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New Town antics in a world on the cusp of change @Medwardsbooks @BL_Publishing #georgebellairs

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Surfeit of Suspects by George Bellairs

I’ve written before on the Ramblings about the works of George Bellairs; he’s another of those unjustly neglected authors rescued from obscurity by the British Library via their Crime Classics series and I’ve read and reviewed three of his stories. Death of a Busybody was my introduction to him back in 2016, and I did love it; a wonderful wartime tale of murder in a small country village, it balanced light and dark moments brilliantly. My second encounter was a volume containing two stories, back in 2017, and interestingly these were both set during the war too. The Dead Shall be Raised and Murder of a Quack were again great fun to read but with darkness under the surface; Bellairs knows how to handle the contrasts well. So having really enjoyed encountering his detecting team of Inspector Littlejohn and Detective-Sergeant Cromwell, I was very keen to pick up the latest release from the lovely British Library when it popped through the door recently. And “Surfeit of Suspects” turned out to be just as good a read as the earlier titles.

The story starts with a bang – literally, as an explosion in a joinery company in the small town of Evingden destroys not only the building but also three company directors inside… The Excelsior Joinery Company is a business which has been struggling recently; an old family firm which was bought out by a group of directors after the death of the owner, it’s rapidly gone downhill through mismanagement, as well as being unable to compete in a modern, changing world. But was the explosion intended to destroy the company or its directors? Littlejohn is soon summoned from Scotland Yard and as he begins to investigate he finds a real hornet’s nest.

The title of this book does not lie – there are a ridiculous amount of suspects involved! It seems that one particular murdered director, Dodds, has an awful lot of enemies, in and out of his family; and any one of them could have wanted him out of the way (particularly as there’s a useful insurance policy on his life…) However, as Littlejohn and Cromwell dig deeper, it seems that there might be more than just a personal grudge at play here….

To say more would risk spoiling the fun, but this is another clever and enjoyable mystery from Bellairs (who really should *not* have been out of print for all this time.) However, there’s another aspect which makes this book particularly interesting and that’s the time and the setting. “Surfeit” is another slightly later crime classic, published in 1964, and once more we have the world on the cusp of big changes. In this case there are a number of elements, and the strongest is that of the building of new towns; Evingden has gone from being a small town to one with a modern New Town built onto it, and the social effects are dramatic. There is still the divide between rich and poor, worker and boss, in the town but this is being changed and eroded. In a sense, the old world as exemplified by the original town, is gradually dying, to be replaced by the brave and noisy new world, and you sense a sadness from Bellairs/Littlejohn about that change.

And the clash between old and new is played out on the pages of “Surfeit”, with workers in old houses contrasted with brash modern villas in new developments. It makes for an interesting dynamic in the book, and one with which I’m actually familiar. When I was a child, my family moved down south from Edinburg to find work for my dad; we ended up in a small Hampshire town which was in effect becoming what was classed as London overspill and there was the sense of a sleepy little market town being transformed by development into some kind of odd new hybrid. The old, genteel country life hung on for a while but was eventually overtaken by the new. And later in life, my parents moved to another town which had been built for industry, taking over the small village it had once been. So much of what was happening in the book resonated and that point of change in society is captured really well here.

That’s a slight digression; however, the whole scenario of change is actually very relevant to the mystery and of course at the root of things is money; that and love/hate are so often the motivating factors for murder, aren’t they? The solution to “Surfeit” is clever and the plot twisty, involving all manner of shady dealings, and it’s great fun watching Littlejohn and Cromwell in action. I particularly enjoy how Bellairs always allows the latter to go off on little investigations of his own and he’s just as good a character as Littlejohn – they do make a good team!

Bellairs was economic writer; he packs a mass of action and plot into his 211 pages, with a story that zips along, never flagging, and he wraps up all of the loose ends in a paragraph or two at the end. This makes for a quick and satisfying read, perfect for when you need a classic crime fix, although in this case with a slightly modern twist. As Martin Edwards points out in his introduction, the book “gives us a glimpse of a long-vanished world, a world that was already vanishing even as Bellairs wrote about it.” That element gives “Surfeit of Sleuths” an extra edge and adds to the atmosphere, making it a highly recommended entry in the British Library Crime Classics series!

Review copy kindly provided by the publisher, for which many thanks!

Travelling the world with the City Tales @shinynewbooks @OxUniPress

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I have a couple of new reviews up at Shiny New Books today which I wanted to share with you, and they’re of a marvellous pair of books from Oxford University Press in their “City Tales” series:

I’ve read a number of books in the series before, and these latest releases feature two fascinating cities – Barcelona and Lisbon.

The books in the City Tales series gather short stories or extracts from works which feature the city in question, and these are illustrated with striking photographs, as well as containing supporting material in the form of author biographies, further reading suggestions and even maps of the places concerned!

The City Tales books make wonderful reading for armchair travellers, as well as fascinating guides if you happen to be going for a visit. You can read about Barcelona here and Lisbon here – they, and the whole series in fact, are highly recommended! 😀

Books in and out – plus summer plans?? @richarddawkins #johnberger @i_am_mill_i_am

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There has been much coming and going of books recently at the Ramblings HQ; and I’ve been trying to get the remaining stacks a little more organised so that I can be a teeny bit more focused with what I’m reading and writing about. Books have continued to come in but many have gone out, and I’m trying to treat bookish movement in a way that will keep things at least carbon neutral! So if one comes in, at least one must go out… And here’s a little stack I’d like to share some thoughts and possible plans about today!

Large and interesting piles of books always make my heart sing!

The incoming books have included some really fascinating titles – these pretty little editions, for example:

The Red Circle Minis

These are the first three Red Circle Minis in a new publishing venture to bring short works by contemporary Japanese authors into English. They look lovely and the contents are wonderful – more will follow about them!

I have been fairly restrainted with the online buying, but a couple of titles have made it past the barricades!

I can’t for the life of me remember where I read about “Eleven Prague Corpses” but it will no doubt be on some friendly blog or other. It’s been sitting on a wishlist for ages and I finally caved in. The Vita is as a result of Simon’s post here – he really is a bad influence, but it’s a lovely old edition and comes so highly recommended I couldn’t resist.

More books have been going *to* the charity shops than coming from them, but I spotted this yesterday in the Oxfam and had to have it:

I’ve read and loved some of Kapuscinski’s work; and in a strange case of serendipity and synchronicity, I was reading an excellent review of this book recently by the travel author Rosemary Bailey (who sadly passed away this year). The fact that it fell into my path today was obviously significant.

And on Midsummer’s Day, a book came my way in the form of a gift from Mr. Kaggsy, as it was our anniversary. Yet again, he managed to find a book I haven’t read and haven’t got and really *should* read – “One Hundred Years of Solitude” in the new bluey green Penguin Modern Classics livery!

He did apologise for the fact that it has half of a naked woman on the cover – no, I don’t know if she’s significant yet. No doubt all will be revealed….

Going forward, I’ve started to tentatively think about summer reading plans (although I generally tend not to make plans…) I work in the education sector, so there is the long summer break when I can hopefully tackle larger books or books of more substance (as well as continuing to make a dent in the pile of review books). And my mind is going in a few directions at the moment, though I don’t know where it will actually settle – although these are some of the options.

I have in recent weeks amassed a *lot* of Richard Dawkins books – all but one from the charity shops. I’ve read the beginning of each and love the writing as well as his bracing and opinionated take on things. I might consider a Summer of Dawkins – could be very mind expanding. However there are also these:

I’ve been gathering John Berger books when I come across them; and also there is the lovely review book from Notting Hill Editions. So a Summer of Berger could be another option! 😀

And then there’s poetry and Newcastle…

You may wonder what I’m wittering about, but basically this stems from Andy Miller mentioning Basil Bunting on Twitter and sending me off down a wormhole reading about Morden Tower in Newcastle and the poets associated with it. This could become very involving…

In case  you’re a tad worried about these heaps of books, here’s an image of the charity boxes before they were collected last week:

There were three boxes of books, to which I added a dozen more before the men with a van arrived. And I took another into the shop yesterday which had been missed; it did feel rather weird seeing my books all over their shelves instead of mine, but I did feel a bit virtuous.

Other summer reading plans will no doubt involve some Persephones or Viragos during August, and also some translated women for WIT month. Apart from that, what am I reading at the moment, you might wonder? Well, I’ve been attempting a little bit of polyreading, and it was going fairly well until I got so absorbed in the fiction (the new Mishima) that I put the others aside for a bit. These are they:

The Tim Parks is a lovely essay collection from Alma which is fascinating so far and great for dipping if you need a quick reading fix. “At the Existentialist Cafe” is also turning out to be rather wonderful, and I’m grasping a lot of concepts I hadn’t before. It *does* need a little more concentration than I usually have last thing at night, so may end up being a holiday read.

So there you have it. The state of books chez Ramblings and some tentative ideas going forward. How are your TBRs at the moment? And do you have any summer reading plans??

 

The art of the self-portrait @LesFugitives #sylvieweil

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Selfies by Sylvie Weil
Translated by Ros Schwartz

We live in a modern age characterised by fast communications, short attention spans and a huge focus on the self; all of which might seem like new and modern preoccupations. However, I was reminded that there is nothing new under the sun by Prof. Richard Clay’s excellent “How to go Viral” programme back in March; Richard pointed out that memes were really nothing new and that the transfer of signs and symbols in popular culture had a long and varied history. And reading a fascinating new review book which popped through the door recently, I realised that that arch-symbol of modernity, the selfie, really isn’t that modern at all!

The book is called just that – “Selfies” – and is by Sylvie Weil, published by Les Fugitives. Weil is an author not as new to me as I orginally thought; she’s the niece of Simone Weil, the philosopher, whose Virago collection I picked up fairly recently in the Oxfam. Her father was the famous mathematician Andre Weil; and Sylvie herself is a distinguished academic and author, although I get the sense that she’s often overshadowed by the rest of her family. Les Fugitives are a new imprint for me, but their remit is one that appeals very much – to publish contemporary French writing in translation – and so I was very pleased that they decided to send me a review copy of this book, because I might not have stumbled across it otherwise, and it really was excellent.

“Selfies” features a photograph by Vivian Maier on the cover, and a better choice couldn’t have been made; in many ways, that self-effacing photographer is reminiscent of Weil herself, and both are concerned with what the self-portrait can hide or reveal. Weil’s book is structured in thirteen sections of varying lengths; each takes as its starting point a work of art which is a self-portrait of a female artist and Weil uses this to theme her own recollections, which are self-portraits in writing. It’s a really interesting concept, and allows Weil to explore not only her past and life, but the way we view women artists and they way they choose to present themselves to the world.

So, for example, “Self-portrait at the organ” starts with a description on a self-portrait by Sofonisba Angiossola from 1561; Weil then follows this with a nuanced memory of organ lessons as a young girl and her music teacher of a “venerable age”. “Self-portrait as a Chinese mushroom” springs from a painting by Gabriele Munter and explores a toxic friendship. And “Self-portrait with a dog” is one of two pieces using the works of Frida Kahlo as inspiration (and it’s quite heartbreaking, too, in an understated way). This method allows Weil to explore her memories, sometimes in a playful way, but often with a deeper, darker tone; there are some really difficult and moving pieces in the book, and in particular the events relating to Weil’s son are desperately sad.

When Japanese friends told me, before my trip, that I’d see the cherry blossom, I replied politely: “Cherry blossom, how lovely, I’m thrilled.” I had no clue. I didn’t realise that I’d walk for days under a shower of petals, that I’d see pink rivers and at night I’d join long, slow processions, dark rivers mirroring the pale rivers of petals, and that like everyone else I’d hold my camera high above my head to capture and possess a tiny fragment of the stunning, soft, pink mass.

Lighter moments come from chapters like “Self-portrait as an author”, where Weil wryly explores the discomfort experienced by a writer at a bookstore signing, where a much more popular writer is receiving all the attention from the shopping public. And “Self-portrait as a visitor” reveals the different perceptions that we can have of someone and how a friend will never see the same side of that person as a family member will. In fact, Weil’s family is a theme which runs through the book, all the way up to the very clever “Photobomb selfie”, the last piece in the book.

“Selfies” is a short book – 152 pages – but is packed with so much that lingers in the mind, provoking thought long after I’d finished reading it. Weil weaves the threads of her life into her narratives brilliantly, allowing her to cover topics such as anti-Semitism, Palestine, ageism, genetics and psychosis. The format means she always approaches these with a delicate touch and the book is quick to read, though not lightweight; its imagery and stories are powerful and stay with you. The book also had the (perhaps intentional!) effect of making me go and research the women artists I’d not heard of so that I could actually *see* the pictures Weil was describing. The self-portrait is such a part of art history that I’m just surprised I hadn’t made the connection with the modern selfie before!

So “Selfies” turned out to be an original and inventive way to discuss memory, history and perception, as well as how women’s lives are understood. Sylvie Weil has obviously been too long under the shadow of her famous forebears and it’s about time more of her work was available in English. Kudos therefore have to go not only to Weil for writing such a marvellous book, but also to translator Ros Schwartz and Les Fugitives for publishing the book – I can see I’m going to have to watch their catalogue with interest! 😀

(Review copy kindly provided by the publisher, for which many thanks! “Selfies” is published on 25th June.)

… the desperation that washes through me.” @FitzcarraldoEds

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Ash before Oak by Jeremy Cooper

*(Trigger warning – this post, and indeed this book, discuss themes of breakdown and suicide)*

One of this year’s issues from the lovely Fitzcarraldo Editions, this is an intriguing piece of writing, and one which to a certain extend defies classification. Published in their blue livery, indicating fiction, it takes on the form of a diary or journal and follows the life of an unnamed male narrator. The solitary man lives in a cottage on a solitary Somerset estate which is in the process of being renovated, both by him and other locals. The narrator records the natural life around him, from the changing seasons to the trees and plants, the birds and wild creatures to the moths and butterflies. Initially, it’s hard to place the journal entries in a particular era, as simply the date without a year is given; but as the narrative progresses, references to external world events such as 9/11 are slipped in so that the reader realises this is the early part of the 21st century.

So we share our narrator’s days, as he observes moles tunnelling under his lawn, tries to tackle the cottage’s mouse problem in a humane way and interacts with his neighbours – particularly a woman called Beth, 20 years his junior. The observations of nature are beautiful and the narrative hypnotic and compelling; however, as we read it becomes clear that not all is quite right with our narrator. Cracks in the descriptions of flora and fauna allow comments to slip through which are almost asides but which reveal that the mental state of the narrator is a fragile one, and we begin to realise that he is isolated in the country for a reason, that he has been through or is going through some kind of mental trauma, and that our view of this is only going to be partial.

With neat observations I make myself seem rational and urbane.
Far from true.

As the book moves on, parts of the narrator’s past slip into the writing; his past work; his marriage, over for 20 years; his complex relationship with his family. Beth also appears regularly in the journal and we start to realise that she is more than just a neighbour, and something of a crutch to the man as he works through his issues. There are visits to a therapist; fragments of memory about his parents and the experiences of his youth; and the sense grows that the narrators is damaged by his past. However, off camera events take a dramatic turn; we see the aftermath of an attempt at self-murder; and it is touch and go as to whether our narrator will regain any kind of equilibrium.

I don’t want to say too much more which is specific about this extraordinary book because it would deaden the impact of reading it; that process is vital to the understanding of the narrator, his place in the world and what he’s going through. The gradual revealing of past and current events, the careful building up of the tapestry of his life, is done in a masterly fashion and “Ash…” needs to be read mindfully so as to pick up the nuances stitched into the narrative. It’s also a consciously literary book; it’s laced with telling references to other works and writers, such as Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilych” and Virginia Woolf, amongst many others; and these are all discreet hints as to the narrator’s state of mind.

Accept the solitude, I tell myself, if that’s how things currently must be. It’s enough this moment to enjoy the sight of the candle-like blooms on the weeping bird cherry tree, released this year by my cuttings and clearings to flourish near the bench.

“Ash before Oak” is a remarkable and immersive piece of storytelling, and it’s a book in which the gaps are as important as the actual narrative itself. Bravely, the publisher has made use of the white space on page; each new day has a separate page of its own, and some of these only have a single line entry. This emphasises the bleakness of the days when the narrator cannot write, and if the entries had run continuously on from page to page the effect would have been severely diminished.

Although “Ash…” is a book which is extremely beautiful in places, in others it can be excruciatingly sad, charting as it does the complex mental state of a man clearly suffering a breakdown. Nevertheless, there is hope of redemption and a more positive future, with the narrator seeing chinks of light at the end of the tunnel and the ending is upbeat rather than downbeat. More than that I will not say!

I have the feeling that purpose is a spectre of man’s delusion, that it does not, did not, never will exist, that we’ve invented purpose in the hope of easing our burden while, in fact, torturing each other with the prospect. We may, quite soon, impale ourselves on purpose, extinguish the human race in our attempt to conquer meaning.

I mentioned at the start of this post that the book defies classification, and I’m going to have to explain this by delving into the knotty issue of autofiction. I’d not really thought very deeply about this as a genre before; after all, doesn’t every piece of fiction drawn to some extent on the author’s life and thoughts and actions and the events they’ve experienced? “Ash…” is described as Cooper’s first novel in over a decade, which suggests it should be read simply as fiction. It is, however, impossible to read this as anything other than autofiction, since the narrative is peppered with real people, real books and real facts; the narrator is a writer; he shares the same career trajectory as the author, such as spending many years appearing on Antiques Roadshow and having a large collection of art postcards. The narrator’s friends are real people; for example, one who wrote a book mentioned in the journals, which is actually real and available on Amazon; and the curator Jeremy Compston, who appears in the book as the narrator’s friend – Cooper has actually written a biography of him. So, much as I try not to conflate and author and their characters, by the end of this I clearly had.

This did set me thinking a little bit about autofiction in general; and in a weird kind of synchronicity, I read an article by Tim Parks on the subject just after finishing “Ash”. It was a very illuminating piece, pointing out that autofiction has existed back to the time of Dante, and quoting also Tolstoy’s use of his life in his fictions. I ended up thinking that in the past an author would use real life sources but change names, places and probably facts to make the fiction. Nowadays, the reality isn’t cloaked; instead, the *real* events, people and places feature, but still filtered through the novelist’s lens.

And at the end of that, I came to the conclusion that it actually doesn’t matter. Cooper chose to tell his story (and I’m assuming, possibly incorrectly, that it’s a story of *his* breakdown) in a fictionalised way, and that’s fine. It’s a book I found myself reading compulsively, drawn in by the imagery of the natural world around the narrator and the wish to follow his journey to whatever end it reached. In many ways, the book reads as an act of catharsis, of writing out of one’s pain, and the result is really stunning. I think it might be a good time to stop worrying about what’s fact and fiction, and just accept that there is very little written that’s actually true (I reckon most autobiographies are probably very fictionalised, for example!) Because however you want to classify it, “Ash before Oak” is a profound, moving and beautifully written work blending nature and humanity, and another winner from Fitzcarraldo.

(Just in case you’re wondering, the title is taken from a traditional country rhyme predicting the amount of rain we’re likely to have depending on which of the two trees produces leaves first! Yes, we really are obsessed with the weather in this country…!)

A twisty tale – and is murder *ever* justified??? @BL_Publishing @medwardsbooks

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Excellent Intentions by Richard Hull

There are times when only a comfort read will do, and I had a period like that at the end of May when I was suffering from a pretty vicious sinus infection. I managed to push through some Tolstoy short stories, but the Virginia Woolf houses book was a relaxing joy to read, and it seemed the logical thing after that to move on to some Golden Age crime (yes, I’m *that* behind with my reviewing….) I have a number of lovely British Library Crime Classics waiting to be read, and I was vaguely shocked to find that this one came out a year ago. Frankly, I wish I’d read it sooner; it’s an original and very wonderful take on a courtroom drama and I absolutely loved it!

Richard Hull is another of those unfairly neglected authors that BLCC are so good at bringing back into print; and Martin Edwards gives an outline of his life in his informative foreword. Hull wrote eleven crime novels, of which this is his sixth, and fascinatingly Edwards quotes a favourable review of the book by one Jorge Luis Borges. So another very good reason to read it…

Fenby felt already a strong dislike for rich men who inconsiderately purchased poison by which they themselves met their own end. It could only be called downright careless.

“Excellent Intentions” follows a trial taking place after the murder of Henry Cargate. The latter is the newly arrived ‘lord of the manor’ in the village of Scotney End, but unfortunately has not turned out to be a popular arrival. A man who’s made money by dubious methods, he shuns the locals, has his staff and all his requirements sent from London and even falls out with the local vicar. It’s hardly surprising he has no friends and family, and when he dies on the local train to Great Barwick the natural assumption is that his weak heart has given out. However, the local doctor has a suspicion which he passes on to the police; and Scotland Yard send in the unassuming but drily witty Inspector Fenby to investigate.

The mystery sounds straightforward enough (although the method is very nifty), but as well as being cleverly plotted it’s a real winner because of its rather unusual structure. Instead of a traditional linear narrative, the book opens with the beginning of the trial for Cargate’s murder and the opening speech of the prosecution. The story is then told in a series of interwoven flashbacks and scenes of investigation, which is intriguing to read and ramps up the suspense – especially as we aren’t told who the person in the dock is until very late in the book! It’s certainly a novel way to tell a story, and it really is brilliantly constructed. Everybody in the tale gets their little piece of input into the case – from the ruminations of the judge to the thoughts of the jurors, the deliberations of the various counsels as well as the opinons of Cargate’s staff and the village locals, we get to peek inside their minds and see the story from every angle.

You won’t, by the way, be able to contest the will on the ground that leaving everything of which you die possessed to the nation is an obvious sign of lunacy. It’ll be called patriotism, which is only nearly the same thing and quite different in law.

Throughout the story, the character of the deceased is in sharp focus, and he’s a strange, somewhat unpleasant man who nobody really cares about and nobody will really miss. There’s much discussion of altruistic murder, about whether somebody got Cargate out of the way for the good of everyone, which is of course a dubious moral stand to take. This even brings in a nod to the French Revolution, via a mention of Charlotte Corday! Another prominent element, oddly enough, is stamp collecting! Cargate was a philatelist and his trading with a leading stamp dealer from London throws up some suspicious behaviour and discussions of various gradings of stamps which oddly enough is never dull (mind you, I was a stamp collector for a little while in my teens… The phases we go through!)

“Excellent Intentions” is a twisty and entertaining little tale, and many of the characters do indeed have excellent intentions in the way the behave. There are, in the end, four possible suspects for the murder; though if I’m honest, the one in the dock really turns out to be the only option. The denouement is entertaining, clever and satisfying, and I ended the book with a huge smile on my face as well as being convinced that Hull is an author I want to read more of. Fortunately, the BL have put out his first novel “The Murder of My Aunt” and even more fortunately I have a copy lurking. I really could do no better than go on a BLCC binge, could I?

The Houses of her Life #virginiawoolf @pimpernelpress

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Virginia Woolf at Home by Hilary Macaskill

Looking back over the Ramblings I realise that my recent posts have featured a *lot* of Russian books… Which is no bad thing, as I do love my Russian literature. However, I figured it was time for variety and bearing in mind the number of review books I have lurking (ahem) I decided it was time to spend a little time with another of my great literary loves – Virginia Woolf.

I’ve written about Woolf on the Ramblings before, and she’s one of the authors who’s been a constant in my reading life since my early 20s. At the time I immersed myself in Bloomsburiana, reading everything I could find by and about the various arty people attached to the label; and this generated a huge love of their writings, their artworks, their lives and fates. I’ve returned to Woolf in particular many times over the years, and so you might think that there wouldn’t be a lot left for me to discover about her. However, a beautiful new book which was sent to me by the lovely Pimpernel Press takes a look at Virginia from a perhaps surprising perspective – that of the houses she lived in during her life – and it certainly made me view Woolf in a new and interesting light.

It should first be stated that “Virginia Woolf at Home” is a very pretty book indeed! It’s a hardback edition, what I would call perhaps small coffee table size, and it’s stuffed to the gills with the most beautiful illustrations; of Woolf and her family and associates, her houses then and now, book jackets, paintings – well, it’s just lovely. There are seven chapters devoted to the main houses or areas in which Woolf lived, and each explores Woolf’s life whilst living there – from her thoughts on the places, their use in her work, even their eventual fate. By seeing Woolf placed firmly in situ like this, I found she really came to life for me; there are extracts from her fiction and non-fiction writings, memories from those who knew her and context – the latter so important, particularly when considering things like the potential scandal caused by a single woman moving into a flat in a block only populated by male tenants. Yes, times have changed, but it’s fascinating to see Woolf moving through those changes.

Macaskill really has done her research, and reading her wonderfully constructed narrative of Woolf’s life alongside the gorgeous illustrations was such a treat. Obviously, that narrative is not always completely linear, as there were often overlaps in time; the Woolfs would own a particular London house as well as a country house and the changeover between houses was not always at the same time. Macaskill provides a helpful timeline in the back with the country and London homes set next to each other which makes everything clear. It was intriguing to see quite how much Woolf’s houses and flats had seeped into her writing, and this was a particularly interesting aspect.

In fact, so many of the elements Macaskill teased out were fascinating; for example, I either never knew (or had completely forgotten!) that Woolf loved house hunting so much. I was also unaware that the Stephen house in Hyde Park Gate is the only house in London with *three* blue plaques: for Virgina, Vanessa and their father Leslie. All of the major events of Woolf’s life feature, and the picture of the Ouse at the end of the book was of course heartbreaking. There is a lovely final chapter  called “The Legacy” which covers just that; and I was particularly interested (and in some cases saddened) to find out what had happened to the various houses. I’m glad that the Woolfs’ last home, “Monk’s House”, still survives (I follow them on Instagram!) and one day I must visit. “…at Home” comes with a foreword by Cecil Woolf, Leonard’s nephew, and it’s sobering to think, as he states, that he’s “the last person alive who actually knew Virginia.” She steps so vividly from the pages of this book that it’s hard to believe that it’s approaching 80 years since she took her final walk.

I can’t really recommend “Virginia Woolf at Home” highly enough for its excellent combination of the visual and the written. There were a couple of places where I felt the text was very slightly repeating itself, but that’s a minor quibble. I would, too, have liked more notes on sources; I recognised many of the quotes and references, but someone less immersed in Woolf and her world might want a little more information. However, that’s by the by; if you want a look into the life of Virginia Woolf, both the women and the writer, this is a great place to start. It’s informative, evocative, readable and very lovely to look at. When I tweeted about its arrival, Simon at Stuck in a Book mentioned a book about Woolf and her gardens; if it’s anything like as good as this, I may have to search it out!

Review copy kindly provided by the publishers, for which many thanks!

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