Book Reviews

In my work as a reviewer, a small, steady proportion of all the books publishers send me concern the Holocaust. With middle age has come a curious foreshortening of my perspective on modern history so that, paradoxically, the Nazis’ inhumanity has begun to seem less distant in time and, therefore, more horrible still. Fortunately I can reassure myself that, objectively, it happened long ago and that even the atrocities of eastern Europe and Rwanda are now a couple of decades safely in the past. Such consolations vanish when confronted by The Raqqa Diaries, which is shockingly of the present. It is a terrible reminder that we are unwise to impute

The call for lessons in the art of seduction in the style of an author of your choice drew a large and stellar field. Henry James — whose labyrinthine sentences would surely bore the objects of his affection into submission — was a popular choice. Here he is, as expertly imagined by John Maddicott: ‘If her defences, imperfectly nurtured by an occasionally burnished but never entirely unshakeable conscience, were to be penetrated — and he allowed the delightful vulgarity of the thought to send a miniature frisson of undeniable pleasure through his diminutive frame — it must be by methods which, though crude in their essaying, combined the subtlety of

In Delmore Schwartz’s story ‘In Dreams Begin Responsibilities’, a young man dreams he is watching his father and mother’s engagement onscreen from a seat in a cinema. Weeping at the certain knowledge of the pain to come, he’s patted on the back by a woman. ‘There, there,’ she says, ‘all of this is just a movie.’ In a way, this moment distils the challenge of all oneiric narratives — it’s a fiction within a fiction, one in which anything can happen, but without real-world consequences. In this dark, brilliantly controlled debut, the Argentinian Samanta Schweblin uses the fabric of a dream to weave a novel in which everything is at

Let’s get one thing clear: bookshops are a good thing. Waterstones — even putting aside the abandonment of its apostrophe — is a good thing. James Daunt, the man who has turned Waterstone’s from a basket case into a profitable enterprise, is a good thing. But what the company has done in Southwold, Rye and Harpenden is naughty. And it’s more than just a storm in an overpriced Emma Bridgewater teacup. Waterstones has opened up shops that purport to be both local and independent, when they are neither. In Southwold, the branch is called Southwold Books, in Rye it’s The Rye Bookshop and in Harpenden, Harpenden Books. The colour-scheme, layout,

Alex Salmond, former first minister of Scotland, once claimed that he could always tell Scottish fiction from English. Novels, he said, reveal fundamental differences in the values of the Scots and the English. I wonder then what he would make of Annalena McAfee’s book, Hame — about the most Scottish work of fiction that any English novelist could possibly write. So committed is the former Guardian journalist authentically to explore every aspect of life north of the Border that she learnt to speak Braid Scots — from Lallans to Doric dialects — and crafted poetry in them. Surely that makes her more Scottish than most born-and-bred Caledonians? For what drives