2026/097: The Bookshop Woman — Nanako Hanada (translated by Catriona Anderson)

...you couldn’t recommend a book to someone if you didn’t know them, not really. And you couldn’t recommend a book if you didn’t know it well yourself. And moreover, you couldn’t recommend a book without a good reason. You had to want that person to read it, because you’d thought about what that specific book would mean to them. [loc. 614]

A short sweet novel about a woman who's just separated from her husband and feels alienated from her work as the manager of an alternative bookshop. Wanting to meet new people -- friends at least as much as potential partners -- she signs up for a site called Perfect Strangers, which enables 30-minute meetings between strangers (perfect or not). Her USP is her ability to recommend 'the book that's perfect for you'.

She meets the usual assortment of men trying to impress her into bed, but she also meets people who become close friends, people who change her life and people whose lives she changes. She's always viewed herself as socially inept, but she has the knack of asking the right questions and persuading the strangers she meets to reveal their own hopes and fears. And she begins to realise how judgmental she is -- how judgmental everyone is -- with the assumptions they make about people they don't know.

I hadn't realised this was biographical, but apparently Hanada did carry out this experiment as a way of reinventing, or revitalising, her life: the book was a huge hit in Japan, with its themes of urban loneliness and the pressures of work. I liked the insights into Japanese dating and socialising, and the narrator's gradual rediscovery of hope and joy. And her book recommendations fascinated me: there's a bibliography (is that the right word when it's not reference material but recommendations?) though the translator has helpfully indicated that many of the books are unavailable in English translation.

Read because: there was a challenge prompt for a book that 'revolves around a bookstore, library, or museum': also recommended by a friend.

Maybe, just maybe, the day will come when one person picks up this book of mine and recommends it to someone else. It could be the start of an infinite loop … Well, sort of. The story would be circulating, anyway – and that’s pretty incredible. In fact, I can’t think of anything more wonderful. [loc. 2307]

2026/096: I May Be Some Time — Francis Spufford

Romantic vocabulary, and Romantic hopes and horrors, remained important ways of negotiating the perceptual maze of the polar regions. They helped; they answered to the experience of light and motion, dark and stillness. They described the shock of finding nature other than you thought it was. [p. 93]

Recently the subtitle has changed to 'The Story Behind the Antarctic Tragedy of Captain Scott', but I prefer the original, which is much more accurate: 'Ice and the English Imagination'.

Spufford's first book is a social and cultural history of the great age of British polar exploration, from the Admiralty's push for Arctic expeditions after the Napoleonic Wars to the Edwardian explorations of Scott and Shackleton. He explores the Romantic notion of the sublime, the attitudes of the women left behind, and -- with compassion -- the vainglorious dreams and arrogant incompetence of the explorers themselves.

There is a vast amount in this book, and I read it very slowly, enjoying the cadences of Spufford's prose, his gentle mockery of Victorian ideas and ideals, and his clarity. The final chapter of the book, a fictionalised account of Scott's solitary death, moved me to tears but also exasperated me: as Spufford suggests, there's a sense of 'a fatalism so profound it became a kind of violence, a spiteful refusal to look out for themselves' (p. 346). Scott had opium tablets but did not take them to ease his passing. Instead, only 12 miles from the nearest camp, he lay with his dead companions and died in agony.

Spufford also explores perceptions of the Inuit ('Eskimos') and the ways in which their existence complicated the narratives of exploration: the Arctic was not, after all, pristine and empty, and some people did know how to survive there. Not, of course, that a British explorer would take advice from the locals... And he writes about the divisions of social class on board pole-bound ships: "the tasks [the officers] do on board are so far beneath their class’s roster of possible destinies that doing them does not feel like any conceivable backward step, it feels like a holiday" (p. 302). Polar exploration, and the myths around it, had a vast influence on everyday culture. For instance, I learnt that 'north', previously slang for 'clever', came to mean 'strong' in terms of drinks. 'Too far north', once slang for 'too clever by half', came to mean 'desperately, incapably drunk – ... hopelessly lost up there in the ultima Thule of booze.' (p. 237).

It’s too big, too silent, too cold. It’s all too much. ‘Coo-ee!’ shouts Ponting. Pause. Moonstruck immensity. ‘Coo-ee!’ replies the Barne Glacier. A perfect echo! [p. 326]

Read because: it's been on my wishlist for ages, and I have a long-standing interest in Arctic and Antarctic exploration. This was my bedtime read for well over a month: the cadences of Spufford's prose, and the lengthy excerpts from Victorian accounts of expeditions, were very soothing.

2026/095: The Gate, the Girl and the Dragon — Grace Lin

“Jin was carved face upward, looking at the sky. Watching people is not in his nature.”
“Watching people is in the nature of all Gongshi,” Ba protested. “Protecting and caring for people is the purpose bestowed on us by the goddess!”
Jin winced… People! There were so many of them, rushing around and squeezed together in their gray, grubby world... Watching people was the most boring thing ever. [loc. 500]

Jin is a Gongshi, a stone spirit dwelling in a statue: he's also a young lion cub who's passionate about zuqiu, a soccer-like game, and is forever being told by his parents that he's irresponsible. One day, in a fit of pique after a match is stopped just as he was about to score the winning goal, he accidentally kicks the Sacred Sphere, a relic of the Goddess, through the magical City Gate and into the human world. Rushing after it, he finds himself trapped in mundanity -- and nobody can come to his rescue, because the Gate is closed.

Jin was exasperating, but I felt very sorry for him, and was glad when he found a friend. Lulu is a human girl who nobody else seems to be able to see. She's very sad. The two also meet a worm who claims to be a dragon. And, in a secondary plotline, there's a sculptor who wishes his two masterworks would come alive: after all, they were carved from stone that used to be a dragon's pillow.

There's lots of excitement and tension, woven through with retellings of Chinese legends and folklore, but the core of the story is Jin growing up a little, learning to empathise and work with others. I understand the print version is beautifully illustrated -- a shame to have missed out on that -- but the audio was clearly and sympathetically read by Mesmi Chu. (Jin's voice did grate occasionally, but that fitted the character!)

Read because: challenge prompt for 'middle-grade novel by non-Caucasian author' -- this was in the Libro.fm sale and looked fascinating -- and it was.

2026/094: Pandemonium — Daryl Gregory

Jungians saw evidence that archetypes had been seizing human minds since prehistory. In America demon sightings had been recorded since the Pilgrims, but most scholars pegged the start of the modern possession epidemic at the first publicized appearance of the Captain on July 12, 1944. [p. 205]

Del Pierce has grown up in a world where demonic possession -- or, to put it in medical terms, the 'possession disorder' -- has changed the course of history. Eisenhower was killed in 1955 by a man possessed by -- sorry, suffering from the Kamikaze strain of the disorder -- and O J Simpson was shot down in the courtroom by a janitor temporarily hosting the strain known as the Truth. Possession can happen to anybody, anywhere, at any point in their life.

It happened to Del when he was five years old: he was possessed by the Hellion, a Dennis-the-Menace type. Because all the demons are types, archetypes: they have a single story that defines them, and they act it out. Del, though, is starting to wonder if his demon ever left. 

With the help of his brother Lew, and exorcist Mother Mariette (real name Siobhan O'Connell, a cigarette-smoking skinhead nun who's highly reminiscent of Sinead O'Connor), Del attempts to discover the history and origin of the demons. Along the way he meets Philip K Dick (and the demon Valis), and is pursued by the Human League -- no, not that Human League, but an organisation that has interpreted Van Vogt's Slan as a manual for how to rid humanity of demons.

It's a wild ride with lots of nods to genre and a surprisingly poignant denouement. Del's first-person narration made it feel breathless and fast-paced, and this was a quick read for me, which probably helped to keep my disbelief suspended. Then the questions bubbled up. When is this set? (It feels like early 2000s.) Presumably the whole world is affected? (Who knows. We only see America.) Del may have discovered the source of his demon and a few others, but what about the other ninety-odd? And isn't that finale really quite horrible for his family? 

I did enjoy the reading experience, though, despite not finding the characters either likeable or relatable. And I note it's Gregory's first novel (though he's written award-winning short fiction): I will keep an eye out for his later novels.

Read because: a random pick from my TBR, for a change. No challenge, no book club, probably recommended by someone online at some point.

2026/093: When There are Wolves Again — E J Swift

You want to believe the tide is turning. You want to believe you will die in a better world than you were born in. [loc. 2070]

A hopeful novel about the future of the UK, the ecology, and the climate crisis (yes, really!), beginning in 2020 and ending in 2070. It follows the lives of two women: Lucy Gillard, whose ecological awakening comes when she's sent to stay with her grandparents during Covid, and Hester Moore, whose story starts in Chornobyl, where she's making a documentary about a team of vets who care for the abandoned dogs. 

Lucy and Hester do eventually meet, but their paths are very different. Lucy is inspired by Greta Thunberg, becomes an activist, and helps set up an ecological form of peace camp. Hester, who does not get along with people but loves her dogs, wins awards for her documentaries and tries not to let her personal issues get in front of the camera.

There is a lot in this novel, and probably a lot that will not come true. Which is not to say it's wishful thinking: Swift's future seems firmly grounded in the present (or the recent past), though her fascist Albion party are less popular than Reform seem to be... There are other horrors. The Endling Market, where collectors vie to own the last survivor of a species (there are online forums where they discuss the least damaging ways of killing a bird of animal); heat domes that devastate western Europe; extinctions, NIMBYs, bird flus... But there is also positive change. The dissolution of the US; a moon habitat (not American); Net Zero; and an astonishing bequest.

I especially liked that this novel doesn't attempt easy answers. It gives both sides of the argument about rewilding schemes; it balances the vast expense of space missions against their role as a beacon of hope. And there is a great deal of kindness -- and respect -- from humans to other humans, from humans to animals and birds.

Also really refreshing to read a novel where there are no romantic subplots. There are male characters (I liked Lucy's grandfather, and could relate to Hester's brother: and Jerome is proof that people do change) but they're not the focus of the female characters' lives. And When There Are Wolves Again is realistic about the people -- like Lucy's parents -- who don't believe in climate change, don't think the ecology is important, cling to their old habits even when those habits become deeply unfashionable.

This has prompted me to push Isabella Tree's Wilding up my TBR, and to visit a couple of rewilding sites. And to be slightly more hopeful than I've been in recent years.

you think about what you said to the farmer: is it about autonomy? And what he said in return: it’s about respect. It must be possible to have both. To nurture a space of one’s own in the knowledge that this too is transitory, communal. Shared between humans and non-human animals. There were languages for this, once. There were words, before the conceit of ownership consumed everything else. [loc. 2170]

Read because: The heat, the heat! I knew this was a novel about the climate catastrophe, so it felt like perfect reading in the June 2026 UK heatwave. I didn't expect to like it as much as I did. I dunno, you wait ages for a great SF novel and then read two in the same week...

2026/092: The Last Hawk — Elizabeth Wein

Emil had told me to get out. But like a pilot in a damaged plane, I had to keep flying blindly before I was able to land. [loc. 784]

Ingrid Hartman has been deemed 'a disgrace to Germany' because of her stammer, and her failure to greet an SS officer with 'Heil Hitler'. Her widowed father urges her to get a job at the gliding school where she helps out: Ingrid, at seventeen, is already one of the best glider pilots there. The plan keeps her out of the way, and her friend Emil, a Luftwaffe pilot, recommends her as assistant to test pilot Hanna Reitsch. 

Hanna is doing a series of air shows to inspire German youth -- and she has an ambitious plan to create a 'Leonidas Squadron' of suicide pilots. (“I am volunteering as a pilot for the manned glider bomb,” read the pledge... “I fully understand that this mission will end in my death.” [loc. 660]). Ingrid's loyalty to Hanna is shaken, especially when she hears about conditions inside the factories where the 'manned bombs' are being built. But Hanna won't believe the stories...

A short but vivid novel, with lots of period detail (as I've learned to expect from Wein): fake coffee made from acorns and barley, Ingrid's devotion to Saint-Exupery's Wind, Sand and Stars, the aviator chocolate (Scho-ka-cola, with cola and caffeine) that Emil gives Ingrid. (I have now tried this: it's ... invigorating.) Wein's note at the end details her research -- she based Emil on the pilot who shot down Saint-Exupery! -- and also gives resources and reassurance for stutterers.

Read because: I rate Wein very highly as an author, and this was the last of her books aimed at less-confident readers (after White Eagles and Firebird, which I 'read' as an audiobook) that I hadn't read. It initially didn't seem that The Last Hawk had as much weight as the other two novels, but I think that's simply because it has neither personal tragedy nor a twisty revelation.

2026/091: Baba Yaga Laid an Egg — Dubravka Ugrešić

As we grow older, we weep less and less. It takes energy to weep. In old age neither the lungs, nor the heart, nor the tear ducts, nor the muscles have the strength for great misery. Age is a kind of natural sedative, perhaps because age itself is a misfortune. [loc. 2704]

A book of three halves. Part One ('Go There, I Know not Where – and Bring Me Back a Thing I Lack'), set mostly in Zagreb, is the first-person narrative of someone who might be the author, coping with her own ageing and with her widowed mother's dementia (and with their relationship). There's a young female folklore student who seems determined to make the narrator into a mother figure, too. This is the most realistic and thoughtful section of Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, dealing honestly with the indignities of old age and the ways in which the self remains unchanged.

Part Two ('Ask Me No Questions and I’ll Tell You No Lies') deals with the visit of three old ladies to a 'wellness spa' in Czechoslovakia. The three have lived through the worst of Yugoslavian history (one has spent time in prison) and each has her story to tell. They're contrasted with three men: a masseur with a permanent erection, a doctor who seeks the secret of immortality, and the cynical owner of the spa.

And the third part ('If You Know Too Much, You Grow Old Too Soon') is presented as a 'Baba Yaga for Beginners', the author being the folklore student from Part 1. Her name is Aba Babay... Lots of mythology, some of it rather reductive and some of it absurdly Freudian: old women, it turns out, are monsters all over the world (though some are kind to the deserving, or to children). 

I cannot say I engaged with this novel, though I did enjoy the triumphs of the three crones in Part 2, and I admire the craft of Part 1. It's a sobering reflection on ageing (though I do not feel I will ever be as old as the crones, if I live to be a hundred: my life has been easier).

Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać, Celia Hawkesworth and Mark Thompson, who between them have (according to the Internet) managed to render Ugrešić's wordplay into English without losing the humour.

Read because: I'd enjoyed other volumes in the Canongate Myth series (for instance, Where Three Roads Meet, The Penelopiad, Ragnarok ) -- when I discovered that this was set in Croatia and written by a Croatian author, it fitted a prompt in 'The Storygraph Reads The World Challenge' nicely.