
Books of the month: What to read this March from a twisty thriller to Julian Barnes on changing your mind
One of the more unusual books out this month is Willow Winsham's The Story of Witches: Folklore, History and Superstition (Batsford). Witches are believed to have helped stop Napoleon from invading England; in his book, Winsham notes that thousands of witches across the United States 'took part in a ritual against president Donald Trump' in 2017. Maybe spells just ain't what they were.
The best reissues of March include Faber's paperback editions of three classic Samuel Beckett novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable. In the new introduction to Molloy, Colm Tóibín reminds readers of Beckett's ability to mix the tender and the savage in his writing, as well as his penchant for providing 'less than wholesome' humour.
The autobiography, novel and non-fiction books of the month are reviewed in full below.
★★★★☆
Lucy Mangan's Bookish: How Reading Shapes Our Lives is the follow-up to the journalist's 2018 release Bookworm: A Childhood Memoir and picks up as a sort of ongoing autobiography from her teenage years. The choice presented to adolescent girls in the 1980s, she writes, was to be placed in the 'bimbo box' (aiming to be attractive to boys by being 'pretty, booby, acquiescent') or the geeky box and endure 'the awkward teenage years for the bookish' as a result.
Elsewhere, The Guardian TV critic offers interesting thoughts on how GCSE curricula can damage children's relationship with literature; she provides a solid defence of 'guilty-pleasure reading', including of Shirley Conran's 1982 novel Lace, a scandalous 'bonkbuster' of its time. I'm pretty much in agreement with Mangan about the value of escapist fiction, although we have different tastes. For example, she admits to being one of many adults who loved the Harry Potter books, confessing that when she worked at the Bromley Waterstones she waited 'as eagerly and impatiently as any of our child customers' for the next instalment in JK Rowling's series.
Bookish also deals with reading when you are pregnant (can she be alone among expectant mothers who were given a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting and then hurled it across the room?) and ends with lockdown – 'when books saved me'.
Most touching are the moments in which she recalls her late father (who died in January 2023) and her memories of how he used to buy her treasured books. Bookish is certainly for the bookish – an affectionate, warm guide to the healing power of reading.
'Bookish: How Reading Shapes Our Lives' by Lucy Mangan is published by Square Peg on 13 March, £18.99
★★★★★
Colin McCann's Apeirogon was one of my books of the year for 2020, so I approached Twist with high expectations. They were not misplaced. His new novel, about an Irish journalist and playwright called Anthony Fennell and his assignment to write about the underwater cables that carry the world's information, is simply stunning.
Fennell travels to Cape Town to board the Georges Lecointe, a cable repair vessel captained by chief of mission John Conway, a mysterious and reckless freediver who repairs shattered fibre-optic tubes at unfathomable depths. When the mission falters and Conway disappears, Fennell tries to find him in what becomes part thriller and part exploration of narrative and truth. (There are deliberate echoes of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.)
The other main character is Conway's estranged wife Zanele, an actor and ocean lover who offers some stark views on what is happening to the waters that Conway inhabits. She tells Fennell that four billion tons of industrial waste is being dumped in the sea every year. 'If this was happening in a f***ing sci-fi movie, we'd get it, but we don't,' she says. 'If we had any sense, we would all die of shame.'
There are vivid descriptions of the sea ('everything gets filtered out except the blue, it's like being in a Miles Davis song,' says Conway) and of the drinking that has wrought such damage on Fennell's complicated private life.
Twist is a truly thought-provoking novel about truth, the universal propensity to 'misdirect' when it comes to our own character, and the shoddiness of the web age and what Fennell calls 'the obscene certainty of our days'. It is hard not to conclude that whatever benefits technology brings, internet connection comes at the price of human disconnection.
The 21st-century human seems a very broken thing in Twist. And McCann's novel, penned by a brilliant storyteller at the height of his powers, has a disconcerting ability to help you simultaneously find and lose your bearings.
'Twist' by Colum McCann is published by Bloomsbury on 6 March, £18.99
Non-fiction book of the month: Changing My Mind by Julian Barnes
★★★★☆
Fellow oldies past their prime will surely offer a nod of recognition at Julian Barnes's ruminations on 'how memory degrades'. It arrives in the Memory section of Changing My Mind (a collection of essays partly broadcast on radio a decade ago), in which Barnes explains how he has altered his opinion over the years and now believes that 'memory is a feeble guide to the past'. Late in life he now believes, like his philosopher brother as it happens, that a single person's memory is no better than an act of the imagination when it is uncorroborated and unsubstantiated by other evidence.
Changing your mind is a running theme across the book's four other sections – Words, Politics, Books and Age and Time – which are all provocative and entertaining. The section on politics is perhaps the most revealing. Barnes, who was born in 1946 and who remains one of Britain's finest modern novelists, writes that the only time he voted Conservative was in the early 1970s, when it was a choice between Edward Heath and Harold Wilson. He also offers an amusing account of what would happen in 'Barnes's Benign Republic'. Among his pledges are a 50-year ban on any Old Etonian from becoming prime minister and turning at least one royal palace into a museum of the slave trade.
Barnes offers a sane, sardonic guide to the world and demonstrates why it is beneficial to have flexibility of thought. He changed his mind about the merits of author EM Forster, for example, after reading a delightful description of a breakfast Forster was served on a boat train to London in the 1930s: 'Porridge or prunes, sir?'. The book is perfect for a reflective hour or so of reading. Although it is slight (57 pages in a small octodecimo format), less is definitely more with Changing My Mind.
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Spectator
3 hours ago
- Spectator
I've had it with Anselm Kiefer
August is always a crap month for exhibitions in London. The collectors are elsewhere, the dealers are presumably hot on their heels, and the galleries are filled with makeweight group shows staged to hold the fort until the end of the holidays. This year, however, even events of that kind are thin on the ground: many establishments have simply shuttered for the month – and given the dire state of the art market, I'm inclined to wonder how many will reopen come September. Still, I caught the two Anselm Kiefer shows running concurrently. Kiefer famously scandalised West German society with a series of performances in which he had himself photographed giving the Nazi salute in front of various historically loaded monuments. That was in 1969, and he has since become immensely successful and progressively less interesting. I can't really write about the better exhibition at the Royal Academy, which pairs the German's work with that of his hero Van Gogh, as the curator is a friend. But in summary: you'll look at the Dutchman's paintings afresh, marvelling at the berserk virtuosity of the brushwork; you will also note how big Kiefer's canvases are. Over the road at White Cube, however…yikes. Produced on a gargantuan scale, his new paintings retread the old line about the weight of history (lead!) and are packed with withered pastoral imagery and performative Teutonic guilt. Besides this, there are plenty of foreboding inscriptions – some in German, some, alarmingly, in pseudo-Homeric Greek script. The Kiefer of 2025 has a very heavy-metal vibe to him: the doom-auguring sunflower paintings here would look great on the cover of a Metallica record. Festival accommodation prices banjaxed my ambitions to write about Mike Nelson's show in Edinburgh, so with less than 24 hours remaining to file this column, I took a train down to Kent to see the latest iteration of the Folkestone Triennial. I confess to a degree of hypocrisy here: 17 months ago, I wrote an article for this magazine complaining about the worldwide proliferation of the art biennale format. There were, I thundered, too many of them, and they should all be avoided for the sake of our collective sanity. Despite taking place every three years, rather than two, the Folkestone Triennial is just such an event. The difference is that it has a cheery individuality, a limited number of participating artists – there are just 18 showcased here – and clear goals, which it largely achieves. It's also a great town for an art trail, taking in Notting Hill-style stucco terraces, a nicely redeveloped commercial port, the continuation of the famous White Cliffs and a pretty clear view over to France. Speaking of which: in one of the Martello towers built to repel a Napoleonic invasion, Katie Paterson has created a mini-museum of hand-sculpted little relics created mostly from waste materials. There are Egyptian amulets based on artefacts in the British Museum, hewn from bits of clapped-out circuit boards; tiny talismans pieced together from space junk: that sort of thing. It's very good. Most of the exhibits are sculptural pieces commissioned for specific locations, and where possible, they will stay in situ: previous editions of the event have bequeathed the town works including a pair of picturesque little Richard Woods cottages in the harbour, and a lovely Ian Hamilton Finlay text piece on the lighthouse. There's nothing that great this time, but there are some entertaining contributions. Laure Prouvost, a French artist who, despite being off-the-scale kooky (and once telling me I looked 'like a toilet'), is sporadically brilliant, has a typically wonky avian sculpture perched on the harbour arm; at the station, J. Maizlish Mole has installed a tourist map that makes no distinction between contemporary Folkestone and the ruins that may or may not lie beneath it; and way up on the heights, Sara Trillo has scattered a boat-load of fake ruins across a patch of burgeoning vegetation. If they look a bit like ornaments sold at roadside garden centres, I sense that may well be the point. 'Above Front Tears, Oui Connect' by Laure Prouvost at the Folkestone Triennial. Image: Thierry Bal If you were to isolate an adjective to sum it up, the word might well be 'whacky' – did I mention that there's a children's playground designed by Monster Chetwynd? – but it screeches to a halt just short of twee. And even when it gets a bit morally instructional, as is the case with Dorothy Cross's sculptural meditation on the migrant crisis, the work is strong enough to bear the load. Look, it's not a seismic cultural happening, but it's almost certainly a better use of funds than building a mediocre contemporary art museum that nobody really likes. It's fun, it's thoughtful, and people seem to love it. It also leaves the town with a visible legacy of its presence. And that, I reckon, is a biennale model worth emulating.


Daily Mirror
a day ago
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Daily Record
a day ago
- Daily Record
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