Enlightenment by Sarah Perry is a Booker Prize nominated novel published in 2024.

Thomas Hart, a journalist on a local newspaper in Essex, becomes fascinated by astronomy after his editor asks him to write a column on the subject. With a museum official, he investigates a nineteenth century woman, a past resident of a nearby country house, who may have been a keen amateur astronomer, and unacknowledged discoverer of a comet. The story follows Thomas’s investigations, and his attempts to accommodate religious feelings with both his scientific interests and the austere church he attends, which obliges him to hide the fact that he is gay.

This book is much concerned with making it appear that science and religion are not at odds in exploring life’s unknowns.

Was it persuasive? Well I don’t know. Some of the science religion parallels were certainly interesting. There was the irony of a rigid church dealing in universal mysteries, reminiscent of the apparently rigid business of science revealing all kinds of weird stuff, like enigmatic, shape shifting electrons that seem to be in two different places at the same time, (don’t ask) and a universe so vast that you can’t get your head around it. That said, I also felt the theme felt forced. Late in the book Thomas Hart ponders on a quote dubiously attributed to scientist Werner Heisenberg, of the famous Uncertainty Principle.

“At the first sip of the natural sciences you will become an atheist – then at the bottom of the glass God will be waiting for you.”

Thomas admits the attribution to Heisenberg might not be correct. From what I can see, doing an internet search, it’s almost certainly incorrect. This use of a very dubious quote to equate science and religion was indicative of straining too hard around this equivalence idea.

The book was better for me in the first half, poetic in its descriptions of astronomical phenomena up there in the sky above Essex. The second half was harder work. And as I say, the main theme sometimes seemed forced. Science revealing uncertainty is not the same as science revealing God, which seems to be the implication.

Wandering Stars is a 2024 novel by Tommy Orange, nominated for the Booker Prize.

This is a book by an author of Native American descent about the destruction of Native American culture by European settlers. We see this process taking place over successive generations from the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, up to the 2020s.

The first and perhaps most interesting thing about Wandering Stars is that it’s a novel, self-consciously so, using many kinds of novel writing techniques – frequent changes of viewpoint, switches between third, first and even second person narration. The native tribes of north America did not have novels. Reading and writing were something Europeans brought with them. Reading is part of the regime of assimilation we see at work in a facility in Florida, something which massacre survivor Jude Star comes to love, amongst all the things he hates about what is imposed upon him. So a book about the destruction of native culture is itself a cultural form involved in its loss.

For me the interest of the novel comes out of this basic irony. The book certainly makes clear the tragedy of a people having their culture destroyed. But from that starting point, we get a very nuanced look at what culture and identity might mean. Confined to the Florida correctional facility, Jude Star is forced to read the Bible. He notes that the creation myth described in Genesis is similar to tribal myths, suggesting archetypes common to all people. The things that define us actually turn out to define other people too. For a book about loss of identity, Wandering Stars is surprisingly revealing about how indefinable that lost identity was. Native American society had no uniformity. Many hundreds of tribes each had their own languages, customs and varying ways of life. Cultural identity, apparently such an important thing to people, starts to evaporate once you try to pin it down. The people in the book who are really hardline about cultural identity are white supremacists – hardly a good advert for taking such a fundamentalist stance.

Reading Wandering Stars can be hard work, given all the point of view switches. You are not a passenger in this novel, carried along by an immersive reading experience. Maybe that’s useful given the context. Readers don’t just submissively receive. They have to be part of the effort perhaps? I thought the required effort was well worthwhile.

Held is a 2023 novel by Anne Michaels, shortlisted for the Booker Prize. It’s a loosely linked collection of stories, starting with the wandering thoughts of a soldier wounded during the First World War, then moving back and forth, via family generations and recurring themes, through the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Photography is a big thing, with a linked excursion into the early history of X-rays, providing various metaphors to describe permanence and transience. The first story sees the injured soldier resuming his peacetime career as a photographer, only to find his images capturing the ghostly presence of dead people. In a later story, the long exposure times of early cameras depict empty streets, since anything that moves does not remain in one place long enough to register on film. All the people who were really there only exist as ghostly absences. This is typical of the book’s enigmatic concerns.

Held, as a title, seems to refer to approaching life with a light touch, as opposed to a firm grip that tries to restrain something defined by movement.

Held is certainly interesting, but when you are reading it, there is an up front feeling that this is meaningful stuff. There is no sense of a beguiling story that seems straightforward and entertaining but has hidden depths. The depths here are those of an open-cast grit quarry. Personally I prefer a story where the meaningful is less overt, which just seems a bit politer to me, as well as being closer to real life, where the profound material is not likely to be making itself known at breakfast. Some of the plotting felt like a creaky frame around which the author could expound on science and history. Maybe, in the terms of Held, the story held on too tight, grasping at its ideas rather than letting them develop more naturally through characters and events.

Wild Houses is a 2024 novel by Colin Barrett, nominated for the Booker Prize.

Sometimes in writing a review I feel constrained by the idea of a spoiler. You mustn’t give too much of the plot away because it will interfere with someone’s reading pleasure. Every book is a production of The Mouse Trap where some post-script figure will get up on stage and implore the audience not to give away who did it.

Anyhow, this is all by way of introduction to a novel with the sort of thriller feel where you’re wondering how things will work out. Ironically, however, the setting is a world where nothing much happens, the sort of place where people lead monotonous lives, maybe repeating the experience of their parents, going round and round a daily grind without moving on.

Events unfold in the Irish town of Ballina and its surrounding countryside. Cillian English has landed himself in trouble with some drug dealers. He hid a stash in a field, but the field flooded, the drugs were destroyed, and now he owes the dealers for their value. In an effort to extract this money from Cillian, two local hard men kidnap his younger brother Doll, and hold the boy hostage in a remote house. Will Cillian get the ransom together in time? Will Doll be saved?

I won’t tell you what happens to Doll, but it is ironic that this book is structured in a series of reverses, showing what happens, and then going back and describing how we got there. So the story has internal spoilers of its own. There is also a central character who has given up on anything to do with waiting to see what happens. Dev owns the remote house where Doll is held captive. Dev is massive in stature but quiet in personality. He suffered bullying and depression at school. His mother has recently died. He likes to be alone even though loneliness is bad for him. His only contact with the outside world is through the drug dealers who have insinuated themselves into his life, using his property as a safe house.

So without giving anything away, what have we got here? We have a beautifully written book, with sentences describing a man’s face as a ‘derelict church,’ dawn skies becoming ‘blue and clean as the ring of flame from a gas stove’, and crockery in a dishwasher portrayed as ‘jangling dentition’. It is very good at picking out little details, rather than focusing on a big picture revealing itself. Maybe there is no big picture.

The biggest spoiler is perhaps finding out that despite your hopes, nothing much will happen. Cillian has a little box of sand and a few stones which he calls his Zen Garden. ‘Game changer’ he says picking up a little rake and smoothing the sand. Cillian’s Zen Garden is a silly little thing, but it does suggest something important in this book, the tension between waiting for something to happen, and giving up on it, between what you might call peace on the one hand, hopeless inertia on the other. Wild Houses is really an exploration of this conundrum. It offers the reading pleasure of anticipation, while also having a wider quality that makes a book valuable long after you find out what happens.

The Sleepwalkers is a 2024 novel by Scarlett Thomas.

Evelyn and Richard, a newly married couple, spend their honeymoon at the luxury Villa Rosa Hotel on a Greek island. She’s a writer, he’s a City trader. Evelyn thinks the hotel’s young woman owner is trying to seduce her new husband. It all starts to unravel. And there seems to be a history of things unravelling at this odd establishment. The previous summer, a couple of guests seemingly sleepwalked into the ocean and drowned.

We learn about all this through a set of documents – letters between the main characters, a confession of past misdeeds from Richard, a transcript of a conversation recorded on Evelyn’s phone, an extract from the hotel guest book.

Beyond that it’s hard to say what’s going on.

I suppose as well as being a story, this is also a look at how we make stories.

I remember an episode of The Comic Strip Presents back in the 1980s where a Hollywood studio accepts a script about the miners’ strike, written by a real miner.

“This doesn’t say mining town to me,” says a sulky director arriving in an actual mining town. From that moment, as far as reality is concerned, it’s down hill all the way. There are similar ideas, and laughs and pulling the ground from under your feet jump-scares, in The Sleepwalkers. An American film producer and his wife are also staying at the Villa Rosa. They have heard the story of the tragic, drowned, sleepwalking guests and plan to turn those events into a film. But the director doesn’t like various details narrated to him, which will need changing in the script.

“What really happened is no good.” A film has other requirements.

Maybe the most ‘real’ part of The Sleepwalkers is an automated transcript of sound recordings on Evelyn’s phone. Have you ever seen automated captions below a video or a television programme mangling the dialogue by being too literal? Well that’s what the transcript section is like. Literal reality comes out as barely comprehensible gibberish. Once again we could say “what really happened is no good.” What really happened needs shaping, sorting out before it starts to make sense. If you are writing a book, you can’t expect to just note every single event during a day, write them all down and have a story. Picking and choosing is necessary, shaping, moulding. Only then will you have a story that people might want to read. Making the point more generally, you could say that “what really happened” has so many aspects to it that there is always the need for some manipulation before we can understand it – which can lead to both confusing distortion, and a considerable smoothing of sharp edges.

In many ways this novel definitely has sharp edges, unflinching in its portrayal of moral murkiness and human failings. Richard’s confession is uncomfortable reading. In other ways the book has anaesthetic qualities that soften the picture. Sleepwalkers, being asleep, don’t know what they’re doing, existing in a state of slumbering misapprehension, vulnerable to unappreciated dangers. They are also protected from any pain they might have experienced in a clearer, more awake scenario. That’s what reading, or ‘sleepwalking’ through this novel is like – disorienting, bewildering, and sometimes as unpleasant as going to the dentist for root canal work. At other times, however, it offers the relief of a deep inhale of pain-relieving laughing gas. Both extremes are aspects of a sophisticated, cleverly constructed read.

The Short Straw is a novel by Holly Seddon, published in 2023.

The plot concerns three sisters, Nina, Lizzie and Aisa, who have come back from scattered adult lives to visit their aging father in the Lake District. On a dark and stormy night, suffering car trouble, they seek shelter in a remote and creepy manor house, which might or might not be deserted.

Very Rocky Horror. A cliche you might be thinking. But in this case there’s a twist. The house is well known to the sisters. Their mother was on the domestic staff. The girls played here when they were little. You could say this mysterious house in the middle of nowhere has all the familiarity of home.

The book is about the unfamiliar hiding in the well-known, homes mirrored in distant destinations, fresh stories concealed in well worn tropes. We take little notice of what we see every day, which means that strange things, both good and bad, can hide in plain sight. This theme develops into an interesting reflection on ideas of fate and destiny. As people grow up, they appear to shape their own course by leaving home and setting out on journeys. But when end points start reminding us of where we came from, our choices become ambiguous to say the least.

The sign identifying the creepy house – Moirthwaite Manor – has been damaged by time and weather. On the night when the three sisters arrive, it reads MOIR AI. In Ancient Greek mythology the Moirai were three sisters who personified human destiny. The Moirai clearly parallel the three sisters stuck in the spooky mansion. These marooned women are sometimes in control of their lives, sometimes not. On occasion, control exists in the same things that take it away. Lizzie, the most diffident of the sisters, in realising her unassuming ambition to look after animals, has managed to live as she wants – unlike her more driven siblings who are more likely to strive for what they cannot reach.

The Short Straw can simply be read as a good thriller. But I would describe that as a starting point for a much more original and philosophical piece of work.

Still Life is a novel by Sarah Winman, published in 2021.

Ulysses, is a young soldier in the British Army during World War Two. Like Homer’s Ulysses, we first meet this man fighting battles in the Mediterranean. The parallels continue as Ulysses returns home to London in 1945, to find that Peg, the wife he left behind has a few suitors – Col a publican, Cress who works in Col’s pub, and an American soldier called Eddie. At this point Still Life and The Odyssey diverge. While Homer’s Ulysses engages in vengeful killing of suitors, Col and Cress remain good friends with Ulysses, and with Peg. Peg has Eddie’s baby while Eddie himself never returns from the war. Ulysses helps bring up Peg’s little girl.

Also we don’t actually get the feeling that Ulysses has reached home in returning to London. When he is left money and property in Florence by an Italian man whose life he saved during the war, he decides to make his home in the place where he fought. Cress and the little girl go with him. In Odyssey terms it would be as if Ulysses teamed up with one of the suitors, while adopting the child of another, and went off to live in Troy.

Interesting.

I think the point has something to do with not being too fixed in how we see life. Still Life portrays life as something that isn’t still. Home is not a definite place making all other places foreign. You might dream of reaching home, but then home might end up in the faraway land where you fought your war. The narrative is structured in a way that jumps around in place and time, as if neither of these things are entirely stable.

Following a time of war where friends, enemies, home, foreign fields are all starkly separate, we learn perhaps that letting go of these fixed concepts might be a way to find peace and forgiveness. There is no need for vengeance on suitors, or foreigners. Foreigners can be your family, as Ulysses discovers in his new life in Florence. Suitors and husbands can be friends. Hope for the future can be a return to the past.

This was a fascinating twist on the Odyssey story. Thinking in terms of the Odyssey, a parrot character called Claude, who not only mimics human speech, but offers opinions and apposite Shakespeare quotes, kind of makes sense, as do the sentient trees that pop up occasionally. These are the equivalent of Homer’s deities.

At times I did find the writing a bit overly sentimental. However, the book held itself together with some great ideas, and I ended up enjoying and admiring it.

And finally, why did I choose a Van Gogh still life to illustrate this article. Because I particularly like this painting. I like the way it is a typical still life kitchen scene with jug, cup and some lemons. But the jug contains a profusion of flowers instead of milk. The lemons seem soft and shapeless as if they are on the turn. A sprig has either fallen out of the packed flower display, or is waiting to be included in the arrangement. There is a great deal of movement in this still life. It displays beautiful flowers in what we might think of as a utilitarian container not apparently meant for flowers. I thought this fitting for Sarah Winman’s book.

Titus Groan is a novel by Mervyn Peake published in 1946. It tells the story of Gormenghast Castle, the ancient seat of the Earls of Groan. Titus has just been born, son of Sepulchrave, seventy sixth Earl of Groan. Does this event mark a new beginning and direction, or another heavy link in the chain of unending Groans? This question looms over the rest of the book. Do people control their lives? Are they playing out a role, decided by fate, or ancient tradition? The Groan royal family includes a pair of twins – twins serving as a reminder that our decisions might not seem so much ours after all, when someone else who looks just like us ‘decides’ to do the same thing as we do, at the same time. Titus Groan reminded me of Hamlet – set in a castle, dealing with weighty themes of destiny and freewill. And as in Hamlet, there is a schemer character, disguising his own self-interested plans as twists of fate.

On a different note, the book also reminded me of something I happened to stumble upon while reading the book – the 1980s police drama Hill Street Blues, of all things. A picture of the cast appeared on my Facebook feed. Facebook knows I am of a certain age, and has a plan lying behind the apparently random appearance of photos depicting the cast of 1980s police shows. I went to YouTube and watched the famous opening sequence. Just as in 1981, a tired woman’s voice says, “Dispatch, armed robbery in progress, C-Surplus store, corner of People’s Drive…”

A police car emerges from behind a garage door, before sliding off through slushy snow on another cold morning. Then you get that music by Mike Post, reflective, sad, rising to a sigh of steady violins. Another morning, always the same with every episode, the same armed robbery, the same slush and cold, which somehow remains reliable, peaceful and reassuring. I reminisced for half an hour – the show was on during my university years. I bought a book about it in the university bookshop. Anyway, I had some reading to do. Focus Martin. I went back to Titus Groan, and felt in an odd way that my digression hadn’t taken me far from Gormenghast Castle after all.

My Friends, published 2024, is a novel by Hisham Matar, long-listed for the Booker Prize.

Khaled, the narrator, is not an action hero by any stretch of the imagination. He’s a quiet, intellectual young man, a Libyan student studying English at Edinburgh University in the mid 1980s. At that time I was a similarly less-than-heroic student studying English at Warwick. Sometimes people would knock at the door of my campus study bedroom, asking me to go on demos. I would politely decline. Khaled’s instinct would be to do the same. However, in April 1984, his more radical friend, Mustafa, persuades him to attend a demonstration outside the Libyan embassy in St James’s Square, London. You can see why Khaled might take a deep breath and decide that attending one demo might be the decent thing to do, given the recent execution of student activists by the Libyan government.

Inexperienced in the ways of protests against dictatorial regimes, Khaled and Mustafa get to London and realise they need some kind of face covering to protect their identities from Libyan spotters. After locating a couple of black polyester balaclavas in a sex shop, they make their way to St James’s Square. Khaled plans to just do a quick bit of shouting, before slipping away to find lunch in China Town.

He doesn’t get to do this because someone inside the embassy points a machine gun out of a window and starts shooting, wounding eleven protesters and killing a young police woman called Yvonne Fletcher. I remember watching reports on the news.

This part of the book is very dramatic, particularly scenes at Westminster Hospital where a badly injured Khaled is taken. His life changes from this point on. He is a marked man and cannot go home to Libya. Politics is not some student game anymore. How will Khaled and his friends react? What form will their ‘growing up’ now take?

Responses vary between joining armed militias, to vaguely hoping that if only people would read more books and let things work out for themselves, life would go better. This all takes place against the backdrop of London, presented as a natural place of exile, a place of buses to Marble Arch, of fog and cosy restaurants.

My Friends does not have a prescription for good government, or how we should respond to bad government. What it does is personify different prescriptions in the characters of a group of devoted friends, who are both uneasy, and deeply admiring, of each other. The relationship is the thing, rather than one of them winning. Ultimately, however, I would point out that the narrator of this novel, the hero if you like, is the one who lives a bookish life in London. He is the novel’s quiet central government. Chaos rages around him. And if there is a lesson in My Friends, it might have something to do with that.

Headshot is a novel by Rita Bullwinkel published in 2024, long listed for the Booker Prize. The action takes place over two days at Bob’s Boxing Palace in Reno Nevada, where the eight best under-eighteen girl boxers in America take part in the Daughters of America Cup.

Already my description is a bit off, which reflects how tricky this novel is to pin down. It’s not really confined to two days. The disembodied narrative spins off into past and future. We find out about the competitors’ childhoods and later lives.

This is a book about boxing. The girls are clearly defined as individual combatants. But the book really gets interesting in using boxing as an unexpected metaphor for togetherness, and feminine togetherness at that. Boxing is a sport where you look your opponent in the eye. There is no sense of running your own race in boxing. You are in it with your opponent. From that sense of robust sharing, there is a comprehensive breaking down of demarcations, categories, individuality, to explore a shared experience. Boxing is paralleled with girls’ clapping games, hair braiding. It’s cleverly done, using a tough sporting event in a grubby boxing venue to explore the boxers’ lives, and then life in general as a battle that is also, somehow, a collaboration.

I came out of the book with an odd feeling of reassurance that people’s endless capacity to fight is combined with an endless capacity to work together. In the wider boxing match of life, which all the girls have come from and will return to, there is the same opportunity. I admired the book. It is both a challenging punch in the eye with its originality, while still capable of putting a friendly arm around your shoulder. Rita Bullwinkel is a professor of literature at Leipzig University – and maybe this sense of challenge combined with collaborative help is a good one to describe teaching. I hope I was a good student in this boxing class.