My Top 10 Books of 2020

This has been quite a year! Although it might seem beneficial for readers to have more time at home, the anxiety and general stress caused by the pandemic and tumultuous politics certainly challenged my concentration at times. I know for many readers it's also created severe practical problems. However, books have also provided the most wonderful respite with escapism and intellectual engagement with difficult issues. While I primarily read new fiction, I've also found great consolation in starting Anthony Trollope's Barsetshire series recently. 

Maybe it's not a coincidence that some of my favourite books this year have been big 500+ page epics which have allowed me to fully immerse myself in their fictional worlds. Though I initially started reading it in 2019 and didn't finish it till May this year, “The Eighth Life” by Nino Haratischvili was the most dazzling family saga that covers multiple generations and wars. It was also a highlight of this year being able to interview both the author and translators of this brilliant novel.

Joyce Carol Oates writes so insightfully about the human condition and social issues in contemporary America. Her books often feel eerily prescient, but her most recent giant novel “Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.” is one of her most monumental achievements with its piercing depiction of grief and the timely way it opens with a racially-motivated incident where police use excessive force. The dynamic way she shows the various reactions of the McClaren clan really speaks to the formation of prejudice and how people can fear others who are different from themselves. Additionally, it's been one of the great privileges of my life to interview Oates about this novel and her more recent collection of novellas “Cardiff, by the Sea”.

“The Mirror and the Light” was one of the biggest publishing events of the year. Not only was Hilary Mantel's new novel one of the longest books I read this year, but combined with the first two books in the Thomas Cromwell trilogy (which I also read right before its publication) and it adds up to over 2000 pages. Although I found it somewhat of a challenge getting my head around some of the complicated Tudor politics, this was also one of the most wondrous reading experiences I had this year. Mantel deserves all the praise credited to her because her storytelling is utterly gripping, psychologically insightful and she has a way of making the past feel very relevant.

I had an odd hankering to read sci-fi this year and another new doorstopper I was enthralled by was Rian Hughes' astonishingly inventive novel “XX”. When a strange signal from outer space is recorded and a mysterious object crashes into the moon, an unlikely hero and his tech company uncover a secret extraterrestrial plan. The drama is whether it's meant to save all intelligent life in the universe or destroy it. But this novel is so much more than a wild tale about aliens. There's so much in this book about technology, physics, consciousness and the question of human progress itself. It also uses font in a way which contributes to the story itself making it a very playful novel as well as an edifying read that gripped me for the entire 977 pages.

Alternatively, a very slender novel which absolutely gripped me and has left a lasting impression is “Minor Detail” by Adania Shibli. A woman comes across an article that briefly mentions the rape and murder of a Palestinian woman in the Negev desert in the war of 1948. From there she embarks on a journey to discover what happened to her. This novel in two parts is about our connection to the past, people who are memorialised and those who are forgotten. The way the sections mirror each other and form this bridge with history is so artfully and poignantly done.

Being a book prize fanboy, I'm always curious to follow and read what's listed for the Booker Prize. For this year's award two titles really stood out for me. The first is shortlisted “Burnt Sugar” by Avni Doshi which describes one of the most tense mother-daughter relationships I've ever read about. The narrator Antara's mother is showing signs of dementia and she must become her carer when her mother never nurtured or supported her. This conflict is grippingly dramatised, but it's also such a thoughtful story about memory and how honest we are with ourselves.

The winner of this year's Booker Prize was “Shuggie Bain” by Douglas Stuart, the heartbreaking story of a sensitive boy and his struggling mother in Glasgow in the 1980s. It's the most penetrating and moving depiction of alcoholism I've ever read. But for all its pain there are wonderful moments of humour and humanity in this story. I remember there's a hilarious scene where the mother and her friends get new bras. But I also love the way this debut novel portrays Shuggie's precociousness and the clever way it considers notions about masculinity.

While some curmudgeonly authors have been whining about the death of the “serious novel” this year, there have been many extraordinary debuts published which prove there are so many strong and powerful voices emerging in fiction. I had the honour of being a judge in the Debut Fiction category of this year's Costa Book Awards and one excellent novel from this list is “Love After Love” by Ingrid Persaud. This is the story of a single mother in modern-day Trinidad, her son and their friend Mr Chetan who form a strong family unit, but when certain secrets come out in the open it threatens to tear them apart. This novel made me laugh and cry like no other book this year. It's a story full of warmth, heartache and light and I absolutely loved it.

Like with the end of Hilary Mantel's trilogy, another tremendous literary multi-novel saga which came to the end this year was Ali Smith's Seasonal Quartet. But, rather than mining history, Smith has recorded and reflected upon our current times in these books which have concluded with “Summer”. And it is the most glorious ending both in how it brings together characters from the various books and considers where we are now in this pandemic and in a politically divided society. Her characters are complex and nuanced. And her writing is full of so much heart and humour reading it is such a pleasure.

Another deeply pleasurable book I read this year is the great Edmund White's most recent novel “A Saint From Texas”. This story chronicles the lives of twin sisters who are raised in rural Texas in the 1950s. Although they are identical they grow to live very different lives: one commits herself to pious charitable work in Colombia while the socially-ambitious other sister climbs the echelons of Parisian society. This story charmed, bewitched and completely mesmerized me to the last page. It's great fun but it's also so insightful in how it considers family and the phenomenon of personality.

Finally, a novel I just read recently and found incredibly moving was “The Pull of the Stars” by Emma Donoghue. It's fascinating how the circumstances of our lives can effect what we get out of what we read. Unsurprisingly, this story of a nurse working in the maternity ward of a Dublin hospital in 1918 during the outbreak of the Great Flu hit close to home. It's incredible how Donoghue wrote this before the pandemic this year but so many details about how people and society responds to such an outbreak rang true. I've now witnessed in real life the patterns of behaviour portrayed in this novel. But, beyond its relevancy, this is a tremendous story about personal fortitude and strength amidst tremendous adversity and it's also a beautifully tender love story.

It'd be great to know if you have any thoughts or feelings about these books or if you're curious to read any of them now if you haven't already. I'd also love to hear about what books have consoled or inspired you during this very testing year.

Most Anticipated Books of 2021

At the end of each year I always get excited browsing through what books will be coming out next year. I'm feeling that even more so now when I can't wait for 2020 to be done and dusted. There are certainly a lot of great-sounding forthcoming titles to look forward to. Some are new books from favourite authors. Not one but TWO new books from Joyce Carol Oates are being published in the US on the same day. She has a short story collection “The (Other) You” and the first collection of poetry she's published in 25 years “American Melancholy”. New fiction is arriving from literary powerhouses such as Kazuo Ishiguro with “Klara and the Sun” and Jhumpa Lahiri with “Whereabouts”. There's also new novels from great authors I've loved reading before such as “Diary of a Film” by Niven Govinden, “Unsettled Ground” by Claire Fuller, “The High House” by Jessie Greengrass, “The Sisters Mao” by Gavin McCrea and Danielle McLaughlin's debut novel “The Art of Falling”. There's also a new collection called “Slug” from the extraordinary poet Hollie McNish. 

There's also several novels whose stories sound so intriguing to me I can't wait to read them including “Bolt From the Blue” by Jeremy Cooper, “Old Bones” by Helen Kitson and “The Performance” by Claire Thomas. While there were many fantastic debuts published this past year, there are even more promising new voices for 2021 with first novels “A Crooked Tree” by Una Mannion, “Brood” by Jackie Polzin, “Open Water” by Caleb Azumah Nelson, “How to Kidnap the Rich” by Rahul Raina and “The Other Black Girl” by Zakiya Dalila Harris. I'm also hoping to read more nonfiction in the new year so have my eye on the memoir “Love is An Ex-Country” by Randa Jarrar and a meditation about the bottom of the ocean “The Brilliant Abyss” by Helen Scales.

Watch me discuss my most anticipated reads here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j22kUX_mPrc

What books are you looking forward to in 2021?

A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote

My cousin Martin used to throw a Christmas party in his Boston apartment every year. At one point in the party he'd gather everyone around who'd listen in rapt attention while he read aloud Truman Capote's beautiful short story “A Christmas Memory.” This was a decades-long tradition and I was lucky enough to attend one year. Martin worked professionally as an actor so he's especially good at dramatising and doing the voices in the story. Though he hasn't held his party for many years, this year he organized a video call with eighty or so guests to watch as he recited the story again. It was a lovely way to unite people from all over the US and globe who can't physically meet this year because of the pandemic. In order to carry the tradition on and share this good feeling, I've made a video of myself reading Capote's story aloud which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBb-9iB89gQ

This is the most lovely Christmas story and unusually sweet for Capote who was such a troubled and viciously distempered individual. I know he was a great writer but I can't help feeling somewhat prejudiced against him since he once said of Joyce Carol Oates that she's “a joke monster who ought to be beheaded in a public auditorium.” Putting aside his personal insecurities and bad behaviour, in this story he perfectly evokes a holiday spirit of cheerful sentiment, friendly goodwill, the evocative warm scents of Christmas baking and a melancholy longing for loved ones we've lost. In their perfectly-balanced companionship young Buddy and his much-older female friend create a harmonious world for themselves filled with loving traditions. Yet, at the same time, they are oddly strangers to each other since Buddy never gives her a name except “my friend” and though Buddy is not his name she calls him this “in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend.” This anonymity funnily makes the story feel more intimate as if individual identity doesn't matter as there is a perfect bond which makes them “each other's best friend.”

The relationship they share is made even closer with their opposition against the unnamed people who also inhabit the house. It's striking how the presence of these familial others is never felt except when chastising the pair for singing and dancing while getting tipsy after they've completed their baking. Their special friendship is sublimely self-enclosed and the cakes they send to people (many of whom are strangers) is such a touching gesture for rewarding mere moments or general expressions of kindness. Of course, it's somewhat uncomfortable reading the racist description of Mr Haha Jones with his “Satan-tilted eyes”. Though he ultimately turns out to be a kind-hearted individual and we're seeing him only through the pair's erroneously-fearful and misguided perception, I don't think this excuses such a detail in the story. It shows it to be a product of the time. Nevertheless, the overriding message of this tale is so graceful and no matter how many times I hear it I get very emotional at the end. I feel lucky to have made some similarly special friendships in my life.

The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

There have been books such as “Hamnet” published this year whose content and focus on a pandemic seem eerily prescient regarding the world we find ourselves in. Of course, such widespread and devastating illness has always been a part of human history so naturally historical novels will incorporate it into their stories. But I've not read a book that captures the feelings of living through it like “The Pull of the Stars” by Emma Donoghue. Set in a Dublin maternity ward in 1918 amidst the outbreak of the Great Flu, it follows a nurse named Julia who struggles to care for her patients in the understaffed hospital. It's terrifying how death feels perilously close and can come swiftly. Just as we're getting to know several idiosyncratic patients, one might become gravely ill while another might recover. Expectant mothers were particularly vulnerable to suffering more from this pandemic. Though Julia is very knowledgable and dedicated, there's only a limited amount she can do for them so I was utterly gripped by this harrowing situation. Matters aren't helped by the misogyny and dogmatic religion in Ireland at that time. But through all the strife comes a beautiful message of humanity and a tender love story. 

What amazed me were specific details regarding the effects of a pandemic that Donoghue gets so right in this novel and that I've witnessed this year. When Julia is travelling in the city there's an all-pervading sense of dread about the virus spreading. The story fully captures the nervousness of people on public transport and the sudden hyper-awareness when someone so much as coughs. There are also astute observations made about the pernicious side effects of trying to close down society in order to protect the population. For instance, it's remarked how closing schools results in some children going hungry because they aren't able to get the free lunches that might be their only meal of the day if they come from a poorer family. This was an oversight also made in England this year and it took some time before measures were made to help support the more vulnerable members of the population. It's remarkable how Donoghue evokes these common experiences but also shows the specific medical and technological limitations of the time.

As in her novel “The Wonder”, Donoghue is excellent at portraying the intensely-felt emotional reality of her characters and how they are affected by the social pressures of the time. A volunteer helper and a highly-capable female doctor enter Julia's life, but each are inhibited by religious and political strictures. Julia's brother also suffers the after-effects of war, but his disability isn't taken as seriously by the wider society because it's not physical. I also found it very poignant how we realise Julia has unexplored desires when she develops an attraction for another woman, but because of constraints and circumstances this dimension of her heart is soon stymied. Throughout the story, the author elegantly weaves through a message about the effect of the stars on our lives to consider whether we are subject to a certain fate or can form our own destinies. Though there are many sombre and terrifying moments of dealing with the reality of hospital life during a pandemic in this novel, I ultimately found it a heartening read in its message of hope and strength in the fight to survive.

Betty by Tiffany McDaniel

As I get older I've naturally become more curious about my family history and I've felt the urge to record this personal lineage before it's lost or forgotten. Of course, everyone's family story is unique to them but Tiffany McDaniel's is one that felt wholly new and bracingly honest to me. She's fictionally reimagined her mother's story in the artfully composed and extremely moving novel “Betty”. With her mixture of white and Cherokee ancestry, Betty has darker skin so stands out from the crowd. She's frequently teased and tormented in the rural area of Appalachia she grows up in during the 1960s. Additionally, she's made aware of the perilous vulnerability of women and girls who are frequently the targets of sexual abuse within their community. In telling her mother's story, McDaniel has memorialised not only the creativity, resilience and spirit of her direct lineage but also the conflicts and struggle of a whole community that's not often represented in literature, television or the media. She poignantly shows the way prejudice and a culture of silence is passed down through generations and thus perpetuates abuse and violence. But she also evokes the particular personalities of Betty, her siblings and her parents in such a compelling way that I felt intimately drawn into this family and fell in love with their story. 

One of the most affecting aspects of this novel is the way storytelling itself is woven into the lives of the characters. Betty's father relates the mythological traditions he's inherited to his children while also conjuring his own stories about their place in the natural world. Some characters scoff at these considering them to be simply tall tales, but Betty surmises their deeper importance: “Dad says so. That means it's true... I realized then that not only did Dad need us to believe his stories, we needed to believe them as well. To believe in unripe stars and eagles able to do extraordinary things. What it boiled down to was a frenzied hope that there was more to life than the reality around us. Only then could we claim a destiny that we did not feel cursed to.” The way that the larger community diminishes their family (Betty and her father in particular) means that these stories form a more meaningful and substantial reality than the one they exist in.

As Betty interacts with more slighted and marginal figures in the town she discovers many more people have their own hidden stories and legacies. This hits closer to home when she discovers the way her mother and sister have been secretly abused. The fact of their rape is shocking but so is the way it darkly affects their personalities. While her father is naturally gregarious and loveable, I found myself initially angry at the mother for the rough way she treats Betty. But I developed more sympathy for her as it becomes clear this is a consequence of the way the mother hasn't been able to deal with or voice the trauma she's experienced. Equally, I found Betty's sister Flossie such a compelling character as her vanity is initially charming and then takes a darker turn as her pretensions make her turn her back on her family. But, ultimately, it's tragic the way Flossie is unable to reinvent herself in the way she desires. The way McDaniel shows how private suffering is often turned inward and forms self-destructive behaviour in a variety of individuals is very powerful.

This novel is both a reckoning and a testament. When we begin to realise the challenges and strife our ancestors suffered (and sometimes didn't survive) the fact of our existence can feel like a kind of miracle. “Betty” is a very special personal story that speaks to this in the way it skilfully evokes a lost world and distinct individuals that shouldn't be forgotten.

Frying Plantain by Zalika Reid-Benta

I love it when novels take the form of interconnected short stories. I think this episodic style of narrative can feel more impactful because it only focuses on crucial moments in the lives of the main characters. Books such as “Anything is Possible” or “All That Man Is” tell stories about a range of characters whose tales cross over with each other to build a bigger picture of a community. But “Frying Plantain” focuses solely on the perspective of Kara Davis, a Canadian teenager of Jamaican heritage who comes of age and encounters conflicts with her family, friends and boys. Because each story centres around a particular incident from her development, this novel has a retrospective feel even though it's narrated in the present tense. It also forms a distinct impression of the community as Kara grows up in Toronto's 'Little Jamaica'. I really felt for her as someone who others label as “quiet” and who often feels alienated from those around her – even her closest friends and family. This novel movingly captures the way Kara gradually comes into her own, asserts her individuality and learns to overcome the limited way people view her. 

The novel also interestingly portrays the intergenerational tensions between Kara, her mother and her grandmother. During one period of her adolescence Kara's mother is so financially strained that she needs to move them in with the grandmother. But rather than immediately show how this arrangement breaks down residual bad feelings are woven into every encounter and discussion. This is a very sophisticated and impactful way of showing how resentments are borne throughout the years. It also made me feel deeply for Kara who is caught in a larger conflict between two rather difficult women. But it's also fascinating the way we gradually learn about the strained relationship between her grandmother and grandfather. His philandering is a well-established fact but they belong to a generation where such indiscretion is skeptically endured. Nevertheless, it's a source of great tension and the atmosphere this creates is evocatively described as Kara witnesses their strained arrangement and silent battles.

I really enjoyed this sensitive novel and felt a tender connection with Kara even though her life is very different from my own.

Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink

Readers are a special type. We're drawn to spending hours between the covers of a book when the world tells us there are more important and more exciting things to do. But readers know that there is nothing more important or more exciting than the story which is waiting on the page to come alive in our imaginations. As such we devote countless hours to reading and we make room in the busyness of life for this remove from reality because we know that it is richly-rewarding time well spent. Cathy Rentzenbrink is a true reader. In “Dear Reader” she enumerates the many books which have held special meaning for her while chronicling the events of her life. More than this, she elegantly describes a life spent reading – how books are a central fixture in her life providing ballast, comfort and joy. Although reading is necessarily a solitary activity it also makes us all feel less alone. Rentzenbrink states “I find it consoling to be reminded that I am not alone, that everything I feel has been felt before, that everything I struggle with has been perplexing others since the dawn of time. My favourite books are specific yet universal. They illuminate my own life as well as showing me the lives of others and leave me changed, my worldview expanded.” This beautifully summarises the gift of reading and why for many of us it is a way of life. 

If reading is viewed as a leisure activity predominantly for the middle-upper class, Rentzenbrink proves this is wrong. She describes her youth being raised in a working class family with a father who only learned to read and write later in life. Books were always present from an early age: “My granny gave me my first book when I was a few months old.” Growing up she always got her hands on books through the library or school or buying books as a special treat. As a naturally gregarious and extroverted individual, Rentzenbrink worked in pubs when she became an adult. But her penchant for recommending books to people naturally led her to becoming a book seller. The jobs she held in a number of different bookstores from Harrods to Waterstones to Hatchards is described so compellingly from the mechanics of shop life to the varied experience of dealing with customers.

Because her passion was so integral to her work, it naturally led to more opportunities in the wider publishing industry including programmes to encourage reading/writing in prisons and initiatives to support adults who struggle with literacy. In addition to being the fascinating life story of a bookish soul, what I loved about this account is the way Rentzenbrink comes into contact with a wide spectrum of readers from many different social groups. It shows the many ways books populate and influence people's lives.

A quality common to all readers is an intense curiosity about what other readers are reading. The author describes a familiar habit of peering at the covers of what people are reading on public transport and when someone is reading a book she loves finding it difficult to resist striking up a conversation with them about it. Part of the draw of this book is seeing what titles Rentzenbrink will discuss. The experience is like scanning a great reader's bookshelf where I quickly identified books I'm familiar with (“Little Women”, “The Goldfinch”, “A Tale for the Time Being”, “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing”, “What Belongs to You”); titles I've always meant to read (“The Diary of a Nobody”, “The Crimson Petal and the White”, “Jamaica Inn”); and novels that I've not heard of before but Rentzenbrink makes them sound so intriguing (“March Violets”, “Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore”, “Instructions for a Heatwave”). But many more books are discussed throughout. She groups lists of books under certain qualities or styles and summarises each with brief insights into how she personally connected with them. They're bracingly honest book recommendations like you'd get from a friend. When describing the novel “A Little Life” she accurately assesses “I won't lie to you, dear reader: there is little comfort or joy in this novel, but it is a work of genius that asks the hardest questions about the limitations of love.” It's wonderful the sheer variety and scale of Rentzenbrink's reading especially as she explains how she never distinguished between so-called “high” and “low-brow” literature when she was growing up.

There were so many parts of this book that I found myself nodding at because even though the author has a very different life from my own I could deeply connect with her experiences as a reader. This includes issues such as the bewildering question which committed readers are often asked “How do you read so much?”, the dilemma of not wanting to say anything bad about a book and the feeling of not being good enough as a reader “it is too easy to get in a panic and decide that the fact I haven't read everything means I have no right to love books.” She also describes the dismaying feeling we can get when going through a period of our lives where we can't concentrate on reading as we normally do. This is commonly known as the dreaded “book slump”. There was a period following the birth of her son when Rentzenbrink couldn't read and she describes how “I hadn't felt right before, like I'd been robbed of my magic powers.” What the author also describes so movingly is the reason why we readers are so engrossed by this solitary activity and how it provides an endless source of inspiration for us throughout our lives: “The very way that fiction works – the process of conflict and resolution at the heart of every story – means that novels are full of people encountering challenging situations and, usually, surviving them. Books are a masterclass in how to carry on.”

This book is deeply consoling for any keen reader. It made me feel understood. Opening this book is like passing under that sign in Foyles bookshop that proclaims “Welcome book lover, you are among friends.” Rentzenbrink is brilliant at articulating why the physical object of a book and its content is so important to us. “Every book holds a memory. When you hold a book in your hand, you access not only the contents of that book but fragments of the previous selves that you were when you read it.” I think that's partly why my personal library is so important to me. Not only do these books offer enthralling stories I can return to and learn more from but they are touchstones to the past and to the person I was when reading them. If you're a reader, you'll know what it means to stare at a shelf of books and feel like they are a part of you. “Dear Reader” poignantly conveys the deep pleasure to be found in the experience of reading and the communities that books build.

The Swallowed Man by Edward Carey

When thinking in more depth about the story of Pinocchio I realized that it is absolutely a story about loneliness. What bigger expression of loneliness can there be than to ascribe consciousness to inanimate objects and pretend they are your family? Edward Carey beautifully plays off from this classic fairy tale by writing from the perspective of Geppetto during the period when he became trapped in the belly of a whale after embarking out onto the ocean to try to find his lost puppet son. He describes a ship that the whale also swallowed and how this becomes his home with a limited supply box of candles and hard tack to sustain him. Interspersed with Gepetto's text are illustrations of the pictures and figures he newly creates within the prison of this marine mammal. What emerges is the most touching and creative portrait of a solitary individual desperately trying to fashion some companionship for himself as he contemplates the meaning of his life.

There's a sweet playfulness to Geppetto's character. He befriends a tiny crab in his beard who he calls Olivia and when he anticipates that he might have some company he fashions dried sea stuff into a toupee. This reinforces how he is caught in a childlike state where he believes a doll he created came to life. Not only that, but he and Pinocchio developed a multi-layered relationship filled with disagreements, fights and reconciliations. It's an expression of loneliness but one which is filtered through his creative artistry. Geppetto states “I am – despite my father's deepest wishes – a carpenter. My art is bolder than I. It send messages of me out into the world. When I come to wood and we work together, things come out of me that I should never have thought possible.” He persists with his craft despite discouragement from his father who neglected and oppressed him. Geppetto movingly describes how he never received the nurturing he needed and how he was unlucky in love with a series of women. He became a figure of ridicule and scorn in his community after his family's business collapsed. So he was essentially on his own.

The state of Geppetto's current situation reinforces the melancholy state of his existential absolute aloneness. Here he is a being trapped inside a much larger being that has no awareness of his presence (except when Geppetto tries to dig his way out of the whale.) It's in some ways worse than being a small dot in a cold universe because his circumscribed universe is a living, breathing animal. This combined with Geppetto's recollections and reflections produces a touching meditation on what it means to be totally on your own. It's also a powerful depiction of ageing and how “Old age is a single room.” In additional to the physical, financial and societal pressures that come from getting older we also essentially become trapped in ourselves and our memories. In the case of Geppetto, there's an additional anxious tension to the story and the narrative becomes increasingly hallucinatory as Geppetto's situation becomes more desperate and the candles begin to run out. I strongly connected with this artfully rendered short, impactful and haunting novel.

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

I've never been someone who has enjoyed reading murder mystery or detective novels, but “The Thursday Murder Club” surprised and delighted me as it was such a pleasurable and rewarding experience. Four charismatic individuals who are in their seventies live in a retirement village where once a week they gather together to mull over old police cases that have gone cold to see if they can solve them. But one day when someone is murdered in their own back yard they plunge into vigorously investigating this new case. Between them they have a wealth of experience, knowledge and connections – especially the high-spirited and persistent character of Elizabeth. They've also each lived distinct and fascinating lives. What's so compelling about this novel is that on top of the mystery surrounding the murders which occur in the story the reader is led to wonder about the mystery of these characters' pasts. Many of the younger people around them including police officers and characters from the local community overlook and dismiss them. Richard Osman shows there is much more to these septuagenarians than meets the eye. 

Usually when I read a novel that's divided into different characters' perspectives I tend to prefer one point of view over another so find myself almost racing through the pages to get back to the character whose story I prefer. But Elizabeth, Joyce, Ibrahim and Ron are all such endearing and funny characters that I never tired of being dropped into one of their perspectives. Their conversations pleasingly flip between speculations concerning the murder cases, trivial matters like homemade vs supermarket cake and reflections about larger life issues. In a way, this novel reminded me of Muriel Spark's novel “Momento Mori” in its humorously rich portrayal of a series of characters in their later years. But even though I found the characters so engaging and fun, I did get somewhat weary from waiting to find out how these murders would be solved. I know it's in the nature of a whodunit for information to be withheld and slowly parcelled out to draw the reader along but I find this structure so self-conscious I'm not really interested in who did it or how.

What I loved most about this story was how Osman captures the idiosyncrasies and strengths of his characters as well as their faults. He sympathetically describes the longing, regrets, petty grievances and resentments which they've clearly held onto for so many years as well as their infinite sense of curiosity and fun to want to pursue the mystery of these murders. But I was also moved by the heartbreaking decisions they have to make as they lose loved ones and find their options limited because of their circumstances. It's a wonderfully cozy read, but one which also has some bite and conveys a heartfelt sympathy for the struggles of its characters.