Just no

More books I just cannot be doing with. Lucy Worsley, Agatha Christie This biography is written like a TV script, with way too much hand-holding and reiterating gobbets of information we have only just been told. The tone is both patronising and bit too chummy. Worsley cranks up the tension as we approach Christie’s famous … Continue reading Just no

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Oriel Malet, My Bird Sings

Oriel Malet's name has been wafting past my attention now for years, probably decades, and I've never paid much attention to her before now, which is a bit shocking. She was an accomplished novelist, Welsh, from a titled family, and her second novel, My Bird Sings, won the John Llewelyn Rhys Prize in 1946, and … Continue reading Oriel Malet, My Bird Sings

Sinabada, by Elinor Mordaunt

This 1938 memoir by the prolific and highly skilled author Elinor Mordaunt (not her birth name) floats airily between the firm land of fact and history and the boundless seas of improbable possibilities. Mordaunt is an extraordinary character. I commissioned the publication of a collection of her supernatural short stories last year, and I was … Continue reading Sinabada, by Elinor Mordaunt

Liz Williams, Comet Weather

Comet Weather scooped me up and ran away with me. I was up two nights in a row reading it until I was too tired, or I'd reached the end. It's a meaty read, not a slithering skinny thing, but a proper novel, filled with delight and tension and fascinating things. I thoroughly enjoyed it, … Continue reading Liz Williams, Comet Weather