2025/157: Saltwash — Andrew Michael Hurley

English delapidation was... the blistered formica on the tables of a seafront cafe. Derelict gift shops and thrift shops with whitewashed windows. A pub with steel plates over its doors. Cracked, pebble-dashed sheters along the promenade, roosted by gulls. [loc. 168]

I've enjoyed Hurley's previous novels (The Loney, Starve Acre, Devil's Day -- I note that I read all those in the space of two months!) but found Saltwash thoroughly depressing: bleak, nihilistic and devoid of joy. The setting (the eponymous Northern seaside town in November, delapidated and down on its luck) is dispiriting, and the protagonist is dying of cancer and raddled by guilt. Unreasonable guilt, in my opinion.

Tom Shift has gone to the Castle Hotel in Saltwash to meet his pen-pal Oliver, whose erudite and theatrical letters have been one of Tom's few recent pleasures. He's perturbed to find that there is some sort of annual get-together happening at the hotel: none of the other guests (all elderly and/or ill) will 'spoil the surprise' but everyone is excited about the prize draw. Apparently it offers some form of deliverance from remorse, tying in with the novel's tagline: 'ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN, IF ALL CAN BE FORGOTTEN.'

Hurley's exploration of character is exceptional: there's little straightforward description, but Tom really comes to life on the page, with a difficult childhood and a long life behind him. Oliver, too, is a vivid character, who is not at all as Tom expected. However, I simply didn't accept that Tom's burden of guilt was rational: and if there was supposed to be something literally marvellous happening at the climax of the novel, it wasn't obvious enough.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 23rd October 2025.

2025/156: Dreamhunter Duet — Elizabeth Knox

'I was finished. I wanted time to stop, and to let me stop with it. And I wanted revenge.
I ... said to the land, 'Bury me, and rise up. Rise up and crush them all.' [loc. 5131]

Rereads, after reading Kings of This World -- which is set in the same alt-Aotearoa-New Zealand, rather later than the Dreamhunter duet, which begins in 1906. My original reviews from (OMG) 2005 and 2007 are here: The Rainbow Opera and The Dream Quake.

The link points to the first of two volumes: the second has only just become available on Amazon.

I remembered much more of the first book than of the second. I was struck this time round by the powerful narrative of Lazarus Hame, a convict, as recited to Laura the dreamhunter: the alternate history that he describes is quite chilling. I also noted the lack of an indigenous population in Southland: this is a version of New Zealand (South Island only) that was not inhabited by the Maori, though there are indications of a relatively amicable entente between the European colonists and the Shackle Islanders. 

There is a Place where dreamhunters can go to experience location-specific dreams, and bring them back to be shared at Dream Palaces. In the first novel the origins of the Place are a mystery: in the second, the genesis of the Place is explained -- though it is distinctly non-linear. There is something (several somethings) that might be a golem. There is tragedy, teenage romance, and government corruption; despair and redemption; joy, and the Biblical story of Lazarus and the song he heard in the tomb.

I am still thinking about these books, aided by this spoilery blogpost from the author. (And I am now tempted to reread everything else that Elizabeth Knox has ever written.)

I love the emotional precision and clarity of Knox's writing, and the sense of time being flexible and traversible: and I love the importance of love in many forms and expressions. And I love the complexity of these books. 

2025/155: Sabella — Tanith Lee

There are genuine ruins (beware tourist traps) here and there. Thin pillars soaring, levelled foundations crumbling, cracked urns whispering of spilled dusts -- all the Martian dreams that old Mars denied to mankind. [loc. 53]

Another reread, when I was (unsuspectingly) coming down with a migraine: I last read this in the last millennium, and had forgotten much of it. It's a short novel, an SF vampire romance set on Novo Mars -- like original Mars, but pink rather than red, with rapid sunsets and mutated earth-import flora and fauna. 

The novel opens with Sabella Quey receiving an invitation to her aunt's funeral. There's an ominous bequest (her aunt was a devout Christian Revivalist, and knew about Sabella's unsavoury youth) and a gorgeous young man who tracks Sabella back to her isolated home, and does not question her about her aversion to sunlight, or the bottles of red juice ('pomegranate and tomato juice... my physician makes it up for me') in the fridge.

Later comes Sand's brother Jace, in search of his sibling: perhaps in search of Sabella herself. He's certainly suspicious, and rightly so. Sabella is a vampire, a blood-drinker, and though she tried to save Sand he died. His wasn't the first death she's been responsible for, either: she learnt early on that sex was a great way to get what she needed, but she couldn't risk her partners telling the truth about her.

What I remembered from this book was the gorgeous desert-scapes, the 'blood stone' which goes red when she's replete, the brothers Vincent, the Bradburyesque vibe. What I'd forgotten was the SFnal explanation of Sabella's vampirism, and the pervasive, repressive religion : the sexual violence which Sabella endured as a teenager, and (ugh) the submissive elements of her most successful relationship. I do love Tanith Lee's prose style here -- not to mention her dialogue -- and I'm tempted to reread more of her SF romances (The Electric Forest, in particular). I have a sense that her later novels are more Gothic, more decadent and lush and voluptuous: this early work feels remarkably wholesome, though still very sensual.

2025/154: I Who Have Never Known Men — Jacqueline Harpman (translated by Ros Schwarz)

I ... have no memories of my own childhood. Perhaps that’s why I’m so different from the others. I must be lacking in certain experiences that make a person fully human. [loc. 1546]

We first encounter the nameless narrator near the end of her solitary life, determined that her story will not die when she does. Gradually we discover her history: that her first memories are from an underground prison where she, and thirty-nine adult women, were held captive for years. She can't recall anything from before the prison, and none of the women can tell her much: just screams, flames, a stampede... The guards are all male, and don't speak to or interact with the prisoners, except to pinish them for talking, for touching.

Then a siren blares, the guards flee, and the women escape. (It is not as simple as that.) They find themselves in an empty world; they find other bunkers, where all the prisoners are dead; they argue about whether this is Earth, about why they were imprisoned, about what happened. And eventually there is only our narrator, much younger than the others, alone in a refuge of her own.

In some ways this is a bleak novel: in others, it's surprisingly uplifting. I admired the narrator's pragmatism, and her ability to fantasise. It's clear that she does love, and does suffer, even if not in the same ways as the older women. (I could make an argument for her being something other than human, but that interpretation feels too glib.)

Translated from the French, this was a novel for the Prix Femina in 1995. Jacqueline Harpman was a Belgian Jew whose family fled the Nazis (many of her relatives died in Auschwitz): later in life she became a psychoanalyst. I'd like to read more of her work.

The reader and I thus mingled will constitute something living, that will not be me, because I will be dead, and will not be that person as they were before reading, because my story, added to their mind, will then become part of their thinking. [loc. 2358]

2025/153: All of Us Murderers — KJ Charles

"Gideon and I have nothing to be ashamed of. Or perhaps I do. Perhaps all of us Wyckhams are murderers, by Act or proxy or inaction or just heredity..." [loc. 2943]

Zebedee Wyckham is invited to visit his cousin's remote country house. Expecting a warm welcome from a cousin he only vaguely remembers, Zeb is horrified to find himself thrust into the company of his relations: his estranged brother Bram, Bram's wife Elise, Zeb's cousin Hawley, a new-found young cousin called Jessamine -- and, worst of all, Zeb's own ex, Gideon, who he hasn't seen since they both lost their jobs due to Zeb's behaviour. 

As if the company weren't bad enough, the food is vile, there are rumours of ghosts walking the hallways, and nobody can leave. There's a family curse (of course), a legacy to be bestowed upon whoever marries Jessamine, and a huge garden full of ominous follies: the cousins' grandfather, Walter, was a notorious Gothic novelist, and the house he built reflects his work. As do the events playing out there...

Zeb, who has what we'd now call ADHD ('It's always stop fidgeting and pay attention, as if that wasn't what fidgeting was for' [loc. 2348]: I feel seen!) and his family don't have a high opinion of him. Nor does Gideon, for quite different reasons. But unravelling the tangle of scandal, death, disappearances and injustice is a task for two.

Excellent explorations of class, neurodiversity, toxic families and the roots of the family's wealth: All of us Murderers has a distinctly KJ Charles flavour (I was reminded, at various points, of Think of England, Masters in this Hall, and Death in the Spires) though I think is more explicit about the appalling ways in which the rich acquire and maintain their wealth and status. That makes it a darker novel than many of this author's works, but there is plenty of humour and a modicum of reconciliation. And a delightful epilogue which felt like a frothy meringue after the horrors of the main narrative.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 7th October 2025.

2025/152: Giovanni's Room — James Baldwin

As for the boys at the bar, they were each invisibly preening, having already calculated how much money he and his copain would need for the next few days, having already appraised Guillaume to within a decimal of that figure, and having already estimated how long Guillaume, as a fountainhead, would last, and also how long they would be able to endure him. The only question left was whether they would be vache with him, or chic, but they knew that they would probably be vache. [p. 53]

I read about James Baldwin's life and work in Nothing Ever Just Disappears, and it sparked the urge to read one of his novels: Giovanni's Room is perhaps the best-known: a short novel about an American, David, who goes to Europe to 'find himself', takes up with Giovanni but fears and rejects his own sexuality, and ends up with emptiness. David's first-person narrative begins, he tells us, on 'the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life': the morning on which Giovanni will be executed. 

Gradually, we discover that David has been sexually attracted to other men since his teens; that he and Giovanni, a bartender, met in a gay bar to which David had gone with an older gay friend; that David's fiancée Hella is travelling in Spain; that Giovanni's eponymous room in a cheap boarding-house is chaotic and filthy, and comes to symbolise everything that David is trying not to be.

Baldwin packs a great deal into this short novel: issues of race, class, toxic masculinity, traditional gender roles, the transactional nature of gay sex in the bar scene... Ultimately I think it's about David's inability to accept (or even recognise) his own feelings. He loves Giovanni but won't admit it even to himself. ('With everything in me screaming No! yet the sum of me sighed Yes.') He keeps trying to assert his heterosexuality at the expense of his homosexuality: and in the end he is left with nothing, nobody.

Not a cheerful novel, but a masterpiece of first-person narrative: a narrator who doesn't really know himself, and doesn't seem to believe in the reality of other people.

What’s the good of an American who isn’t happy? Happiness was all we had.’ [p. 165]

2025/151: Is a River Alive? — Robert Macfarlane

...the Mutehekau Shipu’s mode is, surely, purely flow, I think, and its grammar of animacy is one of ands and throughs and tos and nows, of commas not full stops, of thens not buts, aura not edge, of compounds and hyphens and fusings, silver-blues and grey-greens and mist-drifts and undersongs, process not substance, this joined to that, always onrushing, always seeking the sea and here and there turning back upon itself, intervolving, eddying in counterflow to cause spirals and gyres that draw breath into water, life into the mind, spin strange reciprocities, leave the whole world whirled, whorled. [loc. 4333]

If a corporation can be treated as a person, why can't a river? Macfarlane explores three river systems -- the Rio Los Cedros in Ecuador, the Mutehekau Shipu in Canada, and the three rivers braided through Chennai -- and combines poetry, spirituality and adventure in a philosophical discussion of what constitutes 'life' and how a river is part of the 'polyphonic world', important and valuable not just for how it can be exploited but for its own intrinsic qualities.

The book starts in Cambridge, with the chalk springs at Nine Wells: and ends there, with Macfarlane imagining his children remembering him there after his death. The book describes three expeditions: to the Ecuadorian rain forest (with a spiritual mycologist who seems connected to the fungal world, and can locate and identify hitherto-unknown species of mushroom with uncanny accuracy), to Chennai (with activist and author Yuvan Aves) to explore the dead rivers of the city and their ecological importance, and to Canada to kayak down the Mutehekau Shipu (with 'the only person in history to have been buried alive on opposite sides of the planet', geomancer Wayne Chambliss) and fulfil the instructions of Rita, an Innu poet and activist. 

Macfarlane is very aware of the natural world around him -- even in Chennai he finds joy in turtle eggs and an 'avian Venice' -- and open to the ideas of his friends and companions: his accounts of conversations are fascinating. And there's an underlying theme of the Epic of Gilgamesh: 'Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s hesitation on the edge of the Cedar Forest is the moment when human history trembles on the brink of a new, destructive relationship with the living world. They might still turn back. They might leave the forest and the river intact and alive. They do not.' [loc. 1505]

Things I learnt from this book:

• 'lacustrine': 'of, relating to, formed in, living in, or growing in lakes'
• 'the Three Gorges dam project on the Yangtze River in China impounded so much water that it has measurably slowed the rotation of the Earth' [loc. 507] -- discussion of this.
• Ecuador was 'the only place where rain continued to fall during the ice ages' [loc. 1254]

The spiritual and poetic dimensions of this book will not appeal to all readers: but there's solid science (50 pages of notes and references) and a refreshing sense of the author's humility and openmindedness, which I found inspiring. A beautiful and accessible read: I'm tempted to buy the paper version just to see the author's photos in colour.

Irritatingly, the Kindle version told me I'd 'finished' well before the 'Acknowledgements and Aftermaths' section, which details further developments in the stories of each river. The Mutehekau Shipu has received legal protection, multiple Rights of Nature cases have been fought and won in Ecuador, and various songs co-written by Macfarlane and his fellow travellers are available.