Five Books For

Six different angles on the Holocaust

Kate Lillie — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 18:27:16 GMT

Woman with a Dead Child by Kathe Kollwitz, 1903.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m glad you’re here.

Earlier this year, I read Martin Amis’ The Zone of Interest, easily one of the best books I’ve ever read. It is extraordinary - unsettling, challenging and heartbreaking, and it stayed with me long after I’d turned the final page. It also left me curious about how other writers have dealt with the Holocaust.

Over the following months I found myself reading a variety of Holocaust literature, including survivors’ memoirs, novellas and alternate histories. This month’s newsletter is a result of that exploration.

The Holocaust is, in many ways, beyond comprehension. No single book could ever hope to encompass it. But literature has a remarkable ability to make the unimaginable feel human, whether by following one child, one family, one survivor or one impossible moral dilemma. My grandparents fought in World War II, and as a child I used to listen to their stories of their lives, including of the war, with rapt attention. The war - and when I was old enough to learn about it, the Holocaust - didn’t feel like something in the distant, dusty past to me, but rather a piece of living history. My grandparents are all dead now, and with them have gone those memories. My child can’t listen to their stories except through me. As living memory of the war, and the Holocaust, recedes, literature feels more important than ever.

A lot of Holocaust fiction and cinema - understandably, perhaps - gravitates towards narratives that contain some element of redemption, resistance, sacrifice or moral clarity. We find stories of rescuers, hidden children, impossible acts of courage, the triumph of human dignity. Certainly, real examples of those stories happened, and they’re worth telling. But they can also create a distorted picture if they become the dominant lens through which we view the past.

So, rather than recommending six books that tell different versions of the same story, this month’s list brings together six very different perspectives. We’ll encounter the Holocaust through the eyes of a mother and child, a survivor searching for meaning, the perpetrators themselves, a hidden past, an imagined future and a young girl whose diary would become one of the defining documents of the twentieth century. Together, they offer not a complete picture - after all, that would be impossible; rather, they each ask a different question about the Holocaust and try to understand it from a different perspective.

I’ve also made an exception to the usual format this month. Normally I cover five books on the month’s theme here in the newsletter and a sixth, plus its film or TV adaptation, over at Global Comment for my Great Adaptations column. This month’s Great Adaptations column covers The Zone of Interest, and Jonathan Glover’s adaptation of the same name - an incredible film which I would urge anyone to watch - but I’m also including The Zone of Interest here in the newsletter, because it was the book which sent me on this reading expedition in the first place, and in all honesty, I don’t think any list of Holocaust literature, no matter how short, should be without it.

The Zone of Interest by Martin Amis

How do ordinary people adapt to evil?

“A hero, of course, would escape and tell the world. But it is my feeling that the world has known for quite some time. How could it not, given the scale?”

So what’s it about? Set at Auschwitz during the Second World War, The Zone of Interest takes an unusual approach to Holocaust fiction by focusing not on the victims, but on those responsible for the machinery behind it. The novel is told through three intertwining voices: Paul Doll, the camp’s commandant; Golo Thomsen, an ambitious SS officer who falls in love with Doll’s wife, Hannah; and Szmul, a Jewish prisoner forced to work as part of the Sonderkommando, disposing of the bodies of those who have been murdered.

On the surface, there is a plot involving Thomsen’s increasingly reckless pursuit of Hannah, and the increasing tension in the Dolls’ marriage, but that is almost secondary. What makes the novel so extraordinary is the way Martin Amis juxtaposes ordinary human concerns - love, ambition, jealousy, office politics - with the unimaginable horror unfolding just beyond the characters’ immediate attention. Rather than asking what happened at Auschwitz, Amis asks a more unsettling question: how could ordinary people continue to live, work and even fall in love in the midst of industrialised murder?

What’s great about it? This was the book that inspired this month’s reading list. I’d somehow never read Amis before, and I was completely blown away by it. It’s one of the finest novels I’ve ever read - not because it offers answers, but because it refuses to offer moral comfort. Amis never allows us to separate ourselves neatly from the people on the page. There isn’t a single character onto whom you can comfortably project yourself and think, “That’s me. I’d be the good one.”

Amis is also a phenomenal character writer. Paul Doll is grotesque, absurd and terrifying all at once, while Thomsen and Hannah remain morally elusive from beginning to end. Does Hannah reject the evil around her, or simply the man she has married? Is Thomsen genuinely indifferent to the camp, or has he simply learned not to see it? And then there is Szmul, whose position as a member of the Sonderkommando forces us to confront moral dilemmas that defy easy judgement. Books like this - which situate the perpetrators of such horror among the ordinary human beings they themselves are - are an important counterpoint to our very human desire to dismiss them as monsters, beyond understanding. Amis doesn’t ask us to sympathise with them; he asks us to recognise that they were human. I found that far more unsettling.

Above all, the novel is an exploration of compartmentalisation. Its characters worry about careers, relationships and social status while participating in - or living alongside - one of history’s greatest crimes. It is an extraordinarily uncomfortable book, but one that demonstrates literature’s unique ability not simply to tell us what happened, but to ask how ordinary human beings become capable of the unimaginable.

The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick

Can art tell truths that history cannot?

“And afterward she was always cold, always.”

So what’s it about? The Shawl is actually two connected works: a short story, set during the Holocaust, and a short novella which follows one of its survivors decades later in America. The first part centres on Rosa, a young mother trying desperately to protect her baby daughter, Magda, while imprisoned in a concentration camp. At little more than thirty pages, it is astonishingly compressed, yet contains some of the most emotionally devastating writing I’ve ever encountered.

The second part follows Rosa after the war, exploring what survival really means when the life you should have had has been irrevocably destroyed. Together, the two works form a meditation on grief, memory and the impossibility of leaving the past behind.

What’s great about it? If The Zone of Interest asks us to consider the perpetrators, The Shawl does exactly the opposite. Ozick doesn’t try to explain or contextualise the Holocaust as a whole. Instead, she narrows our focus to a single relationship: that between a mother and her child.

It is remarkable how much emotional force Ozick generates with so few words. Rather than trying to represent the unimaginable scale of the Holocaust directly, she allows us to experience one tiny fragment of it. And that is precisely why it is so powerful. Your heart breaks over one child, and then your mind inevitably expands outwards to remember that there were countless others. Millions.

Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl

What gives a human life value?

“…the central theme of existentialism: to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. If there is a purpose in life at all, there must be a purpose in suffering and in dying. But no man can tell another what this purpose is. Each must find out for himself, and must accept the responsibility that his answer prescribes.”

So what’s it about? Man’s Search for Meaning is not a novel. Viktor Frankl was an Austrian psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz and several other concentration camps. In the first half of the book, he reflects on his experiences as a prisoner; in the second, he explains the psychological ideas that emerged from them, arguing that human beings can endure extraordinary suffering if they are able to find meaning in their lives.

Part memoir and part philosophy, it has become one of the most influential books ever written about resilience and the human condition.

What’s great about it? It would be easy to assume that this is a bleak book, but in many ways the opposite is true. Frankl never minimises what happened to him or attempts to draw simplistic lessons from it, although the matter-of-factness with which he describes life inside the camps is bleaker than any amount of hyperbole could ever be. Instead, he asks one of the most profound questions any survivor can ask: how do you continue living after experiencing the worst that humanity can inflict?

What I admire most here is Frankl’s refusal to offer false comfort. His optimism is hard-won rather than sentimental, rooted in experience rather than wishful thinking. Whether or not you agree with every aspect of his philosophy, his insights into suffering, purpose and human dignity remain deeply moving.

Fatherland by Robert Harris

How does denial become the foundation of a society?

“What do you do,’ he said, ‘if you devote your life to discovering criminals, and it gradually occurs to you that the real criminals are the people you work for?”

So what’s it about? Imagine that Germany won the Second World War. Set in the 1960s, Fatherland follows a Berlin detective investigating what appears at first to be an ordinary murder. As his enquiries continue, he begins to uncover a truth that the Nazi regime has spent decades trying to concealm and what began as a detective story gradually becomes something much larger and darker.

Although entirely fictional, Harris grounds his alternate history in meticulous historical research, making the world feel disturbingly plausible.

What’s great about it? One of the reasons I chose to include Fatherland here is that it asks different questions from many Holocaust novels. Rather than focusing on the events themselves, it explores memory, denial and the extraordinary lengths to which authoritarian states will go to control history. What happens when a whole society is built on denial? How long can a regime go on pretending that murder on such a huge scale never happened, and how do ordinary people deal with that?

It’s also a superb thriller. Harris understands that suspense can be one of the most effective ways of drawing readers into complex historical questions. Long before you reach the novel’s conclusion, you find yourself wondering not simply who committed the crime that starts things in motion, but what happens when an entire society is built upon a lie.

The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick

“Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.”

So what’s it about? Philip K. Dick’s classic novel imagines another world in which the Axis powers emerged victorious from the Second World War. The United States has been divided between Japanese and Nazi control, and the story follows a number of seemingly unrelated characters whose lives gradually intersect.

Alongside the political intrigue runs another, stranger thread: a banned novel describing a world in which the Allies won the war. As reality begins to feel increasingly uncertain, Dick asks not only what history is, but whether it could ever have unfolded differently.

What’s great about it? This is one of those novels that becomes richer the longer you think about it. Although it is often described as an alternate history, I found it far more philosophical than political. Dick is less interested in the mechanics of Nazi victory than in the moral consequences of power.

What stayed with me most was his suggestion that winning and succeeding are not necessarily the same thing. The Nazi empire is vast and powerful, yet beneath the surface it is already consumed by rivalry, paranoia and the seeds of self-destruction. In Dick’s hands, the novel becomes a meditation on whether evil can ever truly triumph, even when it appears to have won.

The Diary of a Young Girl by Philip K. Dick

“It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

So what’s it about? Between 1942 and 1944, Anne Frank recorded her thoughts, fears and hopes while in hiding with her family in occupied Amsterdam. Written as a diary rather than with publication in mind, it captures the everyday concerns of a thoughtful, intelligent teenager living under extraordinary circumstances.

Anne died in Bergen-Belsen in 1945, just a few months before the end of the war. Her diary survived because her father, Otto Frank, the family’s only survivor, chose to publish it after the Holocaust.

What’s great about it? Few books have done more to humanise the Holocaust than Anne Frank’s diary. Statistics and history can sometimes feel overwhelming or abstract, but Anne reminds us that every single one of the millions of victims had a personality, ambitions, frustrations and dreams for the future. She is not a symbol; she is a girl whose life was interrupted.

I also think it is the perfect book to end this list. After reading about perpetrators, survivors and imagined histories, Anne Frank quietly returns us to the individual human being. Her diary is not remarkable because she knew how history would remember her: it is remarkable because she didn’t. She was simply writing about her life, unaware that her words would become one of the twentieth century’s most enduring testimonies to hope, humanity and everything that was lost.

I was fortunate enough to visit the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam a few years ago, and it remains one of the most affecting museums I’ve ever been to. Reading the diary is one thing; standing in the rooms where Anne wrote it is quite another. It is a quiet, deeply human experience, and one I would wholeheartedly recommend to anyone who wants to understand more about her life and the world in which she lived. As living memory disappears, places like the Anne Frank House become increasingly important. They don’t just preserve history - they preserve our ability to imagine it.

Thanks for reading!

Literature cannot explain the Holocaust. I don’t think anything can. But perhaps it can help us approach it with greater understanding, empathy and humility. If you've read any of these books - or have others you’d recommend - I’d love to hear your thoughts. You can reply directly to this email or leave a comment below.

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Five Novel Reimaginings Of The Victorians

Kate Lillie — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:41:16 GMT

La Donna della Finestra by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1879

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

The Victorian era has never really gone out of fashion. We return to it again and again, fascinated by its contrasts - extraordinary scientific discovery alongside the deepest superstition, rigid social rules hiding private scandals, and an age of optimism and progress marked by profound inequality. It’s a period that seems endlessly capable of producing compelling stories.

This month, we’re looking at five modern novels that revisit the nineteenth century from fresh perspectives. Rather than simply recreating the world of Queen Victoria, these authors interrogate it - uncovering forgotten voices, challenging familiar myths and reminding us that history is always more complicated than the stories we tell about it.

Whether you’re in the mood for literary mystery, Gothic suspense, sweeping historical fiction or brilliantly engineered plot twists, there’s something here to tempt you. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Fowles

“The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time; our sense of that, not a disinterested love of science, and certainly not wisdom, is why we devote such a huge proportion of the ingenuity and income of our societies to finding faster ways of doing things - as if the final aim of mankind was to grow closer not to a perfect humanity, but to a perfect lightning-flash.”

So what’s it about? Charles Smithson appears destined for an entirely conventional Victorian future. Engaged to the respectable Ernestina Freeman and comfortably settled within the expectations of his class, his life seems mapped out before him. Everything changes, however, when he encounters Sarah Woodruff, a woman ostracised by the local community after an alleged affair with a French naval officer.

Drawn to Sarah’s mystery and independence, Charles begins to question not only his engagement but the rigid social conventions that have shaped his life. What begins as a seemingly traditional Victorian romance gradually transforms into something much more unexpected, as John Fowles plays with both the expectations of his characters and those of his readers.

What’s great about it? Fowles achieves something extraordinary here. He writes with all the richness and atmosphere of a nineteenth-century novelist while simultaneously pulling apart the conventions of Victorian fiction itself. The result is a novel that feels both familiar and surprisingly modern.

It’s also one of those books that stays with you long after you’ve finished it. Without giving anything away, the ending - or rather endings - completely changed the way I think about historical fiction and what it can do.

Sarah herself is one of the novel’s greatest achievements. She refuses to fit neatly into any of the roles Victorian society has prepared for her, remaining elusive from beginning to end. Long after finishing the book, I found myself wondering whether anyone - including the narrator - ever really understands her.

Don’t let its reputation as a “literary classic” put you off. Beneath the philosophical questions and narrative experimentation lies a genuinely absorbing story full of longing, frustration and impossible choices. Fowles understands exactly why Victorian fiction continues to captivate readers, even as he quietly dismantles its conventions.

Give it a try if: you love books with complicated women; you love literature; you love beautiful prose; you think about the different paths that are possible, in books and in life; you love books which explore philosophical questions; you love books which experiment with form.

Possession by A. S. Byatt

“I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.”

So what’s it about? When two literary scholars uncover a previously unknown letter written by the fictional Victorian poet Randolph Henry Ash, they realise they may have stumbled across an extraordinary literary secret, and are determined to investigate. Their search for the truth takes them through libraries, archives and country houses, gradually uncovering evidence of a hidden relationship between Ash and another poet, Christabel LaMotte - a relationship that has remained buried for more than a century.

As the mystery unfolds, the novel moves seamlessly between the present day and the Victorian past.. Through letters, diaries, poems and journals, Byatt slowly reconstructs the lives of the two poets while also following the modern academics whose professional curiosity gradually becomes something much more personal. Part literary mystery, part love story and part exploration of scholarship itself, Possession is one of those rare novels that manages to be both intellectually ambitious and completely absorbing.

What’s great about it? This is both one of my favourite novels and also one of the cleverest novels I’ve ever read. Byatt doesn’t just write about Victorian literature - she creates it. The poems, letters and journals feel so authentic that it’s remarkably easy to forget the poets themselves never existed.

Despite its intellectual ambition, Possession never feels dry. It’s warm, funny and deeply romantic, and there’s immense satisfaction in watching the puzzle slowly come together. If you enjoy books that reward close reading, this is an absolute treasure. I’ve enjoyed seeing Possession finding a new generation of readers in recent years. Despite winning the Booker Prize back in 1990, it somehow still feels like a novel waiting to be discovered - and once you do, it’s very easy to understand why so many people fall in love with it.

One of the things I admire most is the way Byatt explores our relationship with the past. It sometimes feels like every generation believes it has discovered the “real” truth about history, but Byatt gently reminds us that really, we can only ever piece together fragments. Letters survive while conversations disappear; diaries omit as much as they reveal. Possession asks whether we can ever truly know another person’s life, or whether we’re always constructing stories from incomplete evidence. Interestingly, Byatt wrote Possession partially in response to The French Lieutenant’s Woman, so the two novels are linked, which makes them even more satisfying to read alongside each other.

This is also a book that rewards rereading. Once you know where the mystery is leading, you’ll spot countless clues and echoes that seemed insignificant the first time around. I can’t think of many books that combine emotional depth, literary scholarship and sheer narrative pleasure quite so effortlessly.

Give it a try if: you love love stories; you love poetry; you love mysteries, especially academic mysteries; you like books which ask big questions; you love stories which are both ambitious and readable.

The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

“You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others-- why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion... but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose. All I ever wanted was to know this world. I can say now, as I reach my end, that I know quite a bit more of it than I knew when I arrived. Moreover, my little bit of knowledge has been added to all the other accumulated knowledge of history-- added to the great library, as it were. That is no small feat, sir. Anyone who can say such a thing has lived a fortunate life.”

So what’s it about? Spanning much of the nineteenth century, Elizabeth Gilbert’s sweeping novel follows Alma Whittaker, the daughter of a wealthy botanical collector whose insatiable curiosity about the natural world shapes the course of her remarkable life. Raised among one of the finest collections of plants in America, Alma develops into an accomplished botanist at a time when women were rarely recognised for their scientific achievements.

As her research leads her into questions about evolution, adaptation and humanity’s place in nature, Alma’s personal life proves every bit as complex as her intellectual one. Travelling across continents and encountering an unforgettable cast of characters, she is forced to confront love, loss, ambition and the limits of knowledge. The result is an epic historical novel that’s as interested in ideas as it is in the people who pursue them.

What’s great about it? If you only know Elizabeth Gilbert through Eat, Pray, Love, this novel may come as a delightful surprise. It’s ambitious, beautifully researched and completely immersive, transporting the reader into a world where botany was one of the great scientific frontiers.

Above all, I loved Alma. She’s intelligent, awkward, determined and gloriously unconventional - exactly the sort of heroine who reminds us that remarkable women have always existed, even if history hasn’t always celebrated them.

Gilbert also has an extraordinary ability to make science feel exciting. Whether Alma is studying mosses, exchanging ideas with fellow naturalists or wrestling with questions that would eventually transform biology, the novel captures the thrill of discovery. You don’t need any prior knowledge of botany to become completely invested.

This is still a book with emotional satisfaction at its heart. Despite spanning decades and continents, it never loses sight of Alma as a person. Her disappointments, friendships, resilience and quiet joys feel deeply authentic, making this much more than simply an impressive work of historical research.

Give it a try if: you love books with unforgettable female characters; you love stories about science and discovery; you’ve every planned to retire and study if you won the lottery; you love stories with big scope; you like books which are deeply researched.

The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry

“He felt his faith deeply, and above all out of doors, where the vaulted sky was his cathedral nave and the oaks its transept pillars: when faith failed, as it sometimes did, he saw the heavens declare the glory of God and heard the stones cry out.”

So what’s it about? Newly widowed from an unhappy marriage, Cora Seaborne leaves London in search of a fresh start in the Essex village of Aldwinter. Fascinated by fossils and natural history, she is delighted by rumours that a mysterious serpent has been sighted in the surrounding marshes, suspecting there may be an undiscovered species behind the local legends.

Not everyone shares her scientific curiosity. Many villagers are convinced the creature is real, interpreting strange events as evidence of something ancient and supernatural. At the heart of the novel is Cora’s growing friendship with the local vicar, William Ransome. Their relationship becomes a thoughtful exploration of faith, science and the different ways people try to make sense of the world around them.

What’s great about it? Perry writes atmosphere better than almost anyone. Every page seems drenched in mist, salt marshes and uncertainty. The landscape feels alive, and the tension between folklore and scientific discovery is wonderfully handled. Her prose is lyrical without ever becoming ornate, capturing something of the richness of Victorian fiction while remaining unmistakably modern.

What I admire most, though, is the way Perry writes about faith. Having grown up in a devout Strict Baptist family, immersed from childhood in the poetry and rhythms of the King James Bible, she understands religious belief from the inside - not as something to be dismissed or romanticised, but as a profound way of making sense of the world. It’s tempting to wonder whether that early immersion in one of the most influential works of English prose also helped shape her own remarkable style. Whatever the answer, The Essex Serpent is a novel of extraordinary beauty and compassion. It never asks the reader to choose between science and religion; instead, it allows both to coexist with intelligence, curiosity and deep humanity.

Like the serpent itself, certainty remains tantalisingly out of reach. Is the mystery ultimately natural, supernatural or simply a reflection of the fears and hopes of those who encounter it? Perry wisely leaves enough room for readers to draw their own conclusions, and the novel is all the richer for it.

Give it a try if: you love books which ask big questions; you love stories about relationships; you like stories which explore faith or science (or indeed both); you love great writing and beautiful prose.

Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

“We have a name for your disease. We call it a hyper-aesthetic one. You have been encouraged to over-indulge yourself in literature; and have inflamed your organs of fancy.”

So what’s it about? Sue Trinder has spent her childhood among London’s thieves, pickpockets and confidence tricksters. When she’s recruited into an elaborate scheme by the charming conman known as Gentleman, the plan appears deceptively simple: Sue is to become maid to the wealthy and sheltered Maud Lilly, gain her trust, encourage her marriage to Gentleman, and then watch as Maud is declared insane and locked away, leaving her fortune ripe for the taking.

Naturally, things become far more complicated. As Sue and Maud’s relationship develops, loyalties begin to shift and carefully laid plans start to unravel. Without giving too much away, Fingersmith becomes an intricate web of deception, mistaken assumptions and astonishing revelations, proving that almost nothing is quite as it first appears.

What’s great about it? This is one of the most brilliantly plotted novels I’ve ever encountered, with twists that are astonishing without ever feeling contrived. Every revelation sends you back through earlier chapters thinking, ‘Of course!’

However, for all its ingenious plotting, Fingersmith never loses sight of its characters. Beneath the suspense lies a moving story about identity, love and freedom. It’s also wonderfully immersive. Waters recreates Victorian London in all its contrasts, from elegant country houses to grimy back streets, never allowing the historical detail to overwhelm the story itself. Instead, every setting feels vividly inhabited, full of people trying to survive within a society obsessed with class, reputation and respectability.

I won’t spoil anything here, but this is one of those books where discovering the twists for yourself is an enormous part of the pleasure. If you haven’t read it before, try to read it knowing as little as possible - you’ll thank yourself later.

Give it a try if: you love books with lots of twists and turns; you’re looking for something fun but still meaningful to read; you love Oliver Twist; you love books which astonish you.

Thanks for reading!

What strikes me most about these novels is how alive they make the nineteenth century feel. None of them treats history as a museum exhibit. Instead, they remind us that the Victorians wrestled with many of the same questions we do today - about identity, truth, love, science, power and who gets to shape the stories that survive.

I hope you found something good to read here. As ever, I’d love to hear if you’ve read and loved (or even hated) any of the books here, and which ones you’d add to the list. You can reply directly to this email or leave a comment by clicking the button below.

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In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Trilogies For Summer Reading

Kate Lillie — Tue, 30 Jun 2026 19:28:40 GMT

The New Novel by Winslow Homer, 1877. I feel like we

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I thought we’d take a look at one of my favourite corners of the literary world: the trilogy. There’s something so satisfying about three perfect books. I sometimes find that standalone novels can leave you wishing you had just a little more time with the characters, while a sprawling series can feel like quite the commitment before you’ve even turned the first page. A trilogy sits happily inbetween - long enough for you to become completely immersed in another world, but without the length of a full series.

Happily, that makes them ideal summer reading. Whether you’re packing a suitcase, enjoying long evenings in the garden or simply hoping to carve out a little more reading time than usual, a trilogy offers the chance to settle into a story properly without wondering if you’ll still be reading it this time next year.

This month’s selection ranges from Spanish crime and Russian folklore to historical fiction, fantasy and contemporary family drama, but they all have one thing in common: they create worlds you’ll want to spend a little longer in. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

The Red Queen by Juan Gómez-Jurado

Translated by Nick Caistor

“You could say her mind has plenty of horsepower, but Antonia’s head isn’t a sports car engine. You could say it’s capable of many data processing cycles, but Antonia’s mind isn’t a computer. Antonia’s mind is more like a jungle, a jungle full of monkeys leaping at full speed from limb to limb.”

So what’s it about? This is a fast, glossy, thrilling sprint through Spain, where the stakes are high and the people solving the crimes are even more complicated than the crimes themselves. At the centre of it all is Antonia Scott, an exceptionally gifted investigator who is no longer on active duty after her abilities and her mental health become tightly entangled. She’s not a conventional detective, nor is she especially interested in being dragged back into the world.

The world arrives anyway, in the form of Jon Gutiérrez, a Basque police officer with more instinct than polish, who is tasked with bringing Antonia back into service. Together they form an uneasy partnership inside a secret European programme designed to handle crimes that sit just beyond the reach of ordinary policing. What follows is a trilogy that moves from one case to another, each escalating in scale and psychological intensity, while slowly revealing a hidden architecture of power, manipulation, and long-buried personal histories.

Across the three books, the story broadens from one individual investigation, into something more interconnected and conspiratorial, without ever veering into the ridiculous.

What’s great about it? The pace here is non-stop; Gómez-Jurado writes like he is slightly impatient with your need to breathe. Chapters are short, scenes snap forward, and there is a constant sense that something has just happened off-stage that you will need to catch up with. It’s easy to fall into the rhythm and accidentally emerge three hours later slightly - and happily - dazed, wondering where the time went. If you love the kind of books that keep you up at night for ‘just one more chapter’, these are a great pick.

The relationship between Antonia and Jon gives the trilogy its emotional spine. It’s not sentimental; they irritate each other, rely on each other, and gradually settle into something that feels less like conventional investigative partnership and more like reluctant trust forged under pressure. The writing is also refreshingly unique and engaging; while the trilogy may tick all the best crime thriller boxes, there’s nothing formulaic about Gomez-Jurado’s voice, which really adds to the pleasure of the books.

More generally, there’s also a pleasing refusal to keep things tidy. These are books that lean into moral ambiguity, institutional secrecy, and the idea that competence can be both a gift and a burden.

Give it a try if: you love thrillers which are definitely not run of the mill; you love books with intriguing mysteries which widen outwards; you’re a fan of Sherlock Holmes; you love books set in Spain; you like unconventional female protagonists and great characterisation.

The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden

“All my life,” she said, “I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me. Please. Please let me help you.”

So what’s it about? The Bear and the Nightingale begins in a remote mediaeval Russian village where the boundary between the everyday and the mythic world is at its thinnest. At its heart is Vasya, a girl born into a household that is slowly turning away from the old ways, in which household spirits are still honoured and feared in equal measure. As she grows, she becomes increasingly aware that the world around her is not only shaped by human belief, but also by forces that depend on being remembered.

The arrival of a new priest in the village shifts everything. Old protections are dismissed as superstition, and the rituals that once kept darker forces at bay begin to fall away. Vasya, however, can still see what others cannot, and this places her in a position that is both powerful and deeply isolating. The trilogy follows her as she tries to understand what she is, and what it means to belong to a world that is gradually forgetting the very things that keep it intact.

As the story unfolds across the series, the focus moves from village life into a wider struggle between competing belief systems, political pressure, and the question of what happens when myth stops being metaphorical. As a series, it’s as much concerned with cultural transition as it is about anything overtly magical.

What’s great about it? The atmosphere is the real triumph here. Arden writes cold like it is a living thing - not just snow and frost, but a presence that presses in on people and shapes their decisions. The landscape is not backdrop; it is an active participant in the story. You can almost hear the silence in it, which is more unnerving than noise would be.

What makes it particularly compelling is the way folklore is treated not as decoration, but as infrastructure. The spirits of the house, the forest, and the winter itself feel embedded in daily life in a way that is both intimate and slightly unsettling. It gives the story a texture that is rare in fantasy - grounded, tactile, and oddly believable even when it is at its most mythic.

There is also a quietly engaging emotional pull in Vasya’s story, which is less about sudden transformation and more about endurance and clarity. Seeing her trying to hold together conflicting worlds that are both trying to define her and finding her own path through the dangers she faces is the great pleasure of this trilogy. The result is a story that feels slower and more contemplative than a typical fantasy epic, but no less intense for it.

Give it a try if: you love books which have a fantasy element to them; you love stories about magic; you love fairytales; you love great heroines; you like stories about women who forge their own path; you love stories set in Russia; you love historical fiction; you feel like reading something set in snowy climes.

Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani

“Maybe when she realized that he was never going to come and rescue her, she did what all strong women do. She found a way to save herself.”

So what’s it about? Big Stone Gap is set in a small coal-mining town in the Appalachian mountains of Virginia, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and may well have something to say about it too. At the centre is Ave Maria Mulligan, a woman in her late thirties who has built a life that is steady, useful, and quietly unremarkable on the surface - pharmacist, friend, fixer of small crises; the kind of person who holds a community together.

When an unexpected piece of personal history surfaces, Ave Maria is forced into a re-evaluation of the life she thought she had already settled into. What follows across the trilogy is less a conventional plot-driven arc and more a widening of her world - emotionally, geographically, and in terms of possibility. The story moves through relationships, family histories, and long-buried truths that gently refuse to stay buried once things starts shifting.

As the series continues, the focus broadens beyond one woman’s life into a fuller portrait of a marriage and a town in transition. The town of Big Stone Gap itself becomes a kind of character: resilient, nosy, affectionate, and occasionally stubbornly resistant to change. The trilogy tracks what happens when personal reinvention collides with communal expectation, and the ways in which we sometimes underestimate ourselves.

What’s great about it? This trilogy is such a pleasure to read. Trigiani writes with warmth that never slips into sentimentality, and she has a sharp eye for the small absurdities of everyday life. There is humour threaded through everything, often dry and gently observational, which makes even the emotionally heavier moments feel grounded rather than overwrought.

Ave Maria is also a quietly satisfying protagonist, because she’s not built on dramatic reinvention or sudden transformation. Instead, her journey feels more like an accumulation - of understanding, of confidence, of permission to want more than she previously allowed herself. It’s a very human kind of growth, which makes it extra satisfying to read.

There is also something deeply comforting about the setting. Big Stone Gap itself is drawn with affection but not idealisation; it is neither romanticised poverty nor glossy small-town fantasy. It feels lived in, complicated, occasionally frustrating, and ultimately loyal. The trilogy works best when you settle into that world rather than rush through it - these are books that are less about plot urgency and more about emotional residence. Interestingly, Big Stone Gap is in fact a real town, and Trigiani’s birthplace, which adds an extra dimension to the experience of reading about it.

Give it a try if: you love books with brilliant female characters; you love books about marriage; you love stories about families and community; you love books with a strong sense of place; you’re looking for something gentle and moving.

Northern Lights by Philip Pullman

“The idea hovered and shivered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.”

So what’s it about? Northern Lights, the first book in the His Dark Materials trilogy, is set in a world that looks familiar at first glance, but quickly reveals itself to be slightly askew in ways that matter. Humans here have externalised souls in the form of dæmons - animal companions that are inseparable from their person and reflect their inner life. At the centre of the story is Lyra Belacqua, a fiercely curious girl growing up in an academic environment where truth is officially studied, but not always comfortably handled.

When children begin to disappear under mysterious circumstances, Lyra is drawn into a much larger conflict involving powerful institutions, secret research, and competing visions of authority. What begins as a search for missing children expands into a journey that stretches across regions, social classes, and eventually worlds. Along the way, she encounters allies, enemies, and forces that don’t fit neatly into any moral category she has been taught to recognise.

As the trilogy develops across The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the scope broadens from personal adventure into something far more philosophical. It becomes a story about knowledge and control - particularly religious control - and about what it means to grow up in a universe where authority is always trying to define the limits of what can be known, and the cost of resisting that definition.

What’s great about it? One of the most striking things about this trilogy is how confidently it treats its own ideas. It might be a children’s fantasy adventure on the surface, but underneath it is engaged with big, sometimes uncomfortable questions about consciousness, power, and belief. Most brilliantly, it never feels like it is simplifying those ideas for the sake of younger readers, which is part of why it works so well for adults too.

The world-building is unusually coherent and emotionally grounded. The dæmons are not just a clever concept - they fundamentally reshape how relationships, identity, and vulnerability work in this universe. That single idea ripples outward into everything else, giving even relatively ordinary scenes a quiet strangeness that lingers.

And then there is Lyra herself, who carries the trilogy with a combination of impulsiveness, intelligence, and stubborn moral instinct. Lyra isn’t an idealised heroine, but rather someone learning to navigate complexity without losing her sense of right and wrong. The result is a trilogy that feels both expansive and intimate - a rare combination where the scale keeps growing, but the emotional centre never gets lost.

Give it a try if: you love children’s literature; you love books which take ideas seriously; you love stories of adventure; you love books which have a touch of the fantastical about them; you love strories where we see the protagonist grow up.

The Wolf Den by Elodie Harper

“Either we choose to stay alive, or we give up. And if it's living we choose, then we do whatever it takes.”

So what’s it about? The Wolf Den is set in Pompeii, but not the postcard version of it. This is the city seen from its margins - through the lives of enslaved women working in a brothel known as the Wolf Den. At the centre is Amara, a former physician’s daughter who has been sold into slavery and forced to navigate a world where survival depends on reading people quickly and trusting almost no one.

The first book establishes the brutal structure of Amara’s new reality: ownership, control, and the constant negotiation of small freedoms inside a system designed to erase them. As the trilogy progresses through The House with the Golden Door and The Temple of Fortuna, the story expands beyond the brothel into wider Pompeian society, showing how deeply embedded exploitation is within everyday life - socially, economically, and politically.

Without giving anything away, the trilogy traces Amara’s long, uneven path through captivity, resistance, and the fragile pursuit of agency in a world that continually tries to redefine what she is allowed to be. It is as much about systems of power as it is about one woman’s endurance within them, and how identity survives - or doesn’t - under sustained pressure.

What’s great about it? This is historical fiction with a strong moral spine, but which never flattens the complexity of the world it’s depicting. Pompeii feels vividly real, not as a backdrop but as a functioning society with all its contradictions intact. The detail is immersive without becoming decorative, which keeps the focus on people rather than spectacle. It’s fascinating to see the ancient world brought alive so vividly.

Amara’s character arc is also carefully handled. This is not a story of sudden liberation or neatly resolved transformation. It’s more about the slow process of strategy, experience and small acts of resistance that may or may not amount to anything in the long run. Amara is a great lead character - smart, sometimes abrasive and definitely flawed. Some of the qualities we might find less appealing nowadays are actually the very things she needs to survive. Harper is great at making her journey feel grounded, even when the circumstances are extreme.

What really sets the trilogy apart is its refusal to romanticise either survival or rebellion. It is emotionally direct, sometimes uncomfortable, and often quietly angry in a way that feels controlled rather than performative. The result is a series that is absorbing not because it offers escape, but because it insists on attention.

Give it a try if: you love books with strong and complex female characters; you love books set in the ancient world; you love historical fiction; you often wonder about the ordinary lives of normal people in historical times; you love books about friendship.

Thanks for reading!

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In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Back To School Books

Kate Lillie — Sun, 31 May 2026 18:51:53 GMT

The School of Athens by Raphael, 1509

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I thought it would be interesting to focus on something a little different: books that either explore the theme of education or use it as a key part of their setting. Whether it’s Tom Brown’s Schooldays, Malory Towers, Matilda or Harry Potter, schools (and indeed universities) have long been an evocative setting for writers. Schools give writers the gift of baked-in structure and hierarchy as well as tapping into an experience which most of us are familiar with in some form, whether we enjoyed it at the time or not.

From murder mysteries, memoir and a modern classic, via laugh out loud satire and a foray into fantasy, all of these five books have education in common despite their vast differences. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

That’ll Teach Her by Maz Evans

“She’s worse than Rasputin. Or a cockroach. She’s Cocksputin.”

So what’s it about? When universally disliked headteacher Claudia Stitchwell drops dead during a school event, the official explanation doesn’t quite satisfy the parents of St Nonnatus Primary. Suspicion spreads through the parents’ WhatsApp chat, playground conversations, and gossip networks as amateur detectives begin trying to piece together what really happened. With four plausible suspects, including a beloved school cook, an overworked teaching assistant, an ambitious deputy head and a deeply unpopular bursar, the mystery unfolds through a patchwork of messages, reports and testimonies that gradually reveal the hidden tensions simmering beneath the surface of school life.

While it’s structured as a murder mystery, That’ll Teach Her is just as interested in the social world surrounding education. Evans captures the peculiar intensity of primary school communities, where minor administrative decisions can spark outrage, rumours travel at lightning speed, and parents often find themselves far more emotionally invested than they ever expected to be. The result is a sharply observed comedy of manners wrapped around a genuinely engaging whodunnit.

What’s great about it? This is one of those books that’s laugh out loud funny, because the humour in it rings so true. Evans has a wonderful ability to recognise the inherent absurdity of modern school culture without ever becoming cynical about it. Anyone who’s had to navigate a parents’ WhatsApp group (or indeed any other sort of group chat) will recognise the personalities immediately: the organiser, the oversharer, the worrier, the one who somehow knows everything first. However, the humour feels affectionate rather than cruel, and Evans is able to mine endless comedy from the gap between the trivial concerns occupying the adults and the far more serious events unfolding around them.

Beyond the mystery, the school becomes almost a miniature portrait of wider society, full of people carrying private struggles, ambitions and disappointments that rarely make it into official newsletters or parents’ evenings. Evans balances sharp comedy with genuine empathy, creating characters who feel recognisable rather than caricatured. For a novel about murder, it has a great deal to say about community, education and the strange ways people become entangled in one another’s lives.

Give it a try if: you love British comedy; if you’ve ever had the joy of being in a ridiculous WhatsApp group; you love books which are compulsively readable; you love murder mysteries; you love satire; you love books which make you laugh; you loved the BBC series Motherland; you like reading books which combine different narrative structures and techniques.

Educated by Tara Westover

“Everything I had worked for, all my years of study, had been to purchase for myself this one privilege: to see and experience more truths than those given to me by my father, and to use those truths to construct my own mind. I had come to believe that the ability to evaluate many ideas, many histories, many points of view, was at the heart of what it means to self-create. If I yielded now, I would lose more than an argument. I would lose custody of my own mind. This was the price I was being asked to pay, I understood that now. What my father wanted to cast from me wasn’t a demon: it was me.”

So what’s it about? Tara Westover grew up in a survivalist Mormon family in rural Idaho, isolated from mainstream society and largely cut off from formal education. Her father in particular distrusted schools, hospitals and government institutions, leaving Tara and her siblings to work in the family scrapyard rather than attend lessons. With no conventional schooling and little contact with the outside world, her understanding of history, politics and even basic world events was shaped almost entirely by her family’s beliefs.

Despite these obstacles, Tara was determined to educate herself. Through a combination of self-study, extraordinary persistence and the support of a few key people, she gained admission to university and eventually studied at some of the world’s most prestigious institutions. As her education broadened her horizons, however, she found herself confronting painful questions about memory, identity, loyalty and the price of leaving behind the world, and the family, that had shaped her.

What’s great about it? Educated is ultimately about something far more profound than just academic achievement: the transformative power of learning itself. For Westover, education isn’t simply a route to qualifications or career success, but rather a means of understanding the wider world, worth pursuing for its own sake. The book explores the exhilarating and unsettling process of discovering that there are other ways of seeing, thinking and living.

What makes the book especially powerful is Westover’s remarkable lack of bitterness. She writes with clarity and compassion even when describing deeply troubling experiences, allowing readers to grapple with the complexity of family relationships rather than reducing people to heroes and villains. The result is deeply moving, as we see how intellectual awakening often brings with it difficult choices even as it also provides opportunities for growth. This is a book about education in its broadest and most meaningful sense - not merely what happens in classrooms, but the lifelong process of learning who we are and how we understand the world.

Give it a try if: you love learning just for the sake of it; you like books which immerse you in other ways of living; you’re interested in books about families, especially complex ones; you love memoirs and narrative non-fiction; you love reading about women who take control of their own lives and create something new and different for themselves.

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

“Some sorcerers get an affinity for weather magic, or transformation spells, or fantastic combat magics like dear Orion. I got an affinity for mass destruction.”

So what’s it about? In this first book in a trilogy, Galadriel “El” Higgins attends the Scholomance, a school unlike any other. Hidden from the ordinary world and populated by young magicians, it offers students a chance to develop their powers and prepare for adulthood. The catch? Graduation is only possible if you can avoid being killed and eaten by the many monsters eager to devour the students. In a school where there are no teachers to provide guidance, survival depends as much on cunning, alliances and luck as it does on magical talent.

As El navigates her final years at the Scholomance, she must contend with the expectations created by her formidable magical abilities, her own deeply antisocial reputation, and the increasingly dangerous threats lurking within the school’s walls. Alongside her cohort of ambitious classmates and the infuriatingly heroic Orion Lake, she becomes entangled in a struggle that may determine not only who survives graduation, but the future of the magical world itself.

What’s great about it? One of the pleasures of reading this book is the way that Novik gleefully overturns familiar school-story conventions. This is not a cosy boarding school where friendships blossom over midnight feasts and Quidditch matches. Instead, every aspect of school life is filtered through the question of survival. The library might eat you, the cafeteria can kill you, and even walking down the corridor requires strategic planning. Novik takes the well-worn idea of a magical school and pushes it to its darkest extreme, creating a setting that feels fresh and inventive.

While there are plenty of monsters and magical battles, and of course the requisite romance story, the trilogy is also a thoughtful exploration of education and social inequality. The Scholomance mirrors many of the advantages and disadvantages found in the outside world, with wealthy and well-connected students enjoying protections that are unavailable to others. El’s struggle becomes about more than just supernatural dangers when she begins to butt up against systems that reward privilege and perpetuate exclusion. El is a great character: sharp, sarcastic, funny and more than a little prickly, she’s one of my favourite anti-heroes.

Give it a try if: you love books with brilliant female characters; you love anti-heroes; you feel like exploring a darker twist on Harry Potter; you love books which are set inside boarding schools; you like books which take a familiar format or setting and twist it into something new; you love fantasy as a genre, especially when it has something serious to say.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

“There are such things as ghosts. People everywhere have always known that. And we believe in them every bit as much as Homer did. Only now, we call them by different names. Memory. The unconscious.”

So what’s it about? Surely one of the most loved and classic books of the twentieth century, The Secret History follows Richard Papen as he arrives at a small, elite college in Vermont, eager to leave behind his unremarkable California upbringing and reinvent himself. He finds himself drawn to a tiny, exclusive group of classics students led by the charismatic and enigmatic Professor Julian Morrow, and as he gets to know them, he’s welcomed into a rarefied world of intellectual ambition, privilege and intense friendship. The group appears glamorous and sophisticated from the outside, but beneath the surface lie dangerous obsessions and increasingly blurred moral boundaries.

In a twist on the usual literary mystery format, we know from the opening pages that one member of the group will die at the hands of the others. The novel then retraces the events leading up to the murder, and its aftermath, examining how a circle of intelligent, seemingly civilised young people become capable of extraordinary violence. As Richard is drawn deeper into their world, loyalty, guilt and self-deception begin to exert an increasingly powerful hold over them all.

What’s great about it? Although it’s often described as a literary thriller, The Secret History is also one of the finest novels ever written about higher education and the seductive power of ideas. One of the things I think is particularly compelling about it is the way that Tartt captures the intensity of intellectual life at that particular moment in youth, when books, theories and philosophies can seem capable of transforming reality itself. Tartt understands that education can become not merely a process of learning but a form of identity, aspiration and belonging. Few books evoke so vividly the excitement of discovering a subject that feels capable of explaining the world.

This is also a book that’s rich in atmosphere. The college campus is rendered with such richness that it becomes almost a character in its own right: autumn leaves, ancient texts, candlelit conversations and long winters create a world that feels simultaneously beautiful and claustrophobic. While there are some serious themes being explored - not least the dangers of elitism, groupthink and intellectual arrogance - as readers we never lose sight of why these environments can be so alluring. Dark, unsettling and compulsively readable, it remains one of the defining campus novels of the modern era.

Give it a try if: you love novels with atmosphere; you’re more interested in the how-done-it than the whodunnit; you love books which capture the thrill of possibility and open horizons which education can bring; you like books which explore human emotions and motivation with real depth; you love literary books; you love beautiful prose and great writing; you love classics.

The Examiner by Janice Hallett

“There are only four ways: money, ideology, coercion, and ego. MICE. Four reasons people get caught in a trap.”

So what’s it about? When six students enrol on a multimedia arts master’s programme, they expect a year of creative challenges, academic debate and professional development. Instead, the course becomes the setting for a mystery that unfolds through emails, messages, assignments and official documents. As an external examiner reviews the materials at the end of the course, it becomes clear that something has gone badly wrong during the programme, and that each of the students and tutors may be hiding important pieces of the story.

As with Hallet’s other books, the story is told entirely through the documents assembled for the examiner’s investigation, inviting readers to piece together the truth for themselves. As relationships fray, rivalries emerge and tensions escalate within the cohort, seemingly minor interactions take on increasing significance. What begins as an exploration of academic life gradually develops into a compelling puzzle in which every email, feedback form and project submission may contain a crucial clue.

What’s great about it? Like Hallett’s earlier novels, The Examiner turns readers into detectives, asking them to sift through evidence and draw their own conclusions. The epistolary format is brilliantly suited to an educational setting, where so much of modern academic life exists in written form: assessment criteria, tutor feedback, administrative emails and student correspondence. Hallett demonstrates a keen eye for the language of academia, capturing both its bureaucratic peculiarities and its capacity to shape people’s ambitions, insecurities and relationships.

What elevates the novel beyond a clever puzzle is its understanding of the pressures that exist within educational institutions. The students arrive with different expectations, talents and vulnerabilities, while the staff must balance mentoring, assessment and institutional demands. Hallett explores questions of authority, creativity, fairness and power without ever sacrificing the pace of the mystery. For readers who enjoy both campus novels and crime fiction, it offers the satisfying experience of seeing the familiar world of higher education transformed into the scene of an intricate and highly entertaining whodunnit. None of the characters are especially likeable, but the twists and turns of the story as it unfolds are riveting enough that even if you normally want to have a character to root for, you’ll be intrigued enough to keep reading.

Give it a try if: you love murder mysteries; you love books which ask you to solve the puzzle yourself, especially where you have to find the clues; you love books with unusual formats; you’re interested in the question of what constitutes art; you’ve ever been exasperated by pointless bureaucracy.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Different, Great, and Greatly Different Books

Kate Lillie — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 19:46:11 GMT

Ulysses and the Sirens by Herbert James Draper, 1909.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I wanted to share some of my favourite classics in translation. For me, these books offer a particular kind of doorway into a different time and place, as well as into another culture. They ask you to step outside your own language, your own assumptions, and to trust that meaning can travel - that human experience, in all its specificity, can still feel recognisable across (sometimes huge) passages of distance and time.

Most classics are by their nature older books, shaped by societies that no longer exist in quite the same form, yet they remain vivid and engaging regardless. These are stories which show us how people thought, loved, believed, and struggled, in very specific times and places - and in doing so, they sharpen our sense of the present. It can feel a little like having a conversation across time, a glimpse into something that isn’t accessible through the drier facts of history. I think it’s one of the reasons that art (including literature) is so important.

This month’s selection moves across continents and centuries - from ancient epic to Soviet satire, from Turkish melancholy to Chinese myth. What connects them isn’t just their status as classics, but their distinctiveness: each offers a fully realised world, and a voice that still carries, clearly and compellingly, across time and language. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

Monkey King – Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en

Translated by Julia Lovell

“Monkey explained that he didn’t want to cloud-somersault first, as he was afraid his kilt would ride up and Guanyin would see his bottom.”

So what’s it about? This is one of China’s great classical novels, drawing on centuries of folklore and religious tradition, and following the irrepressible Monkey King - a trickster figure born from stone - as he joins a Buddhist monk on a perilous pilgrimage to retrieve some sacred scriptures. Along the way, they battle demons, outwit spirits, and navigate a landscape where the sacred and the absurd constantly collide.

Beneath the episodic adventures lies a rich tapestry of religious and philosophical ideas, drawing on Buddhism, Taoism, and folklore. The story wrestles with ideas of discipline and chaos, enlightenment and ego, with Monkey himself embodying the tension between wild freedom and the need for restraint.

What’s great about it? Forget about the idea of classics being serious and boring - Monkey King is gloriously, unapologetically fun. Monkey is a chaotic delight - rebellious, vain, brilliant, and often completely out of control. The constant shape-shifting, magical battles, and surreal encounters make it feel almost like a mythological road trip with no regard for realism. The book’s magic is gleefully excessive - immortality peaches, shape-shifting, hairs that turn into armies - all filtered through a hero who treats the cosmos less with awe than with mischievous opportunism. It sometimes reminded me of an animated movie, or a videogame - and it was written centuries ago (and the written form, from the 16th century, is in fact a codification of much older stories from hundreds of years before that).

At the same time, it has surprising depth. There’s a spiritual journey beneath the antics, and a sly humour that punctures authority at every turn. It’s the kind of book you can read for pure adventure, then realise later that it’s been asking much bigger questions all along.

Give it a try if: you love books that make you laugh; you love books which have a spiritual subtext; you love books which are fun; you want to read a whole different type of epic journey; you want to read one of the foundational classics of Chinese literature; you love magical realism or fantasy novels.

Madonna in a Fur Coat by Sabahattin Ali

Translated by Maureen Freely and Alexander Dawe

“Just as warm sunlight can, by passing through a lens, turn to fire, so too can love. It's wrong to see it as something that swoops in from the outside. It’s because it arises from the feelings we carry inside us that it strikes with such violence, at the moment we least expect.”

So what’s it about? Set between Ankara and 1920s Berlin, the novel follows the story of quiet, withdrawn Raif Efendi, whose seemingly uneventful life hides a deeply buried past. Through a discovered notebook, we are drawn into his younger years in Weimar Germany, where he encounters young artist Maria Puder - the enigmatic “Madonna in a fur coat” of the title - and forms a connection that quietly alters him, and the rest of his life thereafter.

At its heart, the novel is about emotional vulnerability and the risks of being truly seen. It explores loneliness, the fragility of intimacy, and the ways in which a single relationship can shape an entire life. There is also a subtle critique of masculinity and social expectation - Raif’s sensitivity sits uneasily within the roles available to him, both in Germany and back home in Turkey.

What’s great about it? This is one of those novels that starts a little slowly, but is worth the wait. This isn’t a cheerful book but its emotional precision is extraordinary - small gestures, silences, and misunderstandings carry enormous weight, and it has an overall feeling of melancholy which suffuses the whole text in a remarkable way, without ever descending into insufferability. Maria, in particular, feels startlingly modern: self-possessed, contradictory, resistant to being reduced to a romantic ideal, and resoundingly imperfect. I’d describe this as a very thoughtful novel: the characters are thinking deeply about things, in the way that young people finding themselves often do, and it’s a poignant reminder of that feeling of searching for philosophical truth, which often gets overshadowed by daily life as you get older and more self-confident.

Give it a try if: you love thoughtful books; you’re interested in philosophy; you love love stories, no matter how sad they might be; you’ve ever wondered how differently your life might have been if just one small thing had changed; you’re interested in Weimar Germany.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

Translated by Michael Glenny

“His head felt uncomfortable and somehow too hot. He took off his hat and gave a squeak of horror – he was holding a velvet beret with a bedraggled cock’s feather. The barman crossed himself. At that moment the beret gave a miaou and changed into a black kitten. It jumped on to Andrei Fokich’s head and dug its claws into his bald patch. Letting out a shriek of despair, the wretched man hurled himself downstairs as the kitten jumped off his head and flashed back to No. 50.”

So what’s it about? Set in Stalinist Moscow, the novel begins with the arrival of a mysterious foreigner - who may or may not be the Devil - and rapidly spirals into a surreal, multi-layered narrative involving a persecuted writer (the Master), his devoted lover Margarita, and a parallel retelling of the trial of Pontius Pilate.

It is a novel about power, censorship, and the nature of truth, but also about love, art, and moral courage. Reality constantly slips - the absurd becomes normal, the supernatural mundane - creating a world where official narratives are exposed as fragile, even ridiculous constructs.

What’s great about it? This novel is wildly inventive. Walking, talking cats, chaotic magic shows, bureaucrats undone by their own greed - the satire is sharp, but also deeply playful. Few novels manage to be this funny and this serious at the same time.

There’s also something genuinely moving at its core. Margarita in particular is remarkable: she refuses to betray her inner truth in a world built on fear and pretence. She sees clearly, loves fiercely, and acts with courage even when confronted by the grotesque and supernatural. What sets her apart is not just her passion, but her moral clarity: she always chooses compassion over self-interest, and in doing so becomes the novel’s quiet, unshakeable centre of integrity. She’s one of my favourite female characters from any book I’ve read.

The love between the Master and Margarita provides an emotional anchor amid the madness, and the book’s belief in artistic integrity - however fragile - gives it lasting resonance. It’s strange, bold, and completely unlike anything else I’ve read.

Give it a try if: you love books that are utterly, delightfully bonkers; you’re looking for something totally different to read; you love books which skewer contemporary society; you love love stories; you like reading books which ask big moral questions in a clever way; you love satire.

The Odyssey by Homer

Translated by Emily Wilson

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

“Tell me about a complicated man.
Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost
when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy,
and where he went, and who he met, the pain
he suffered in the storms at sea, and how
he worked to save his life and bring his men
back home. He failed to keep them safe; poor fools,
they ate the Sun God’s cattle, and the god
kept them from home. Now goddess, child of Zeus,
tell the old story for our modern times.
Find the beginning”

So what’s it about? Homer’s classical epic follows Odysseus as he struggles to return home after the Trojan War, facing monsters, gods, temptations, and his own limitations along the way. Meanwhile, back in Ithaca, his wife Penelope and son Telemachus contend with a house overrun by suitors who assume that Odysseus will never return and that Penelope will therefore need a new husband. However, the poem is about far more than a physical journey. It explores identity, storytelling, loyalty, and the nature of home. It also raises complex questions about heroism - Odysseus is cunning and resourceful, but also flawed, deceptive, and at times deeply troubling, which resonates with many of the questions we’re grappling with today.

What’s great about it? Emily Wilson’s translation (the first complete English translation by a woman, I believe) makes this ancient text feel startlingly immediate. Her language, rendered in iambic pentameter, is clear, brisk, and unsentimental, cutting through the idea that epics must be dense or inaccessible. It reads like a gripping story, and the audiobook, narrated by Clare Danes, is a real pleasure to listen to. Other modern translations often lean into what we think of as older language, with forms that are often taken from 19th century English but actually bear no relation to how the poem would have sounded to contemporary audiences in Ancient Greece. She also doesn’t shy away from some of the moral questions involved in translation; she’s not afraid to leave in the more brutal aspects without softening them to make them fit a more modern idea of what a hero should be.

What emerges is a sharper, sometimes darker version of the tale - one that doesn’t smooth over its violence or moral ambiguity. It’s an excellent entry point if you’ve ever felt intimidated by Homer, and a refreshing reinterpretation if you haven’t.

Give it a try if: you love ancient Greek myths; you want to experience Homer’s epic in a new way; you love poetry of any sort; you love Shakespeare; you prefer audiobooks.

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude

“…he was struck for the first time by the endless variety of men’s minds, which prevents a truth from ever presenting itself identically to two persons.”

So what’s it about? Set during the Napoleonic Wars, this book (it’s perhaps too sprawling in structure to be described as a novel, exactly) follows a vast cast of characters - including Pierre Bezukhov, Prince Andrei, and Natasha Rostova - as their personal lives unfold against the backdrop of historical upheaval and Napoleon’s doomed invasion of Russia. Battles, salons, marriages, and crises of faith all interweave into a vast living, breathing portrait of Russian society.

War and Peace is a meditation on history, free will, and the search for meaning. Tolstoy uses the book to question the idea that great individuals shape events, instead emphasising the complexity of forces - social, psychological, and accidental - that drive human life.

What’s great about it? Yes, it’s long. But it’s also surprisingly and pleasantly readable - full of vivid scenes, sharp observations, and characters who feel astonishingly real. Natasha’s youthful energy, Pierre’s searching introspection, Andrei’s disillusionment - they all linger long after you’ve turned the last page.

What makes it truly special is its scope. Few books manage to feel both intimate and immense at the same time. It captures the texture of ordinary life alongside the sweep of history, reminding us - quietly but insistently - that the two are inseparable.

There are some sections which I found hard going - Tolstoy’s philosophical diatribes on the nature of history, primarily, but those are balanced by a real narrative drive regarding the main characters and how their lives will turn out. There are some parts which are easily as gripping as a thriller, and other slower, more thoughtful chapters too. I’ve heard it said that reading War and Peace is more like reading many books than just one, or words to that effect, and I definitely found that to be true.

Give it a try if: you love epic stories which capture both the ordinary and the extraordinary; you love a book which you can read slowly; you love philosophical books; you love books with great characters who stay with you long afterwards; you love books you can return to and reread.

NB: I read War and Peace with ’s group readalong and it made a big difference to my experience of it. It was wonderful to have a space where people shared their reflections as we progressed and it added depth and interest to what is a very long read. He is running the group again this year and it’s never too late to join:

Footnotes and Tangents

Join the 2026 'War and Peace' Slow Read

9 months ago · 434 likes · 63 comments · Simon Haisell

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Five Different Angles On The Crime Novel

Kate Lillie — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 17:42:08 GMT

Saint Francis In Meditation by Caravaggio, c.1606-1607.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, we’re turning to crime - but not the clean, tightly plotted kind that relies on ticking clocks and elaborate reveals. These are books that go beyond the traditional thriller, each approaching some sort of crime from a different angle: as history, as psychology, as family drama, as social observation, and sometimes as something almost abstract. In some cases the crime sits at the centre; in others it’s more like a lens, shaping everything around it.

Across the selection, you’ll find stolen objects that carry surprising weight, real-life cases rendered with unsettling clarity, suburban lives pushed to their limits, and fictional families whose loyalties are tested in ways that feel both specific and universal. The characters here aren’t detectives in the conventional sense, but rather participants, observers, relatives, bystanders - people who find themselves pulled into situations they didn’t foresee.

Taken together, these books explore what crime does rather than simply what crime is. They ask how people justify their choices, how narratives form around events, and how ordinary lives can be quietly, sometimes irrevocably, altered by a single act. As ever, I hope you find something great to read here.

The Impossible Thing by Belinda Bauer

“Patrick thought more, but didn’t say so. He thought about a lot of things he didn’t say. Unlike Nick, who said a lot of things he didn’t think about.”

So what’s it about? This is a crime novel that begins, improbably, with a bird’s egg. Not just any egg, but a rare, vividly red guillemot egg - the sort obsessively collected (and stolen) in the Victorian and early 20th-century craze for oology. In 1920s Yorkshire, a neglected young girl, Celie, discovers a way to reach a dangerous cliffside nest and retrieves one of these “impossible” eggs, setting off a chain of events that will echo for decades.

A century later, in rural Wales, a young man named Patrick finds that his friend’s house has been broken into. Nothing is taken - except a small carved box containing a single red egg. What follows is part investigation, part caper, as Patrick and Nick try to understand what on earth they’ve stumbled into. The novel moves between past and present, gradually revealing how this peculiar object has drawn people into its orbit - collectors, dealers, obsessives - and how a seemingly niche crime can carry very real consequences.

What’s great about it? What makes this such a satisfying read is precisely how odd it is. Bauer takes something that sounds faintly ridiculous - egg collecting - and treats it with complete seriousness, uncovering a world of obsession, status, greed and risk. And the more you read, the more it makes sense. There’s something quietly brilliant about the way she shifts your perspective, until the theft of an egg feels as charged as any jewel heist.

There’s also a lightness of touch that keeps it from ever becoming heavy. The present-day storyline, in particular, has a slightly offbeat, almost comic energy - two ordinary people blundering into something much larger than themselves. Patrick, especially, is a wonderful protagonist - observant, slightly adrift, and easy to root for, bringing a gentle humanity to the unfolding chaos. It gives the book a warmth and humour that you don’t always find in crime writing, and makes the whole thing feel less like a puzzle to be solved and more like a story about the peculiar things people choose to value - and the trouble that follows when they do.

Give it a try if: you love books with dual timelines; you love books with memorable protagonists; you love books that make you laugh; you love books that inadvertently teach you about something obscure but interesting.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

“Once a thing is set to happen, all you can do is hope it won't. Or will-depending. As long as you live, there’s always something waiting, and even if it’s bad, and you know it's bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living.”

So what’s it about? In 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were brutally murdered in their home - a crime that seemed, at first, both motiveless and incomprehensible. Capote reconstructs the case from multiple angles: the lives of the victims, the shockwaves through the local community, and, most unsettlingly, the movements and inner worlds of the two men responsible, Perry Smith and Dick Hickock.

The book follows the investigation, the eventual capture of the killers, and the long legal process that leads to their execution. But it’s not written like a conventional true crime account. Instead, Capote builds it with the pacing and texture of a novel, moving back and forth in time, deepening the sense of inevitability even as you wish, irrationally, that events might somehow turn out differently.

What’s great about it? What makes this book endure is the way it quietly reshaped what crime writing could be. Capote called it a “nonfiction novel”, and that’s exactly how it reads - meticulous in its reporting, but immersive, atmospheric, and emotionally complex. He doesn’t just tell you what happened; he makes you feel the weight of it, the stillness of the plains, the ordinariness of the lives that are about to be shattered.

Most striking of all is the attention given to the perpetrators. Capote neither excuses nor sensationalises them, but he does something more uncomfortable: he insists on their humanity. In particular, Perry Smith emerges as a deeply conflicted figure, and the book’s power lies in that tension - between empathy and horror, understanding and judgement. It leaves you with no easy conclusions, only the lingering question of how such violence comes to exist at all.

Give it a try if: you love true crime; you don’t like true crime but you love great writing; you love narrative non-fiction; you like reading about history.

The Godfather by Mario Puzo

“Don't let anybody kid you. It's all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it's personal as hell. You know where I learned that from? The Don. My old man. The Godfather. If a bolt of lightning hit a friend of his the old man would take it personal. He took my going into the Marines personal. That's what makes him great. The Great Don. He takes everything personal Like God. He knows every feather that falls from the tail of a sparrow or however the hell it goes? Right? And you know something? Accidents don't happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult.”

So what’s it about? Set in mid-20th-century America, this is the story of the Corleone family, one of the most powerful Mafia dynasties in New York. At its centre is Don Vito Corleone, a man who has built an empire on loyalty, influence, and carefully calibrated violence. When a rival syndicate attempts to move into the narcotics trade and seeks the Corleones’ backing, the refusal sets off a chain of reprisals that threatens to destabilise everything.

Running alongside this is the story of Michael Corleone, Vito’s youngest son, who initially stands apart from the family business. Over time - and through a series of escalating events - he is drawn in, step by step, until the line between outsider and heir quietly disappears. The novel moves across the family’s inner workings, their alliances and enemies, and the codes that govern a world where power is both inherited and enforced.

What’s great about it? What’s striking about The Godfather is how little it feels like a conventional crime novel. Yes, there is violence, betrayal, and revenge, but the real engine of the book is family - its obligations, its hierarchies, and its unspoken rules. Puzo has a knack for making this closed world feel both seductive and suffocating, drawing you into its logic even as you recognise its brutality.

It’s also an immensely entertaining read - full of drama, intrigue, and larger-than-life characters. To me, Puzo has something of Jackie Collins about him: that same instinct for storytelling that pulls you along effortlessly, balancing scandal, glamour, and high-stakes emotion with real narrative drive.

And then there’s Michael. His arc is the quiet spine of the novel, and it’s handled with remarkable control. His transformation isn’t dramatic so much as inevitable, which somehow makes it more chilling. By the end, what lingers isn’t just the scale of the Corleone criminal empire, but the cost of belonging to it - and the unsettling sense that, under the right pressures, almost anyone might make the same choices.

Give it a try if: you love Jackie Collins; you love books about the Mafia; you love historical fiction; you love the Godfather movies but have never read the book; you love books about family; you love books which span both the US and Italy.

No One Would Do What The Lamberts Have Done by Sophie Hannah

“Once the policeman has said what he came to say and is ready to leave her alone, at least for the time being, Sally Lambert begins to close her front door. She does it as gradually and quietly as she can, wanting to be able to watch through the gap as he walks away. She has to check he’s really going; can’t wait for her outside not to have him in it anymore. She stares after him – Connor something; she’s already forgotten his surname – as he walks to his car, gets in it and drives to the corner, past The Barn and The Farmhouse. Now he’s slowing to a stop; now he’s indicating. Sally waits, still looking, until his silver Audi turns onto the main road, which isn’t anyone sensible’s idea of a main road but is called that by all the residents of Bussow Court, apart from Sally… Finally, the policeman is gone. Sally pulls her front door wide open, then slams it shut as hard as she can.”

So what’s it about? The Lamberts are an ordinary family living an unremarkable suburban life - until a sudden, unexpected turn of events forces them into an extreme and deeply unusual course of action. Faced with the threat of losing their beloved dog, they make a decision that places them outside the bounds of the law and sends them on the run. What begins as a protective instinct quickly escalates into something far more complicated, as their attempt to keep their dog safe draws them into a situation that grows increasingly difficult to control.

As the story unfolds, the narrative revisits and reframes the events leading up to this point, gradually revealing how quickly an apparently normal life can unravel when pushed beyond a certain threshold. Along the way, the book examines not just what the Lamberts do, but how others perceive and interpret their actions, and how a single, unusual decision can ripple outward into something far larger than intended.

What’s great about it? This is a delightfully bonkers novel - the kind that seems to be operating on two levels at once. On the one hand, it follows a seemingly straightforward premise, but on the other it keeps nudging at the edges of that premise, stretching it, reframing it, and occasionally stepping back to comment on its own construction. The result is a book that feels quite meta in places, as though it’s quietly aware of the conventions it’s playing with and gently poking at them.

It’s not especially suspense-driven in the traditional sense, and Hannah doesn’t seem especially interested in delivering her usual tightly wound thriller experience. Instead, there’s a slightly tongue-in-cheek quality running through it, which sits alongside a genuine emotional core - particularly around the central relationship between the Lamberts and their dog. That mix of sincerity and playfulness gives the book its character, making it less about tension and more about ideas, structure, and the peculiar lengths people will go to for the things they love.

Give it a try if: you love books which aren’t afraid to have fun with convention; you love your pet as much as your kids; you love books that have weird and wonderful twists and turns; you love Sophie Hannah’s work but want something less dark than her usual novels.

Defending Jacob by William Landay

“I rather doubt he had the sense to see the truth: that there are wounds worse than fatal, which the law's little binary distinctions-guilty/innocent, criminal/victim-cannot fathom, let alone fix. The law is a hammer, not a scalpel.”

So what’s it about? A teenage boy is accused of murdering a classmate in a quiet suburban community, and the case quickly becomes the centre of a legal and emotional storm. Jacob’s father, Andy Barber, is an assistant district attorney who finds himself removed from the prosecution and drawn instead into defending his own son - a role that forces him to confront both the mechanics of the justice system and the limits of his own certainty.

As the investigation unfolds, the evidence, the public scrutiny, and the slow grind of the legal process place increasing strain on the family. What begins as a criminal case becomes something much more personal, as questions about Jacob’s guilt or innocence begin to reshape not only the trial, but the family’s understanding of each other. The novel moves between courtroom proceedings and domestic life, tracing how a single accusation can alter the fabric of everyday existence.

What’s great about it? What Landay does particularly well is ground the story in the everyday reality of a family under pressure. Rather than relying on procedural detail alone, he keeps returning to the emotional centre of the situation - the uncertainty, the fear, and the quiet erosion of normal life. The result is a book that feels less like a puzzle to be solved and more like a prolonged, unavoidable reckoning.

There’s also a compelling moral ambiguity at its heart. The narrative never fully allows you to settle into certainty, and that’s part of its strength. As a reader, you’re pulled into the same tensions the characters face - between belief and doubt, loyalty and objectivity. It’s this sustained unease, rather than any single twist or revelation, that gives the book its lasting impact, as well as the ending, which leaves you questioning what on earth you might do if you ever found yourself in the same situation.

Give it a try if: you love courtroom dramas; you love books about families; you love books with moral quandaries; you’ve ever wondered how far you’d go to protect your own child.

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Kate

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Five Historical Mysteries Worth Solving

Kate Lillie — Sat, 28 Feb 2026 20:24:58 GMT

Portrait of an Unknown Woman by Ivan Kramskoi, 1883

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

I have a real soft spot for detective stories set in the past. Strip away all the things we take for granted, like modern forensics, instant communication and procedural safeguards, and what you’re left with is instinct, observation and courage. In the past, superstition often carries more weight than evidence, power is rarely neutral, and asking questions can be as dangerous as answering them. The stakes feel different - sharper and more precarious, because truth is never guaranteed a fair hearing.

This month’s recommendations roam widely across both time and terrain: from the rain-soaked frontiers of Roman Britain’s, via a 7th-century Northumbrian monastery gripped by plague, to the mud-choked docks of Georgian London, witch-haunted Bavaria, and even 1980s Hawkins in the uneasy aftermath of apocalypse. Our investigators themselves are just as varied - an army medic, a herb-wife, a river officer, a hangman’s daughter, a teenage journalist. None of them are establishment power; all of them are compelled to look closer. And that, perhaps, is the common thread: in every century, someone has to ask the difficult questions. As ever, I hope you find something new to read and enjoy here.

Medicus by Ruth Downie

“One moment the body was a person with a will and a future and a sense of humor and a liking for honeyed dates or goat cheese or other men’s wives. Then–and the change could take a second, or hours, or days, but the end was always the same–the body was just a mass of flesh which had to be disposed of before it stank.”

So what’s it about? The first mystery in a series set in Roman-occupied Britain in the second century, Medicus follows Gaius Petreius Ruso, an army doctor posted to a damp, distant frontier he suspects will offer equal measures of tedium and savagery. Recently divorced, professionally capable but personally unmoored, Ruso arrives expecting to treat routine ailments and keep his head down. Instead, he finds corruption within the ranks, uneasy alliances with the local Britons, and a series of suspicious deaths that refuse to behave like accidents.

When he impulsively purchases a slave girl named Tilla - who proves sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and far more perceptive than he anticipates - Ruso acquires not just household help but an unexpected ally. As the two are drawn into a murder investigation that exposes the fault lines of the occupation, suspicion spreads through the fort and into the surrounding settlements. To uncover the truth, Ruso must rely not only on medical logic but on a partnership he never intended to form.

What’s great about it? Downie’s real skill lies in tonal control. The novel is deeply researched - the surgical procedures, the petty military politics, the omnipresent mud (some things clearly never change) - yet the detail never clogs the narrative. It feels inhabited rather than exhibited. The humour is dry and witty; Ruso is intelligent but irritable, competent but occasionally ridiculous. He’s no kind of a conquering hero, which makes him far more convincing.

Equally, Tilla prevents the story from becoming a Roman monologue, shifting the Roman occupation from background setting to lived reality. Their dynamic - wary, sparky, gradually respectful - gives the mystery emotional depth. The plot is cleverly constructed, but it’s the character work, especially the prickly, slow-burning dynamic between Ruso and Tilla, that gives the book (and indeed the series) real staying power.

Give it a try if: you love reluctant heroes; you love books which are wry and witty; you’re fascinated by the ancient world or the Roman empire; you love stories which bring their eras to life; you like books set in England.

A Swarming Of Bees by Theresa Tomlinson

“Fridgyth turned her face towards the ever-growing monastery, built high above the wild ocean, where sea eagles and gulls soared, set back a little way from the exposed clifftops. The fine carved pediment of the guest house and the wooden cross that crowned the church could both be seen above the strong, protective stockade that surrounded the monastery buildings. The ancient beacon of Brigs Headland towered higher than anything else, where long ago the Chieftain Streon had built his roundhouse. The site commanded such a fine view of land and sea, that it made the inhabitants feel that they need never fear sudden attack, either by an approaching army or a fleet of ships..”

So what’s it about? Set in the aftermath of the Great Synod of Whitby in 664 AD, A Swarming of Bees centres on Fridgyth, a herb-wife in the coastal monastery of Streonshalh (modern Whitby). Trusted by the powerful Abbess Hild, she tends the sick and seeks medicinal remedies as a devastating plague sweeps through the abbey and the surrounding lands. But when deaths begin to outstrip what even pestilence can explain, Fridgyth suspects that illness may not be the only killer at work.

While historical figures such as Hild and the poet Caedmon appear in the background (a real joy for anyone with even a passing interest in the period), it’s Fridgyth herself who must become both healer and detective, using her instinct and local knowledge to investigate the unexplained deaths and the hidden motives of those arriving under the monastery’s hospitality. As social, religious and political tensions simmer around them, her pursuit of the truth leads into dangerous territory where fear, faith and folklore intersect.

What’s great about it? There are obvious echoes of Cadfael here; like Ellis, Tomlinson creates an atmosphere that feels intimate but situated within a wider context. The monastery isn’t a cloistered retreat but rather a hard-working community balancing spirituality, survival and scholarship. The setting feels lived-in – the clifftops, the plague-ridden huts, the crowded refectory – and the period detail enriches rather than overwhelms.

Fridgyth, as narrator and sleuth, is distinctive precisely because she isn’t a stereotypical heroine. A herb-wife with a foot in both the pagan and Christian worlds, she stands slightly outside every hierarchy, which makes her insights both grounded and surprising. The mystery unfolds patiently, with character and context given as much weight as plot twists, resulting in a story that feels both thoughtful and satisfying.

Give it a try if: you love female detectives, especially in settings where women had little power; you love mysteries set in small communities; you’re intrigued by early Christian history; you love stories featuring real historical characters; you love books which have a strong sense of place.

The Watermen by Patrick Easter

“Tom rolled onto his side. He understood the culture of silence, the wall of obduracy that met any question delving into the affairs of others. It was nothing personal: he was a stranger to the area, an outsider. He squinted out through the mud-spattered window. The light drizzle had turned to a steady downpour, creating a gurgling stream that was carrying away the detritus which had gathered in the alley since it last rained. A few hazy outlines scurried past, looking for cover. Suddenly, he remembered the ship he’d left the previous day.”

So what’s it about? Set in late eighteenth-century London, at the height of Georgian England’s commercial power, The Watermen is the first book in a series following former Royal Navy officer Tom Pascoe, newly appointed River Surveyor for the fledgling Marine Police. In theory, his task is simple: police the Thames and protect the vast flow of goods that keeps Britain solvent during its war with Revolutionary France. In practice, the river is a lawless artery where theft is endemic and loyalties are fluid. When a prostitute is brutally attacked and government revenues begin to dip alarmingly, Pascoe suspects organised corruption at the highest levels of the docks.

At the centre of that corruption stands crime lord Joseph Boylin, who rules the waterfront through intimidation and influence. As Pascoe pursues leads along the riverbanks and into taverns thick with smoke and suspicion, he forms an uneasy alliance with Sam Hart, a Jewish immigrant with his own stake in the outcome. What begins as an investigation into missing cargo evolves into something far more personal, drawing Pascoe into a rivalry with Boylin that tests both his professional resolve and his moral compass.

What’s great about it? For me, this book’s greatest strength is its sense of place and period. Easter conjures up the slimy, crowded streets of Wapping and the chaotic docks of the Thames with visceral detail – the cloying smells, the rotting timbers, the clatter of commerce and crime side by side – so that London itself becomes almost a character in the story. The historical detail does real narrative work: the fragility of Britain’s wartime finances and the infancy of organised policing raise the stakes beyond a single crime.

Pascoe makes for a satisfying protagonist partly because he’s not entirely at ease in his new role. Shaped by naval hierarchy, he is now navigating civilian corruption where rules are more malleable. His rivalry with Boylin gives the novel propulsion, while Sam Hart widens the social lens, revealing a London layered with prejudice, opportunity and survivalism. The result is a crime story with heft - brisk in pace but grounded in a convincingly rendered world.

Give it a try if: you love books set in London; you like books which explore the criminal underworld; you’re curious about the history of policing; you like books which give a perspective on the social issues of their setting.

One Way Or Another (Stranger Things) by Caitlin Schneiderhan

“I’ll skip straight to the ending. Because that’s my secret. If you know your ending, then everything that happens along the way just becomes … stuff that happens. It’s so much less important and so much less terrifying than we give it credit for. If you live like your future is certain, then it will be.”

So what’s it about? I bought this book on a whim when it was on special offer, with no idea whether it would be any good, but I’m so glad I did. Set in the Stranger Things universe in the narrative gap between Season 4 and Season 5 (no spoilers in the comments please, I still haven’t watched Season 5), One Way or Another follows Nancy Wheeler as Hawkins, Indiana, reels from the devastation of Vecna’s earthquake. Nancy has spent the months since the disaster obsessively chasing clues about Vecna’s whereabouts, even as she faces the unsettling question of whether she can actually leave for Emerson College in the autumn if Hawkins remains under the shadow of the Upside Down. While her role at The Hawkins Post gives her purpose, her determination to uncover the truth often borders on obsession.

When a classmate, Joey Taft, behaves strangely at graduation, Nancy’s instincts flare. Convinced that something more than nerves is at play, she begins digging. Joined by Robin Buckley, she uncovers unexplained illnesses, a shadowy man who seems to be tracking her movements, and unsettling links to powerful local figures. What starts as routine sleuthing escalates into a conspiracy that suggests the danger facing Hawkins is not yet finished - and that Nancy’s future may be more tightly bound to her hometown than she would like.

What’s great about it? This is a very fun read whether you have seen Stranger Things or not. What stands out is how confidently the novel translates Nancy from screen to page. Freed from ensemble pacing and visual spectacle, her investigative instincts can take centre stage. She is methodical, stubborn, and driven by a fierce sense of responsibility - qualities that sometimes sit quietly in the series but flourish here. Robin’s sceptical intelligence provides a sharp counterpoint, and together they feel less like supporting players and more like a formidable investigative duo.

The book also makes a smart choice in grounding its tension in aftermath rather than apocalypse. Instead of rushing back into full-scale supernatural chaos, it lingers in the emotional debris: trauma, uncertainty, the pull between escape and duty. Hawkins feels bruised but breathing. The mystery leans into a nostalgic small-town thriller mode - part Nancy Drew, part 1980s conspiracy drama - while remaining faithful to the show’s mythology. The result is character-led, tense, and surprisingly substantial for tie-in fiction.

Give it a try if: you love books set in the1980s; you love stories with ‘difficult’ female leads; you love Stranger Things; you’ve never seen Stranger Things but love detective stories; you liked Nancy Drew when you were younger.

The Hangman’s Daughter by Oliver Potzsch

“…a rumour is like smoke. It will spread, it will seep through closed doors and latched shutters, and in the end the whole town will smell of it.”

So what’s it about? Set in 1600s Bavaria, The Hangman's Daughter follows Magdalena Kuisl, the intelligent and fiercely observant daughter of the town executioner, and Simon Fronwieser, the physician’s son with aspirations beyond his provincial post. When a local midwife is accused of witchcraft after several children die under suspicious circumstances, the town turns quickly and viciously against her. Torture is authorised, and a confession seems inevitable.

Magdalena and Simon, however, are unconvinced. As hysteria tightens its grip and the machinery of accusation begins to grind forward, they start to investigate, uncovering financial corruption, personal vendettas and long-buried resentments. Their search for truth places them in direct opposition to both superstition and authority, revealing how easily fear can be shaped into a weapon - and how fragile justice becomes when reason is sidelined.

What’s great about it? Pötzsch has a personal connection to the material - he is descended from Bavarian executioners - but what really matters is the care of the research and the solidity of the world he builds. Early modern Bavaria feels harsh, hierarchical and intensely watchful. The social position of the hangman’s family is particularly compelling: indispensable to the town’s legal order yet permanently ostracised by it. That moral contradiction gives the story its emotional backbone.

The pacing is brisk without feeling modernised, and the period detail has grit rather than gloss. The novel examines witch-trial paranoia without turning the era into caricature; instead, it shows how economic pressure, religious anxiety and personal ambition can intertwine to devastating effect. It is both a tense historical thriller and a reminder that scapegoating thrives wherever fear outruns fairnessI. It’s a great first entry in a series worth reading.

Give it a try if: you love books set in Germany; you love detective stories where there’s a duo working together; you like stories where people on the outside get to lead the show.

Thanks for reading!

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In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Enjoyable 20th Century Classics

Kate Lillie — Sat, 31 Jan 2026 20:13:20 GMT

Boulevard Montmartre, Spring by Camille Pissarro (1897). There’s something about the buildings and the trees which brings to mind Clarissa Dalloway running her party errands.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I wanted to return to one of the most enduring categories in reading life – although I’m not sure it really qualifies as a genre per se – the classic novel. These are the books that outlast fashions, survive changes in taste, and continue to be read not out of duty, but because they still have something urgent, unsettling, or pleasurable to say. They are the novels that don’t just sit on the shelf, but linger in the mind.

Classics can sometimes feel intimidating, worthy, or faintly punishing – something to be “got through” rather than enjoyed. This month’s selection is a deliberate antidote to that idea. Every book here is genuinely readable and compelling, and because they’re all from the 20th century, the prose is generally more approachable than people often fear. These are not museum pieces. They are alive, argumentative, emotionally charged books that still know how to grip a reader.

When I say enjoyable, I don’t necessarily mean fun. I mean books you want to keep reading. Books with prose that stops you in your tracks, or structures that do something surprising, or characters who refuse to behave neatly. Some of these novels are unsettling, some are sad, some are quietly funny, and some are all three at once – but none of them are dull.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

“You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

So what’s it about? Lolita is presented as the memoir of Humbert Humbert, a cultured, self-dramatising European academic who becomes obsessed with twelve-year-old Dolores Haze, whom he nicknames “Lolita”. The book charts Humbert’s attempt to insinuate himself into her life, first by marrying her mother, then by assuming full control of Dolores after her mother’s sudden death. What follows is a cross-country journey across mid-century America, told entirely through Humbert’s voice.

Crucially, this is not a romance, despite Humbert’s best efforts to frame it as one. Dolores is a child. She is bored, frightened, manipulative in the way children sometimes are, and frequently miserable. The narrative is shaped by Humbert’s need to justify himself, to aestheticise his behaviour, and to enlist the reader’s sympathy, even as the facts he relates condemn him. The novel’s tension lies not in what happens - which is morally clear - but in how language is used to obscure, distort, and rationalise harm.

What’s great about it? Everybody says this - because it’s true - but wow, the prose. Nabokov’s language is astonishing: playful, precise, musical, and razor-sharp. Every sentence is doing several things at once. Humbert’s voice is seductive, witty, and grotesquely intelligent, and Nabokov never lets us forget that this brilliance is part of the problem. The beauty of the language is not there to excuse the story, but rather exposes how charm, culture, and eloquence can be used as tools of manipulation.

This is a serious book, often mischaracterised as controversial for its subject matter, when in fact it is controversial because it refuses to make things easy for the reader. Nabokov trusts us to read critically, to resist the narrator, and to sit with discomfort rather than reach for reassurance. It is a novel about power, self-deception, and the violence done by stories we tell ourselves: unsettling, yes, but also one of the clearest-eyed novels ever written about the dangers of confusing desire with entitlement, and art with absolution.

Give it a try if: you love beautiful prose, or any great writing; you don’t mind books that are uncomfortable; you love books that challenge you to think; you like books with unreliable narrators; you like books that explore the stories we tell ourselves and others; you don’t mind books which demand close, critical reading; you’re not looking for a book that gives emotional reassurance; you’re curious about the overlap between charm, intelligence and self-deception.

Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

“I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight.”

So what’s it about? Tender Is the Night opens on the French Riviera in the 1920s, where Dick and Nicole Diver appear to embody a certain kind of glamorous ease. They are rich, attractive, and socially magnetic, moving through expatriate circles with an air of effortless charm. To young actress Rosemary Hoyt, who becomes briefly entangled in their orbit, the Divers seem to represent adulthood at its most alluring - cultured, confident, and complete.

As the novel unfolds, this polished surface fractures. The narrative shifts backwards and sideways, revealing the hidden architecture of the Divers’ marriage. Dick is a gifted psychiatrist whose career and sense of self have become entangled with Nicole’s wealth and fragile mental health. What initially looks like romance is gradually revealed to be something more troubling and asymmetrical, and the Riviera’s sunlit languor gives way to a story of exhaustion, compromise, and slow moral erosion.

What’s great about it? What Fitzgerald does better here than almost anywhere else is capture the moment when brilliance begins to dim. Tender Is the Night is not about sudden catastrophe but about gradual depletion - the quiet way in which talent, love, and idealism can be worn down by care-taking, indulgence, and a lack of boundaries. Dick Diver’s decline is rendered with devastating subtlety. We see him giving pieces of himself away long before he realises there will be nothing left.

It’s also a remarkable study of glamour as illusion. Fitzgerald understands that beauty and privilege can act as a kind of anaesthetic, dulling both pain and responsibility. The Riviera setting is not merely decorative; it mirrors the characters’ moral drift, where days blur, consequences are deferred, and charm provides a substitute for integrity. Written out of Fitzgerald’s own disillusionment and personal struggle, Tender Is the Night feels painfully honest. It is less showy than The Great Gatsby, but deeper, sadder, and in many ways more grown-up - a novel about what happens after the party, when the music fades and the lights come on.

Give it a try if: you love books about marriage, especially complex, emotionally imbalanced marriages; you liked The Great Gatsby but want something sadder and more emotionally complex; you love stories with lots of glamour, especially when it has a dark underbelly; you like beauty that’s tinged with exhaustion.

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”

So what’s it about? Mrs Dalloway takes place over the course of a single June day in post-First World War London. Clarissa Dalloway, a society woman in her early fifties, moves through the city preparing for a party she will host that evening. As she walks through Westminster, buying flowers and greeting acquaintances, her thoughts drift fluidly between the present moment and memories of her youth, her marriage, and a formative summer that still exerts a quiet pull on her inner life.

Running alongside Clarissa’s story is that of Septimus Warren Smith, a young veteran traumatised by his experiences in the First World War. Woolf interweaves their consciousnesses without ever bringing them together, using shifting perspectives to explore how individuals experience time, memory, love, and despair. The ordinary events of the day are charged with emotional intensity, as private thoughts ripple beneath the surface of public life.

What’s great about it? What makes Mrs Dalloway both extraordinary and enjoyable is Woolf’s radical attention to inner experience. The novel is less concerned with plot than with perception - how a life feels from the inside. Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness style allows moments to expand and contract, capturing the way memory intrudes, overlaps, and reshapes the present: a passing sound, a remembered face, a fleeting regret, each carrying the weight of decades. It is an astonishingly intimate form of storytelling.

The novel is also quietly political. Through Septimus’s treatment by the medical establishment, Woolf delivers a searing critique of a society unwilling to confront the psychological cost of war. Through Clarissa, she examines the compromises demanded of women, the fragility of social roles, and the private costs of outward success. Mrs Dalloway is demanding, in the sense that it asks the reader to slow down and pay attention. In return, it offers something rare: a profound sense of recognition, and the feeling of having briefly inhabited another consciousness with absolute clarity.

Give it a try if: you love books which are character-driven rather than plot-driven; you’re fascinated by memory, inner life and the passage of time; want to read something which allows you to fully inhabit another person’s inner life; feel like reading something which demands your full attention while still being enjoyable.

The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi

“And so I sat in the centre of this old city that I loved, which itself sat at the bottom of a tiny island. I was surrounded by people I loved, and I felt happy and miserable at the same time. I thought of what a mess everything had been, but that it wouldn’t always be this way.”

So what’s it about? Set in 1970s London, The Buddha of Suburbia follows Karim Amir, a mixed-race teenager navigating the peculiar and shifting landscape of his social, sexual, and cultural identity. The novel begins in the bland suburbs of South London, where Karim lives with his father, Haroon, a charismatic and self-styled “Buddha” figure who has reinvented himself after leaving his wife. Karim’s curiosity and appetite for life soon carry him into the city, where he becomes entangled in theatre, fashion, and the dizzying whirl of countercultural London.

The narrative is as much about personal exploration as it is about the quirks and contradictions of 1970s Britain. Karim observes, participates in, and often satirises the shifting mores, racial tensions, and class pretensions of his world. The novel is episodic and playful, moving between comedic encounters, awkward sexual awakenings, and piercing social commentary, all filtered through Karim’s witty, intelligent, and often mischievous perspective.

What’s great about it? Kureishi’s strength here is his voice: lively, ironic, and generous in its curiosity about human behaviour. Karim is a brilliant narrator, both self-aware and delightfully naive, and the book relishes the contradictions of adolescence and cultural hybridity. London in the 1970s is vividly realised - swinging, awkward, politically charged, and full of possibility - and the novel captures both its glamour and its absurdity.

Beyond humour and nostalgia, the book is a sharp exploration of identity and belonging. Race, class, sexuality, and family all intersect in Karim’s life, but the novel refuses the heaviness of sermonising, favouring instead keen observation and an appetite for life’s messiness. It is a coming-of-age story, a social satire, and a portrait of a city all at once smart, alive, and endlessly entertaining, and one that remains startlingly fresh decades even now, decades after it was first published.

Give it a try if: you love coming of age stories; you love books full of humour; you’re interested in questions of identity and belonging; you enjoy novels which transport you to a specific time and place and really bring it to life; you’re looking for something lively and sharp for your next read.

Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks

“The function of music is to liberate in the soul those feelings which normally we keep locked up in the heart.”

So what’s it about? Birdsong follows Stephen Wraysford, a young Englishman, across two interwoven timelines: his passionate affair with Isabelle Azaire in pre-First World War France, and his later experiences as a soldier in the trenches of northern France. The novel moves seamlessly between the intimate, charged spaces of love and the unrelenting, horrific realities of war, showing how both shape and haunt a person over a lifetime.

The narrative traces Stephen’s personal evolution amid these extremes. The novel is unflinching about the horrors of the First World War, yet it is also deeply concerned with memory, longing, and the human need to connect. Faulks alternates between periods of extraordinary sensuality and unbearable brutality, highlighting how love and war coexist in the same world, often in tension and sometimes in collision.

What’s great about it? Faulks’s prose is immersive and deeply affecting. He has a remarkable ability to make readers feel both the intensity of desire and the physical, psychological reality of warfare. The novel’s love scenes are emotionally vivid without tipping into sentimentality, and the depictions of the trenches are raw, detailed, and convincing. The contrast between these two worlds - the intimate and the catastrophic - gives the novel a powerful rhythm.

Beyond the craft of writing, Birdsong succeeds because it refuses simple moralising. War is terrible, yes, but Faulks is more interested in how people survive it, how they carry the past into the present, and how memory can be both a balm and a torment. The novel lingers not because of its plot twists but because of its emotional honesty: it confronts desire, grief, courage, and loss with unflinching clarity, leaving the reader profoundly moved and quietly haunted.

Give it a try if: you love books which are beautifully written; you’re in the mood for heartbreak and tragedy; you like books which are emotionally intense; you want to read a First World War story which focuses on emotional as well as physical survival.

Thanks for reading!

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In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Books To Change Your Life

Kate Lillie — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 15:08:59 GMT

Clytie Transformed into a Sunflower by Charles de La Fosse, 1688.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, we have all been wiped out with this awful flu that seems to be doing the rounds - just in time for Christmas too. We have still had a lovely time but honestly, it has made me yearn for rhythm and routine even more than I usually do. I just cannot wait to feel normal again.

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s resolutions in the traditional sense; I have never found them to be very successful and I don’t like the sense of pressure and guilt they create. Instead, I usually do a bit of a stocktake of how things are going in the various areas of my life - family, friends, health, spirituality, work, finances - and take some time to reflect on how I want those areas to grow and change over the coming year. This approach has always worked pretty well for me (I suspect because it hands the reins over to my subconscious, which can then just crack on with things). This year though, I’m finding that the thing I need the most is space - the kind of space that rhythm and routine are so good at creating, at least for me. Space to think, to create, to focus on things; less time spent reacting. So my priority this year will be to find a rhythm that works for us as a family and allows me the space I need to do all the important but non-urgent things that bring the most joy.

In that spirit, I thought this month that I’d share some books which have helped me at one point or another in some of the different areas of my life I mentioned above. None are traditional self-help books per se (possibly the most Marmite of genres) but rather are thoughtful, well-written books that set out either to share wisdom or to provide practical solutions to common concerns. I hope that one of them helps you find whatever space you might need as we move into a new year and that 2026 is the happiest year yet for all of you.

Less by Patrick Grant

“In little more than a century we have gone from owning just a few cherished, purposeful objects that lasted a lifetime, the making of which supported satisfying and pleasant work for many, to possessing an overwhelming abundance of valueless, disposable stuff which brings us no more than fleeting enjoyment or satisfaction, and heaps harm on the people who make it and on the planet.”

So what’s it about? Patrick Grant - Savile Row tailor, designer, Great British Sewing Bee judge, and all-round advocate for doing things properly - starts with a simple fact: we own far more stuff than we ever used to, and most of it brings us remarkably little pleasure, clothes especially. They arrive cheaply, briefly, and leave just as fast, often barely worn and quietly guilt-inducing.

Less is part memoir, part cultural critique, part calm manifesto. Grant draws on his life in fashion and his background in materials science to explain how we ended up here - how speed, low prices and the endless churn of “new” have hollowed out both craftsmanship and satisfaction. When everything is disposable, nothing is cherished.

What’s great about it? What’s great about Less is that is has authority without arrogance. Patrick Grant knows this world from the inside - tailoring, manufacturing, retail, the lot - so his critique of fast fashion and overconsumption isn’t theoretical or hand-wavy. It’s grounded, practical, and hard to dismiss. He explains how we got here in a way that feels lucid rather than hectoring, and somehow manages to restore pleasure to a conversation that can often feel saturated with self-righteousness.

Grant isn’t interested in selling virtue or guilt; he’s arguing for enjoyment - the deep, long-term satisfaction of things that fit well, last well, and are made with care. The key argument here is for discernment: for fewer, better things, for buying with intention, for repairing what we have, valuing skill, and reconnecting consumption with meaning. Less clutter, less noise, less waste - but more pleasure, more pride, more care.

Give it a try if: you love books that tackle serious issues without getting preachy; you love books which have genuine insider knowledge of the subject they’re critiquing; you love books which are positive and generous in intent; you like books which have interesting historical asides and are deeply thoughtful; you feel overwhelmed by stuff; you are horrified at the poor quality of goods which seems to have become the modern standard.

How To Cook Without A Book by Pam Anderson

“Unlike my grandparents and parents, I own a roomful of cookbooks. I have cookbooks not only of remote and distant countries, but of specific regions within those countries. Yet with a glut of cookbooks and an abundance of available ingredients, no one seems to know how or what to cook… What we grew up with doesn’t work anymore, yet a new way of cooking is not clear. With our broadened palates, available ingredients, yet busier schedules, we need to discover one. Like our parents and grandparents, we need to learn how to cook without recipes.”

So what’s it about? How To Cook Without A Book aims to give you the ability to open the fridge or cupboard, look at what you’ve got in, and rustle up a delicious meal reliably, easily and without fuss. As such, its a book of methods rather than recipes, although it does include base recipes which are easy to learn and adjust. Essentially, Anderson wants to teach you how to think like a cook rather than just follow instructions slavishly. Anderson strips back the usual recipe list and shows that most dishes are just variations on a theme - once you understand the method, you can improvise with whatever’s in your kitchen. Each chapter focuses on a basic cooking technique (sautéing, salads, sauces, roasting), combines clear “master” recipes with variations, and includes handy charts so you remember key steps by heart. I have an old edition of it but I understand that there’s a newer, updated version which includes new sections covering one-pot and sheet-pan meals, which I can imagine is even more useful.

What’s great about it? If, like me, you love cooking, then this is the single most important book you can buy. I have a fairly extensive cookbook collection and as much as I enjoy cooking dishes from around the world, the most frequent kitchen skill I need is to be able to create something reliably delicious whatever I have in the house. This book helps you to do just that - it teaches you to trust your instincts instead of just following a recipe. It teaches you why you’re doing what you’re doing, which gives you the knowledge and confidence to be able to adapt as you go. As a result, dinner becomes less about hunting for the perfect recipe and more about mastering a handful of reliable techniques that can serve you for life. If you want to build your confidence in the kitchen and be able to cook reliably great food with ease (and without taking expensive lessons) then this is the book for you. You’ll come away knowing how to dress any salad, how to improvise a pan sauce, how to create a satisfying meal from an almost empty fridge, and much more.

Give it a try if: you love cooking but are tired of meal planning or trying to find the perfect recipe; you hate cooking but want to eat well; you’re pressed for time but tired of take-aways; you want to improve your cooking techniques without needing lessons; you want to get back to eating wholesome, home-cooked food without fuss or drama.

The Organised Mum Method by Gemma Bray

“Whenever you don’t want to do something, you ask yourself, ‘Will this make my life harder in the future? Am I being my future friend?’”

So what’s it about? The Organised Mum Method is a down-to-earth guide to getting on top of housework without it taking over your life. At its heart is a structured, manageable cleaning routine that breaks the seemingly-endless chores into bite-sized 30-minute sessions, five days a week, so that weekends can be kept for living rather than scrubbing.

Gemma Bray, founder of the TOMM system, takes you through how to shift from reactive, overwhelming cleaning to a proactive rhythm where each part of the home gets attention on a set schedule, and clutter and mess stop piling up out of sight and out of mind. This means that your house gets cleaner the longer you follow the plan, which in turn means no more deep cleans or spring cleans, because everything is already done. Bray provides clear schedules which can be easily adapted to any home as well as checklists, quick tricks and shortcuts to help you get things done.

What’s great about it? What works about this book is that it turns a monstrous to-do list into something almost doable. If you’re a person (like me) who can only relax when the house is clean and tidy, housework can easily begin to feel never-ending. The TOMM method gives it both shape and limits so it feels like a series of short, purposeful tasks rather than an eternal grind and gives you plenty of time for the rest of your life.

Even better is the tone. Bray writes with the sort of relaxed, reassuring voice you’d want from a friend who has been there and doesn’t judge you for having dust bunnies under the sofa. The method acknowledges real life - kids, work, chaos - and offers gentle, practical scaffolding rather than guilt or Instagram-perfect goals. It’s about reclaiming time, not creating more chores, and that’s exactly why it works so well.

Give it a try if: you want a clean, tidy house but the to-do list feels overwhelming; you love books which have a sense of humour; you want to find a good balance between chores and the rest of your life; you want to feel more peaceful and relaxed in your home but have too much clutter to be able to switch off.

Built To Move by Kelly and Juliet Starrett

“This is what we should all be doing as we grow older—a deep dive into what old age really looks like and training for it rather than just crossing our fingers and hoping that our genetics are good. You may not be able to prevent a catastrophe like cancer or Parkinson’s disease, but there are things you can do to prepare for the years ahead, even if old age is very far ahead.”

So what’s it about? Built to Move isn’t a gym-style training manual or another “more burpees” fitness book. It’s a practical, life-friendly guide to helping your body feel better now and to age with more ease and joy. Drawing on decades of experience with athletes, military personnel and everyday people, the Starretts ask what makes a durable, agile human in an age of chairs, screens and sedentary jobs. The book centres on a simple but powerful formula: a set of ten easy movement tests paired with ten practices you can weave into daily life to improve mobility, reduce stiffness and support long-term health. Alongside this, they weave in sensible advice on breathing, sleep, nutrition and how to sneak more natural movement into your day so your body stays useful rather than creaky.

What’s great about it? Where Built to Move really lands is in its accessibility. You don’t need a gym membership, a smart watch or an hour of free time to start. The tests and practices are grounded in everyday life - things like getting up and down from the floor, walking enough steps, and reclaiming the hip and shoulder mobility that modern sitting habits have eroded. That focus on simple, repeatable habits makes the book feel less like a programme you’ll ditch after a week and more like a set of tools you can actually use.

Even better, it doesn’t preach performance for its own sake. The Starretts are less interested in how fast you can sprint or how heavy you can lift, and more in how your body feels and functions in your life now, and ten years from now. There’s a gentle long-game perspective here - movement as longevity, as comfort, as freedom of motion rather than punishment. For anyone who’s ever felt stiffness, nagging aches or simply a creeping sense that their body isn’t as spry as it used to be, this book offers a grounded, encouraging way forward without melodrama or technical intimidation.

What I love most about this book is that it’s not a book for people who are already passionate about exercise; instead, it’s a book for people who want to live well, and the focus is very much on how to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible rather than on how to excel in any given area.

Give it a try if: you want to get healthier but have no desire to run a marathon or get really into a particular sport; you want to age gracefully and healthily; you want to be able to move easily on a day to day basis.

My Grandfather’s Blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen

“Finding meaning does not require us to live differently; it requires us to see our lives differently. Many of us already live far more meaningful lives than we know. When we go beyond the superficial to the essential, things that are familiar and even commonplace are revealed in new ways. Meaning may change the way we see ourselves and the world. People who have felt themselves to be victims may be surprised to realize they are heroes.”

So what’s it about? My Grandfather’s Blessings is a luminous collection of stories, reflections and gentle wisdom drawn from Rachel Naomi Remen’s life as a doctor, teacher and granddaughter of an Orthodox rabbi who saw life as a tapestry of connection and meaning. At its heart is the idea that our lives are filled with blessings we often overlook - moments of grace, kindness and belonging that slip past when we’re distracted by busyness, fear or difficult emotions. Drawing on encounters with patients facing illness, her own personal journey and the lessons from her grandfather’s mystical way of seeing the world, Remen invites the reader to recognise and receive the everyday gifts around us, and to offer blessings - by listening, by presence, by small acts of compassion - in return. It’s a book about belonging, wholeness, service and discovering that the ordinary can be sacred if we learn to see it.

What’s great about it? What makes this book truly resonate is its quiet, human scale. Remen isn’t trying to dazzle you with cleverness or grand theories; she meets you where you are - in the messy, unpolished middle of real life - and shows how tenderness and meaning grow out of ordinary experiences. Her stories of patients, of grief and resilience, of humour and heartbreak, are shared with a mix of humility and clarity that feels like a friend speaking to you over tea rather than a sermon from on high. There’s a profound warmth here: no sugar-coating, just an invitation to slow down and recognise the sparks of goodness around (and within) us.

The book’s wisdom isn’t abstract. It’s rooted in practical humanity - how listening generously can heal, how simple acts of service create connection, how recognising blessings can become a practice rather than a fleeting thought. Remen gently reframes suffering not as something to be fixed or feared, but as a doorway to compassion and wholeness, reminding us that our shared vulnerability can be a source of belonging rather than shame. It’s a rare kind of book: thoughtful without being heavy, spiritual without being vague, and generous without being idealistic.

Give it a try if: you want to nurture a sense of spirituality without necessarily engaging in religion; you love thoughtful books about human nature; you love stories about family, courage and love; you enjoy books which are philosophical yet easy to read.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Books For Mystery Connoisseurs

Kate Lillie — Sun, 30 Nov 2025 18:37:15 GMT

The Astronomer by Johannes Vermeer, c. 1668.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month, I thought I’d return to my first reading love - detective stories. Long-term readers might remember an article I wrote for ’s So Novelicious quite a while ago where I shared my love of detective fiction (and indeed my earliest childhood career choice - to be a detective). You can read more about that here:

SoNovelicious, Books & Reading & More Books

How a Childhood Ambition Turned Into a Lifelong Love of Detective Fiction

Hi readers…

3 years ago · 39 likes · 26 comments · Gayla Gray

I have previously covered detective stories in a special double edition linked here, here and here).

So this month’s edition is something a little different, in the sense that all of this month’s books are in translation. If you’ve finished off all the Agatha Christies, read all of Sherlock Holmes, Peter Robinson and Ian Rankin, are tired of Morse or Gamache and feel like trying something new, then I hope you’ll find just the thing amongst the books below. From Russia to Iceland, via Japan and Denmark, here are five fantastic detective stories, all with irresistible mysteries and clever solutions.

The Dinosaur Feather by Sissel-Jo Gazan, translated by Charlotte Barslund

“Scientific controversies were par for the course. People had argued whether the earth was flat or round, whether man was related to the apes, the status of the Milky Way compared to the rest of the universe, with a fervour which ceased the moment sufficient evidence became available. The earth is round, man is a primate, and the Milky Way does mainly consist of red stars. However, the controversy surrounding the origins of birds appeared to be different. It rumbled on, even though, scientifically speaking, there was nothing left to discuss.”

So what’s it about? A PhD student working on the saurian theory of bird evolution in the cut-throat world of Danish academia finds herself drawn into a murder investigation when her supervisor is found dead in his office, her blood-stained PhD thesis in his lap. What initially appears to be an isolated crime is soon revealed to be entangled with old rivalries, contested research, and a controversial scientific discovery that once promised fame and now threatens reputations. The investigation gradually uncovers a tangled history of ambition, deception, and moral compromise, showing how far people will go to protect their work - and themselves.

What’s great about it? This is one of the best-written crime novels I’ve ever read - it’s literary but doesn’t sacrifice suspense or intrigue. Gazan takes the familiar territory of university politics - grants, credit, jealousy, prestige - and shows how easily ambition slips into compromise, and compromise into lifelong guilt. The science is fascinating and thoroughly explored, which makes the novel richer, and while it explores the scientific question of dinosaur to bird evolution, it’s also interested n love, in the cost of truth, and in how the decisions we make when we are young and bright slowly harden around us.

Give it a try if: you love intellectual books which have something fascinating to share; you love a complex but satisfying mystery; you usually love literature but feel like dipping a toe into genre fiction; you like Scandi noir.

Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto, translated by Jesse Kirkwood

“Sometimes, a preconceived opinion will make us overlook the obvious. This is a frightening thing. We call it common sense but it often leaves us with a blind spot. Even if something appears to be obvious one should investigate, objectively, to make absolutely sure.”

So what’s it about? When the bodies of a man and a woman are found on a remote beach, the authorities quickly conclude that the couple died by suicide. The case seems straightforward, neat, and emotionally legible. Yet when small irregularities begin to surface, noticed not by dramatic flair but by patient attention to timing, movement, and record-keeping, two detectives determined to solve the case find themselves up against a seemingly impossible crime.

What’s great about it? Tokyo Express is a masterclass in understatement : beautiful, quiet prose with a cleverly constructed crime at the centre. Perhaps most remarkably, Matsumoto builds suspense not through escalation, but through subtraction - fewer suspects, fewer theories, tighter margins for error. This isn’t something I’ve seen often, and I read a lot of mysteries - I imagine it must be difficult to do well, and still keep the book interesting, so I really admired it. The real drama of the book lies in logistics: timetables, alibis, and the grinding persistence of a detective who refuses to accept a neat answer simply because it would be convenient.

It also doubles as a portrait of post-war Japan grappling with corruption and power that operates politely, publicly, and just out of reach. The tone is cool, restrained, and quietly devastating. You finish it with the unsettling feeling that to get away with murder depends not on passion, but on planning – and that many crimes must go completely undiscovered.

Give it a try if: you love clever mysteries; you’re not a fan of thriller-style detective stories but like books that are more calm and measured; you love books with memorable detectives or main characters; you love books which capture and particular time and place.

The Decagon House Murders by Yukito Ayatsuji, translated by Ho-Ling Wong

“In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual puzzle. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.”

So what’s it about? In cult classic The Decagon House Murders, a group of mystery-loving university students travel to a small, isolated island to stay in an unusual, decagon-shaped house. The site is infamous: some years earlier, a series of brutal murders took place there, and the house itself has become a kind of architectural memorial to violence. Soon after the students’ arrival, history begins to repeat itself. Will any of the students make it out alive?

What’s great about it? This book is pure intellectual pleasure. Ayatsuji writes with one eye permanently winking at the reader, constructing a puzzle that is both homage and critique of classic whodunits, especially Agatha Christie. It’s playful without being silly, rigorous without being dry - and profoundly satisfying if you enjoy spotting the clues and trying to solve the mystery yourself: all the clues are there. The author never cheats. If you miss the solution, it’s because you looked where he wanted you to look. It’s the literary equivalent of a beautifully designed maze - and a reminder of how exhilarating clever plotting can be when it’s done with confidence.

Give it a try if: you love Agatha Christie or any of the other Golden Age writers; you love seemingly-impossible mysteries; you like books with atmosphere.

Last Rituals by Yrsa Sigurdardottir, translated by Bernard Scudder

“Clothes maketh the man, say those who can afford the best. And by their shoes ye shall know them.”

So what’s it about? A young German student researching Icelandic witchcraft texts is found murdered in his Reykjavík apartment, his death marked by disturbing ritualistic elements. Thóra Guðmundsdóttir, a lawyer with a knack for investigation, is asked to assist, drawn into a case that sits uneasily between ancient belief and modern brutality, drawing in medieval manuscripts, academic obsession, and personal histories as the investigation progresses.

What’s great about it? This is classic Nordic noir, but with a twist of warmth. Thóra is pragmatic, funny, and refreshingly unimpressed by melodrama, which only makes the darkness around her feel more real. The Icelandic setting is used brilliantly, not as atmosphere for atmosphere’s sake, but as a culture shaped by isolation, history, and long memory.

This is much darker than this month’s other recommendations, but it balances its brutality with intelligence and restraint. The past is never romanticised, and belief is treated as a force that can both sustain and destroy. The story is chilling without being gratuitous and anchored by a protagonist you quickly come to trust, which is no small thing in a book this bleak.

Give it a try if: you love Scandi noir; you like your mysteries dark; you love books set in Iceland; you love female protagonists who are both capable and funny.

The Turkish Gambit by Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

“The titular counselor buttoned up his collar and replied seriously: ‘If you live in a state, you should either ch-cherish it or leave it—anything else is either parasitism or mere lackeys’ gossip’.”

So what’s it about? I’ve written before about this series and the wonderful Erast Fandorin, so this is the second book in the series. Set during the Russo-Turkish War of the 1870s, the novel follows Fandorin, a clever and observant diplomat, as he becomes entangled in a web of espionage and political intrigue. Rumours of a high-level spy threaten military strategy, and Fandorin is tasked with uncovering the truth amid shifting alliances and active battlefields.

As the investigation unfolds, the novel ranges widely - across camps, cities, and social classes - revealing a world where information is as valuable as weaponry. Misdirection, coded signals, and carefully managed appearances drive the plot forward. The result is a crime story shaped by war, where certainty is rare and loyalty always provisional.

What’s great about it? Akunin is enormously fun, but never lightweight. The plotting is intricate, the pacing immaculate, and the historical detail worn lightly. You learn a great deal without ever feeling lectured. Fandorin himself is one of crime fiction’s great creations - intelligent, observant, and quietly moral in a world that rewards neither quality.

What really makes this book stand out is the blend of genres: spy novel, detective story, historical adventure - it has a bit of everything but all of it works. It’s clever, elegant, and sharply aware of how narratives are manipulated in wartime. You close the book aware that “truth” is often just the most convincing version of events - and that good storytelling has always been a strategic weapon.

Give it a try if: you love books with brilliant, charismatic, likeable heroes; you love mysteries that have a bit of extra depth; you love historical fiction; you love books set in Russia.

Thanks for reading!

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In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Books To Make Your Skin Crawl

Kate Lillie — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 20:33:20 GMT

The Garden Of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1450.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

Things are still hectic here so I am putting the fun stuff edition of the newsletter on hold for a while until I have more time to dedicate to it. In the meantime, we’ll still have the regular FBF newsletter (like this one!) and I might share a few extra links here and there as little extras if I find something interesting.

Here in Spain summer feels like it has lasted forever this year - here we are at the end of October and I’m still drinking iced coffee, and the dragonflies are everywhere - usually we see them in the summer so it’s very strange to still be seeing so many of them now. It means that thoughts of Halloween are even further away for me than usual, although we have had some heavy rain and a very dramatic thunderstorm this week, which has helped me feel a bit more autumnal.

If you’ve been here for a while you already know that I’m a big fan of seasonal (and indeed locational) reading, but I try to vary the October recommendations each year so that I’m sharing a wide range of books with you instead of too many things in the same vein.

This year, I thought it would be interesting to move away from typical supernatural horror and look at some books which make you feel unsettled - so, not typical Halloween stories at all, even though they often achieve the same aim of provoking a strong reaction, in the same way that a horror story might. It takes great skill to write this kind of book; one of the recommendations below made me so tense reading that I had to keep putting it down and taking a break because I just couldn’t bear the tension. All of them stayed with me long after I’d read them, and while they’re all quite different from each other, they are all absolutely brilliant reads which I hope you’ll enjoy. I’d love to hear from you if you’ve read any of them and see what you thought, and whether you found them as suspenseful as I did!

Other writing

Over at Global Comment you can catch up on my most recent Great Adaptations and Late To The Movies columns.

At Great Adaptations, on the theme of unsettling reads, I take a look at Stephen King’s Carrie: a brilliant read and a very unsettling film.

At Late To The Movies, there are two new columns up: one on German Expressionism and one on the dawn of Hollywood’s Golden Age. It was fascinating watching the films for these - I loved learning more about German Expressionism and getting to watch some utterly brilliant options from the 1930s.

Bonus: on the topic of German Expressionism, , one of my favourite writer-artists, just sent this wonderful newsletter.

Okay, onto this month’s recommendations!

Death Of A Bookseller by Alice Slater

“My life really started when I gave up trying to fit in, when I settled into myself, like an alligator sinking into a swamp.”

So what’s it about? Death of a Bookseller is a darkly comic, unsettling novel set in a small branch of a high-street bookshop in East London. It centres on two women who work there: Roach, a morbid, lonely bookseller with a fascination for true crime, and Laura, her bright, bookish, seemingly well-adjusted colleague.

Roach is in her late twenties, socially awkward and isolated, her flat filled with mould and the paraphernalia of her true-crime obsession: podcasts, memorabilia, and the biographies of the serial killers she half-worships. She sees in Laura a kindred spirit when she discovers that Laura once had a connection to a real-life murder - a traumatic event from her past that she rarely speaks of. For Roach, this revelation is thrilling. She believes it makes them bonded somehow, united by their proximity to death.

Laura, however, wants nothing to do with it. She’s polite but firm, repulsed by Roach’s ghoulish fascination and the way she seems to fetishise violence. Yet Roach’s interest in Laura grows into something obsessive. She begins to follow Laura online, collect details about her life, and blur the line between curiosity and intrusion. But how far is Roach willing to go, and can Laura hold things together long enough to work out what’s going on?

What’s great about it? This is the type of book I’d normally read in one sitting, but it was such a tense read that I simply couldn’t - I had to keep putting it down and looking at pictures of puppies to break the tension. It is absolutely brilliant.

Perhaps the most striking thing about the book is its voice. Slater writes with wicked intelligence and a distinctly deadpan voice. Roach’s narration, in particular, is funny, grotesque, and oddly sympathetic, even when she’s at her most appalling: she’s the kind of character you desperately want to look away from, but can’t. The book’s humour is pitch-black, laced with cultural references and weary cynicism, but never glib.

The psychological tension is superbly handled. There’s no neat villain-or-victim divide; both Roach and Laura are complex, flawed, and often unreliable.

The book is a sharp take on true-crime culture: Slater understands the way we consume horror under the guise of empathy. Through Roach, she asks whether society’s obsessive interest in murder victims is just another form of voyeurism - and whether even ‘respectable’ true-crime fans are complicit in turning real suffering into entertainment. It’s a sharp commentary on social media ethics, fandom, and the illusion of moral superiority.

The setting is also a triumph. The bookshop feels claustrophobic and vividly real: full of fluorescent lights, tedious customers, stacks of pastel-coloured paperbacks, and the brittle camaraderie of underpaid staff. The detail is so precise it’s almost tactile. The everyday drudgery of retail becomes the backdrop for obsession, resentment, and power games, making the disturbance the reader feels both domestic and believable.

What starts as a workplace story about two very different women becomes an unnerving portrait of obsession, loneliness, and the ethics of consuming other people’s pain as entertainment.

Emotionally, what makes it powerful is that it’s not just about crime or death, but about loneliness and the hunger for meaning. Both Roach and Laura are haunted by isolation and grief, and their mutual fixation becomes a kind of distorted intimacy. That’s where the book’s real sting lies: it shows how, in the absence of genuine connection, people will cling to the darkest possible substitutes.

The ending, which I won’t spoil, is both chilling and thought-provoking. It doesn’t tie things up neatly; instead, it leaves you unsettled, questioning your own complicity in the very voyeurism the novel critiques.

Give it a try if: you love books that make you squirm; you love books that keep you on the edge of your seat; you love books which are also a commentary on modern culture; you like stories with sharp psychological insight; you love books set in London; you like true crime.

Last One At The Party by Bethany Clift

“Imagine spending four days dying from 6DM and saving all your hate up for one final message only to have it ruined by bad grammar.”

So what’s it about? Set in London in December 2023, Last One at the Party opens as a deadly virus known as 6DM – short for ‘Six Days Maximum’ – tears through the population. It’s brutally efficient: anyone who catches it dies within six days. The world collapses in record time: cities burn, the infrastructure of everyday life falls apart, and the few survivors face a desolate, dangerous landscape filled with decaying corpses, empty houses, and the eerie silence of extinction.

At the centre of this chaos is an unnamed woman who appears to be the last living person on Earth. Before the outbreak, she was ordinary to the point of invisibility – a woman who spent her life trying to fit in, to say and do the right things, to avoid standing out. Now, stripped of all expectation and social structure, she’s forced to confront who she really is when there’s no one left to witness her choices. Her only companion is a golden retriever she names Lucky, and together they embark on a journey across a ruined Britain in search of food, safety, and the faint possibility of finding another survivor.

Though it’s set in a post-apocalyptic world, Last One at the Party is as much an introspective character study as it is a survival story. The woman’s journey becomes one of self-discovery, grief, and reckoning – a darkly funny and brutally honest exploration of what it means to live when everything else has gone. Through her reflections on the past and her struggle to adapt to solitude, the novel asks what remains of identity and purpose when civilisation, relationships, and routine have vanished.

Clift balances horror and humour deftly, creating a story that’s both bleak and oddly life-affirming. The result is a sharp, emotional, and deeply human novel about loss, loneliness, and the strange absurdity of being the last one left to witness the end of the world.

What’s great about it? One of the great strengths of Last One at the Party lies in its narrator’s voice. She’s not a stereotypical apocalypse heroine - she’s not a steely survivor, and she has no grand plan for rebuilding humanity. She’s flawed, impulsive, often frightened, and deeply human. That vulnerability gives the book its heart. She reacts not as a hero but as an ordinary person would when faced with extraordinary horror. It’s refreshing, raw, and often very funny in its honesty. The absurdity of it all – the strange, comical moments that survive even in an apocalypse – provides balance against the bleakness. It keeps the story from tipping into despair and highlights the surreal comedy that often lurks inside tragedy.

Clift writes with a vivid sense of place. London’s deserted streets, abandoned cars, and eerily silent suburbs are rendered with cinematic precision. The imagery of the world collapsing feels immediate, but what lingers most is the quiet that follows – the stillness of a life stripped to its essentials. The contrast between the bustling city the narrator once knew and the wasteland it’s become gives the novel its haunting atmosphere.

The emotional arc is another highlight. The narrator begins as someone defined by compromise and insecurity, shaped by a lifetime of trying to please others. As the world disappears, so does her need to conform. Her evolution – from a woman paralysed by loneliness and guilt to someone who begins, however clumsily, to live for herself – is compelling. It’s not heroic in the conventional sense, but it’s deeply moving.

What also sets it apart is its originality within a crowded genre. Pandemic and apocalypse novels are hardly rare, but Last One at the Party focuses less on logistics and more on emotional survival. The virus, while terrifying, is almost background to the main question: who are we when there’s no one left to see us? The thing that stayed with me the most about this book wasn’t just the horrors of the premise but also the bigger questions the book is asking.

Ultimately, what’s great about Last One at the Party is how it makes the end of the world feel oddly personal. It’s about apocalypse, yes, but more importantly about the loneliness and liberation that come when there’s no one left to perform for. It’s brutal, funny, sad, and strangely life-affirming – a story not about how to save humanity, but how to rediscover what it means to be human.

Give it a try if: you love books with messy, imperfect female characters; you loved watching Fleabag; you like speculative fiction with emotional insight; you like books which take a big premise and explore it at a human scale; you love stories which ask thoughtful questions.

You Let Me In by Camilla Bruce

“Good girls smell like burnt tangerines for those with bad intentions - fragrant but bitter, it is a repellant. Bad girls like me smell like ripe apples, ready for picking, juicy and tart. No one will miss them at all.”

So what’s it about? You Let Me In is an eerie, genre-blurring novel that moves between gothic horror, dark fairy tale, and psychological suspense. It tells the story of Cassandra Tipp, a bestselling romance novelist who has always been shrouded in scandal. She’s known as an eccentric recluse, a woman whispered about for her strange behaviour and her connection to two violent deaths in her family’s past: her husband’s murder and her father and brother’s apparent murder-suicide. After years of silence, Cassandra vanishes, leaving behind a single manuscript addressed to her niece and nephew. The book itself is that manuscript - a sort of final confession.

In her note, Cassandra tells her heirs that they must read the entire document before they can claim their inheritance. What follows is a first-person narrative in which she recounts the story of her life: a childhood marked by abuse, trauma, and the constant presence of an otherworldly being called Pepper-Man. Whether Pepper-Man is a fae creature, a spirit, a delusion, or something more sinister is never made clear. He claims to love Cassandra, to protect her, to give her gifts - but his attention is suffocating, controlling, and deeply disturbing.

Cassandra insists that the fantastical events she describes - encounters with the faerie world, the rituals, the blood offerings - are all true. Yet the tone of her account keeps readers off balance. It could just as easily be the fractured testimony of a traumatised woman trying to make sense of the violence she’s endured. The book walks a razor-thin line between supernatural horror and psychological realism, forcing you to question whether Cassandra is a victim of otherworldly forces or the architect of her own terrible acts.

As the narrative unfolds, we learn more about the family tragedy that made Cassandra infamous, and about how her ‘relationship’ with Pepper-Man has shaped every stage of her life. There’s beauty as well as horror in her telling - a lyrical, dreamlike quality that makes the story feel both magical and monstrous. The ambiguity is deliberate: Bruce never confirms whether the supernatural is real, allowing readers to interpret Cassandra as either haunted by faeries or by her own mind.

What’s great about it? The most striking thing about the book is its atmosphere. Bruce writes in a lyrical, hypnotic voice that pulls you into Cassandra’s mind until you can no longer tell where reality ends and delusion begins. The tone is calm and intimate, even when describing terrible things. That contrast - gentle prose against horrific implication - makes the book profoundly disquieting. There’s no screaming horror here, only a quiet dread that seeps under your skin.

Cassandra herself is an extraordinary character. She’s intelligent, beguiling, manipulative, tragic, and possibly insane. You never quite trust her, yet you can’t stop listening. Through her eyes, the world becomes strange and feral: forests shimmer with menace, the fae world is seductive but cruel, and human relationships seem pale by comparison. What’s brilliant is that Bruce never forces the reader to decide whether Cassandra’s version of events is literal or metaphorical. The story works equally well as a supernatural haunting and as the fragmented memory of an abuse survivor trying to rewrite her pain as myth. That ambiguity is the book’s greatest strength.

The writing style is elegant and deliberate. Bruce draws on the rhythms of folklore: circular, incantatory, laced with imagery of woods, blood, and desire. The book is short but dense with mood and suggestion. It feels almost like a gothic confessional or a lost fairy story, and it has the same sort of darkness we see in the traditional fairy tales.

Thematically, the novel explores power, control, and storytelling. Cassandra’s “confession” is also a performance, an attempt to reclaim her story on her own terms. By the end, it’s unclear whether she’s offering truth or revenge. That makes the book not just a gothic tale but also a meditation on how women’s voices are doubted, twisted, or reclaimed in the face of violence.

Give it a try if: you love books which refuse to give easy answers; you love books which are richly imagined; you love books with memorable characters; you love books which explore difficult topics with sensitivity and imagination.

The Push by Ashley Audrain

“These are thoughts I never let leave my lips. These are thoughts most mothers don’t have.”

So what’s it about? The Push is a psychological drama that explores the dark side of motherhood, inheritance, and trauma. The novel is written as an intimate, confessional letter from Blythe Connor to her estranged husband, Fox, in which she tries to explain what happened to their family - and why she believes their daughter, Violet, is not like other children.

Blythe comes from a long line of women marked by mental illness and neglect. Her mother and grandmother both failed in different ways to provide love or stability, leaving Blythe determined to break the cycle when she has a child of her own. But when Violet is born, Blythe struggles to bond with her. The baby’s behaviour unsettles her - there’s a sense of something calculating, even cruel, in her daughter’s eyes - though Fox dismisses her fears as paranoia.

As Violet grows older, the cracks in the family deepen. When their second child, Sam, is born, Blythe finally experiences the easy, instinctive love she’d longed for. But tragedy strikes, and Blythe’s fragile sense of reality collapses. Was she right all along about Violet? Or is she reliving the ghosts of her own mother’s failures?

Tautly written and emotionally unflinching, The Push examines the tension between nature and nurture, the legacy of trauma, and the silent pressure to be a ‘good mother.’ It’s both a domestic thriller and a psychological study, and it’s unsettling because it explores the taboo of mother-child relationship breakdown.

What’s great about it? One of the book’s biggest achievements is its emotional intensity. Audrain writes with an intimacy that pulls readers directly into Blythe’s mind. You feel her anxieties, self-doubt, and mounting dread as if you were inside her consciousness. This closeness makes the story almost claustrophobic in the best way: you can’t put it down because you’re living her fear and uncertainty alongside her.

The novel also excels in its exploration of motherhood and trauma. It doesn’t shy away from the fact that some women struggle to bond with their children, nor from the complicated legacy of familial dysfunction. Blythe’s fears about Violet are unnerving precisely because they feel plausible: Audrain portrays a mother who is both loving and deeply flawed, trying to navigate the impossible expectations placed on women. This moral and emotional ambiguity is part of the book’s power.

The pacing and suspense are other highlights. Though the story is intimate and psychological, it reads with the tension of a thriller. There are hints that something terrible may happen, but the narrative keeps the reader guessing: is Blythe reliable, or is she haunted by her own trauma? The slow build to the climax is gripping, and it makes the finale hit with real emotional force.

The prose is spare yet lyrical, blending raw emotion with moments of reflection and sharp observation. She uses small domestic details - the rhythm of feeding a baby, the silence of a house, a child’s unexpected glance - to create tension and evoke dread. These details make the horror feel grounded in reality, which heightens the psychological impact.

The novel resonates because it asks difficult, universal questions. What makes a mother? How much of who we are is shaped by genetics versus upbringing? And what happens when we can’t control the narrative of our own lives - or our children’s?

Give it a try if: you love books which explore the depths of psychology; you love books about motherhood or women; you love thrillers which make you think.

Make Me by Lee Child

“The cops would call them perpetrators. Their lawyers would call them clients. Politicians would call them scum. Criminologists would call them sociopaths. Sociologists would call them misunderstood. The 110th MP would call them dead men walking.”

So what’s it about? Make Me is the twenty‑third book in the Jack Reacher series, although, like all the Reacher novels, it can be read as a standalone. The novel opens with Reacher arriving in the small town of Mother’s Rest, curious about its strange name. Reacher soon discovers that Mother’s Rest hides secrets far darker than its sleepy appearance suggest when his attention is drawn to a case involving a missing private investigator. His disappearance is tied to the town’s dark underbelly, and, as ever, Reacher’s curiosity and sense of justice compel him to look deeper.

As Reacher investigates, he uncovers a criminal network operating in the town, but what are they doing? The answers will be darker and more disturbing than he can imagine.

What’s great about it? I feel like I’m constantly recommending Reacher novels (I mean, they’re all so good, so…), but this one is slightly different. It’s darker than Child’s usual novels and it also starts off more slowly, beginning with an investigation that slowly ramps up the tension.

The setting is also a little different: in some ways Mother’s Rest reminded me of a horror movie, in the way that everything looks fine on the surface but you can sense that something is off. It’s a very effective way of building narrative tension, especially in a book that’s paced more slowly than the rest of the series.

Like all Reacher books, the confrontation and delivery of justice is hugely satisfying, but what stands out here is Reacher’s investigative brain, which gets a particularly good outing here.

Give it a try if: you love thrillers; you don’t mind books which have a darker core; you love books where justice is delivered; you love the Reacher series; you love great heroes; you love mystery stories.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Books You Couldn't Make Up

Kate Lillie — Tue, 30 Sep 2025 20:41:46 GMT

Self-portrait (The Desperate Man) by Gustave Courbet, 1843-1845.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

It’s been a rather hectic summer for me and as a result I’m only sending out one edition of the newsletter this month, rather than both this and the fun stuff editions, although I’m hoping that normal service will be resumed in October, when I have an absolutely brilliant theme for us which I think you’ll really enjoy.

However, this month, I have five great memoirs for us. I mostly focus on fiction here so I thought it might be a nice change to take a look at some non-fiction. As a general rule memoir isn't something I read a great deal of, but when I do read in this genre, I like the books to be both entertaining and thoughtful, and to give me a glimpse into a different kind of life. I think it’s so fascinating how different (and yet similar) we all are, with such a huge range of experiences. As an added bonus, all of this month’s books are funny - even the ones that deal with some weightier themes - so if you’re looking for something light-hearted but also interesting, then I'm sure one of these books will be perfect. As ever, I hope you find something new to surprise and delight you.

Okay, let’s dive in!

Penguins Stopped Play by Harry Thompson

So what’s it about? Penguins Stopped Play is Harry Thompson’s wry, affectionate memoir of the Captain Scott XI, a ramshackle amateur cricket team made up of journalists, broadcasters, and assorted eccentrics who travelled around the UK - and occasionally further afield - in pursuit of the game they loved. The title is a nod to that stock phrase of cricket commentators, ‘rain stopped play’, but in the case of the Captain Scott XI, it’s never just rain that stops them, and on one memorable match in Antarctica, it really is penguins. The book follows the team as they attempt to play cricket on all seven continents, travelling together around the world and encountering various weird and wonderful happenings.

What’s great about it? I’m not a great fan of cricket: while attending a match makes for a nice day out, it’s not a sport I have any interest in watching or following more generally. However, this isn’t just a book about cricket: it’s about the people who play it, and the joy and absurdity of dedicating yourself to something for the sheer pleasure of it, regardless of skill. The Captain Scott XI aren’t actually that good at cricket, but they are great friends and they all love the sport. The further afield they travel, playing this most British of sports, the closer they become.

Thompson is a gifted writer who manages to paint his friends and teammates with warmth and humour, and the result is a very funny book with lots of heart. It’s also wistful: without giving you a spoiler, the ending is deeply poignant and moving.

Give it a try if: you love books about human connection; you love cricket; you don’t even know what cricket is but want to read something both funny and moving; you like books about friendship; you love books about travel.

Driving Over Lemons by Chris Stewart

“‘Distances can be very deceptive in this sort of terrain,’ I said pompously, while slithering about in the mud and dangling rather inelegantly by one ear from a bramble bush. ‘But I can’t imagine what has happened. I only bought this farm a few days ago and now I can’t even find it.’”

So what’s it about? Driving Over Lemons is the first volume of Chris Stewart’s bestselling memoir trilogy about life in rural Andalusia, which happens to be the same region of Spain where I live. Stewart was once a drummer with the band Genesis, before they got famous, but left the band for a life of travel adventure and sheep shearing (yes, really). After his marriage to his wife Ana, they decide to relocate to a remote farm in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, in search of a simpler life.

I’m not sure whether what ensues is simpler, per se, but it’s certainly fun, and full of mishaps and adventure. Nothing is straightforward: there’s no reliable road access or water supply, and they are considerably more optimistic than their Spanish neighbours on the matter of whether the farm is even viable. As Chris and Ana settle into their new home and begin to build a life, the question remains whether they'll ever be able to make it work.

What’s great about it? Watching Chris and Ana adapt to such a different way of life, and the fresh pair of eyes they bring to it (and which their neighbours bring to them) is a big part of the joy of this book. Stewart’s love for the place and his joy in creating something lasting shines through on every page, although it’s saved from too much earnestness by his self-deprecating humour. He writes with affection about the locals and the differences in their ways withboth dry humour and deep respect, and never pretends to be more competent than he actually is. We see all the triumphs of getting the farm started and getting settled in, but also all of the mishaps and problems, although always treated with humour.

The book is also a heartfelt celebration of this specific part of the world: the beauty of the mountains and the land, the local rhythms and traditions, the wonderful produce and of course the weather, so different to England. Ultimately it’s a book about adventure: the everyday adventure of building a life in a place that you love, no matter how difficult or bothersome it is. It’s about adapting to a new place and a new way of doing things and throwing yourself wholeheartedly into a new venture, and all the joys that can bring, even when it’s hard.

Give it a try if: you love books about the countryside; you love books that make you laugh; you love books about travel; you’re interested in farming; you’ve ever daydreamed of moving abroad and starting a new life.

Under The Paw by Tom Cox

“Everyone knows about Mad Cat Lady. She’s a social cliché, a cautionary tale, a character that, when she started to pop up in cartoon form on The Simpsons, was so instantly resonant that she didn’t have to be named or introduced... Mad Cat Man is a less widely reported phenomenon, but I am here to tell you that he exists, and has the capacity to be at least as obsessive as his female counterpart. Of course, I am not really crazy. My house might get a bit smelly when I haven’t vacuumed or checked under the sofa for a few days, but it is by no means a health hazard. I did once put a necktie on one of my cats when he was asleep, but I have never bought one of them an item of clothing and I don’t call them ‘fur babies’. I do, however, currently own six of them, which, in maintenance terms, can be a little bit like living with half a dozen miniature versions of Mariah Carey.”

So what’s it about? Tom Cox is rightly known as one of our funniest writers, and this book is a great example of why. It’s the first in a series which explores his deep love of cats, and the ways in which the various cats he has adopted or otherwise acquired have essentially taken over his life.

At the centre of the book is The Bear, a brooding, soulful black cat who has just as much character as any human. Around him orbit the other feline members of the household - a rotating cast of cats, each with their own peculiarities and demands. Cox captures the absurdities of their behaviour with a mix of humour and genuine affection, from late-night yowling sessions to bizarre territorial disputes and general shenanigans.

What’s great about it? This is a charming and very enjoyable read which isn’t only about cats. Anyone who has had a pet or kept animals of some sort will know how animals can shape our lives and provide companionship and solace when times are hard. Cox writes candidly about his life and relationships, whether it’s break ups, house moves or just the general messiness of being a young adult, and the cats provide both joy and chaos throughout it all. Cox has a sharp eye for absurd detail and a knack for self-deprecation which means that he doesn’t take himself (or his cats) too seriously. He is adept at capturing the ways in which pets ingrain themselves into the fabric of our lives and help to shape not only our routines but also our sense of self. The result is a memoir that’s both laugh-out-loud funny and unexpectedly moving.

Give it a try if: you love absurd humour; you love cats or indeed any animals; you love humorous writing; you’ve ever encountered a cat who seems both disturbingly intelligent and yet utterly stupid at the same time.

Have A Nice Day: A Tale Of Blood And Sweatsocks by Mick Foley

So what’s it about? Mick Foley is one of professional wrestling’s most beloved (and indeed most battered) stars, and whatever you currently think of wrestling, by the time you’ve read this book you’ll be a fan, of Foley at least. We open in 1994 with an account of one of Foley’s most famous matches, when his ear was torn off, before skipping back in time to the early 1980s, when a young Foley dreams of becoming a professional wrestler. What follows is a hugely entertaining romp through Foley's life and career, from the independent circuit to the WWF, becoming famous along the way for his daredevil stunts and his ability to take the toughest blows in hardcore matches, involving barbed wire, thumbtacks, chairs and various other intensely painful accoutrements.

What’s great about it? Foley writes with a sense of warmth and humour which runs throughout the book, detailing with great honesty the concussions, the missing teeth, the injuries and - even amongst all this - the sheer joy of wrestling. If you’ve ever wondered why people bother watching pro wrestling, this is the book that’ll help you see it.

Wrestling wasn’t always kind to Foley, physically or in terms of his career. In some ways he was atypical for the wrestlers of his time: not the most athletic, nor the most conventionally handsome, but his creativity, persistence, passion and inventiveness allowed him to build a career few can claim. Yes, we see him lose an ear and several teeth, and experience more broken bones and concussions than any one person should have in a lifetime, but throughout it all the joy he takes in wrestling - the sport itself, the fun of the performances, the friendships and the wonderful fans - shines through.

Interestingly, Foley wrote the book completely in longhand - no ghostwriter involved. I have nothing against books that use ghostwriters when that’s the most appropriate option but in this case what it means is that we really are hearing Foley’s own voice, and he is a tremendously talented writer as well as one of the most fun and accomplished wrestlers pro wrestling has ever seen.

Give it a try if: you love wrestling; you have no idea why anyone has any interest in wrestling at all; you love books that make you laugh; you love books which are inspiring; you love reading about people who live totally different lives; you love books where people talk about their passion for something.

The Accidental Soldier by Owain Mulligan

“I will be leading a fighting troop in Basra. My new squadron leader, a small, ebullient major called Jonty, delivers the news as if he’s telling me I’ve won the Thunderball draw. I goggle blankly at him and try not to be sick in my mouth..”

So what’s it about? Owain Mulligan was an enthusiastic member of the UK’s Territorial Army (a sort of civilian volunteer force) when he was posted unexpectedly to Iraq in 2006 to lead a troop of men, who mostly had much more experience than he did. So far, so not funny - and some of the book definitely deals with some darker themes - but there is plenty of wit (often in the forms of gallows humour) as we follow Mulligan and his fellow soldiers through their tour in Iraq.

What’s great about it? Mulligan’s voice is both honest and vulnerable: he’s well aware of his own faults and shortcomings, and he never presents himself as a hero. The camaraderie and friendship that grows from his time in Iraq is moving, and he does nothing to minimise the suffering of the Iraqi people who have to endure the presence of foreign troops, even as he tries to do his job as best he can.

All the chaos of war is present: unexpected danger in the form of mines and mortars, chain-of-command dysfunction, logistical failures, the emotional strain on soldiers, and the burden of responsibility when decisions affect life and death. Amongst all this, he has to find a way to command his men without putting their lives at further risk; quite a tall order when he felt so under prepared. One of the themes that emerges from the book is the unexpected things that happen when ordinary people are put into extraordinary circumstances and expected to rise to the occasion. Mulligan also reflects on what the experience taught him: about fragility, the randomness of danger, and how small acts of decency or courage matter carry a greater weight in wartime.

Give it a try if: you love history; you like books about the military; you liked Fawlty Towers; you like books where ordinary people find themselves in extraordinary circumstances.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

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Five Books For When You Need A Hero, fun stuff edition

Kate Lillie — Sun, 31 Aug 2025 17:45:04 GMT

Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentilischi, 1612-13. It seemed appropriate to have a female hero for this edition’s painting, although it seems that decapitation is this month’s motif when it comes to artwork.

Welcome to this month’s Fun Stuff Edition of Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories.

This month we’ve been talking about heroes and today I have yet another great book to share with you. As always for the Fun Stuff Edition, we also have a poem, a playlist and some reading links, all in keeping with this month’s theme.

Over at Global Comment, in this month’s Great Adaptations column I take a look at another Bernard Cornwell series (what can I say? He writes great heroes) - the Sharpe novels, which were adapted into a TV series starring a young Sean Bean. If you’ve only ever seen him in Game of Thrones then you are in for a treat!

I hope you’ll find something here to surprise and delight you. If you aren’t already subscribed, then you can sign up here to receive these newsletters directly in your inbox. The newsletter is free but if you would like to support it with a paid subscription that option is also available. If you don’t have the funds for a paid subscription at the moment but would like to leave a tip instead, the button below will allow you to send an amount of your choosing as a one-off payment.

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Let’s dive in!

Bonus recommendation: Throne Of Glass by Sarah J. Maas

“‘You could rattle the stars,’ she whispered. ‘You could do anything, if only you dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.’”

So what’s it about? Celaena Sardothien, an 18-year-old assassin, is imprisoned in the salt mines of Endovier for a year when Crown Prince Dorian offers her a deal: compete in a secret tournament to become the King’s Champion. If she wins, she’ll serve as the king’s personal assassin for four years, then be granted her freedom. If she refuses, she’ll die in the mines. Celaena arrives at the glass castle and commences training, slowly making friends along the way. However, when the tournament is marred by a series of murders, it looks like someone might be using magic - long banned in the kingdom - to take down the opposition. Can Celaena survive long enough to win the tournament? And is there more at stake than she might even realise?

What’s great about it? This is the first in the Throne Of Glass series, and was Maas’ debut novel, aimed at a YA audience. These are books to read for fun - hugely enjoyable and evolving as the series progresses from palace intrigue into epic fantasy battles. Calaena is a great hero - arrogant and witty, brave and fierce, and often vain. This first installment has a mystery at the core which makes for a clever combination of different genres, given the tournament premise and groundwork for the epic fantasy we see later. This is a book which could easily be unrelentingly grim, but Maas injects plenty of humour and makes the dialogue sparkle, which gives some much-needed levity. I also especially liked how it starts with quite a tight scope and gradually widens out, giving hints of what’s to come later in the series.

Give it a try if: you love a female hero; you like female characters who break the rules; you love epic fantasy; you’re looking for something easy and fun to read; you’re looking for a new series to get stuck into; you love palace drama and intrigue.

Honourable mentions

There are a few books I’ve featured previously shared which have great female heroes:

Lucky Santangelo, surely one of the best female heroes ever written.

Feyre in A Court Of Thorns And Roses has to dig deep to find her own strength.

Viv of Legends And Lattes isn’t just brilliant with a battleaxe, she makes the best coffee too. A hero you’d love to have as a friend.

Diana in A Discovery Of Witches grows into her powers over the course of the trilogy. One of my all-time favourite witches and one of the best and strongest heroes regardless of sex.

This month’s listens

I have had so much fun this month compiling two playlists which travel through a hero’s journey, one classical and one full of 1980s/90s goodies. I hope you enjoy them!

This month’s poem

From The Cure At Troy

By Seamus Heaney

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured
…
History says, don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
of new life at its term.

Source.

This month’s reading links

An interview with Bernard Cornwell. (Guardian, free)

Lee Child was interviewed by the BBC. The link to the interview and some highlights is here. (BBC, free)

21 questions with Gregg Hurtwitz. (Penguin, free)

CJ Box talks about the person who inspired the reaction of Nate Romaniwski. (Penguin, free)

On the anxiety of writing historical fiction. (LitHub, free)

Thanks for reading!

As always, I’m grateful to each and every one of you who subscribes, free or paid. I know we all have such crowded inboxes these days and I feel so lucky to be sharing the joys of reading with you like this. I would love to hear from you - what have you been reading recently? Have you read any of the books I’ve covered this month? Let me know in the comments. I’ll be back next month with a new theme and more reading joy.

Happy reading!

Kate

All content here at Five Books For is free, but if you’d like to support the newsletter with a paid subscription then I’d be immensely grateful. You can click the button below to switch to paid subscription at any time. I have kept the prices low to make it more manageable so the cost comes in at only €5 per month or €50 per year. Thank you to all of the paid supporters who make this newsletter possible.

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Five Books For When You're Holding Out For A Hero

Kate Lillie — Sun, 24 Aug 2025 17:07:42 GMT

Caravaggio's David With The Head Of Goliath, 1609-10.

Welcome to this rather late edition of Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

I’ve been thinking this month about heroes. Not the everyday kind, but the kind you secretly hope might be kicking down the door if you ever found yourself in serious trouble. The type of hero who is essentially undefeatable, usually found overcoming impossible odds in thrillers of one sort or another. For me, there’s something reassuring about this type of story - you know that no matter how tough things get, the hero is going to win in the end. It’s a bit like reading a romcom, where the happy ending is guaranteed, but with more fights and less kissing.

But what makes these heroes fascinating isn’t just their invincibility. Each one has a particular flavour: some fight with brains, some with brawn; some wrestle with history, others with their own past. So this month, I’ve gathered a handful of my favourites - different on the surface, but all cut from that same indestructible cloth. Perfect for when you want to slip away from the everyday and find some serious thrills.

As ever, I hope you find something new to surprise and delight you.

Other writing

I’ve just started writing a new monthly column over at Global Comment called Late To The Movies. I’ve never been much of a movie person (too busy reading) but I’ve decided to try and educate myself about cinema, starting from the beginning of cinema history and working forwards.

The most recent installment is here and I’d love for you to check it out.

Okay, let’s dive in!

Blue Moon by Lee Child

“Rule one, set in stone since he was a tiny kid, back when he first realized he could be either frightened or frightening, was to run towards danger, not away from it.”

So what’s it about? Jack Reacher is perhaps the most mythic, archetypal hero I can think of, and has long been a personal favourite. There isn’t a single Reacher book I’d hesitate to recommend but for today I’ve chosen Blue Moon, which is Reacher at his most elemental.

The book opens with Reacher rescuing Aaron Shevick, an elderly man carrying a huge wad of cash. Once he finds out why, Reacher’s sense of justice kicks into action and soon he’s up against not one but two rival organised crime groups, who are in the midst of a turf war. But can Reacher really take both of them on, and win?

What’s great about it? This is one of the most action-packed and violent of the Reacher novels, but the Shevicks’ story grounds it emotionally and gives it a heart, preventing it from being just a Reacher vs. the bad guys set up. Unlike some of the more mystery-driven Reacher books, this one is stripped back: lots of action, where Reacher sets things right and delivers justice for the downtrodden. Blue Moon takes Reacher’ role as the wandering white knight and turns it right up to eleven, dialling up both the stakes and the potential consequences for Reacher and the Shevicks. We normally see Reacher fighting one group of bad guys at a time, so seeing him taking on two separate groups and playing them off against each other adds an extra layer of strategy and suspense. The pacing is relentless, keeping you compulsively turning the pages. This is Reacher at his most mythic and unstoppable: smart, strategic, ultra-violent justice personified.

Give it a try if: you love books where the bad guys get their just desserts; you love books which have a strong emotional centre; you love Jack Reacher (I mean, don’t we all?); you love seeing a hero succeed against seemingly insurmountable odds.

Bonus read: I’ve written here about the TV adaptation of the Reacher books.

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cornwell

“Laughter in battle. That was what Ragnar had taught me, to take joy from the fight.”

So what’s it about? Set in 9th century Britain, a patchwork of individual kingdoms riven by Viking raids and invasions, The Last Kingdom follows the story of Uhtred of Bebbanburg, a Saxon nobleman who loses his inheritance to a perfidious uncle and finds himself being raised by Danes, who treat him as one of their own. These divided loyalties will be with him for the whole of his life, as we see him grow into the most formidable warrior in Britain.

What’s great about it? Uhtred is a great protagonist: brave but often reckless and impulsive, stubborn and convinced he knows best - but you can’t help but root for him even when he blunders. His internal tug of war between loyalty and identity gives the series real emotional heft, as does the growth he experiences as the series progresses. And then there’s Cornwell’s unmatched gift for writing battle scenes: whether it’s in a Saxon shield wall against the Danes, or (in his Sharpe novels) a cavalry charge against a French square, nobody writes this type of action better.

The history is meticulously researched but never stodgy or boring; rather, Cornwell evokes the era brilliantly, whether through the mud, the mead or the politics of the time, yet always manages to keep the adventure front and centre.

The books are essentially page-turning adventure stories, but beneath the battles and the Vikings lie enduring themes of duty, ambition, identity, and social change.

Give it a try if: you love morally complex heroes; you love seeing a protagonist grow; you love historical fiction; you like learning new stuff; you love adventure stories; you love the classic myths; you like Vikings; you’re intrigued by this historical era and would love to see it brought to life.

Bonus read: I’ve previously written about The Last Kingdom in my Great Adaptaions column, if you’d like to see how the screen version measures up.

Orphan X by Gregg Hurwitz

“The pain flickered in these spots, warm, pulsing. He focused on the hot points, breathed into them, smoothing them out with each exhalation as if beneath a rolling pin. And then they were gone, everything gone but the rise and fall of his chest, the coolness at his nostrils.”

So what’s it about? Evan Smoak is the product of a secret government programme that plucked abandoned children from obscurity and forged them into elite assassins. Evan was Orphan X - until he broke free, disappearing off-grid to use his lethal skills in a different way, helping ordinary people who have nowhere else to turn. But when the latest cry for help seems to lead him straight into an ambush, Evan has to ask a whole new set of questions: is his new client genuine, or bait from the Orphan programme, tidying up loose ends? And, more to the point: can Evan survive for long enough to find out?

What’s great about it? This is the first book in a series and Evan is a brilliant hero: his skills set him apart from others and he is socially isolated, having been trained into a human weapon. While he kills, he’s not evil: he has his own moral code, partially driven by guilt about his past and a burning desire for redemption. Evan is skilled not only in physical terms, but also in hacking and various espionage techniques, which gives Hurwitz plenty of scope for action and the book is cinematic in scope - it feels a little like watching a movie, only better. The plotting and pacing are brilliantly executed, which makes the book even more fun to read.

Give it a try if: you love books that focus on justice and morality; you like heros who are competent not just in brute force but a range of tactics; you love books with high-octane action and lots of it; you like books which have a mystery at their core.

Broken Homes by Ben Aaronovitch

“I wasn’t sure I found that particularly reassuring, but in the event of an attack I wasn’t going to be as much use as Thomas ‘Oh sorry, was that your Tiger Tank?’ Nightingale.”

So what’s it about? Broken Homes is the the sixth book in the excellent Rivers of London series by Ben Aaronovitch. While the main protagonist is Peter Grant, a constable in the Met Police’s department for “weird shit”, i.e. supernatural phenomena, the hero I have in mind is actually his boss Thomas Nightingale. This particular books explores a series of murders which have taken place and may indicate the involvement of the so-called Faceless Man, who Grant and Nightingale have been hunting for some time. As always, the story combines urban fantasy with police procedural and Aaronovitch’s trademark humour.

What’s great about it? This whole series is a delight: sharp plotting, satisfing mysteries and endearing characters. As much as I love Peter, it’s Thomas Nightingale, his mentor and boss, who you’d really want with you in a tight spot. Born at the turn of the 20th century, he fought in the Second World War, and, for reasons as yet unexplained, has been aging backwards ever since. He’s the very picture of control: intellectual, precise, and unfailingly polite; but, when necessary, devastatingly lethal. There’s a novella which features Nightingale as the main protagonist which is well worth reading (The Masquerades Of Spring) but this particular book has a wonderful sequence where we see Nightingale in his full glory, decimating entire buildings and defeating his opponents with nary a hair out of place. Add to that a late twist, which lands even harder when you’ve read the previous books in the series, and you have one of the most memorable books in the series.

Give it a try if: you love fantasy; if you love books with more cerebral heroes; if you love books with magic; if you love detective stories, especially police procedurals; if you love books where the setting becomes a character in its own right; if you love architecture; if you love funny books.

Force Of Nature by CJ Box

“Nate Romanowski approached the stand of willows from the north with a grim set to his face and a falcon on his fist. Something was going to die.”

So what’s it about? Joe Pickett is a Wyoming game warden who often stumbles into the middle of mysteries and murder, but the real focus of this instalment is his friend Nate Romanowski, an ex-Special Forces black ops commando and master falconer who has left his old life behind and decided to live off the grid, technically a fugitive. In this book, Nate’s past comes back to haunt him, and Joe and his family are likely to be collateral damage - unless Nate and Joe can work together to end the threat against them all.

What’s great about it? I love Joe Pickett, but today’s hero is Nate. He’s a darker, more morally ambiguous figure although, like Reacher, he has his own sense of right and wrong and his own way of delivering justice. His bond with Joe and Joe’s family keeps him tethered to humanity, but he never loses his ruthless edge. As the series unfolds, Nate often seems almost fused with the wilderness around him, his relationship with his raptors in particular verging on the mystical, which makes for an offbeat note in an otherwise grounded series, but it works well. The Wyoming landscape is as much a character as either man, described with Box’s usual vividness. Joe provides the counterbalance to Nate’s wild and merciless nature so that in this book, the action can take centre stage.

Give it a try if: you love books about nature; you love books which feature two types of hero working together; you love books where the hero’s past catches up with them.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

Join me next time for the fun stuff edition, where I’ll share an extra recommendation, a poem and a few great links to read. I also have a brilliant recommendation for you over at my Global Comment Great Adaptations column - I’ll share the link in the next edition so stay tuned for that.

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

Thank you for being here

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Five Books To Elevate Your Summer Reading, fun stuff edition

Kate Lillie — Thu, 31 Jul 2025 19:45:40 GMT

Springtime by Claude Monet, 1872.

Welcome to this month’s Fun Stuff Edition of Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories.

This month we’ve been talking about classics which are short enough to read quickly, and today I have yet another great book to share with you. As always for the Fun Stuff Edition, we also have a poem, a playlist and some reading links, all in keeping with this month’s theme.

Over at Global Comment, in this month’s Great Adaptations column I take a look at The Great Gatsby, another short classic, and Baz Luhrmann’s spectacular film adaptation.

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Let’s dive in!

Bonus recommendation: The Old Man And The Sea by Ernest Hemingway

“Most people are heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for hours after he has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought, I have such a heart too.”

So what’s it about? Santiago is an aging fisherman based in Cuba sometime during the 1940s. The boy who used to fish with him has been sent by his parents to a different boat, in the belief that Santiago’s bad luck (he has gone 84 days without catching a fish) might be contagious. When Santiago sets off alone early one morning, he doesn’t expect much, let alone to hook the biggest fish he’s ever seen. What follows is an epic struggle, as the marlin pulls Santiago further and further out to sea. Can he bring the fish back to port, or will he be defeated by its strength?

What’s great about it? This is a very short book that punches above its weight both in terms of both narrative and symbolism. It took me a little while to get into it: Hemingway’s prose style struck me at first as a little simplistic, with run-on clauses and an unusual rhythm, but once I got used to it I really enjoyed the rhymicality of it. The writing style is spare but descriptive enough to evoke the setting perfectly. The book asks some deep questions: how long can we persist? Is it worth fighting for the idea of something? How do we handle failure, and our own sense of pride? Santiago is a memorable and remarkable character and his relationship with the boy who sometimes works with him on the boat is a beautiful reflection on legacy and growing older.

Give it a try if: you love great prose; you love books which are rich in symbolism; you like philosophical stories; you want something spare and thoughtful.

Honourable mentions

There aren’t that many books which fit the criteria of being both classic and short but one I’ve featured previously is Breakfast At Tiffany’s, which was in the first-ever newsletter. You can read it here:

This month’s listens

This month I wanted to share some summery classical music for you, in case you like to listen to something in the background while you’re reading. This playlist sounds just like this month’s paintings look.

This month’s poem

Fireflies In The Garden

By Robert Frost

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

Source.

This month’s reading links

On the extraordinary life of Françoise Sagan. (Guardian, free)

On how Orwell’s wife, who played such a key role in his work, has been erased from history. (Guardian, free)

On The Age Of Innocence. (BBC, free, and NYT, paywall)

On the flawed genius of John Steinbeck. (The Independent, free)

On Robert Louis Stevenson. (Humanities, free)

The role of hope in The Old Man And The Sea. (Guardian, free)

On The Great Gatsby. (NPR, free, and Vox, paywall)

On how a little-known genre of French science fiction encapsulated the fears and preoccupations of early 20th century Europe. (Aeon, free)

Thanks for reading!

Happy reading!

Kate

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Five Books To Elevate Your Summer Reading

Kate Lillie — Mon, 14 Jul 2025 18:41:49 GMT

Corner of the Garden at Montgeron by Claude Monet, 1877.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

I know that summer reading lists often focus on beach reads, often popular romances or thrillers, and while I love those sort of books when I’m in the mood for them, I often crave something more literary. I know that lots of people think that classics are stuffy or boring, and while I don’t personally find that to be the case, it’s true that many of them are longer than contemporary books and often have a less accessible writing style.

With that in mind, I wanted to recommend some shorter classics which work well if you’re struggling for time because of school holidays, or simply don’t have a lot of energy to read right now - especially if you’re caught in a heatwave, like my family back in the UK have been recently. Think of it as a list of alternative beach reads, although really only one of them is at all summery and none of them are especially cheerful. But that’s not a bad thing, I promise! These are some of the best books you could ever wish to read.

These books are also perfect for anyone who wants to dip a toe into the classics without having to start War & Peace (although W&P is definitely worth reading at some point!) - these are all more accessible in terms of language as well as in terms of length. There is a variety in genre and style, but they’re all great reads.

As ever, I hope you find something new to surprise and delight you.

Other writing

The first installment is already up and I’d love it if you would check it out.

Okay, let’s dive in!

Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan

“Cynicism always enchanted me by producing a delicious feeling of self-assurance and of being in league with myself.”

So what’s it about? Cécile is seventeen, and it’s summer on the French Riviera. Cécile has been brought up by her idle and hedonistic father, Raymond, whose rather young mistress Elsa is currently staying with them. Life is carefree and indulgent and Cécile revels in the lack of structure and responsibilities, until Raymond’s old flame Anne arrives. Anne is the opposite of Elsa: cultured, intelligent and serious, and she soon displaces Elsa in Raymond’s affections. Before long, Cécile finds herself bridling at the changes Anne is making and she decides to take matters into her own hands and manipulate events to her favour - with unexpectedly shocking consequences.

What’s great about it? Bonjour Tristesse was Françoise Sagan’s debut novel, written when she was just eighteen. When it was released in 1954 it caused a scandal even in France - its frank treatment of adolescence, desire, and moral ambiguity was considered shocking at the time, although it quickly became a modern classic of French literature.

It’s short, at under 150 pages, and it exudes summer heat: everything about it is langourous, decadent and soaked in sunshine. Cécile is spoiled but clever, and she makes a compelling narrator. Her voice is worldly and cynical but also full of teenage ennui. There’s a clever tension between what she tells us directly and what we can see unfolding which keeps you wanting to turn the pages. She’s emotionally immature even though she’s older than her years in other ways - or at least likes to believe that she is. Sagan’s prose is elegant and restrained, which gives the eventual emotional blow more weight.

This is a book which perfectly captures the experience of being a teenager in the summer: not quite an adult, with weeks of sunshine spooling out ahead of you as you find yourself chafing against the restrictions of study and learning what power you hold. Knowing that Sagan was herself a teenager when it was written makes it all the more impressive: it may have made the feelings of that age easier and more immediate for her to capture but the writing is beautiful and far more mature than you might expect from an eighteen year old.

Give it a try if: you love books with female narrators who don’t care about being liked; you love books set in France; you feel like a summery read; you’re interested in books that tackle questions of morality and philosophy; you love books which are cool.

Animal Farm by George Orwell

“Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself.”

So what’s it about? At less than 140 pages, this brilliantly sharp political satire is delightfully easy to read. A group of farm animals, led by the pigs, tire of their human farmer and stage a revolution, hoping to create a society where animals can be equal, free, and happy. Before long, however, corruption creeps in and the animals find themselves living in a dictatorship.

What’s great about it? Orwell’s writing here is witty and elegant and the book is as ironic as it comes. The allegory, for the Russian Revolution and Stalin’s rise to power, is beautifully done - a complex and multilayered political situation boiled down to a tale about farmyard animals which is both engaging and entertaining.

While the book is rooted in specific historical events, the themes it explores are universal: the nature of power, corruption, the ways in which ideals can be manipulated or lost. Despite being written in 1945, it’s still remarkably relevant to our current times.

Give it a try if: you love clever books that are also entertaining; you love satire; you’re interested in politics or history; you love fables.

The Age Of Innocence by Edith Wharton

“Archer had always been inclined to think that chance and circumstance played a small part in shaping people’s lots compared with their innate tendency to have things happen to them.”

So what’s it about? It’s the Gilded Age in New York City and Newland Archer has just announced his engagement to the beautiful, naive, and socially appropriate May Welland. At first, Newland is delighted with the match he’s made but when May’s cousin Countess Ellen Olenska arrives from Europe, he finds himself falling in love with her instead. Ellen is considered scandalous by New York society, partly for leaving her marriage and partly for having lived in Europe and thereby gained various unconventional habits.

Newland and Ellen struggle against their mutual attraction and Newland soon finds out that May is not as naive and innocent as he first assumed, but is in fact a shrewd and clever manipulator. Will Newland risk everything for true love, or will he settle for a conventional and socially acceptable life?

What’s great about it? This is a bit longer than my other recommendations this month but it’s not a long book by any stretch, at around 250 pages. However, it’s a pretty quick read as the prose is accessible and the tension keeps you turning the pages to find out what will happen to Newland, May and Ellen.

One of the things I loved most about it was how Wharton manages to show both the positive values of NY society - the emphasis on loyalty, decency and duty - while also showing how suffocating and rigid it was. It’s a fine line to tread and she does it perfectly, all the while creating characters who are complex and believably human in both their strengths and their faults. This makes the book much more emotionally realistic - after all, when is life ever black and white? - and thought-provoking.

At its heart, this is really a novel about internal conflict: how do we choose between what our heart wants, versus what our head tells us is the right thing to do? Can you build a happy life for yourself if you have to build it on top of destruction, whether of the framework you used to live by or of your own broken heart?

Wharton’s prose is elegant and beautiful and she writes incredible characters. May in particular is gradually revealed to be quite different to our (and Newland’s) first impressions as the story progresses: she must be one of the most underestimated characters in literature, certainly that I’ve come across. This is another book which doesn’t have a happy ending, but it’s not simply tragic: rather, it’s much more nuanced and complex and will leave you thinking about it long after you finish the book.

Give it a try if: you love beautiful, elegant prose; you love books which look at a specific time and place; you’re curious about high society in Gilded Age New York; you like historical fiction; you love complex characters with lots of depth; you love female characters who are underestimated; you love books with psychological complexity which explore philosophical questions; you like books which make you think and especially those which have endings that stay with you.

N.B. I read this with as part of her readalong (which I believe is still accessible to paid subscribers) and I wholeheartedly recommend it - I got so much more from the experience of reading it closely along with Haley, whose expertise is amazing, and the rest of the group. You can find more info at Haley’s Substack here: Closely Reading.

Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck

“As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.”

So what’s it about? This is the story of two friends, Lennie and George, who are migrant workers during the Great Depression. They dream of one day owning their own farm. Lennie has an intellectual disability but enormous physical strength, which repeatedly gets him into trouble, creating a dynamic where George acts as his protector and caretaker. They eventually find work on a ranch and even make a new friend, Candy, who shares their dream of farm ownership. However, Lennie and George soon find themselves in a tragic situation when events take an unexpected turn.

What’s great about it? This isn’t the book to read if you want something with a happy ending but it is deeply moving and beautifully written. Steinbeck explores the tension between aspiration and reality in Depression-era America deftly and in a very human way.

The friendship between George and Lennie is surely one of the all-time most moving relationships in literature. The connection they share provides them with love and meaning even in the most difficult of circumstances, which makes the ending of the book all the sadder. It’s astonishing how Steinbeck manages to create such perfectly drawn characters in so few pages - reading it is like a masterclass in characterisation. The book also provides an acute social commentary although it never feels preachy, because you care so deeply for the characters and their stories. And like all great books, it doesn’t serve up easy answers to the moral dilemmas it explores but instead allows the reader to experience the impossible choice and the brutality of mercy right along with George at the end.

Give it a try if: you’re in the mood to have your heart broken; you love books about friendship; you love books which explore moral and social issues without sacrificing story or character; you’re interested in the Great Depression; you like historical fiction; you want to read one of the all-time greatest works of literature but would prefer to start somewhere accessible.

The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

“There was something queer about that gentleman— something that gave a man a turn— I don’t know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your marrow kind of cold and thin.”

So what’s it about? Told from the perspective of Mr. Utterson, a respected lawyer and friend of Dr. Henry Jekyll, this is the story of how Dr. Jekyll stumbles upon a potion that allows him to transform into Dr. Hyde, a smaller, younger man who embodies all of his evil impulses and who experiences no moral constraints - and the deadly consequences that ensue. It’s told as a mystery, with clues carefully placed as the story progresses until we reach the denouement, where Utterson realises that his friend Jekyll and the evil Hyde are in fact one and the same.

What’s great about it? At around 80 pages, this truly is a book you can easily read in one sitting, and it’s a great way to spend an afternoon. The description in this book is wonderful - I found myself highlighting sentences frequently as I was reading, and I loved the very correct and proper manners of all of the characters. It’s a very British book, and not just because of the London setting, but in a more intangible way too.

We all know the story of course, but reading it is a lot of fun. It is probably the definitive piece of literature on the dual nature of good and evil and its psychological insights are acute, even though it was written long before modern psychology was invented. It’s also a very Victorian book, not only in it’s subject matter or preoccupations but also in style and tone, which makes it a real pleasure to read if you enjoy Victorian literature more generally. It reads like a mystery and I can see that if you came to it not knowing that Jekyll and Hyde are the same person (although I imagine you’d have to live under a pretty huge rock to not have absorbed that knowledge one way or another) then the mystery would be both spooky and satisfying. Of course it’s such a well-known story that it’s difficult to read as a mystery but even so it’s fun to spot the clues as you progress.

This is also a book with incredible atmosphere: there’s London fog, dark shadowy streets with the sense of hidden dangers lurking, and a secretive laboratory. The Gothic atmosphere becomes almost as character in its own right.

Give it a try if: you love mystery stories; you love stories rich in atmosphere; you love Victorian literature; you love novels that explore morality and the nature of good and evil; you love Gothic literature; you love books set in London; you love books which have become archetypal parts of our culture.

Thanks for reading!

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Join me next time for the fun stuff edition, where I’ll share an extra recommendation, a poem and a few great links to read. I also have a brilliant recommendation for you over at my Global Comment Great Adaptations column later in the month - I’ll share the link in the next edition so stay tuned for that.

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

Thank you for being here

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Five Books On Women You’ll Never Forget, fun stuff edition

Kate Lillie — Mon, 30 Jun 2025 19:35:03 GMT

The Three Ages Of Woman by Gustav Klimt, 1905

Welcome to this month’s Fun Stuff Edition of Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories.

This month we’ve been talking about books which focus on women’s experiences, and today I have yet another great book to share with you. As always for the Fun Stuff Edition, we also have a poem, a playlist and some reading links, all in keeping with this month’s theme of women’s experiences. I hope you find something wonderful to read or listen to. Over at Global Comment, in this month’s Great Adaptations column I take a look at The Divine Secrets Of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells, and the film adaptation of it which features an all-star ensemble cast including Sandra Bullock, Ellen Burstyn, Ashley Judd and Dame Maggie Smith.

I’ve also had another couple of articles out this month, away from the newsletter. If you enjoyed last month’s newsletters on science fiction, you might also like this look at the history of sci-fi art, which so was fun to write - I learned so much from writing it, especially about contemporary art, an area I’m less familiar with.

I also wrote a piece recommending ten pieces of music for classical music sceptics. If you’ve ever felt like classical music is inaccessible, too intellectual or too boring, then I hope this article will change your mind.

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Let’s dive in!

Bonus recommendation: My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell

“I loved the math of it, three times my age, how easy it was to imagine three of me fitting inside him: one of me curled around his brain, another around his heart, the third turned to liquid and sliding through his veins.”

So what’s it about? At the age of fifteen Vanessa Wye is groomed and manipulated into a relationship with Jacob Strane, one of her teachers at boarding school. He convinces her that the relationship is consensual, although it destroys her life and leaves her, years later, struggling to function well, and still in contact with him. The story is told in dual timeline format, so that we see Vanessa both at age fifteen and in 2017, when other former students of Strane’s come forward to discuss his abuse. At first Vanessa is desperate to hold on to her conviction that their relationship was a loving one, and we travel along with her as she finally begins to face the truth about what happened all those years ago.

What’s great about it? What I loved the most about this book was how nuanced and emotionally intelligent it was. It explores questions of consent, agency and victimhood - who gets to decide if someone is a victim? Can consent ever be valid if there’s a large power imbalance in the relationship? How difficult is it to be honest with ourselves about the things that have happened to us, and how can we trust ourselves if the things we believe aren’t true? And, even more tricky: what if a victim isn’t interested in justice? What if they still love the person who has abused them? Vanessa spends a large part of the book refusing to believe that she’s a victim at all, and Russell masterfully shows how grooming and manipulation can distort memory and our perceptions of the truth, even for our own formative experiences.

Russell doesn’t try and give us any easy answers but instead allows Vanessa’s experience to stand alone as one example of the issues she’s looking at. There isn’t a neat, redemptive character arc with a happy ending either; rather, the book feels much more like real life in all its messy, unfinished reality. We see how Vanessa is able to believe that really she’s the one in control, even as it’s clear to us that she isn’t. The way her perspective on her own life shifts as the book progresses is extraordinarily well-written: I’ve rarely seen that kind of psychological and moral complexity done as well as it is here. Vanessa becomes a slightly unreliable narrator, not because she’s trying to deceive us but because she’s deceiving herself. The prose is precise and restrained, never overwrought, and it makes the book a pleasure to read despite the subject matter being so difficult.

Give it a try if: you love intelligent books that handle difficult subjects; you love books which have deep psychological insights; you’re comfortable with books that ask big questions without finding pat resolutions; you love books with protagonists who are imperfect and fully human.

Honourable mentions

I looked back over the archives and found quite a few books which also explore the experience of being a woman. Below are some extra recommendations for you to dip into if you feel like reading more on the theme, from a slightly different angle.

The Idea Of You by Robinne Lee is the story of a woman who falls in love with a much younger, world-famous pop star. It’s a story of epic, doomed love but it also asks important questions about aging, love and desire.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë explores one woman’s search for independence and dignity in a world where both of those things are hard to find. Surely one of the best books ever written.

The Dovekeepeers by Alice Hoffman follows four very different women through the siege of Masada, centuries ago.

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar is the story of Angelica Neal, an 18th century courtesan, and her attempts to navigate a society which both condemns and celebrates women who dare to step outside their proscribed roles.

This month’s listens

For this month’s playlist I thought it would be interesting to share the music of some female composers who have often been ignored or overlooked. Both Clara Schumann and Amy Beach were accomplished composers of classical music, but neither achieved the kind of recognition their male counterparts found. Schumann was the mother to eight children as well as the wife of fellow composer Robert Schumann, whose career she championed, perhaps at the cost of her own. Amy Beach was one of the preeminent American female composers and also a concert pianist whose husband discouraged her from performing. I have added two albums with a selection of their works to the playlist so if you feel like listening to some beautiful music made by two incredible women, just click the link below.

This month’s poem

What Do Women Want?

By Kim Addonizio

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

Source.

This month’s reading links

What one man learned from reading the feminist classics. (The Guardian, free)

On the subversive potential of traditionally feminine arts and crafts. (Aeon, free)

A celebration of mid-life heroines. (Lithub, free)

On this month’s authors and books:

A critique of Three Women by Lisa Taddeo. (The New Yorker, paywall)

A first look at the TV adaptation of Three Women. (Vanity Fair, paywall)

An interview with Kirsten Miller, author of The Change. (The Gloss, free)

An interview with Elizabeth Wetmore, author of Valentine. (Dead Darlings, free)

An interview with Megan Hunter, author of The Harpy. (Bookanista, free)

Two interviews with Kate Elizabeth Russell, author of My Dark Vanessa. (The Guardian and Goodreads, both free)

Thanks for reading!

Happy reading!

Kate

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Five Books On Women You’ll Never Forget

Kate Lillie — Sun, 15 Jun 2025 16:37:17 GMT

La danse (first version), Henri Matisse, 1909

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

This month I wanted to share a few books which explore the experience of being a woman. These books range in genre and in style - there’s even a non-fiction title this month, which isn’t something I often include - but they all examine some aspect of women’s lives and they all have something valuable to say. And of course, they’re all great reads.

As ever, I hope you find something new to surprise and delight you.

Okay, let’s dive in!

The Harpy by Megan Hunter

“It is a bright day; she raises her hand to shade her eyes, sees the light pass through her palm, jewelled red.”

So what’s it about? This is a dark, lyrical novel that blends domestic realism with mythic transformation. It tells the story of Lucy, a former classics student whose life revolves now around her husband Jake and their two children. She has been fascinated with harpies - mythological creatures associated with female rage and punishment - since her childhood and her fascination with the harpy is what eventually led her to an academic career, before she took a break to have children.

When Lucy finds out that her husband has been having an affair, she agrees to stay with Jake. They make an agreement: Lucy will hurt Jake three times, in an unspecified way and at a time of her choosing.

As Lucy enacts her revenge, she undergoes a profound transformation, drawing parallels with the harpies she has long been fascinated by. As Lucy descends deeper into obsession, the lines between myth and reality start to blur, until it’s uncertain whether Lucy - or her family - will ever be the same again.

What’s great about it? This is a beautifully written examination of marriage and motherhood, with a fascinating mythological angle that enriches the narrative. It’s written in beautiful prose, and the themes of love, betrayal, revenge and the constraints of motherhood and middle-class domesticity are deftly explored without sacrificing readability or plot. The book delves deeply into examining the psychological impact of infidelity, the complexities of forgiveness, and female rage.

The parallels between Lucy and the harpy are compellingly done and never oversimplified. The tension between Lucy’s emotions and the expectations on her as a wife and mother is the engine of the novel: where can you go when your feelings are deemed unacceptable by the world around you? What happens when you still love the person who’s betrayed you? Is it possible to find a form of justice that allows a rebalancing of the scales?

The mundane details of Lucy’s family life stand in stark relief against the mythological interludes and Hunter’s writing style is spare and poetic, which suits the narrative and Lucy’s perspective perfectly. This is a different type of marriage novel: it’s more interested in transfiguration and mutation, and the way in emotional turmoil can be played out in shocking, sometimes physical ways.

Give it a try if: you love books that focus on women’s emotional experience; you like books which are darker; you’re interested in stories of transformation; you like stories with mythological elements; you’re comfortable with books which blur the lines between the real and the psychological; you love books with flawed protagonists.

The Change by Kirsten Miller

“Only when her magic began to return did she realize just how much she’d given away.”

So what’s it about? The Change blends crime fiction, fantasy and social commentary, following the story of three women - Harriett, Nessa and Jo - who each discover unexpected new powers during menopause. Set in an affluent Long Island coastal town, the women find each other seemingly by accident but soon realise that they’re destined to work together to solve a murder case which has been neglected by the local police. I don’t want to give too much away as I think this is one of those books which it’s better to go into knowing as little as possible so that the surprises can unfold - it’s much more than the sum of its parts, which makes it difficult to do it justice in a brief synopsis.

What’s great about it? Miller’s characters are brilliant: strong, compassionate, funny women you’d love to be friends with in real life. I liked the fact that there are three protagonists who are given more or less equal weight; it’s fun to read a book with more than one main character, especially when you like all of them. It’s also refreshing to see middle-aged women - so often invisible - not only at the centre of the narrative but as heroes in their own right, and not despite of but because of the menopause. The idea of rage as a transformative force comes up again here, although in a very different way to The Harpy. Here, the women are able to channel their anger into helping others, and there’s a satisfying mystery at the centre of it all which will please detective fiction and mystery fans.

It takes a lot of skill to blend different genres and keep the narrative feeling cohesive, but Miller pulls it off masterfully here. The mix of thriller, fantasy elements and police procedural never feels cobbled together; instead, you’re left just accepting the mash-up of genres as totally normal. It’s only when you finish the book that you realise how unusual a book it was, and what an extraordinary job Miller did in pulling it off. The plotting is cleverly done and perfectly paced so that you’re always excited to turn the page and find out what happens next, and the stakes escalate as the novel develops, which gives the ending more weight. There’s a humour throughout the book which helps make it more readable too: this is a book full of righteous anger. However, the levity Miller weaves in helps both the protagonists and the reader stay sane even as the injustice the women are dealing with becomes more and more apparent.

Give it a try if: you love books with strong female characters; you love books with older people, especially women, at the centre; you love novels that blend genres skilfully; you’re looking for something that tackles serious issues with humour and heart as well as righteous fury; you love mystery or detective novels; you love books with friendship at the core; you love books which have multiple main characters; you like reading books which have characters you’d like to meet in real life.

Three Women by Lisa Taddeo

“We pretend to want things we don’t want so nobody can see us not getting what we need.”

So what’s it about? Three Women is a narrative nonfiction book that explores the intimate lives of three American women, focusing primarily on desire, relationships and sex. Taddeo spent years researching the book and spending time with her subjects, and each of them is different: a housewife in middle America who has an affair, a teenager who is manipulated into a relationship with a teacher, and an entrepreneur who has an open marriage.

Each of the women’s stories is told in novelistic detail, so much so that it’s easy to forget sometimes that these are real women and real lives Taddeo is writing about. Despite the subject matter, this is less a book about sex than it is a book about power, desire, shame and the experience of being a woman in a society that values women primarily in relation to the men in their lives.

What’s great about it? This is a book that’s honest even when it’s uncomfortable: it tells the stories of the three women without judgment and much of it is uncomfortable or even painful to read. Whatever your feelings on the choices the women make, it’s thought-provoking and empathetic. It challenges the idea that female desire is monolithic and instead explores how it is shaped by culture, class, trauma and by relationships themselves. Taddeo looks at the messy and complicated truth of these women’s intimate lives without reducing them to cliché or adding expectations to their experiences.

It’s a particularly interesting read now, in the context of the recent tidal wave of romantasy and other books which deal with women’s desire fictionally; these are novels which are full of (often explicit) respectful, mind-blowing sex between consenting partners. Contrastingly, there’s nothing idealised about the relationships in Three Women, which instead takes an honest and unflinching look at the messy realities of relationships and the tangled grey areas women so often navigate.

Give it a try if: you love brilliantly-written narrative non-fiction; you love books which aren’t afraid of complexity; you’re curious about women’s real-life experiences in intimate relationships; you’re fascinated by the messy reality of people’s lives.

Promising Young Women by Caroline O’Donoghue

“Because you can’t keep shoving yourself to the bottom of yourself. Hiding in the shadow of someone else’s life is not a life your heart will accept.”

So what’s it about? Promising Young Women is a dark, sharp, and psychologically layered novel about ambition, power, complicity, and the murky dynamics of workplace relationships.

Jane Peters is in her twenties and fresh out of a break-up, working at a London advertising agency. In her spare time she’s Jolly Politely, an online agony aunt who offers smart, thoughtful advice to her readers - advice she seems unable to apply to her own life. When Jane enters into an affair with Clem, her older, married boss, things start to move quickly. She’s doing better at work, but is it because of Clem, or her own talent? Before long, the affair becomes more than just a secret tryst and begins to morph into something darker and all-consuming, and Jane begins to unravel. Is Clem just uncaring, or is he subtly, insidiously dangerous?

What’s great about it? This is an astute and clever novel which perfectly captures a moment in time: the experience of being in your twenties, in a toxic workplace, trying to establish a life for yourself and figure things out: what’s normal? How much of what you’re experiencing is just part of being young, and how much is part of being in a toxic relationship and surrounded by people who think that toxicity is normal? There’s a level of specificity around Jane’s workplace which grounds the book in a setting which many of us will have experienced at some point in our lives, whether we have anything else in common with Jane or not.

O’Donoghue is funny without being flippant; there’s a dry wit to the book which works perfectly to offset some of the more Gothic elements that she weaves into the narrative. Corporate jargon and office culture are skewered mercilessly but Jane’s interior experience is always treated with care.

Jane herself is compelling because she's flawed and messy: she’s smart and self-aware but deep down she doesn’t always feel in control. I found myself rooting for her even as I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her to stop her from whatever she was about to do next.

Interestingly, Promising Young Women was published in 2018, before the explosion of post-Me Too literature that came subsequently, and many of the issues it deals with are the same: most obviously power imbalances in workplace relationships but also complicity and how make misbehaviour is enabled by societal structures and expectations. For all that though, the book is never preachy - the focus is always on Jane’s experience which makes it readable while also thoughtful and incisive.

Give it a try if: you love coming of age stories with a twist; you like books which explore serious issues without being preachy; you like books which have a sharp, dry wit; you’re interested in what it’s like to be a young woman in modern culture.

Valentine by Elizabeth Wetmore

“Every book has at least one good thing… Love stories and bad news and evil masterminds, plots as thick as sludge, places and people she wishes she could know in real life, and words whose loveliness and music make her want to cry when she says them aloud.”

So what’s it about? In Odessa, West Texas, in the 1970s, a young oil worker called Dale brutally rapes Gloria, a fourteen-year-old Mexican girl. Gloria manages to escape and seeks refuge at a nearby ranch, with Mary Rose, the heavily pregnant wife of the rancher. Mary Rose protects Gloria when Dale pursues her but soon finds that she’s in the minority: most of the townsfolk come down firmly on Dale’s side, to the point where Mary Rose begins receiving threatening phone calls. When Mary Rose moves to the town in order to feel safer as she waits for the trial to begin, she meets other women who are also willing to go against the grain in different ways, and as events unfold we see how these women find their own way to come to terms with events of the recent past, despite their surroundings.

What’s great about it? Wetmore spent over a decade crafting this book, and it shows: it’s a masterpiece of characterisation and perspective. The chapters shift between the perspectives of the five main women and girls, something that’s difficult to do well, but Wetmore makes it feel natural. Each of the women is distinct, with her own voice, and each voice contributes to the layering of the narrative and the themes Wetmore wants to explore: justice, race, gender, poverty, small-town life.

Wetmore beautifully balances the intimate, personal perspectives of the women with the wider social forces that are forming their reality, so that we never lose sight of either. She shows us expertly how a single act of violence reverberates through the lives of the women, affecting them in different ways and challenging their ideas of community and morality.

There is a brutal honesty to the book which makes it compelling. It’s not what I’d describe as a fun read: there’s no thriller-like plot or pacing and no humour to give you a break from the subject matter, but in refusing to offer easy answers or neat resolutions Wetmore mirrors something vital and real which makes the story feel more authentic.

The setting of West Texas itself becomes more than just a place; it's almost a character in its own right. When you’re reading you can feel the heat of the sun and the dusty wind and there is something about the sparse, uncompromising landscape that echoes through the emotions of the book and even through Wetmore’s prose, which is both economical and poetic. There’s nothing flowery here, just plenty of sharply evocative imagery which allows the tensions to simmer under the surface.

Give it a try if: you love literature; you love serious books on serious subjects; you like books which refuse to offer neat, easy answers; you like books where the setting becomes a character in the story; you like books which feature multiple perspectives; you like books which are beautifully written.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

Join me next time for the fun stuff edition, where I’ll share an extra recommendation, a poem and a few great links to read. I also have a brilliant recommendation for you over at my Global Comment Great Adaptations column later in the month - I’ll share the link in the next edition so stay tuned for that.

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

Thank you for being here

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Five Books That Are Out Of This World, fun stuff edition

Kate Lillie — Fri, 23 May 2025 16:09:32 GMT

Wanderer Above The Sea Of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1817.

Welcome to this month’s Fun Stuff Edition of Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories.

This month we’ve been talking about science fiction at its most engrossing and expansive – stories full of imagination that explore what it means to be human. Over at Global Comment, in this month’s Great Adaptations column I take a look at Ernest Cline’s Easter-egg laden novel Ready Player One and Steven Spielberg’s CGI-extravaganza of a film adaptation. If you love 1980s films, music or video games, or love the idea of a treasure hunt through an imaginative digital world, it’s well worth checking out.

As always for the Fun Stuff Edition, we have a bonus recommendation, a poem, a playlist and some reading links, all in keeping with this month’s theme of sci-fi for sceptics. I hope you find something wonderful to read or listen to.

Exciting news

I’ve just started a new side project called Commonplace Love - think of it as a weekly love note in newsletter form. It’s a mix of quotes, poems, stories and beautiful things, all gathered around the theme of love (in all its messy, marvellous forms). The first post is live now, and you can read it and subscribe for free below.

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Let’s dive in!

Bonus recommendation: Ascension by Nicholas Binge

“Sometimes what the soul needs isn’t to give meaning to hollow words: prayers and confessions that you do not really believe. Instead, we need to let it give words to the unspoken meanings inside of us. To do that, you have to give it a voice.”

So what’s it about? A massive, impossibly high mountain has suddenly and impossibly appeared in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Reaching all the way into the stratosphere, far higher than Everest, the mountain seems to defy the laws of physics. Satellite imagery and scientific analysis can’t explain its emergence or composition. A team of scientists and mountaineers is dispatched to investigate, but as they climb, things get stranger and stranger: time begins to stretch and distort, and each level presents new physical, psychological, and existential challenges. Harold Tunmore, a physicist who has retreated from the world after a personal tragedy, joins the expedition, and may hold the key to understanding why the mountain is there - if the team can stay alive long enough to find out.

What’s great about it? Told through letters and journal entries, Ascension takes some classic science fiction motifs such as first contact and multiple dimensions, and fuses them with an eerie, claustrophobic atmosphere of cosmic horror, all the while maintaining the emotional intimacy of an epistolary novel. Harold is a compelling hero, brilliant but damaged, and the emotional heart of the novel. His reflections ground the high-concept plot in something deeply human.

The novel weaves in reflections on memory, grief, and the ethics of science. As the letters unfold, we learn more about Tunmore’s past, his relationships, and the devastating personal losses that shaped him.

This was a novel I couldn’t wait to finish, with all the page-turning excitement of a thriller, but added emotional depth and intellectual heft. I also think it contains the clearest explanation of a tesseract I’ve ever read.

There’s no cynicism here; rather, Ascension is concerned with connection, forgiveness, and the very human desire to understand. It’s a book about the limits of knowledge, and the fragile boundaries of belief and hope.

Give it a try if: you love thrillers that keep you turning the page late into the night; you like eerie, uncanny stories; you love books with intellectual heft; you like science fiction with soul; you’re fascinated by physics and science; you love epistolary novels; you’re fascinated by the limits of human knowledge about the cosmos.

Honourable mentions

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, often considered to be the first-ever science fiction novel (all the way back in 1818!) was also one of the first-ever recommendations in Five Books For, all the way back in September 2023. You can read more below; please note that although the title says it’s for paid subscribers, it’s now free to access.

Dark Matter by Blake Crouch is another great recommendation which is actually a thriller with a scientific concept at its heart. If you’re not sure about sci-fi in general but love clever thrillers then this is a brilliant read.

This month’s listens

Did you know that Kazuo Ishiguro also writes song lyrics? He wrote four of the songs on Stacey Kent’s Grammy-nominated album Breakfast On The Morning Tram, which I’ve included in this month’s playlist. You’ll also find interviews with Adrian Tchaikovsky and Nicholas Binge.

This month’s poem

In Praise Of Mystery: A Poem For Europa

By Ada Limón

US Poet Laureate Ada Limón wrote this poem for NASA’s Europa Clipper mission. The poem was engraved onto the Clipper, which launched in 2024 to explore Jupiter’s moon Europa to explore whether Europa has water and could potentially be habitable, as well as seeking a landing spot for a future mission. It is due to arrive at Europa in 2030.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we

pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,
we read the sky as if it is an unerring book
of the universe, expert and evident.

Still, there are mysteries below our sky:
the whale song, the songbird singing
its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.

We are creatures of constant awe,
curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,
at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

And it is not darkness that unites us,
not the cold distance of space, but
the offering of water, each drop of rain,

each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.
O second moon, we, too, are made
of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.

Source.

You can read more about the Europa Clipper mission here.

This month’s reading links

A fascinating look at North Korean science fiction. (Arstechnica, free)

Why the Big Bang may never have happened. (Aeon, free)

UFOs or angels? (LitHub, free)

Something to make you laugh. (The Hard Times, free)

On this month’s authors and books:

Two great interviews with Kazuo Ishiguro over at The Guardian (free) and another one over at The Paris Review (paywalled).

Nicholas Binge writes about how teaching Shakespeare informed his writing of Ascension. (Crimereads, free)

Lauren Forry talks about how space becomes the most dangerous locked room of all in The Launch Party. (Crimereads, free)

Adrian Tchaikovsky talks about the science behind Alien Clay. (New Scientist, free)

Thanks for reading!

As always, I’m grateful to each and every one of you who subscribes, free or paid. I know we all have such crowded inboxes these days and I feel so lucky to be sharing the joys of reading with you like this. I would love to hear from you - what have you been reading recently? Have you listened to or watched any of the books I’ve covered this month? Let me know in the comments. I’ll be back next month with a new theme and more reading joy.

Happy reading!

Kate

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Five Books That Are Out Of This World

Kate Lillie — Fri, 09 May 2025 19:39:41 GMT

Nocturne in Black And Gold, The Falling Rocket by James McNeill Whistler, 1875. This is the painting that inspired a libel lawsuit and caused Whistler to file for bankruptcy.

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

When I was growing up, sci-fi (and fantasy too) was generally perceived to be for nerds. When, aged 11, we were asked to give a presentation to our class about something we liked, I proudly talked for the allotted time about Star Trek: The Next Generation with no consideration for how my schoolmates might perceive me afterwards. (I still love Star Trek now and strongly believe that Picard is the best Captain of all time.)

These days, it feels like fantasy is having a cultural resurgence - perhaps thanks to the Lord Of The Rings films reaching new audiences, or the popularity of Game of Thrones or Harry Potter. I find myself wondering if sci-fi is due a similar revival (perhaps via Stranger Things?) I hope so. Because when more people discover sci-fi, more people get to share in the joy of aliens, space travel, richly imagined futures, time travel, parallel universes, and all the other strange and dazzling things the genre has to offer - not to mention the deep reflections on humanity that sci-fi is so good at exploring.

In this month’s books, we travel across centuries, planets, and dimensions of the mind. Whether through time-travel anomalies, sudden surges of intelligence, alien biology, or the naive perceptions of AI, these novels explore questions of identity, survival, and what it means to be human (and, in one case, what it means to be stuck in a luxury moon hotel with a murderer). Whether you’re a sci-fi sceptic or already a fan, I hope you find something new to surprise and delight you.

Exciting news

Commonplace Love

Welcome to Commonplace Love

Welcome to Commonplace Love, a brand new project - a commonplace book about love, collated right here on Substack…

a year ago · Kate Lillie

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I started writing FBF in September 2023, and it brings me so much joy to find myself here, over a year later, chatting with you all about books and sharing the love of reading.

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Okay, let’s dive in!

Sea Of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel

“If definitive proof emerges that we’re living in a simulation, the correct response to that news will be So what. A life lived in a simulation is still a life.”

So what’s it about? This is another spectacularly beautiful novel from Mandel, centred around a mysterious event that echoes through time: the sound of violin music playing in an airship terminal. It’s first encountered by a young gentleman, exiled from his family, in a forest on the Canadian coast in 1912 - but it’s also experienced by an author on a book tour on Earth, far from her home on the Moon, and by a time investigator from the far future, tasked with uncovering the source of the anomaly.

What’s great about it? As ever, Mandel’s prose is gorgeous - lyrical, elegant and poetic without sacrificing clarity or venturing into abstraction. This is a quiet, contemplative book - thought-provoking, melancholy and full of hope. The structure hops between different eras but it never feels scattergun; instead, it’s both intimate and cohesive because Mandel focuses in on the experiences of the characters and their interior lives rather than aiming for grand spectacle.

There’s a gentle, thoughtful exploration of the idea that reality is a simulation, but rather than using this as a jumping-off point for a plot-driven thriller, Mandel examines it with the emotional curiosity that we also saw in Station Eleven, which I recommended last month. I especially loved that while each of the main characters lived in a different century, they all echoed each other emotionally, which made the book feel more resonant and cemented the idea of a shared human experience regardless of time.

Give it a try if: you love beautiful prose; you love literature; you’re in the mood for something that’s emotive and resonant; you like quiet, contemplative books; you love sci-fi; you’re sceptical about sci-fi but happy to dip a toe in the waters; you’re drawn to books that explore what it means to be human.

Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes

“Strange about learning; the farther I go the more I see that I never knew even existed. A short while ago I foolishly thought I could learn everything - all the knowledge in the world. Now I hope only to be able to know of its existence, and to understand one grain of it. Is there time?”

So what’s it about? Flowers For Algernon follows the story of Charlie Gordon, a man with a low IQ, who undergoes an experimental surgery to increase his intelligence. The procedure has already been tested on a mouse named Algernon, who has become startlingly clever. At first, the operation appears to be a miraculous success: Charlie’s intelligence skyrockets. But as his cognitive abilities grow, so too does his emotional awareness and his isolation. Ultimately, when Algernon begins to decline, Charlie is forced to confront the fragility of what he’s gained.

What’s great about it? Told entirely through Charlie’s journal entries, the novel traces the arc of his transformation with extraordinary authenticity. The evolving voice - his grammar, spelling, and insights shifting as his IQ rises and then declines - is remarkably done. It’s hard to imagine a novel even attempting this today, but Keyes pulls it off with brilliance. The first-person perspective makes the story far more immediate and affecting than any third-person narration could have been.

Keyes uses this form to its fullest potential, crafting a narrative that is deeply empathetic and quietly devastating. He explores the space between knowledge and happiness, intellect and connection, with compassion and emotional precision. First published as a short story in 1959 and then expanded into a novel in 1966, it remains one of the foundational texts of science fiction. The ethical questions it raises - about medical intervention, consent, personhood, and dignity - feel as urgent now as ever, decades after it was written.

Give it a try if: you love thought-provoking books that explore real-life issues through fiction; you love books with emotional depth; you love books which are predominantly character-driven; you don’t mind books that will break your heart; you like to read books which are foundational to their genres.

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky

“Because the hardest thing about sacrifice is not knowing if it’ll be worth it. What’s the point in taking the bullet if the person behind you in the charge loses heart, dithers, runs away? You may as well have stayed at home. You only have one life after all. It can be very hard to know when to throw it away.”

So what’s it about? Scientist Arton Daghdev has been exiled to the hostile planet of Kiln, a penal colony for dissidents, after falling foul of Earth’s authoritarian regime. Kiln is rich with poorly understood alien life, despite the vast, enigmatic structures that suggest the presence of intelligence. When Daghdev is given the chance to study some of the planet’s biological samples, he’s thrilled - at first. But Kiln’s life forms are mysteries wrapped in more mysteries, and the risk of contamination is ever-present. Life in the prison camp is brutal, but Kiln’s biology may hold out the only hope for survival - and, just possibly, the key to revolution back on Earth.

What’s great about it? The world-building here is astonishing. Kiln is lush, strange, and brimming with life that challenges everything we know about evolution, although it all feels scientifically grounded and biologically plausible. Tchaikovsky’s ecosystem is wildly imaginative but underpinned by real scientific logic, which makes the alien feel uncannily real.

Daghdev is a compelling lens through which to view this world: flawed, proud, but deeply curious. Through him, Tchaikovsky explores ideas both vast and intimate, from the mechanisms of biology to the machinery of oppression. The novel takes the familiar ‘first contact’ premise and flips it on its head: what if life didn’t evolve into individual organisms, but rather as collective, cooperative, mutable entities? What would that do to our sense of self, of agency, of what it means to survive?

There’s body horror here too, but it’s used sparingly and to great effect, creeping in at the edges rather than dominating the narrative. What lingers more is the book’s central question: what does it mean to be free - biologically, politically, or intellectually? And what might real change require - rebellion, reinvention, or outright mutation?

Give it a try if: you love books with exceptional world-building; you love books about science; you find evolution or biology fascinating; you’re interested in philosophical questions; you’re love books that explore current issues through an imaginative lens; you love stories of survival; you love books that aren’t afraid to be brainy.

The Launch Party by Lauren Forry

“Penelope dismissed every protocol she knew as soon as it entered her head. She could not call in any backup. She was on the moon. She could not call in SOCO. She was on the moon. She couldn’t even examine the scene properly because she didn’t have any protective gear. She was on the moon.”

So what’s it about? The first-ever luxury hotel on the moon is opening, and ten lucky contest winners are setting off on the three-day journey, thrilled to be the first guests. Amongst them are a journalist, a reality TV star, a billionaire and Penelope, a London police officer. But when they arrive, they’re baffled to find that all of the staff have returned to Earth with the shuttle, and the hotel is empty. Is this a bizarre PR stunt? A secret reality show setup? Or is something more sinister going on?

The mystery deepens when one of the guests is found murdered the next morning. With no way to call for help and three long days until another shuttle can arrive from Earth, the remaining guests must work together to survive. But trust is in short supply, and Penelope will need all her instincts and experience to uncover the truth and keep them alive.

What’s great about it? Forry takes the classic format of a closed-circle mystery and cleverly transposes it into a high-tech, claustrophobic near-future. The glamorous setting and luxury of the hotel provides a sharp contrast to the rising paranoia of the guests, and the steadily mounting tension keeps the pace brisk. Layers of hidden motives and personal rivalries make the unraveling of the mystery both satisfying and sinister and there’s a real joy to reading something so Christie-esque set in space - Forry manages make it feel completely believable despite the fact that no one has travelled to the moon for decades now. Think a low-gravity, high-stakes version of Christie’s And Then There Were None.

Give it a try if: you love Agatha Christie or golden age detective fiction; you love sci-fi and feel like trying something a little different; you love books with memorable characters; you love books which take real joy in their nods to previous classics.

Klara And The Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

“‘But then suppose you stepped into one of those rooms,’ he said, ‘and discovered another room within it. And inside that room, another room still. Rooms within rooms within rooms. Isn’t that how it might be, trying to learn Josie’s heart? No matter how long you wandered through those rooms, wouldn’t there always be others you’d not yet entered?’”

So what’s it about? Klara, an unusually observant Artificial Friend, is designed to be a companion for lonely children. From her place in a store window, she watches the world with hopeful curiosity, studying the humans who pass by. Eventually, she’s chosen by Josie, a sickly teenager, and Klara devotes herself completely to bringing happiness to her new family. Powered by the sun, Klara reveres it with an almost religious faith - and comes to hope that the sun might have the power to heal Josie, too.

What’s great about it? Klara and the Sun is one of those quietly devastating novels that slips past your defences and then lodges itself quietly in your heart. Ishiguro uses Klara’s limited but earnest perspective to explore themes of faith, love, and sacrifice. The novel’s simplicity belies its emotional depth, raising profound questions about whether love can exist without true consciousness, and indeed on the nature of consciousness itself.

While the world Klara and Josie live in is a dystopia shaped by genetic engineering, the advance of AI, and great inequality, it unfolds subtly, with no grand exposition but rather a slow, graceful accumulation of detail. Klara’s often literal-minded attempts to make sense of human behaviour are by turns funny, haunting, and profound. What makes this novel sing is its restraint: Ishiguro is one of my favourite writers and I’m always blown away by how beautiful (and often heartbreaking) his prose is even as it’s so simple and clear. Klara And The Sun is full of his usual subtlety and grace.

Give it a try if: you love quiet, philosophical fiction; you love literature; you love books which explore contemporary issues in a subtle, heartfelt way; you’re interested in the changes AI will bring to society; you love books that examine what it means to be human.

Thanks for reading!

Leave a comment

Join me next time for the fun stuff edition, where I’ll share an extra recommendation, a poem and a few great links to read. I also have a brilliant recommendation for you over at my Global Comment Great Adaptations column later in the month - I’ll share the link in the next edition so stay tuned for that.

In the meantime, I wish you happy reading,

Kate

Five Books For

Six different angles on the Holocaust

Further reading

The Zone of Interest by Martin Amis

The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick

Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl

Fatherland by Robert Harris

The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick

The Diary of a Young Girl by Philip K. Dick

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Thank you for being here

Five Novel Reimaginings Of The Victorians

Further reading

The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Fowles

Possession by A. S. Byatt

The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry

Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

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Thank you for being here

Five Trilogies For Summer Reading

Further reading

The Red Queen by Juan Gómez-Jurado

The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden

Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani

Northern Lights by Philip Pullman

The Wolf Den by Elodie Harper

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Thank you for being here

Five Back To School Books

Further reading

That’ll Teach Her by Maz Evans

Educated by Tara Westover

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Examiner by Janice Hallett

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Five Different, Great, and Greatly Different Books

Further reading

Monkey King – Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en

Madonna in a Fur Coat by Sabahattin Ali

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

The Odyssey by Homer

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

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Thank you for being here

Five Different Angles On The Crime Novel

Further reading

The Impossible Thing by Belinda Bauer

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

The Godfather by Mario Puzo

No One Would Do What The Lamberts Have Done by Sophie Hannah

Defending Jacob by William Landay

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Five Historical Mysteries Worth Solving

Further reading

Medicus by Ruth Downie

A Swarming Of Bees by Theresa Tomlinson

The Watermen by Patrick Easter

One Way Or Another (Stranger Things) by Caitlin Schneiderhan

The Hangman’s Daughter by Oliver Potzsch

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Five Enjoyable 20th Century Classics

Further reading

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi

Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks

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Five Books To Change Your Life

Further reading

Less by Patrick Grant

How To Cook Without A Book by Pam Anderson

The Organised Mum Method by Gemma Bray

Built To Move by Kelly and Juliet Starrett