Book Club Bangers

Ok, here we go straight in with our Top Book Club Pick (TM). And we say this, having road tested Pew on almost all of our resident book clubs. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, it’s an all time Storysmith bookseller favourite. Secondly, there’s just no way you can walk away from this book without an opinion on it. And thirdly, and most superficially, it’s the perfect book club length.

Pew is all ambiguity. A town somewhere in the southern United States. A person of indeterminate gender, race, and origin turns up on a church pew. They have no memory of how they got there and they also refuse to speak, but a family insist on taking them in. We observe through Pew’s eyes how the town reacts to the unknowability and otherness that Pew represents and things start ramping up in the week leading up to the annual forgiveness festival. This book is all about economy of style, showing not telling, subtlety and total command of language.

If you’re in the special club of people who are un-quietly obsessed with Davies’ literally perfect debut West, you’ll know what an incredible quiet power and boundless vistas her writing possesses, and you might also have to make room in the club ‘cos Clear is going to be massive.

A wind-battered tale of unexpected fellowship that unfolds on the craggy precipices and bare-blown fields of a remote Scottish island in 1843, Clear is about two men who gradually learn to communicate but also cannot say anything to each other for… let’s say REASONS. John is deposited to Ivar’s island with instructions to remove him as the last remaining inhabitant standing in the way of some serious church-building, but the occasion of his arrival is such that John’s purpose is soon hidden – and the ensuing circles the two characters create around each other become smaller and smaller. There are SURPRISES here.

Almost all of our book clubs have now had their turn with Clear, and the verdict is near unanimous. You don’t always want people to all agree in a book club, but in this case it’s absolutely fine, because there’s so much to discuss, so much to appreciate, and so many depths to plumb–all in a cool 160 pages (so nobody can make excuses about not finishing).

Set on the Paraná River in Argentina, Not a River follows the fishing trip of Enero, El Negro, and Tilo. After catching and killing a giant ray, they seem to have disturbed something, intruding upon a wider, delicate ecology of which they’re not part.

The choric quality of the narration interweaves the intruder’s voices with those of the local inhabitants; in fact, Almada’s prose skillfully interweaves the past with the present, the living with the dead, the human with the animal.

Annie McDermott’s translation adds to this poetic quality, creating a soundscape of half-rhymes and echoic murmurs. It’s a novel that seems to ripple, like the river that runs through it, with many undercurrents and tributaries, seamlessly connecting past and present, surface and depths.

When Lamya H leaves the oppressive and undisclosed (though you can make an educated guess) country where they grew up as an out-of-context Muslim and relocates to the US, so begins a journey of queer self-discovery, monumental adjustments and clashes of culture and, hearteningly, the emergence of community.

More than one of our book clubs have been charmed and enlightened by the completely nonsense-free approach of this striking memoir. Throbbing with political and personal passions, Lamya’s idiosyncratic but deeply loveable authorial voice can serve to draw out unexpected stories from your trusted circle of readers too: this is a book which will enliven anyone who reads it.

Alison Bechdel is one of the greats, no doubt about it. All her “graphic memoirs” are brilliant, but Fun Home is the place to start.

It’s a coming-of-age and a coming-out story, exquisitely self-reflective and profound, but it’s also a beautifully realised family history. Bechdel’s family grew up in a funeral home, in the long shadow of Alison’s emotionally distant father: the undertaker of the funeral home and relentlessly literary local high school teacher, and, as it turns out, a much more complicated man than any of them realised. This is a profound, meditative, genre-defining graphic novel and absolutely worth your time.

Almost all of our book clubs have done Fun Home at some point for a “graphic novel” month. For those who haven’t read a graphic novel before, it’s a brilliant entry point (and unlike most graphic novels, priced like a regular paperback!) It’s accessible but also really shows off what the form is capable of.

Elena Knows is an agonisingly good novella set over the course of a single day. After Rita is found hanged in the local church, Elena refuses to believe her daughter died of suicide.

Hampered by the ebbs and flows of her Parkinson’s disease, Elena embarks on a torturous journey to the other side of Buenos Aires looking for answers. For fans of Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead and Death in Her Hands. 

An utterly compulsive read with an ending that you simply need to talk to people about.

Travelling across the country, fleeing the deluge, searching for safety and shelter, The End We Start from tells a story of endurance and sacrifice, as a woman and her newborn baby find themselves in a city overtaken by floodwaters. Written is short vignettes and economical prose, this novella playfully ambiguous, making it a great book club choice. Readers flesh out the story themselves, guessing, formulating, and creating links that are only gestured towards.

The End We Start from, though stark and dystopic, at times feels wildly hopeful, for the power of creation, recreation, and regenesis in the face of catastrophe.

Another favourite of Holly’s eco book club!

“Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart.” Perhaps one of those great opening lines that will be taught in creative writing courses in years to come? Michelle Zauner is best known as the frontwoman of Japanese Breakfast. But you don’t have to be familiar with her music. This is just a brilliant memoir about grief, identity, and Korean food from an exceptional literary voice. Also, prepare to be extremely hungry. 

This isn’t a muso-memoir, but instead a memoir of grief (the unexpected early death of her mother) and of living between cultures. Zauner was raised in the States by a Korean mother and an American father, and grew up feeling not truly Korean in the eyes of her mother, but equally as non-white or non-American in the US. 

And while it is of course a book about loss, it’s also a book about life: as Zauner renews her Korean identity with celebrations of Korean culture, especially food (we are, after all, crying in H Mart). Without her mother to make her favourite dishes, she takes it upon herself to painstakingly recreate these recipes – some traditionally associated with mourning, sickness, marriage. Amongst the fraught dissections of mother-daughter relationships is also some of the most mouthwatering food writing you may ever read.

An early novel from Percival Everett back in his days of being an underrated, underappreciated genius (thankfully this has now been rectified). If your book club has read James, this will definitely be an interesting compare and contrast! Or if they haven’t, it’s just a cracking read.

Walk Me to the Distance is somewhere on the “Western” genre spectrum, a sort of late-stage coming-of-age novel, as well as being a biting commentary on all things Americana, with some profoundly disturbing subplots. There’s a subtle dark comedy bubbling underneath the clean prose, among other things. Depths galore, for those who wish to plumb them!

You’ve never read anything like Priestdaddy before. If you grew up in a remarkably strange family then perhaps you’ll relate a little, but you almost certainly didn’t grow up with a Catholic priest as a father (yes, it is possible – through an improbable doctrinal loophole). But take the priestly image you have in your head and discard it now: Lockwood’s father often walks into a room in nothing but his underpants, idly playing his electric guitar. Almost every line that comes out of his mouth is drenched in ridiculousness and ignorance in equal measure.

Patricia Lockwood is a truly singular writer. Her ability to jump between the (genuinely) laugh-out-loud and the deeply profound without breaking her stride is second to none. Priestdaddy is, at its heart, an honest depiction of a difficult childhood (with a guitar-riffing, perennially underdressed, Catholic Priest as a father) and the increasingly relatable experience of loving a family who live within a different political and cultural reality than your own.

It’s always a good time to read Le Guin’s landmark sci-fi novel. It’s sort of a classic book club book (that is, a lot of people do it for their book clubs). But it’s also one that just holds up so well to a re-visit. Those who’ve already read it will see it anew, those who’ve never read it will be in for a wild ride.

Set on the freezing planet of Gethen, whose native population are androgynous “ambisexuals”, an Earth-man, Genly Ai, gets caught in a cutthroat web of political intrigue which leads to a life-threateningly cold trek across the planet’s northern ice sheet with his native companion, Estraven. What’s most satisfying about Le Guin’s excellent world-building is her detailed anthropological bent: everything about the freezing cold rock of Gethen changes what its native people are like, particularly in the importance they put in the hearth, the homestead, the family unit and loyalty. But nestled inside of all that is also a very intimate and deeply moving interspecies enemies-to-friends story between Ai and Estraven.

The most pleasing thing about enforcing this unmitigated banger on a book club is that it holds so many unexpected treats. When you’ve resorted to the somewhat catch-all theme of ‘a historical novel’ then be sure to put this one forward, because it will deliver unto your group an almighty brew of rich language, scorching contemporary refractions, and an irresistible twist on what you believe to be ‘common knowledge’ when it comes to the much-fictionalised world of witch trials in general. Pure sorcery, in the best possible way.

Mrs Caliban holds a firm place in the unwritten canon of “Storysmith Books of All Time”. Ever since first reading it when it was republished in the Faber Editions list, we’ve been high-key fully obsessed and haven’t stopped talking about it for years now.

It’s got everything: it’s really funny, it’s really silly, it’s got a frog man called Larry. But what brings it up to God Tier status is how it side-swipes you. While you’re laughing at the silly concept (how could a woman fall in love with a frog man, I hear you ask?), you won’t notice that you’re about to be hit by truck-load of: the sad, the profound, the seriously deep, the incredibly well-observed.

The less you know the better, except maybe just to say the concept of this book will sound familiar if you’ve watched Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water (which he claims he didn’t rip off…)

Many of our book clubs are now singing the praises of Rachel Ingalls’ mid-century masterpiece. The ones that aren’t have had their ears chewed off from members of the other groups…

At just over 100 pages, Small Things Like These is as impactful as it is tiny. Set in the days leading up to Christmas in 1980’s Northern Ireland, Keegan’s novel reads like a morality tale with Bill Furlong, a timber merchant and father of five, at its heart. As he battles the freezing December weather to make his pre-Christmas deliveries, disturbing scenes at a local convent give him pause to think about his own upbringing, his family and the guilty silence of his community.

More than deserving of the high acclaim that it’s received, this truly empathetic novel is quietly profound and perfect for devouring in one cold winter’s night – a massive over-deliverer in book club terms.

Appropriately subtitled “A Health Resort Horror Story”, the Empusium is a gleefully sadistic tale from Nobel-garlanded queen of everything that is good in this literary realm Olga Tokarczuk .

Assembled in the clear-aired mountains of Silesia at a dedicated ‘Guesthouse for Gentlemen’ in 1916, a bunch of doofus men with respiratory issues peck and pontificate around the case of the guesthouse owner’s recently-deceased wife. Aided by the potent local liqueur, the men become increasingly haunted, and newcomer Mieczysław battles to retain his physical and mental fortitude. Fans of Drive Your Plow will feel a familiar unease, but this time the terror is more pronounced, more directed, more political in its roots. Part mystery, part deconstruction of misogyny, part gung-ho horror, all Olga! This is another book that has been read, independently from one another, by almost all our book clubs. It’s a rich, interesting text that sparks plenty of disagreement – but is ultimately just a fantastically written book.

This is a book that will transport you to the dusty plains of the Pampas in 1872, evoking the excitement of wind-in-your-hair journeys, the joy of discovery and the freedom of travel.

It’s a journey of unlikely friendships, rich cultural discovery, sexual awakening and British customs in the wild and endless Pampas (Liz seems to be able to produce un-ending tea, whisky, umbrellas and other luxury items from the depths of the wagon).

You’ll be swept up by the sense of freedom and you will punch the air in celebration of China Iron’s joyful and liberating journey.

The Edward Elgar of science fiction, R.C. Sherriff’s gently haunting document of one ordinary man’s way through a climate-altering disaster is stunningly prescient and beautifully written, sort of like Diary Of A Nobody meets The Drowned World.

Written from the perspective of a retired teacher turned poultry farmer, we watch as the moon veers off course. Drawing closer and closer to earth, Edgar’s neighbours go into a mad scramble to prepare for the end of the world. But, despite this seismic event, his main concern is his Bantam hens and keeping up his esteemed reputation in the British Lunar Society.

One of Dan’s favourites and duly road-tested on Holly’s eco book club, it’s a quaintly thrilling and quietly subversive read for any book club.

This is one of those “I don’t know how you pulled this off” books. It’s a concept that’s so ambitious and Deborah Tomkins not only seriously delivers on that concept but dives deeper and deeper into it. It’s also one where the less you know, the better, because it goes in directions that are so unexpected and brilliant. 

But to give a little back-of-the-envelope pitch, Aerth follows the life story of Magnus from childhood through his life via a series of snapshots through his life on Aerth, an seemingly edenic, non-hierarchical Earth-ish planet (near-future society?) slowly descending into an ice age, through to his life travelling to Urth, its newly discovered twin planet where another seemingly human society has evolved in parallel. What does this all mean? What is Deborah Tomkins trying to tell us? Thing is, it’s up for debate in a big way – which makes it a perfect book club read. I don’t think any two members would totally agree on this book.

FFO Ursula K Le Guin, well-executed eco-fiction, epics-in-miniature

Moshfegh’s debut is not as well-read as some of her later books liked My Year of Rest and Relaxation or Lapvona but it’s easily up there among her best. It’s a tightly written, snappy thriller with a dark, frosty New England setting. It’s moody, darkly comic and at times utterly shocking.

Reasons your book club should read: the ending will blow your socks off; the narrator is as compelling as she is gross; snowy, noir setting that no one can argue with.

It seems modern life truly is rubbish in this biting take on millennial culture, told in a distinctly sparse prose by Vincenzo Latronico. 

Anna and Tom have succeeded in curating the perfect life: a plant-filled apartment with varnished wooden floorboards, a collection of chic international friends, and the rich cultural scene of Berlin on their doorstep. Yet, beneath the facade, a great sense of nothingness persists; the fronds of their houseplants are laden in dust, their jobs are vague and of no discernible intrigue, and efforts to expand their sexual horizons end awkwardly and with little satisfaction. When Anna and Tom are made aware of the emptiness of their existence, they throw themselves into activism, uprooting their lives in search of purpose – all of which is documented on social media, of course.

Full of sharp observations detailing the relentless search for ‘authenticity’ in the digital age, this was such a fun and clever read and provoked intense book club discussion about how it’s possible to enjoy a book without particularly liking anyone in the book.

This earns a spot on this list for a few reasons…

Firstly, it’s one of Holly’s all-time favorites. An essential read.

Secondly, written in 2 halves, one in 1460s Italy and the other in England in 2014, the narrative each individual reader gets first depends on the copy of the book they pick up. Half its readers will get Francesco’s story first, a fresco painter from renaissance Italy, born a girl but binding her chest and living as a man. Other readers will get George’s narrative first, a teenage girl grieving the death of her mum, and losing herself in the frescoes Francesco painted centuries earlier. It’s a book full of ambiguity: time is non-linear, sentences are unfinished, and the two narratives intertwine in a sort of endless-loop. All of this leaves this novel brilliantly open-ended, making it a great book-club pick, one with all sorts of varying perspectives, new interpretations, and lots of “well actually, in my opinion…”