What you are looking for is in the library - by Michiko Aoyama

 Books set in Japan seem to be having a moment just now - there are several on the display tables in Waterstones. (If you scroll down a bit, you'll see my review of Four Seasons in Japan, by an English writer who has lived in Japan for many years.)

I read quite a variety of types of books. I've often tried to figure out why on the one hand, I like crime novels and thrillers - while on the other, I like life-affirming books about ordinary lives, where nothing obviously dramatic happens. I also read historical fiction, and non-fiction about travel, nature, and politics. I don't these days read science fiction or horror stories, though I did many years ago. And I'm increasingly unwilling to read dystopian fiction - I find real life quite worrying enough, without positing a horrendous future inhabited by feral tribes and featuring a deathly, post-industrial landscape.

It's partly to do with mood, of course - and partly to do with time of day. I want something soothing for my bedtime reading: recently, gripped by Jack Reacher novels, I've found myself waking from nightmares, and I can't be doing with that, thank you very much. Incidentally - did anyone hear Lee Child being interviewed on the Today programme earlier this week about libraries, and how important they'd been to him as a boy growing up in Birmingham? He was excellent. He said that any passing relative would be inveigled into signing up for a library ticket, so that the family could take out more books than their allotted number - even the dog had a ticket! (I remember this was a big advantage of working as a Saturday girl at the library in our town - I could take out as many books as I wanted.)

Anyway, back to quiet books, of which this is one. It takes the form of a series of stories about an unconnected group of characters, each of who feels 'stuck' in their lives. Each of them happens to go to a small library, where they encounter a rather mysterious librarian, Sayuri Komachi. 'Her skin is super-pale - you can't even see where her chin ends and her neck begins - and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter... She is looking down at something, but I can't see what exactly.'

The thing she is looking down at is an object made by felting. When someone comes to her asking for a book on a particular subject, she will recommend one for them. But she will also recommend one which is nothing to do with what the customer has asked for, and she will also give them one of these small felted objects. And somehow or other, the unexpected book and the object will between them reveal - or help the customer to discover - what it is they need to do to change their life. Some of the customers meet, or their lives cross in some way - and that's essentially it.

So - nothing obviously dramatic. But a message emerges about hope, and the possibility that you  can make small changes which will make a big difference - at whatever stage of life you are at. It's clever, subtle, gentle and joyous. It might be just what you need in times like these.

Tom Lake, by Ann Patchett (but taking in Lee Child along the way.)

 I've recently been following some of the BBC Maestro courses about writing, and very interesting I've found them. (For more about these courses, see here.) The last one I did was with Lee Child, the author of the Jack Reacher books.

Now, I'd never read any Jack Reacher books before starting the course, but I've read several now. There's lots to say about them, but the thing I particularly want to focus on is that once you start one, you really don't want to put it down - at least I didn't. This despite the fact that I found the violence a bit much - there were times when I felt I needed to be reading from behind the sofa, or with one eye closed.

But that apart, they are really impressive. The prose is spare, the characterisation is strong, the plots are intricate and clever. 

In the course, Child is very clear about the sort of fiction he's writing and why he's writing it. Of course, one driver is that he always wanted to be a best-seller, and that he undoubtedly is. But another is this. At one point he discusses the difference between popular fiction and literary fiction. The latter, he says, is addressed to people who are already readers - who love books. These readers, he says, know that sometimes they will have to be a little patient. Their books may start slowly: you may have to work at getting into them - though when you do, the rewards may be great.

But the kind of reader he's chasing is not this kind. He is after the person who doesn't read very much at all. If this kind of person picks up a book - say to take on holiday - s/he will not be patient. S/he will want to be hooked from page one. At the end of every paragraph, every chapter, s/he will need to be enticed into reading on to the next. And if the writer has done his/her job, at the end of the book, they may have become a reader - someone for whom reading has become a joy and a habit.

Perhaps it was because I have so recently come across Lee Child that I find myself at a little bit of a loss with this latest book by Ann Patchett. 

It concerns a family who have a cherry farm in Michigan: Lara, Joe, and their three grown-up daughters. During one summer, as they pick the cherries, the three daughters nag their mother into telling them the story of a romance she had as a young actress with a fellow actor, who later became hugely successful, called Peter Duke. The youngest daughter in particular is obsessed with Duke, in a way that I never quite understood.

And so Lara tells the story (though not quite all of it). The narrative moves between the present and the past. It explores first love, different kinds of love, the mystery of what our parents were like before we knew them, the process of finding out what we really want to do with our lives. It's beautifully written: the farm is vividly realised, as is Tom Lake itself (the setting of that early romance). The characters are complex and interesting - particularly the older generation: I didn't feel I got to know the daughters, but perhaps that was partly because they didn't have much to do except listen.

And yet, and yet: I started this several times before I gave myself a metaphorical slap on the knuckles and told myself to just get on with it. I enjoyed reading it, but at the end, I thought - well, very nice, but actually so what? A pleasant read, but I'm very aware, when I look at the reviews, and hear the enthusiasm of friends who are great fans of Ann Patchett, that I'm missing something. I don't have that sense at the end that ah yes, this is telling me something important, something I didn't even know that I didn't know - if that makes any sense. And this isn't just a comparison between apples and pears, between Lee Child and Ann Patchett - a book certainly doesn't have to be a thriller to leave you with that sense that you've been made to see the world in a slightly different way.

Perhaps it's just me. So please, all you Ann Patchett fans out there - explain to me what I'm missing!

Madensky Square, by Eva Ibbotson

 

This book is quite luscious. I've just finished it, and I really wish I hadn't. As I mentioned in my last post, about The Seal on the Beach (and probably in lots of others too) the key for me  to a good book is that it creates a whole world: one I can enter and be absorbed by. The world of this book is a particularly lovely one: it's a square in pre-first-world-war Vienna. Now, it so happens that I've been to Vienna. I'm not a massive fan of cities, but there was something about Vienna that I loved. Actually, it probably derives from going to see The Sound of Music when I was fourteen. I loved the look of Austria: the mountains, the castles, the lakes - and the romance of patriots resisting the Nazis. And in real life there were the cakes. And the beautiful buildings and fountains. And the smell of lime blossom. And the glittering paintings of Klimt.

So the square in the book is the square of the title. And the characters of the book are (mostly) the people who live in the square. Which points to another successful element of many of the books I particularly like: the gang. You have it in Elly Griffiths' Ruth Galloway books, in Mick Herron's Slow Horses series, and in Colin Cotterill's Dr Siri books (for reviews of these, do make use of the search box). And in The Lord of the Rings, of course. In Madensky Square, the 'gang' is headed up by Susanna, a beautiful and very skilled dressmaker, who also narrates. She has a successful business, and she's also a lovely and charismatic person with a sharp sense of humour. And she's very kind. You're probably thinking she's too good to be true, but  somehow, she isn't - or at least I didn't find her so. Some of the other members of the gang are Nini, her irascible, stylish, tough-as-old-boots anarchist assistant; Edith, a bluestocking under the thumb of her ghastle mother; Alice, a milliner and Susanna's best friend, who is hopelessly in love with Edith's small, bandy-legged father; and Herr Huber, a large and very kind butcher who is hopelessly in love with the very beautiful other-worldly Magdalena. And of course there is Susanna's lover, the Field Marshal. There are quite a few more - it's a big cast of characters. 

The book is very definitely character-led, rather than plot-led: there are lots of stories, but there isn't really a single narrative that drives it, other than the story of Susanna's life. It's Vienna itself, and particularly the square, with its chestnut trees and fountain and statue, which underpins the whole thing. Eva Ibbotson was born in Vienna in 1925, but she and her mother fled the city for England in 1934 - they were Jewish, and her mother was a writer whose work the Nazis had banned. So perhaps the beautiful city of the book is in a sense a dream city, the unattainable setting of a lost childhood. It's utterly delightful.

The Seal on the Beach, by Mara Bergman

 

Full disclosure: Mara Bergman is an excellent editor as well as a writer, and some years ago, she edited two of my books, The Willow Man and Warrior King. But much as I like Mara, I wouldn't be reviewing her book if I didn't think it was something very special.

It tells the story of Maggie, a little girl who is on holiday at the seaside with her aunt and uncle. We soon find out that, much as she is enjoying her holiday, all is not well in Maggie's world; her baby brother is seriously ill, and her mother is consequently having to spend alot of time in the hospital - with the baby, and away from Maggie.

One day, she goes for a walk with her uncle and aunt and spots a baby seal, alone on the beach. Worried, they tell the lifeguards, who are reassuring: the mothers often leave their babies alone on the beach while they go hunting for food: this one's mother will come back, they assure Maggie - everything will be fine.

But Maggie isn't so sure. She feels a connection to the seal - she dreams about it at night - and she is worried about it. She goes back to check on it, and it is still there, but it's becoming listless and sad. The lifeguards, prompted by her, call the RSPCA, who came to the rescue and take it away to be cared for.

So then the two stories - of the sick baby seal and Maggie's sick baby brother - run in parallel, and are both resolved happily at the end.

It's a simple enough story, so what makes it stand out? Partly, of course, it's the emotional heft - it's not overdone, but we very much feel for Maggie. But it's also, I think, to do with the solid, real world which Maggie inhabits. When I first read this story, just last night, I emerged feeling that I had been inside this world and out of my own - and for me, that's one of the most important things I want from a book: I want to be immersed in a different world to such an extent that for a while, I quite forget my own. That this happens is partly because of the strength of the story - but also because of the space which is taken by Mara to describe the detail of this world and make it real. For example:

Then a walk along the sand's

    pebbles and seaweed.

Maggie found a bright yellow shell

    and a smooth white stone,

Like a gull's egg.

    Another, sleek black and blue.

It's seen, of course, through a child's eye: the colours and the textures are what Maggie notices - she doesn't know what kind of shell it is: she doesn't need to, and neither do we.

And notice too the way the words are set out: this is not quite poetry, and not quite prose. It's somewhere in between the two. (Like that bit of the shore between the sea and the land - liminal.) And it creates a spell, an atmosphere, which again binds this world together. It is, literally, enchanting.

There is one thing that puzzles me. Maggie's father is not mentioned at all - where is he? The only hint I could find was this:

She wished she could make 

    everything all right, the way it used to be. 

Before the baby got sick.

Before

    everything

        went

            wrong.

Was Maggie's father one of the things that went 'wrong'?

I hope I've not given the impression, though, that this is a heavy, message-laden book. It really isn't. It's full of the delights of the seaside, the joy of a child's feelings for other small animals, and it's full of hope.

And I haven't mentioned the illustrations, by Brita Granstrom, which are just lovely, and full of details that children will love to pick out. Really, a beautiful book.

Four Seasons In Japan, by Nick Bradley

 

Full disclosure - I read this book in the spring, and this would be a better review if I'd done it then - but there we are, I didn't, so I'll just have to do the best I can. This is the first book I've reviewed here for quite some time, and I want to kick off with a book I really enjoyed - and I liked this one so much that I've already given/recommended it to several friends.

First off, let's look at the cover - because it very much reflects the feel of the book inside. Its lines are clear and elegant: it's beautifully balanced: it exudes calmness and a contemplative feel. The branch at the top bears autumn leaves: the one at the bottom, spring blossom. The title, in a simple, clean font, stands out against the large moon, which in turn is suspended against a blue sky. So we know that nature and the turn of the seasons are going to be important. And the cat? Well, there is a cat in the novel, but this is also a nod to the author, whose first book was called The Cat and the City, and who did a PhD on the cat in Japanese literature. (Though Nick Bradley is English, incidentally, he spent many years in Japan.)

The book has two interlinked stories going on. It starts with Flo, a translator who is going through a difficult time in her personal life - her relationship with Yuki, her Japanese girlfriend, is breaking down, and she isn't handling it very well. 

And then she finds a book which someone has left on her train. It's called The Sound of Water, by Hibiki. She's never heard of the author or rhe publisher - and it has been rather beautifully published. She begins to read.

The story is about a tough old woman called Ayako, who lives in a small country town called Onomichi. We learn pretty soon that her husband and son are both dead, and that her son committed suicide. We learn that she owns a small coffee shop, and that she loves the familiar routine of her days, and her small circle of friends. But something has happened which she knows will disturb that routine: she has had a message from her daughter-in-law to say that her grandson is coming to stay. Throughout the day, the prospect niggles at her: it seems she does not know her grandson well, and is not looking forward to his visit.

He isn't either. He feels he's being sent into exile from the city because he's failed his exams, and the prospect horrifies him. 

At first things don't go at all well between them. But gradually, as one season changes to the next, their relationship develops. Kyo, the boy, learns a great deal - about his father, about the past, about life. And Ayako learns things from Kyo, too.

Flo is fascinated by the story and decides she wants to translate it. But she must first find the author to get his permission - and that turns out to be no easy task.

There's so much more to the book than this. In fact, glancing through the first few pages, I find myself being drawn again into this world, which is so different from my own - particularly that of Kyo and Ayako: I find them more likeable characters than Flo (who could perhaps do with a dose of Ayako's tough love) - and I decide I will read the novel again.

Oh, and the cat has one eye and is called Coltrane. And there are pictures. It's a really lovely book.

The Red Dress

It's a glorious object, the Red Dress.  Made out of burgundy silk dupion, it has a fitted, boned bodice with a v-neck and long sleeves, and a very full, beautifully draped skirt with a train. It's like an echo of something out of the Tudor era - but really it belongs to the world of myth, and legend, the sort of dress that a queen at the height of her powers might have worn for ceremonial occasions.

The Red Dress

But what's special about it isn't the cut. It's the embroidery which covers it. And it's not even exactly that: it's the symbolic value of that embroidery. This dress is the embodiment of an idea.

It first took shape in the brain of Kirsty Macleod, a remarkable artist from Somerset. She conceived the idea of a dress which would be created not by a small team, but by 380 people, mostly women, from all over the world, many of them vulnerable, victims of poverty, survivors of war, refugees. Of these 141 were commissioned and paid for their work, and continue to receive a share of the profits from exhibitions: the remainder were volunteers, many from audiences at exhibitions and events. For fourteen years, the dress - or often just sections of it - travelled the world, being seen, telling its story, and having embroidery added to it. Now it's finished - and still travelling. I saw it a few weeks ago in Somerton , the ancient capital of Wessex, now a pretty town in Somerset.

The dress itself is stunning, and of course it's the centrepiece. But its story, which is told in a series of short films, is an indivisible part of it. We follow Kirsty and the dress all over the world, and we hear the voices of many of the women who worked on it, creating beautiful work and making themselves heard. 

I keep thinking about the project, and trying to work out what makes it so powerful, so resonant. The world at the moment is a difficult, threatening place, with war, poverty, cruelty and want seeming to spread across the globe like a blight. But something like this shows that there are good things too: that there's kindness, and community, and beauty and creativity. It shows also how small beginnings can give rise to significant results, how an idea can take to its feet and dance across the world. It's a symbol of hope.

This half angel, half bird, is the work of a Russian woman. Not far from it is embroidery by Ukrainian refugees.

Motifs from Africa.

The snowdrops were done by someone local - possibly from Glastonbury. I particularly liked the swirly motif at the bottom, because it's a doodle I have done ever since I was day-dreaming in lessons at school. It's surprisingly hard to make it symmetrical.

For more information about the project, see The Red Dress.