My Desert Island Bookshelf

Marooned on a desert island, these are the books I would wish to accompany me. I set one simple rule: one book per writer.

Mathias Enard, Compass
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable
WG Sebald, After Nature
Patrick Leigh Fermor, A Time of Gifts
Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook
Franz Kafka, The Castle
Homer, Iliad
Geoff Dyer, The Colour of Memory
Roger Deakin, Notes From Walnut Tree Farm
Dante, Purgatory
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
James Joyce, Dubliners
Marguerite Duras, Moderato Cantabile
Simone de Beauvoir, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter
Stendhal, The Charterhouse of Parma
Peter Handke, Repetition
Jorge Semprún, Literature or Life
Laszlo Krasznahorkai, War & War
Pascal Quignard, The Roving Shadows
JM Coetzee, In the Heart of the Country
Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness
Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva
Kate Zambreno, Book of Mutter
Roberto Calasso, La Folie Baudelaire
Tomas Espedal, Tramp
Christa Wolf, Cassandra
Grace Dane Mazur, Hinges
Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet
Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, The Leopard
Claudio Magris, A Different Sea
Max Frisch, I’m Not Stiller
Brigid Brophy, The Snow Ball
Denton Welch, A Voice Through a Cloud
Nick Hunt, Walking the Woods and the Water
JG Ballard, The Kindness of Women
John Berger, Bento’s Sketchbook

(Pure whimsy and volatile by nature)

Rachel Cusk Interview with Caille Millner (And Thoughts on Twitter)

What struck me most of this discussion between Rachel Cusk and Caille Millner about Transit is Cusk’s assertion that the ‘only way of knowing someone is watching them’. Regardless of the form Cusk uses for her writing, this way of looking at the world lies at the heart of why I find her books so compelling. It is this sense of always being an observer, a voyeur, the painter looking into their own painting. It is essentially an outsider’s view, jarring and fascinating to find a writer that shares something of one’s way of perceiving the world.

Whereas once I might have shared this link via my @timesflow account on Twitter, that channel has drained of interest as it has come more to resemble Facebook. There has been much talk of the bubble effect on Twitter. That bubble effect when made up of a small, truly global group of people who share a literary sensibility is what has kept me on Twitter for the last six or so years. Bubbles can be good for you.

Recently, for quite understandable reasons, literary discussion has been largely buried beneath people’s anguish and rage about the political situation in America and to a lesser extent the U.K. It became clear last June how the bubble effect is compelling when literary but dangerous when political. I have other channels in which to consume and discuss political information. The endless op-eds and repetition available via Twitter were useless during the period before and after last June’s referendum, and equally pointless in this charged and painful time. I’ve tried limiting those I follow to readers still finding a way to discuss literature (apologies if I’ve upset anyone by unfollowing, it isn’t you, it’s me!), but the noise to information ratio is distracting, painful and not useful in any way. I’ve decided for the time being not to delete my account, but am not present on Twitter except in DMs.

Apologies if these comments seem pompous but I don’t want any of those friends I value on Twitter to think I’ve lost interest in literary discussion. I still follow posts on my favourite blogs via RSS. To avoid using Twitter in purely broadcast-mode, I shan’t be tweeting links to my posts here (after this one) for a while, so please follow by email or RSS if you have any interest in my thoughts on what I’m reading. If you’d like to get in touch please use email, blog comments or Twitter DMs. Thank you.

Kate Zambreno: Book of Mutter

The first time I remember seeing my mother was in 1976, when I was eleven years old. It isn’t a firsthand memory, more of what Barthes might call a memory container. I can date the photograph due to a calendar on the wall, one of those cheap calendars a company would once issue to its customers. The calendar is displaying November 1956. Neither of the photograph’s subjects, my mother and father, know that in eight years time I will born in a country five thousand miles away. Maybe I should say my mother is a photograph. I have no memory of her beyond a dozen or so such photographs.

In Kate Zambreno’s Book of Mutter she quotes from Henry Darger’s biography, “The central fact of his life is that his mother died when he was young.” This statement troubles me, gets under my skin. A few weeks ago the woman who sometimes substituted as my mother died, so I’ve been looking back. I love this book about Zambreno’s mother in the same way I watched with fascination the mothers of my childhood friends.

Zambreno writes, “To put these memories in a book, so as to be released from it. These thirteen years of it. Like a sacrificial offering. To bury it in the ground. Writing as a way not to remember but to forget. or if not to forget, to attempt to leave behind.” How do we find a form to confess our guilt, to express our grief and anguish? Book of Mutter is Zambreno’s attempt to address that question, a desire to question her memories of her mother, to make reparation and, in an her attempt to forget, an act of creative restoration.

What is fascinating is the shades that Zambreno choses, and rejects, for her confrontation with her memories. Bristling with epigrams from Barthes, Book of Mutter is also animated by a broad range of spirit guides from Henry Darger to Louise Bourgeois to Peter Handke and Theresa Hak.

As with William Maxwell’s book, as with any book, I read Book of Mutter with all sorts of personal and idiosyncratic reflections. There are no ideal readers for a book about a mother’s life and death. Objectivity is an illusion. Whether this book has allowed Zambreno to leave behind her memories only she can answer, but her mother is recognised by being forever captured inside this graceful and haunting book.

William Maxwell: So Long, See You Tomorrow

“. . . it fascinated me as a snake would a bird
– a silly little bird.”
–Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

I’m not at risk of spoiling a reading of William Maxwell’s So Long, See You Tomorrow by summarising this story. A man looks back on the pivotal moment of his life–the death of his mother– his father’s remarriage and the loss of his family home; intertwined into what I understand to be autobiographical fiction, Maxwell tells a parallel story, of another boy, whose father murdered his wife’s lover (also his best friend) before killing himself.

Writing of his mother’s death the narrator says,”Other children could have borne it, have borne it. My older brother did, somehow I couldn’t.” I was perhaps fortunate that I was barely eighteen month’s old when my mother died, as I hadn’t sufficient opportunity to become accustomed to her presence. As such I feel that I have borne it well, though not without my share of what are now a well-documented set of both early and late reactions. My father was less resilient. His emotional response left me with little protection, which I naturally failed to comprehend until many years later. This disastrous double-bill was intensified when we were made exiles from my beloved childhood home.

None of this is written to induce sympathy. These are events that shaped my early years, mostly, I like to think, now integrated. It is to say that I distrust myself when reading writers like Maxwell, who write forms of autobiography close enough to my life to make me, in Nabokov’s understanding, a bad reader. It is all too easy to identify.

For Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Joseph Conrad and William Maxwell, all writers whose mothers died during their childhood, the sense of things passing becomes an obsession that suffuses their fiction with melancholy. The narrator in So Long, See You Tomorrow is also haunted throughout life by an incident, a guilty regret that is the driving impulse behind the story’s creation.

Maxwell writes extraordinarily well from a technical perspective, presenting viewpoints of multiple characters including a dog, which normally falls apart but in this case works fine. His delicate, muted story allows us to see through the eyes of a poignantly wounded child, from the viewpoint of the adult he becomes, one that has not been able to escape his childhood demons, but without ever quite veering into outright nostalgia or mawkishness.

If you should feel inclined to explore William Maxwell’s work, and I shall definitely read much more of his fiction, my introduction came from the excellent Backlisted podcast.

Some Well-Intentioned Reading Ideas for 2017

This time last year I posted some well-intentioned reading ideas for 2016. I conformed to pattern and failed almost entirely to fulfil my intentions. This is symptomatic of a good year’s reading. Distractions came in the form of writers like Max Frisch, Anna Kavan, Rachel Cusk and Jorge Semprún, all of whom insisted on my attention, and will continue to do so as I explore their oeuvre.

I read some fine books by some first-class writers that I hadn’t read before, and very much hope to read more of: Adrian Nathan West, Amy Liptrot, Lara Pawson, Arno Schmidt, Maggie Nelson and Ali Smith.

Late in the year I discovered the Backlisted podcast. I rarely bother with podcasts but this one should be on the radar of anyone who enjoys this blog. After listening to an episode on William Maxwell, I’m now reading, slowly and with pencil in hand, So Long, See You Tomorrow. I’ll struggle to write objectively about the story. It is in a sense too close to me. Maxwell’s mother died when he was young, as mine did, and he has an exile’s sensibility. Both make the story terribly moving. But that aside, Maxwell writes with the subtly and elegance of a chemical reaction. I shall start 2017 with Maxwell’s work, both this and other novels and short stories, perhaps also dipping into his essays and memoir.

All intentions have a corresponding possibility of fulfilment, more likely if specific books are embarrassing by their presence. A stack of Open Letter and Fitzcarraldo Editions sit within easy reach of my reading chair, part of an intention to read more broadly next year and to spend more time than normal with contemporary books–contemporary by my criteria being books less than ten years old. To this end, I am now subscribed to Deep Vellum, Open Letter, And Other Stories and Fitzcarraldo Editions, all small presses publishing intriguing writers.

My favourite publisher Seagull Books have books forthcoming that will demand attention, including newly translated work by Tomas Espedal, Christa Woolf and Max Frisch. I’m also looking forward to new books by Catherine Lacey, Claudio Magris, Kate Zambreno, Jessa Crispin and Yiyun Li.

The fault and glimpse of newness often leads me astray so expect distractions. If the year ahead holds surprises as great as Rachel Cusk, William Maxwell and Jorge Semprún I’ll be a fortunate reader.

Thanks for reading along in 2016 and for taking time to discuss books with me here, in person and on Twitter. I love little more than to discuss books so more conversation please!

Complete List of Books Read in 2016

It seems unlikely that I’ll get around to finishing William Maxwell’s So Long, See You Tomorrow before year end. It’ll be a terrific way to start the new year.

For those not inclined to delve into the guts of this blog here’s a list of the 61 books I read in 2015.

  1. André Bernold, Beckett’s Friendship (trans. Max McGuinness)
  2. Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows (trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidenstickerj)
  3. Pascal Quignard, The Silent Crossing (trans. Chris Turner)
  4. Amy Liptrot, The Outrun
  5. René Char, Hypnos (trans. Mark Hutchinson)
  6. Pascal Quignard, The Sexual Night (trans. Chris Turner)
  7. Pascal Quignard, On Wooden Tablets: Apronenia Avitia (trans. Bruce X)
  8. Marguerite Duras, The Man Sitting in the Corridor (trans. Barbara Bray)
  9. Samuel Beckett, Stirrings Still
  10. Max Frisch, An Answer from the Silence (trans. Mike Mitchell)
  11. Max Frisch, Drafts for a Third Sketchbook (trans. Mike Mitchell)
  12. Max Frisch, Homo Faber (trans. Michael Bullock)
  13. Correspondence: Max Frisch and Freidrich Dürrenmatt (trans. Birgit Schreyer Duarte)
  14. Max Frisch, I’m Not Stiller (trans. Michael Bullock)
  15. Anna Kavan, Julie and the Bazooka
  16. Jeremy Reed, A Stranger on Earth: The Life and Work of Anna Kavan
  17. Anna Kavan, I am Lazarus
  18. Walter Kaufmann, The Faith of a Heretic
  19. Norman Malcolm, Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir
  20. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (trans. Pevear and Volokhonsky)
  21. Rachel Cusk, Aftermath: On Marriage and Separation
  22. Fyodor Dostoevsky, Memoirs from the House of the Dead (trans. Jessie Coulson)
  23. André Gide, Dostoevsky (trans. unnamed)
  24. Jane Bowles, Two Serious Ladies
  25. ^ Jane Bowles, Plain Pleasures
  26. John Fowles, Wormholes
  27. Ovid, The Metamorphoses (trans. Allen Mandelbaum)
  28. M. A. Orthofer, Arno Schmidt: a centennial colloquy
  29. ^ Arno Schmidt, Enthymesis or H.I.H.Y.A. (trans. John E. Woods)
  30. ^ Arno Schmidt, Leviathan or The Best of Worlds (trans. John E. Woods)
  31. Marie Redonner, Hôtel Splendid (trans. Jordan Stump)
  32. François Julien, The Silent Transformations (trans. K. Fijalkowski and M. Richardson)
  33. Homer, The Odyssey (trans. Robert Fagles)
  34. Elizabeth Sewell, Paul Valery: The Mind in the Mirror
  35. ^ Paul Valery, Fragments from “Introduction to the Method of Leonardo Da Vinci.” (trans. Thomas McGreevy)
  36. Arnold Bennett, Literary Taste
  37. Adrian Nathan West, The Aesthetics of Degradation
  38. David Herbert, Engaging Eccentrics: Recollections
  39. Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts
  40. David Bellos, Is That a Fish in Your Ear?
  41. Stefan Collini, Common Reading
  42. Thomas Metzinger, The Ego Tunnel
  43. Iris Murdoch, The Italian Girl
  44. Roberto Calasso, The Art of the Publisher (trans. Richard Dixon)
  45. André Saffis-Nahely, The Palm Beach Effect
  46. Michael Hofmann, Nights in the Iron Hotel
  47. Teju Cole, Known and Strange Things
  48. Helen DeWitt, The Last Samurai
  49. Ilija Trojanow, The Lamentations of Zeno (trans. Philip Boehm)
  50. Jorge Semprún, Literature or Life (trans. Linda Coverdale)
  51. Jean-Luc Nancy, Corpus (trans. Richard A. Rand)
  52. Reiner Stach, Is That Kafka? (trans. Kurt Beals)
  53. Jorge Semprún, The Long Voyage (trans. Richard Seaver)
  54. Claudio Magris, A Different Sea (trans. M. S. Spurr)
  55. Christopher Logue, War Music: An Account of Homer’s Iliad
  56. George Craig, Writing Beckett’s Letters
  57. Jarett Kobek, I Hate The Internet
  58. Rachel Cusk, Outline
  59. Ali Smith, Autumn
  60. Lara Pawson, This is the Place to Be
  61. Reiner Stach, Kafka: The Early Years (trans. Shelley Frisch)

A Parisian Memory

In the last days of enjoying long childhood-afternoons, in that transitory place between child and adult, I went to live in Paris. While at boarding school, I was profoundly affected by Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. He cast a portentous shadow over Paris and its beauty was insufficient compensation for the confusion of its streets. In time I’d find Paris the most thrilling city I’d ever lived, but not until I’d found my cold, dark room in a garret above a century-old bookstore with shelves full of books by left-wing philosophers.

The decision to go to Paris was whimsical, partly for a dark, brooding woman who looked like Zelda Fitzgerald –or perhaps Lou Andreas-Salomé, I can no longer recall–but also borne of a vision of roaming the endless hallways of the Louvre and other art galleries, confronting the secrets of the masterpieces. By day and night, Paris unfolded as I walked its streets, returning to my room with gifts of young artichokes, Mont d’Or cheese and village Burgundies, which were stored on the small balcony that served as our refrigerator.

Over a wet autumn, I read Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, craving solitude so I could read beginning to end, surrounded by his confidantes, patronesses and lovers. I visited Proust’s grave at Père-Lachaise Cemetery and afterwards ate cold, salty oysters in his honour. To reread passages of Proust today is to be swept back to chestnut trees shedding dark reds and golds in the Luxembourg Gardens, flower beds lapsing to winter, and the taste of duck pâté, spread roughly on a baguette with a wood-handled pocket knife.

On my last day in Paris I ate sweetbreads for the first time at Les Deux Magots, where Beauvoir and Sartre argued philosophy with their entourage, and made un petit express last an hour so I could eavesdrop a conversation at the next table about the limits of knowledge. I copied a line into my notebook from the seventh Duino Elegy, “Nowhere, Beloved, will world be but within us. Our life passes in transformation. And the external wanes ever smaller.”

America has voted in Donald Trump. – Reading in the afternoon.

Kafka’s diary entry for Sunday August 2nd 1914 was “German has declared war on Russia.– Swimming in the afternoon.” It is echoed in the reaction of Joseph K. to his arrest in The Trial, “Of course I’m surprised, but by no means greatly surprised”.

I don’t use this blog to write about politics, nor do I intend to seek meaning in the unfolding of Trump’s victory, or the devastating British referendum earlier this year. We must all respond individually to the cultural and political framework imposed on us. Like Kafka, I’m surprised, but by no means greatly surprised.

This year is a triumph of the narcissistic selfishness of the social elite and mediocre political and journalistic establishment. In the UK and US, we are now in the hands of a feudal elite intent on evolving the failed neoliberal experiment into a form a government corporation. Both administration’s yearning for rebirth and regeneration, combined with a cynical contempt for social values, are evidence of fascism.

America has voted in Donald Trump.–Reading in the afternoon.

Marie Antoinette’s/Blair’s Fool

The headline I catch sight of momentarily across the train is “Blair was like Louis XVI”. The paragraph I read next in Jay Griffiths’s Tristimania:

“The nineteenth-century scholar Paul Lacroix visited Versailles and found an old man living there, with white hair, surrounded by old furniture, old pictures, old knick-knacks and a multitude of relics in the fashion of Louis XVI . . . it was Marie Antoinette’s fool.”

A simple paragraph that contains a novel. Read alongside the newspaper headline it conjures Alastair Campbell, Blair’s fool, the trickster spin-doctor barely hidden in Malcolm Tucker in the series The Thick of It.

An Element of Impossibility

calassoYesterday I came across an admirable plan to read each book of the Biblioteca Adelphi. That is 653 books published to date. It is no less absurd that the notion I’m contemplating to read the Seagull Books backlist from the beginning to present day, a more modest catalogue of 400-odd books. You can follow Karen Barbarossa’s journey.

Adelphi Edizioni in Milan is a remarkable publisher. A Twitter acquaintance, not given to hyperbole, said she’d ‘consider being published by them a higher honour than the Nobel Prize.’ Singular writer Roberto Calasso has worked for the firm since its founding by Roberto Bazlen in 1962 and became its Chairman in 1999. Discovering Karen’s plan led me to read Calasso’s The Art of the Publisher. The following are from the first essay Publishing as a Literary Genre:

“. . . a good publishing house is unlikely  to be of any particular interest in economic terms.”

“It would appear that a publishing business can produce substantial profits only on condition that good books are submerged beneath many other things of very different quality.”

Aldus Manutius “was the first to imagine a publishing house in terms of form. Form is crucial, first of all, in the choice and sequence of titles to be published. But form also relates to the texts that accompany the books, as well as the way in which the books are presented as objects.”

” . . . all books published by a certain publisher could be seen as links in a single chain, or segments in a serpentine progression of books, or fragments in a single book formed by all the books published by that publisher.”

” . . . literature loses all of its magic unless there’s an element of impossibility concealed deep within it.”

I’ve been hoping for some years that Bobi Bazlen’s Writings, letters and notebooks for the most part, find an English translator, perhaps even a Seagull Books venture, and continue to contemplate my Seagull Project.

 

“Trapped in a dialogic relationship with the world”

This excerpt is from the opening paragraph of Som Raj Gupta’s The Word Speaks to the Faustian Man. I’ve been contemplating this book for years, since reading A Review of Roberto Calasso and Som Raj Gupta.

There are men who read a lot but do not turn into scholars because they do not read for the sake of systematic research and within the parameters of a methodology but in the hope, ultimately vain and futile, of finding some meaning and purpose in life. Their reading is often extensive, almost always profound and concentrated, but not systematic and objective enough to satisfy the norms set up by the great seats of learning and research. Such men think long and deeply but do not turn into thinkers because they think in pain and in anguish, think as much with their blood, their breath, their pulse as with their brains. Their thinking tells visibly upon their health and the working of their minds; its effect can be seen in their nervousness, in their indecisiveness, in their embarrassing clumsiness. They do not turn into thinkers because they do not think in what are called precise and rigorous terms and do not, cannot, look at every aspect of their thought as a systematic thinker would do. They are more anxious to see truth, to feel it and live it than to talk about it in coherent and precisely communicative terms. Such men also fail to be pious people because they find it difficult to observe the accepted laws of piety, or to be civilised because they do not always live up to the norms of civilisation. Nor can they pray with fervent devotion as men of faith do because their souls often remain amassed and frozen within themselves. They are, in one word, unhappy souls that can never come to be successful in life, in thought, in cultural pursuits. To fail in every sphere is their destiny—and the promise of their redemption.

Books That Make My Ears Burn

There’s quite a lot I want to say about Max Frisch but I’m writing something for the Spring issue of The Scofield and don’t want to foreshadow that piece too much here. There is this curious quality though to I’m Not Stiller that I haven’t quite understood. It is often difficult to pick the book up, as though beneath it lay a dead rat that I’ll have to deal with. But when I start reading again I’m fully absorbed.

It is brilliant how Frisch dissects the nature of identity within marriage, or any long-term relationship. From where do we get this fallacious notion of fixed identity? How do we negotiate identity within the context of society, marriage, family and self? Frisch wallows in these questions in I’m Not Stiller. I don’t know whether I like the book but I’ve started to reread it without the encumbrance of plot and the suspense of not knowing where Frisch is taking the story. I feel a need to remove the screws and dismantle the clock, to question how he creates this resistant yet mesmerising quality.

I recently wrote about what modernism means to me in context of the writers I return to often. It is obviously an idiosyncratic view, very personal to me. I’m always thrilled when people discover writers through this blog but I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone what to read. It’s why I don’t really write reviews here. I am without any significance to anyone but those who are linked to me through friendship of some sort. I’m certainly no expert in literature or anything else.

Instead of dragging Kafka’s axe out of the shed I’ll quote the Stranglers, “Whatever happened to Leon Trotsky? / He got an ice pick / That made his ears burn.” I want to read books that hit me like an ice pick, that make my ears burn. When I reread Quignard’s The Roving Shadows this year, or discovered Brigid Brophy and Tomas Espedal last year, my ears burnt. When I get that sensation it’s like falling in love. I want to read every word those writers have written, even the dodgy bits they’d rather forget. I want to read first editions to share a bit of the thrill those writers must have felt when setting eyes on their long-baked work for the first time.

The books that make my ears burn more often than not are those I described. But I’m also quite happy to pick up a chapter of two of my daughter’s latest Stephen King. It isn’t snobbery that drives my reading but mortality. If I live five years longer than my father, I’ve got time for something like 2800 books. It isn’t enough. I want every one of those 2800 books to be ice picks.

The Journey of Modernist Literature

What binds together the literature I read, and write about here, is that the writers engage to varying degrees with the continuing spiritual vacuum of the last hundred or so years.

A crisis precipitated by a global war that began in 1914 continued unrelentingly in both hot and cold phases through to the early 1990s until a particular ideology secured a definitive victory. Concurrent and not unconnected with this prolonged conflict was a sense of disillusionment with the first massive imperialist project and the void left by an apparent collapse of religious and, in some sense, moral values.

As a consequence of this ideological victory the pace of industrialism and commercialism  is unabated, and attempts to fill the spiritual vacuum with a particularly shallow form of consumer lead culture and an oddly puritanical morality.

The literary recognition of this crisis came to be termed modernism, whether approached by those excited with the freedoms of the time, or by those yearning for a bygone age. Malcolm Bradbury made this distinction between nostalgic first generation modernists and the more optimistic second generation modernists.

The need to struggle against an evolving and different crisis makes it more necessary than ever for writers to continue to engage with modernism. The writers who explore modernism most effectively are those than enable us to translate or reconfigure the sacred into new contexts. Those are mostly the writers you will read about on this blog.

Complete List of Books Read in 2015

For those not inclined to delve into the guts of this blog here’s a list of the 78 books I read in 2015.

  1. Pascal Quignard, Abysses. trans. Chris Turner
  2. Pascal Quignard, The Roving Shadows. trans. Chris Turner
  3. Pascal Quignard, Sex and Terror. trans. Chris Turner
  4. Giorgio Agamben and Monica Ferrando, The Unspeakable Girl. trans. Leland De La Durantaye and Annie Julia Wyman
  5. Enrique Vila-Matas, Bartleby & Co. trans. Jonathan Dunne
  6. Jack Robinson, by the same author
  7. William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Troilus and Cressida
  8. Denton Welch, I Can Remember and Narcissus Bay from Where Nothing Sleeps
  9. Brigid Brophy, Michael Levey, Charles Osborne, Fifty Works of English Literature We Could Do Without
  10. Brigid Brophy, Flesh
  11. Brigid Brophy, Baroque–’n’–Roll
  12. Brigid Brophy, The Snow Ball
  13. Brigid Brophy, The Finishing Touch
  14. Brigid Brophy, Hackenfeller’s Ape
  15. Brigid Brophy, The King of a Rainy Country
  16. Marguerite Duras, Practicalities. trans. Barbara Bray
  17. Rita Felski, The Limits of Critique
  18. Jessa Crispin, The Dead Ladies Project
  19. Milan Kundera, The Curtain: An Essay in Seven Parts. trans. Linda Asher
  20. Milan Kundera, Testaments Betrayed: An Essay in Nine Parts. trans. Linda Asher
  21. JM Coetzee, Diary of a Bad Year
  22. JM Coetzee, Slow Man
  23. Scott Abbott and Darko Radaković, Repetitions
  24. Peter Handke, To Duration. trans. Scott Abbott
  25. Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer. trans. Ralph Mannheim
  26. Tomas Espedal, Against Art. trans. James Anderson
  27. Tomas Espedal, Against Nature. trans. James Anderson
  28. Tomas Espedal, Tramp. trans. James Anderson
  29. Michel Houellebecq, Submission. trans. Lorin Stein
  30. Catherine Clément, The Call of the Trance. trans. Chris Turner
  31. Lydia Davis, The End of the Story
  32. Josh Cohen, The Private Life: Our Everyday Self in an Age of Intrusion
  33. Thomas Mann, Railway Accident. trans. Helen Lowe Porter
  34. Wolfgang Hilbig, ‘I’. trans. Isabel Fargo Cole
  35. Ivan Vladislavic, The Loss Library and Other Unfinished Stories
  36. The Letters of Samuel Beckett 1941-1956
  37. Ullrich Haase and William Large, Maurice Blanchot
  38. Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi, Fra Keeler
  39. Fleur Jaeggy, SS Proleterka. trans. Alastair McEwen
  40. Kathy Acker | McKenzie Wark, I’m very into you. ed. Matias Viegener
  41. Han Kang, The Vegetarian. trans. Deborah Smith
  42. Marek Bieńczyk, Transparency. trans. Benjamin Paloff
  43. Claudia Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric
  44. Kevin Hart (editor), Nowhere Without No: In Memory of Maurice Blanchot
  45. Bae Suah, Nowhere to Be Found, trans. Sora Kim-Russell
  46. Max Frisch, Man in the Holocene, trans. Geoffrey Skelton
  47. Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul: Memories of a City, trans. Maureen Freely
  48. Rebecca Solnit, Men Explain Things to Me
  49. Thomas Mann, Doctor Faustus. trans. Helen Lowe-Porter
  50. Eduardo Galeano, Voices of Time: A Life In Stories. trans. Mark Fried
  51. Barbara Pym, Quartet in Autumn
  52. Eduardo Galeano, Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone. trans. Mark Fried
  53. Ágota Kristóf, The Illiterate. trans. Nina Bogin
  54. Simon Critchley, Memory Theatre
  55. Ágota Kristóf, The Third Lie. trans. Marc Romano
  56. Ágota Kristóf, The Proof. trans. David Watson
  57. Ágota Kristóf, The Notebook. trans. Alan Sheridan
  58. Barbara Reynolds, The Passionate Intellect
  59. Denton Welch, The Journals of Denton Welch
  60. Denton Welch, A Voice Through a Cloud
  61. Denton Welch, In Youth is Pleasure
  62. Jens Bjørneboe, Moment of Freedom. trans. Esther Greenleaf Murer
  63. Rita Felski, Uses of Literature
  64. Denton Welch, Maiden Voyage
  65. Virginia Woolf. The Voyage Out
  66. Samuel Pepys. The Diary of Samuel Pepys
  67. Alice Oswald. Tithonus, 46 minutes in the life of the dawn
  68. Virginia Woolf. Moments of Being
  69. The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with WG Sebald
  70. WG Sebald. A Place in the Country. trans. Jo Catling
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  78. Walter Kaufmann. Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist