as a powerful tool for a woman to find her voice and be heard when those closest to her fail to do so.
Billed as a feminist classic, Forbidden Notebook is a masterclass of insight and imagination, brilliant in the way it provides a window into a woman’s interior life, an internal struggle that oscillates between the desire to discover her true self and also keep it hidden.
Encompassing a period of one year, War in Val D’Orcia covers events between January 1943 and July 1944; an extremely difficult period for war-ravaged Italy fuelled by the intensity of the conflict and utter chaos in its political landscape. The author, Iris Origo, was an Anglo-American married to an Italian, and much before the war the couple bought and revived a derelict stretch of the Val d’Orcia valley in Tuscany and created an estate. At the height of the war, and at great personal risk, the Origos gave food and shelter to partisans, deserters, and refugees.
War in Val D’Orcia is a first-hand account of the complexity of Italy’s position, the politics prevailing at the time, and the difficulty of going about daily life. A compelling narrative laced with heart-stopping tension, these diary entries lose none of their edge even if we as readers already know how events will eventually pan out…the fact is that Iris Origo at the time did not; thus, the potency of the fear and stress felt by the Origos rubs on to the reader as well.
That’s about it, it was a wonderful year of reading for me and I hope it continues in 2024 too. What were some of your best books this year?
I read Iris Origo’s diaries in April for #NYRBWomen23, a month largely dominated by books set in Italy, but have gotten around to writing about these brilliant books only now. War in Val d’Orcia, particularly, is likely to make it to my year-end list, and I did not want to miss the opportunity to review it, however brief.
The first thing I realised after reading both Iris Origo’s diaries is how little I knew of Italy’s participation in World War Two. We studied both World Wars in our History class in school, but school textbooks don’t really tell you the whole story. Too much emphasis is placed on the rendition of facts that fail to capture the complexity of something as gargantuan and monstrous as war and its debilitating impact on people’s lives. And even then the facts themselves seem incomplete and their presentation too simple. For instance, it is pretty well-known that Italy sided with Germany in World War Two, a disastrous step by Mussolini and his Fascist Party for which Italy will go on to pay dearly, but Origo’s diaries reveal how Mussolini’s decision didn’t reflect the real views of the Italian people who were largely unwilling to engage in war but were compelled to do so.
A Brief Sketch of Iris Origo’s Life…
Iris Origo largely led a life of comfort and privilege. Her father William Bayard Cutting came from a rich New York family, while her mother Sybil was the daughter of an Anglo-Irish peer the Earl of Desart. Bayard Cutting was a man of ambition but his full potential was thwarted by chronic illness. On his deathbed, he conveyed to Sybil his desire for Iris to lead a cosmopolitan life “free from all this national feeling which makes people so unhappy”, and that she be free to love and marry anyone she likes, of any country, without it being difficult. Once Iris’s father died, her mother complied with his wishes, and the two relocated to Florence where they led a bohemian life. Iris, subsequently, fell in love with Antonio Origo, an Italian, and after their marriage, the couple bought and revived La Foce, a derelict stretch of the beautiful Val d’Orcia valley in Tuscany, and succeeded in creating a thriving estate through their hard work, patience, and care.
Publishing History of the Diaries…
Iris Origo did not write the diaries with the intent of ever publishing them, these were writings solely for her benefit and for her family and friends, but after the end of World War Two, she was persuaded to publish War in Val d’Orcia given the extraordinary events depicted within. The book immediately became a hit, but A Chill in the Air remained unpublished at the time as it seemed relatively a minor effort when compared to War in Val d’Orcia. It is only in 2017-18 that A Chill in the Air was published for the first time by NYRB Classics and Pushkin.
A CHILL IN THE AIR: AN ITALIAN WAR DIARY 1939-1940
A Chill in the Air is the first of Iris Origo’s diaries that begins in March 1939 and culminates in July 1940 when she was just about to give birth to her daughter Benedetta (Iris had a son who died of meningitis at the age of seven in 1933).
It captures the mood of a nation staring into the abyss of war – a conflict that its people did not want and for which they were not prepared. At the time, Italy had been under Mussolini’s Fascist rule for close to twenty years. Italy felt humiliated by the Versailles Treaty signed in the aftermath of World War One; despite suffering so many casualties their ambitions and goals of getting control of certain territories were thwarted paving the way for the rise of Mussolini and his Fascist party.
Iris Origo brilliantly captures the intricacy of the Italians’ thinking at the time – many felt that they were shortchanged by the treaty and wished for a greater representation in Europe without the spilling of blood.
The truth is that, according to the company in which one happens to be, one knows beforehand what the opinion will be on any of the current topics. Among the anti-Fascists, Chamberlain is spoken of with contempt and Bonnet with loathing; Roosevelt is admired. In Fascist circles the odium falls on Churchill and on the Labour Party; Catholics unite to deplore the advances to Russia. Moreover one also knows beforehand where the blind spots will be. The Fascist averts his mind from the refugee problem and the situation in Czecho Slovakia (“All very much exaggerated – one must allow for foreign propaganda.”) The Catholics turn a deaf ear to all accounts of executions in Spain; the anti-Fascist has seldom heard of any trouble in Russia. Only on one point are they all agreed: they don’t want war.
England was having none of it though and absurdly enough Hitler used England and France’s refusal to kowtow to their demands as a pretext for war (by then Hitler had invaded Poland) to maintain peace, the kind of twisted logic that Mussolini began espousing too. The Italian people, though, still harboured hopes that Mussolini will somehow find a way to avoid war till the very end, only to horrifyingly realise that not only is Italy’s participation a certainty but that she will be siding with the Germans (“It would be bad enough if they were going to fight for something that they believe in. But to know that they will be fighting for what they hate and despise”)…
One of the biggest dilemmas confronting the Italians is encapsulated in a letter a young Italian writes to his mother…
“Will this war come? I can’t believe it. Above all I can’t believe that we shall be called upon to fight against people towards whom we have not got the slightest grudge and by the side of people we all despise. I have yet to find a single man who wants to fight on the side of the Germans! What is certain is that, politically speaking, we are passing from one absurdity to another.”
As war becomes inevitable, a narrative to rationalize that stance also gains vehemence, particularly reflected in the kind of war-restriction measures introduced, the irony of which is not lost on Origo…
Each necessary war-restriction measure is preceded by articles in the daily press, showing that such measures are really conducive to the well-being and comfort of the public. Thus, just before the sale of coffee was forbidden, long medical articles appeared, describing the deleterious effects of coffee on the nerves and constitution: “wine is far less harmful”. The meat rationing was preceded by similar articles in praise of vegetarianism; and now the abolition of private cars is accompanied by long articles in praise of bicycling!
In a nutshell, Origo superbly conveys the dread, unease, and uncertainty of a nation at the brink of war, an armed conflict much against its wishes, and how ordinary life somehow chugs along with the fervent hope and belief that combat can be averted. This conflicted feeling is palpable in this insightful commentary…
At the performance of La Traviata in Piazza della Signoria the moonlit square is packed with a gay, apparently carefree crowd. At the end of the second act, indeed, when the Inno a Roma was played in the interval before the broadcasting of the news, a sudden look of anxiety crossed the face of the audience; but as soon as it became evident that there was nothing new, they gave themselves up again to the sonorous melodies of the opera. “Look what Fascism has done for our people!” says a young officer as we walk home. “Compare their calm with the feverish tension in France and England!” But it isn’t exactly calm. It is a mixture of passive fatalism, and of a genuine faith in their leader: the fruits of fifteen years of being taught not to think. It is certainly not a readiness for war, but merely a belief that, “somehow”, it won’t happen.
WAR IN VAL D’ORCIA: AN ITALIAN WAR DIARY 1943-1944
Encompassing a period of one year, War in Val D’Orcia covers events between January 1943 and July 1944; an extremely difficult period for war-ravaged Italy fuelled by the intensity of the conflict and utter chaos in its political landscape.
The very first diary entry hits the reader hard as Iris Origo notes down the arrival of the first batch of refugee children at their estate, La Foce. These are children “chosen from families whose houses have been totally destroyed”; they had inhabited an underground tunnel in the bitter cold for the last two months, their families displaced. Using her influence and connections, Iris takes matters into her own hands to ensure that these children are brought to the estate to receive care and attention for the duration of the war.
Meanwhile, as was the case in A Chill in the Air, Origo continues to record developments in her diary as they unfurl – events at the national, local, and individual level. Daily life carries on at the estate despite mounting challenges in the form of food shortages, exorbitant prices and general scarcity of essential items, and the continuous and ominous barrage of bombs raining down various towns and cities of Italy. We learn of the progress of the war, the intensity and brutality of the battles accompanied by senseless civilian deaths, and the complete disarray in the Italian leadership.
Origo is particularly critical of Italy’s disintegrating political landscape, most notably the dithering and delay in signing an armistice with the Allies. By the time Italy does come around to sign it, not only is the execution inadequate but also it has perhaps arrived a tad too late, allowing Germany to enter Italy and occupy it.
It is incomprehensible to us both why the Government – having clearly intended to take this step from the first – should have waited to do so until now, and like this.
Origo frankly states that while the armistice was certainly desired, they deplored the methods by which it was accomplished, an occurrence made all the more difficult by the King and Badoglio’s flight.
The bedlam in Italy’s leadership is deep. Mussolini and the increasingly unpopular Fascist party are toppled, the King takes command of the army and Badoglio replaces Mussolini, but it’s a weak leadership. Once the Germans take control, the Fascist party is reconstituted with the result that there are four parties now who have assumed control in Italy – the Germans, the German-controlled Fascist Party, Badoglio’s government supported by the Allies, and the Allies themselves. Origo also captures the frustration of the Italians in the Allies’ attitude – they feel the Allies have not given them their due for finally overthrowing Mussolini; there’s a depression that has settled over the Italians at the intransigence displayed by both the Allies and Germany with Italy caught in the middle.
Meanwhile, as the diary entries progress, we see an escalation in the fighting followed by deep dread as bombs regularly drop at frequent intervals. The Italians are overcome by a gamut of emotions – fear, boredom, terror, uncertainty, unease, a general sense of apathy, and even a kind of fatalism about the outcome. Most Italians called to fight with the Germans or the Fascist Party refuse to do so, choosing to go into hiding instead, and Origo’s estate and the adjoining farms becomes a sanctuary of sorts for them.
But Iris and Antonio don’t provide food and shelter only to the Italians. Various escaped Allied prisoners from all countries, persecuted Jews and anti-Fascists find refuge at La Face, and the Origos do all within their power to cater to their basic needs and safety. The peasants and farmers working on the estate do not hesitate to help either despite tremendous personal risks, the possibility of being shot to death should they be found out by the Germans is always around the corner.
For the Italians, who refuse to now fight with the Germans, the only hope for salvation is luck on their side and the landing of the Allies given that the Italian leadership has largely failed them. But the Allied advance remains excruciatingly slow (“nerve-racking waiting, waiting….”), so much so that hopes begin to dwindle and along with that the realization that they will have to fend for themselves, and secretly build resistance movements to thwart the Germans.
Heartrending scenes emerge. Soldiers who refuse to sign up see their family members tortured in their place, a young Partisan ensconced in La Foce dies of Spanish flu while under Iris’s care, a fourteen-century-old abbey is bombed, the Abbot reduced to absolute despair, and so on.
As the war rages and some of its mounting chaos trickles onto La Foce, the Origos are always on their feet managing their estate, looking after the people under their charge, and frequently dealing with local authorities. Thus, the growing ambiguity, the urgency of living by the day and taking it as it comes means that there isn’t much scope for planning or thinking about the future, and yet despite the immediacy of the present, some of Origo’s reflections on what lies ahead do seep in.
I have spoken of the immediate hazards: the more remote ones are of course even greater. Though each one of us in his inmost heart believes that and his family will survive (through some privilege which we certainly could not account for) certainly no one can make a guess as to what his future life will be. Shall we have any money left, or work for a bare living? In what sort of a world will our children be brought up? What should we teach them to prepare them? Can any peace or order be restored again in this unhappy, impoverished and divided land?
What’s more, Iris Origo is forced to grapple with some personal losses as well…
And when those who, like myself, have relations and friends in other countries, are able to hear from them again, what news will we receive? Three weeks ago – after four months of silence and anxiety – I received the news of my mother’s death in Switzerland, eighteen days after the event – in a letter from a stranger which had been smuggled across the frontier. When letters begin again, how many other such pieces of news shall we all receive? Which of our close friends and relations are already dead, or will die before we meet them again? And, even among those who survive, what barriers of constraint and unfamiliarity will have arisen in these years not only of physical separation, but of experience unshared, of differing feelings and opinions? What ties will survive that strain?
Despite the grimness of the situation, the cold harsh winters, debilitating shortages, and deepening anxiety and fear (“there are few houses where a ring at the bell after dark does not cause alarm”), some semblance of normal life extraordinarily continues at La Foce in the form of Christmas celebrations, children’s birthday parties, school studies, and play rehearsals. But as the battle scene menacingly inches closer to La Foce, and the valley is cut off from the outside world, Origo is piercingly aware of how shut-in they are and yet there’s no choice but to soldier on.
As the circle in which our life moves grows smaller and smaller, and the immediate menace more threatening, our mental horizon shrinks to that of peasants; and with this narrowness creeps in something of their skepticism towards all vague schemes for the future, all remote Utopias.
For Iris, there’s a sense of so much that is lost, not only of life itself but a certain way of living. A meeting with a German archeological expert, responsible for the preservation of Tuscan art treasures, comforts Iris – “A queer, comforting conversation, a reminder of eternal values, which may outlast the present madness.”
Iris Origo’s love for her adopted country and its people also shines through in the way she commends and reiterates the resourcefulness of the ordinary Italians who display astonishing courage and steadfastness at a time when their leadership not only disillusioned them but also took flight.
Much has been said in these times (and not least by the Italians themselves) about Italian cowardice and Italian treachery. But here is a man (and there are hundreds of others like him) who has run the risk of being shot, who has shared his family’s food to the last crumb and who has lodged, clothed and protected four strangers for over three months – and who now proposes continuing to do so, while perfectly aware of all the risks that he is running. What is this, if not courage and loyalty?
As hordes of partisans hiding in the woods around La Foce begin to mount attacks on the Germans, suspicion on the Origos begins to take centre-stage. Tension ratchets up in the final pages, when the Val d’Orcia becomes a fierce battleground and the Origos along with all the children, farmers, and other people under their charge are forced to flee, undertaking a perilous journey through roads that are heavily mined and the where the danger of being bombed any time is ever palpable.
A compelling narrative laced with heart-stopping tension, these diary entries lose none of their edge even if we as readers already know how events will eventually pan out…the fact is that Iris Origo at the time did not; thus, the potency of the fear and stress felt by the Origos rubs on to the reader as well.
Overall Impressions on Both Diaries…
“It is odd how used one can become to uncertainty for the future, to a complete planlessness, even in one’s own private mind.”
Both A Chill in the Air and War in Val D’Orcia are a statement on the folly and stupidity of war, the proliferation of misinformation and misleading propaganda, how facts and opinions are manipulated under the dangerous garb of “nationalism”, how war leaves in its wake senseless tragedy, mass destruction, and heartrending scenes of death, and an overall loss of control…
One feels escaping from one’s control everything on which one was accustomed to rely, and everything is so suspended that one is very conscious of one’s own littleness.
Yet these recorded entries also highlight various acts of courage, compassion, and kindness displayed by ordinary people struggling to survive under extreme conditions; acts that reinforce the sheer depth of humanity against adversity where the nationality of the people holds no meaning and the only common thread that binds them is one of immense suffering.
Given the kind of circles she moved in, Iris Origo was incredibly well-connected. In prose that is crystal clear and concise, she writes with a discerning eye, brandishing a sharp intelligence and strong grasp of the political and economic climate at the time and its repercussions on the people of her adopted country. A lot of her observations are drawn from the easy access she had to the upper strata of society and its connections with political dignitaries, top diplomats, and other important and influential people. And yet her interactions were not restricted to this well-heeled set alone. As the grimness and horror of war deepened, Iris, Antonio as well as the peasants employed on their farms welcomed a stream of refugees, Allied prisoners of war, Italian soldiers, Jews, and so on to their properties and gave them food and shelter in the best possible manner they could at the cost of grave danger to their lives. Thus, a lot of her impressions during this period stem from her talks and conversations with ordinary people desperately trying to make it through a tough environment.
I was impressed by the indomitable spirit of the Origos themselves, both Antonio and Iris. They were a couple of action doing whatever they could in their power to help as many civilians as possible irrespective of their country of origin. There’s so much inspiration to be gleaned from their resilience in the face of insurmountable odds.
One of the remarkable features of these diaries is the immediacy of the events recorded within as if in real-time. They give first-hand accounts of the complexity of Italy’s position, the politics prevailing at the time, and the difficulty of going about daily life when uncertainty and anxiety rule the roost. These are books filled with a mix of facts, anecdotes, and her astute interpretations of the extraordinary scenes unfolding around her there and then. Origo refuses to delve into the intricate details of her personal life in these diaries, but as a chronicle of historical events, views, and opinions they are unmatched in the way they provide another fascinating yet hitherto unexplored perspective on one of the darkest periods of the 20th century. Truly, a significant addition to the canon of World War Two literature!
I somehow missed posting about my April reading mostly due to lack of time as we were busy getting ready for our holiday to the Czech Republic. Now since it’s the end of May, it made sense to combine my reading of both months in one post and I’m glad to have read some excellent books. Italy was a dominant theme as four of the eight books are set in the country during and after the Second World War. Four are translated works of literature (written by women) – two Italian, one Catalan, and one Turkish. All eight books are great, but if I had to pick favourites, it would be Céspedes and Ginzburg.
So, without further ado, here’s a brief look at the eight books…You can read the detailed reviews on the first six by clicking on the title links.
Set in the fictional region of Manawaka modeled on the province of Manitoba where Margaret Laurence grew up, The Stone Angel is a brilliant, poignant tale of loss, heartbreak, and old age with a fiery, unforgettable female character at its core.
We meet Hagar Shipley, the protagonist and narrator of this Canadian classic, who when the book opens is an old woman in her nineties staying with her eldest son Marvin and his wife Doris, who are in their sixties. Even at that age, Hagar still has her wits about her, and yet there are unmistakable signs that her health is failing, a fact that she is too proud to acknowledge. With the burden of caregiving proving to be quite onerous at least for Doris, they outline plans of shifting Hagar to an old age home where she can receive all the care she needs and it is this intention that ultimately unsettles Hagar. She rebels, both outwardly and inwardly, and makes one last attempt to fight for her independence, relying on her resourcefulness that has helped her move forward in a life that has only doled out disappointments, many of them a direct consequence of Hagar’s stubbornness. Enmeshed with Hagar’s present and attempts to cope with old age are flashbacks and reflections on her past that are often triggered by certain objects or episodes in the current moment – her tumultuous marriage to Brampton Shipley and her complicated relationship with both her sons Marvin and John.
A beautifully observed, haunting tale about a deeply flawed woman, The Stone Angel is a novel I’m glad to have read.
As hot as molten lava erupting from a volcano, Boulder is a tightly compressed, intense novella of love, sex, motherhood, and freedom; a book that derives its strength from the originality of its prose and the unconventionality of its protagonist.
Boulder, a cook on a merchant ship and our narrator meets Samsa, a Scandinavian geologist, at an inn during one of the ship’s regular stops fuelling a desire that is sharp and intense. A serious relationship ensues although the two women could not have been more different. Samsa is social, successful, earning well, and even the one making major decisions, while Boulder for whom her passion is the driving force, seems okay to just tag along. But then Samsa expresses her wish to have a child that knocks Boulder off-kilter. Samsa is determined to be a mother; she’s past forty and doesn’t want to miss the chance of motherhood. Boulder could not have been more uninterested but is unable to find the courage to express her true feelings.
What makes Boulder so striking is the language – strange, smoldering, feral, and sensual – as it captures the range of thoughts and emotions that rage within our narrator trying to adapt to a slew of significant changes unfolding around her.
Set in a smaller town in Italy before and during the Second World War, Natalia Ginzburg’s All Our Yesterdays is simply wonderful; a big-hearted, bustling novel of family, friendships, politics, and war pitted against a backdrop of immense turbulence, and narrated in a style that captures Ginzburg’s customary dry wit.
Essentially a family saga, the book is divided into two sections. In Part One, Ginzburg focuses her gaze on an ensemble cast – two families living in a smaller town in Northern Italy. Much of the story is told from Anna’s perspective although this is not a first-person account. Shy and reserved in nature, Anna’s very young age and reticent demeanour mean that she is hardly noticed in the house, but she notices various aspects of her family the significance of which she does not always comprehend. In Part Two, many of the characters who had a minor presence in the first part become central to the story, while the central figures in Part One get pushed to the periphery although never entirely forgotten. Thus, the spotlight shifts to the considerably older Cenzo Rena (who marries Anna) and he becomes the axis around which much of the plot of Part Two revolves.
Ginzburg seamlessly places these family dynamics against a wider political backdrop – Fascism, the approaching rumblings of World War Two with the big question of the mode of Italy’s participation, and later on the horrors of the Holocaust. But what is truly astonishing about All Our Yesterdays is the sheer range of humanity on display – each of the characters is beautifully etched, they are endearing in different ways despite their flaws and foibles.
There’s a scene in Forbidden Notebook where Valeria Cossatti, our protagonist and the narrator is having lunch with her glamorous friend Clara at her place, a penthouse apartment in Rome. Divorced from her husband, Clara is now an independent woman and a successful filmmaker, but by then Valeria’s position has become much more complex. Her outward façade continues to be that of a traditional woman confined to the role of a homemaker and catering to the needs of her husband and two children, but inwardly Valeria has begun to seethe and resist these conventional norms she is expected to adhere to. Clara believes that Valeria has been lucky to achieve all that she wanted by marrying, but by then Valeria and the reader know the reality to be entirely different – Valeria has been experiencing a deep sense of disillusionment, a feeling she is unable to share with Clara.
It is this intense conflict, growing resistance, and the dual nature of her thoughts and emotions that forms the essence of Alba de Céspedes’s Forbidden Notebook – a rich, multilayered novel of domestic dissatisfaction and awakening seen through the prism of a woman’s private diary. Set in 1950s Rome, not only does the book boldly challenge the validity of restrictive, orthodox roles thrust upon women, and the heartaches of motherhood, but it also dwells on writing as a powerful tool for a woman to find her voice and be heard when those closest to her fail to do so.
Billed as a feminist classic, Forbidden Notebook is a masterclass of insight and imagination, brilliant in the way it provides a window into a woman’s interior life, an internal struggle that oscillates between the desire to discover her true self and also keep it hidden.
Cold Nights of Childhood is an unflinching portrayal of a woman’s quest for independence, freedom, sex and love, as well as her struggles with mental illness told in a writing style that is cinematic and impressionistic without conforming to the rigid structures of conventional storytelling.
At barely 70 pages and set between 1950 and 1970, the novella is divided into four chapters and begins with a flavour of our narrator’s childhood and school years in the Turkish town of Fatih. Later, we move on to the time our narrator spends in Istanbul and Ankara, and abroad in Europe’s great capital cities (Berlin and Paris). We learn of her string of lovers, her unsuccessful marriages, and above all her incarceration in mental asylums. This predominantly forms the essence of the book, and yet the narrative is not as linear as it seems. Moody, evocative, teeming with rich visuals and a palpable Jean Rhys vibe, Cold Nights of Childhood is a beautifully penned novella that I’m glad to have discovered.
With its combination of wit, social commentary and mystery, The Feast by Margaret Kennedy is a terrific novel; an excellent upstairs-downstairs drama and comedy set in Cornwall post the Second World War featuring a seaside hotel in danger of being buried, an eccentric ensemble cast with hidden secrets, and the high voltage interactions and tensions between them.
We first learn in the prologue that the Pendizack Manor Hotel lies buried in a mound of rubble after a huge mass of cliff collapses on it. Seven guests perish, one of whom is Dick Siddal, the owner of the hotel, while the others survive. At that point, the identities of the casualties as well as the survivors are not revealed to the reader, and that in essence forms the mystery element of the plot. After the prologue, the reader is then taken back to a week earlier, from whereon the book charts the arrival of the guests at the hotel, its other inhabitants, as well as the chain of events leading up to the tragedy in question.
Displaying a sharp, astute vision, Kennedy’s writing is top-notch as she weaves in elements of a social satire and morality fable with those of a thriller. Her gimlet-eyed gaze on the foibles and failures of her finely etched characters make both the endearing as well as the horrible ones pretty memorable.
ITALIAN WAR DIARIES: A CHILL IN THE AIR & WAR IN VAL D’ORCIA by Iris Origo
Set during the Second World War and seen from Italy’s perspective, both A Chill in the Air and War in Val d’Orcia are Iris Origo’s real-time war diaries covering the periods 1939-1940 and 1943-1944 respectively, a record of daily life in her adopted country in conflict. Iris was Anglo-American married to an Italian, and much before the war the couple bought and revived a derelict stretch of the Val d’Orcia valley in Tuscany and created an estate. At the height of the war, and at great personal risk, the Origos gave food and shelter to partisans, deserters, and refugees. While A Chill in the Air captures the mood of the Italian people just before Italy entered into the war reluctantly siding with Germany, War in Val D’Orcia records a slew of events at the height of the war. Both published diaries are first-hand accounts of the complexity of Italy’s position, the politics prevailing at the time, and the difficulty of going about daily life. These are books filled with a mix of facts, anecdotes, and her astute observations on the extraordinary scenes unfolding around her. I read these thanks to Kim’s #NYRBWomen23 reading project, and plan to put up a detailed post soon. For the time being though I’ll say that these books were brilliant, particularly War in Val d’Orcia.
That’s it for April and May. I plan to begin June with Rattlebone by Maxine Clair and I’ll be joining in for the #NYRBWomen23 read-along of Love’s Work by Gillian Rose. Other than that I haven’t decided anything yet and will pick up books depending on what catches my fancy at the time.
Radhika's Reading Retreat 