Marcus Berkmann

I tend to read non-fiction for review or research and fiction to keep me sane. This year I have rarely been more than two books away from another Georges Simenon. I started late last year with three old Maigrets I found on a shelf (fortunately my own), then progressed to the romans durs, fantastically bleak, unforgiving portrayals of psychological collapse, recounted in the old rogue’s characteristically flat, unemotional prose. The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By (Penguin, 1938) is justly revered; Monsieur Monde Vanishes (1952) has recently reappeared under the NYRB imprint; but I particularly admired The Little Man from Archangel (1957), which is out of print and shouldn’t be. Personally, I need to be quite emotionally robust to get the most out of these books, or so miserable that the even deeper miseries of his characters actually cheer me up.

Oldish and newish novels I have also enjoyed this year include Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys (1995), Barry Unsworth’s The Song of the Kings (2002), Alexei Sayle’s The Weeping Women Hotel (2006) and John Preston’s The Dig (2007).

Nicholas Haslam

You might need some literally lighter reading after that recent heavy tome, so try Maryam Sach’s pensive, Colette-like first novella Without Saying Goodbye (Quartet, £10), or maybe Einstein’s Watch (Profile Books, £9.99), a compellingly varied collection of things that were offered for sale in 2008 — from Rommel’s P45 to Haile Selassie’s visitor’s book — by Jolyon Fenwick and Marcus Husselby. Waiting for Princess Margaret (Quartet, £12), the delicious third volume of Emma Tennant’s fict-fact memoirs is slim merely in format. I took a paperback of Patrick Wilcken’s Empire Adrift: The Portuguese Court in Rio de Janiero 1808-21 (Bloomsbury, £8.99) to that music-obsessed city, an obsession made understandable when one reads that the first-ever performance of Hayden’s Creation took place in Rio during those very years. Having discovered a verse by the (to me unknown) 17th-century Thomas Traherne for my autobiography, I recently came across his magical Poems of Felicity (Clarendon Press, 1912), bound in faded vellum among my father’s possessions. Finally, topping a bumper literary year, Selina Hastings has exhumed long-hidden aspects of that ancient snapping turtle’s past in The Secret Lives of Somerset Maugham (John Murray, £25). One can only hope Murray will publish Hastings’s forthcoming biography of the equally enigmatic but sometimes snappy genius, Sybille Bedford.

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