The Palm House by Gwendoline Riley (Booker Prize 2026 longlist)

I’ve read two of the books on the Booker Prize longlist this year, and I’m starting to hope that this year, they got it right. For too many years, I’ve set aside book after book in utter disappointment. But this time, I read, voraciously, The Palm Hotel. (And, how much did I love Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout? A lot!)

The Palm House is deceptively effortless. Gwendolyn Riley writes as if she were sitting next to you, telling you a story you will not soon tire of listening to. For it resonates, somehow, with your own life. You’ve actually experienced some of the things she is telling you, often with a very subtle, overlying sense of humor.

Laura’s friend, Putnam, leaves his job at Sequence even though he’s only 49. His father had died six weeks earlier, and a new editor, only thirty years of age, has come: Simon Halfpenny who goes by Shove. He wants to make Sequence resemble the New Yorker. There are too many changes for Putnam; surely he needs a break.

Riley navigates us through the lives of those who work at Sequence, Laura and Putnam’s parents, but most importantly, Laura and Putnam themselves. Their interactions with life around them, their response to ordinary things, was endlessly fascinating to me.

I, too, have worked at a job where someone grossly incompetent has replaced a strong leader. The office’s mockery of Shove had me in smiling in commiseration, although sadly, it did not have the same effect on Putnam:

When, for instance, somebody at the pub asked, “How’s old Halfwit?” or “How’s Shouty?” (this from Shouty Bumcrack, a name Katherine had come up with when Shove first arrived, and everyone had got to know that part of him, whether they wanted to or not, due to the way he wore his jeans), Putnam couldn’t just wince and say, Oh don’t ask. He had to make a point of looking affronted.

Putnam is a sensitive guy. He is sad, actually, and from this vantage point he makes many piercing observations:

“The see-saw of life just tips, doesn’t it?” he said. “And then it is downhill all the way.”

and…

“He (Shove) didn’t have any interest,” Putnam said. “We knew he had no knowledge. But no curiosity, either. Loudly enthusiastic, but without a scrap of interest.”

Don’t think I am saying this book is only portraying sorrow. Rather, read it for the humor, and the hope, and the hazards of life we all experience. I am deeply moved, as I close the last page, and grateful to find it in consideration for the Booker Prize this year. May it advance far beyond the list of thirteen.

Twenty Minutes of Silence by Hélène Bessette, translated from the French by Kate Briggs, for Women in Translation Month 2026

If there weren’t twenty minutes before anyone went to fetch the neighbor, a doctor, then the crime could not have been staged. 

“Because, clearly, that’s what they were doing during those twenty minutes of darkness. 

For:

  If:      the lights weren’t off 

            the telephone wires weren’t cut 

            the drawers weren’t pulled open 

            the sideboard was not in disarray  

Then no one broke in from the outside with the intention of committing murder.”

This novel’s poetic prose, almost too beautiful to discuss murder, asks us to consider each detail. Who killed the father with a hundred mil in the bank? Was it the child, a fifteen year old son? His mother? The maid? Who killed the father at 3:00 a.m. and neglected to throw the gun in the sea, but left it out in the yard? No, it was in the cupboard. It was in the car.

With such statements, Besette leads us through conflicting accounts to uncover the father’s murder. 

The mother did it.

The son did it.

The detective novel is turned on its head, almost made into a mockery, as we read the lines of this particular crime novel. It is like no murder mystery I have ever encountered, so elegant is the phrasing, so masterful the word plays.

The son says, “I am the child who killed his father. - I’m the one who shouted out loud, loudly, with blood calling to blood (here is the true bloodline), and bloodily I shouted this: for the children, for us the children, it is not enough to be well raised, fed when hungry, nursed when sick, to have a lawn, a croquet set, a racket, a jacket, a packet, a (bad) hiding place, a double bass, a briefcase, a shoelace, playing cards, a great big backyard, a towel, a trowel, to eat guinea-fowl, pork chops, to wear flip-flops, to have hot meals, wheels, a trike, a bike, a piano, a radio, a diabolo, photos, records, a chessboard, electricity (whether it was off or not) and…”

The conclusion?

“-But what if we haven’t seen it all, says the man at the door. What if it wasn’t her, what if it wasn’t him?

NOT THE END.” 

How can there be an end, when each has reason to kill the father? (The husband?) Who, in turn, has given probable cause to be a murderer himself, if murder can be committed by words and actions alone. 

(Twenty Minutes of Silence is published by New Directions, and it is a most outstanding read.)

Plow or In The Hollows, a novel by Saz Keukan

 

The only way out of a rut is to dig your own path. (p. 46)

The intensity begins on the very first page. We are instantly immersed into the despair of Patrick, who is overcome by the demands of his job. Once overweight he is now almost gaunt, and his hair stands up in tufts, interrupted by red lesions, on his scalp. It is easy to see that he is close to breaking down, mentally and emotionally.

Is a casino the best place for such a man to gather with his buddies? Maybe. Maybe he can recoup the fifty thousand he owes his former employer, from whom he has let a leave of absence segue into a full separation. Maybe we will lose even the five hundred he has given himself permission to gamble.

The novel is fraught with tension, a burning need to keep reading toward the resolution. It is made even more so by the writing which resembles a stream of consciousness. There is no wasted punctuation; quotation marks would only get in the way of this tale steamrolling toward destruction. Or, one hopes, redemption.

The cadre emerged from the broken dreams and there was a table before them a gleaming siren amidst the numbing dulling fog and a dealer with pointed features and a sharp chin and an aquiline nose and wicked eyes beckoned them to his empty table a vessel of not-so-safe voyage before the turbulent casino currents. (p. 77) 

The cadre: Patrick, Nikolai, James, Rob, Jim, and Grant. Old buddies meeting for a wild time in Vegas. They gamble. They drink. They snort. They eat a little. They drink. And, drink. It made my head dizzy reading about their weekend of utter abandon. Will such recklessness bring the hoped for fulfillment? Or, will they leave in despair?

When they go their separate ways at the airport, Patrick’s life is revealed with more clarity. He phones his estranged twin sister, Henrietta; their conversation addresses some of the battles they have each faced, bringing greater clarity to themselves. To us, as readers.

I read feverishly on, as if I myself was the one who had been betting, drinking, winning, and losing. I wanted Patrick to find redemption. I wanted him to fill the hollows with something of substance.

I am caught by this passage near the conclusion of the novel:

There’s a great debate. Choosing salvation in a higher power or oneself. I don’t know what the answer is. I guess it’s gotta be both. (p. 157)

Patrick. Don’t you know that salvation cannot be found in both? It’s an either/or situation, not and/both. But, that is only my opinion. 

The path that Patrick takes, the choices that he makes up to the very conclusion of this novel, make it a fascinating look into despair and hope. While experiencing his life vicariously, we examine our own, and come away enriched from the experience. 

Thank you to the author, Saz Keukan, for sharing Plow or In The Hollows with me. I enjoyed reading it, and thinking about it, and learning about a way of life I could only experience from a peripheral view such as this novel gave me. Find him on Substack here.

The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry

 

I am the daughter of a third generation cattleman. My father, his father, and his grandfather, all worked in the Chicago Union Stockyards before it closed in July, 1971. I grew up with stories of the men who handled the livestock told every night at our dinner table. 

They were not the men of today. They were rough and bold and brave and strong. They had to withstand the bullying handed out daily by man and beast alike. If any one of them  would have worked his hair into a bun, or put on eyeliner, I cringe to think what would have become of him. 

When Liveright sent me The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry, in celebration of its 60th Anniversary, I eagerly consented to read and review it. For Lonesome Dove remains one of my favorite books of all time.

The Last Picture Show is not Lonesome Dove.

Of course it would be foolish to assume such a thing; how can a band of cowboys as found in Lonesome

Dove be recreated? Why, in fact, would they be? Especially as the focus of The Last Picture Show is on a small, western town, not on adventure.

In The Last Picture Show we begin with two teenagers. Sonny and Duane are upperclassmen, bored with the antics of the freshman, and eager to find love. Or, at least intimacy. We have the wife of the high school coach, who is lonely and desperate enough to crave the attentions of Sonny. We have a town outside of Wichita, named Thalia, which must be one of the loneliest, dustiest towns about which I have ever read. It has a pool hall. A diner. A school of no academic merit that I could see. And people who are living lives of quiet desperation.

I began reading with a sense of nostalgia, as Sonny wakes up on the first Saturday after the last football game he will ever play, and I continued on eager to uncover the characters’ lives through their interactions. Take, for example, when Jacy’s mother, Lois, comes into her daughter’s bedroom at night with this piece of advice:

The only really important thing I came in to tell you was that life is very monotonous. Things happen the same way over and over again. I think it’s more monotonous in this part of the country than it is in other places, but I don’t really know that - it may be monotonous everywhere. I’m sick of it. Everything gets old if you do it often enough. I don’t particularly care who you marry, but if you want to find out about monotony real quick just marry Duane. p. 44

It speaks much more of Lois’ life than it does about the fear for her daughter’s.  

Jacy, apparently, has no fear at all. She is the prettiest girl in Thalia, and the richest; she has a reputation to build up and hold on to, which will permit neither modesty or honesty.

It took a rich fast crowd to go swimming naked, and Jacy always prided herself on belonging to the fastest crowd there was, moral or immoral. Indeed, for a rich, pretty girl like herself the most immoral things imaginable would be to belong to the slow crowd. That would be wasting opportunities, and nothing was more immoral than waste. p. 74 

Well, we come it immorality in short order after Jacy goes swimming and the boys decide to chase down a blind heifer in its pen. I had to lay down the novel, unable to read further.

But, perhaps I have gleaned the gist of what McMurtry was portraying: a small town in the West inhabited by imperfect, foolish, and ultimately, lonely people. It doesn’t matter that the setting of The Last Picture Show was sixty years ago. The town he has shown is surely a picture of the American town that was, and continues on today, in many ways, just as it did then. Are we able, in any community, to move beyond our frail humanity?

The 6:41 to Paris by Jean-Philippe Blondel (“…thanks to you I am not what I seem.”)

No one ever warned us that life would be long…No one told us, either, that the hardest thing would not be breaking up, but decay. The disintegration of relationships, people, tastes, bodies, desire. Until you reach a sort of morass where you no longer know what it is you love. Or hate. 

Such are the thoughts one might have on a train, reviewing one’s life because you find yourself sitting next to the person you once loved. 

Cécile Duffaut. Philippe Leduc. Twenty seven years ago they were in London together. Now they sit next to each other on the 6:41 train, headed to the Gare L’Est in Paris, not knowing if the other remembers who he, or she, is.

(Photo credit here.)

The reader is thrust between what is going through Claire’s mind to Philippe’s; we want to know what the terrible thing that happened in London involved. And, once we do, we want to know if they can find forgiveness for each other. Or, themselves.

What do other people do to forget?

Ah, now there’s a question. I often have thought that I am the only one with a reel of regret replaying itself on repeat in my memory. Apparently, Philippe asks himself the same question as it will not let him go.

It’s  not a long book. Nor does it have a cover which is in any way, in my opinion, attractive. What it does have is a tension which may occur to many of us, when, given the time and opportunity we ask ourselves, “What could have changed?” 

Today, Claire knows: don’t be impressed by anyone, but treat them as equals; do something about your wardrobe; come to terms with your past.

When we do, we often can turn what wounded us most into an impetus for forgiveness. 

( Thanks to New Vessel Press for sending me this book which I read especially for Paris in July 2026, hosted by Emma at Words and Peace. Find links to other reviews for the event here.)

 

Old Goriot by Honoré de Balzac for Paris in July 2026

“My heart is big enough to hold all your troubles.” 

Thus speaks Old Goriot, un père extraordinaire. No amount of money is too small for his daughters; no sacrifice is too great. This vermicelli maker has worked hard to amass enough money to marry his daughters well. But, surely it is a fool who thinks that money can offer either satisfaction or security.

His two daughters, Delphine and Anastasie, have each married vile men who forbid them to see their father. He’s good enough to provide them money, of course, but not good enough to come to their homes. And so Goriot lives in a lodging-house of the most modest nature, in a room with wallpaper peeling from the damp. 

One of seven lodgers at Maison Vauquer is Eugène Rastignac, who has come to Paris at the great financial sacrifice of his family in the country. Eugène is supposedly a law student in Paris, but he is a much more serious student of Paris’ society in the early 1800s than he is of law. By the end of the novel, his education is almost complete. 

Throughout his novel, Balzac brings us to the awareness of the emptiness of riches, and the pain of love’s deceit. As Old Goriot lies dying, having given everything he has for his daughters’ luxuries, he asks Eugène, “Did you see my girls? They’re coming here directly, they will rush here as soon as they know that I am ill; they always took such good care of me in the Rue de la Jussienne!” He lives a life of hope which is at first admirable, but by the end of the novel has become pitiable.

There are other relationships depicted in this book, dalliances and affairs, but none are as significant to me as that of Father Goriot and his daughters. It is a heart wrenching read, so well summarized by this sentiment from Eugène near its conclusion:

There is a God! Oh! yes, there is a God! and he has made a better world for us, or this earth is blank and meaningless.

He knows that there is no fulfillment to be found in Paris, in a world which he had once wished to gain. Now he faces Society, with the words, “It’s war between us now!” I am comforted that he, at least, has learned this after the death of Old Goriot.

(Find links to other posts for Paris in July, hosted by Emma at Words and Peace, here.)

Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke (an unpopular opinion)

If there’s anything redemptive about this book, and believe me, it isn’t the writing, it’s that Caro Claire Burke is able to point out the illusions under which our society now lives.

Let me go back, for a minute, to the annoying writing. First we’re in a contrived setting perfectly marketed for Instagram. Then, we’re in Natalie’s youth, wearing prairie dresses and long braided hair. Then we’re back in Instagram heaven, followed by her days as a college student at Harvard, and suddenly…bam! Where are we, exactly? Natalie doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know the children who call her Mama. The narrative is so disjointed it feels awkward and surreal.

Natalie herself is unreliable. She proclaims to be a Christian, yet scattered throughout the mental dialogue she discloses are untold passages like these, found within the first 28 pages:

…that stupid little bitch.

Sorry, Lord. Sorry, sorry, sorry. 

and

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold.

Then: Sorry, Lord. 

I’m all for forgiveness for a profane mouth. But, at some point, this “Sorry, Lord,” loses its sincerity. 

The further I read, the more distraught I became. Her husband will find no job; they go to live with his parents. He spends his days practicing yoga and watching porn. He eventually sleeps with the woman who films Natalie’s content. Content, you know, carefully staged to present a facade of what life is like on the farm. Where it ought to be natural and wholesome, if not downright dirty and difficult.

Is there nothing of value in this book which is being applauded on too many feeds, news articles, and bestseller lists? Is this what our society is able to relate to, and even call a good book: a cheating, lazy husband; a college where education is not valued; a home where nurture is an illusion created for content; a scornful slant on faith? 

I am baffled by its popularity, and I am disgusted I read as much as I did.

Anticipating Paris in July 2026

 

I have been compiling some titles for Paris in July this Summer, so eager to begin, in fact, that I have already read two of them. I have published my thoughts on Your Promise by Camille Laurens, sent to me by Other Press, here. I have scheduled the post for Old Goriot by Honoré de Balzac to be published on July 1. 

So, you see a mix of contemporary fiction, as well as classics. I’m highlighting them here in case you feel drawn to any yourself; in case you are looking to compile a list for yourself. They are as follows:

Your Promise by Camille Laurens, winner of the Prix Femina (sent to me by Other Press)

“An ingenious legal thriller in the vein of Anatomy of a Fall, this gripping story of a writer’s toxic relationship exposes the gap between who we are and who we seem to be.”

Madame Chrystanthème by Pierre Loti, (sent to me by Espresso Publishing Company)

“Madame Chrysanthème was one of the most widely read French novels of its era. From it descended a short story, a Broadway play, and finally Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. This is its first new English translation in over a century.”

The 6:41 to Paris by John Philippe Blondel (sent to me by New Vessel Press)

“This is a psychological thriller about past romance. With all its pain and promise.”

Old Goriot by Honoré de Balzac:

“ Honoré de Balzac’s great theme was money, and in his best-loved novel, Old Goriot, he explored its uses and abuses with the particularity of a poet.”

Jacqueline in Paris by Ann Mah:

“From the bestselling author of The Lost Vintage, a rare and dazzling portrait of Jacqueline Bouvier’s college year abroad in postwar Paris, an intimate and electrifying story of love and betrayal, and the coming-of-age of an American icon – before the world knew her as Jackie.”

The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola:

“Part of Emile Zola’s multigenerational Rougon-Macquart saga, The Belly of Paris is the story of Florent Quenu, a wrongly accused man who escapes imprisonment on Devil’s Island. Returning to his native Paris, Florent finds a city he barely recognizes, with its working classes displaced to make way for broad boulevards and bourgeois flats. Living with his brother’s family in the newly rebuilt Les Halles market, Florent is soon caught up in a dangerous maelstrom of food and politics. Amid intrigue among the market’s sellers–the fishmonger, the charcutière, the fruit girl, and the cheese vendor–and the glorious culinary bounty of their labors, we see the dramatic difference between “fat and thin” (the rich and the poor) and how the widening gulf between them strains a city to the breaking point. 

Are you planning to read for Paris in July 2026? It is always one of the highlights of my reading year; I hope I have enticed you with some of these French titles.

Six in Six: Six Categories, Six Books

 

My friend Emma, at Words and Peace, is hosting Six in Six. For this meme, we take the opportunity to look back at the books we’ve read in the first six months of the year, choosing six books in six categories. (A list of examples for the categories is listed in her post.) And so here we go…

Six of my favorite books listed for the International Booker Prize this year:

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje 

The Wax Child by Olga Ravn

The Deserters by Matthias Enard

The Witch by Marie NDaiye

The Duke by Matteo Melchiori

Women Without Men by Shahrnush Parsipur

Six books by Robert B. Parker, whose Spenser books I never tire of, and often reread when I need something on the lighter side:

Crimson Joy 

The Widening Gyre

Valediction 

A Catskill Eagle

Pale Kings and Princes

Playmates

Six fulfilling books newly published by beloved authors:

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout

On The Calculation of Volume III by Solvej Balle

The Keeper by Tana French

Land by Maggie O’Farrell

Guilt by Keigo Higashino

Sisters In Yellow by Meiko Kawakami

Six Japanese books:

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

Sympathy Tower Tokyo by Rie Qudan

Sputnik Sweetheart  by Haruki Murakami 

The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino

Sisters in Yellow by Meiko Kawakami

Bookstore Girls by Kei Aono

Six books from the Wade Center authors at Wheaton College:

The Fellowship of The Ring by J. R. R.Tolkien

The Two Towers by J. R. R. Tolkien

The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien

That Hideous Strength by C. S. Lewis

The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis

Preparing for Easter by C. S. Lewis

Six books that disappointed me (although all are either bestsellers or nominated for the International Booker Prize):

Best Offer Wins by Marisa Kashino

Sorry For Your Loss by Georgia McVeigh

She Who Remains by Rene Karabash

On Earth As It Is Beneath by Ana Paula Maia

Taiwan Travelogue by Yang Shang-zi

We Are Green and Trembling by Gabrielle Camara Cabezon

Well, who wants to end on a disappointing note? Certainly not I! So, let me say that I really enjoyed looking over what I’ve read and organizing the titles into categories. It was a worthy endeavor, Emma, and I thank you for continuing to host this tradition.

Your Promise by Camille Laurens (He takes a deep breath. “I’d like you to promise you’ll never write about me.”)

(photo credit of the mimosa tree here)

“Claire,” I want to say, “don’t his two previous relationships present a warning?” For as her relationship with Gilles builds, she seems to ignore that has he left both his wife, Élizabeth, and his subsequent lover, Violetta.

But, love is not necessarily based on reason. As their passion deepens, and with it her dependence, Claire stands on very precarious ground. Gilles is nothing if not persuasive. He even makes her promise that she will never write about him, although she is an author.

He is a puppet master. No, really: he performs with puppets in the theater. He controls their strings. The puppets he manipulates are not always makes of wood. Some are made of ice. They have to be managed very skillfully, or the joints will crack and break; during the performance, the puppet slowly melts.

Oh, Claire. As she tells her story the suspense builds, and eventually we are uncertain if she has lost her mind, or if Gilles is that masterful a puppeteer. I mean, lover. He persuades her to sell her house in Paris in order for them to buy a little place in Hyères with a mimosa tree in the front yard. She can stay in his apartment when she needs to be in Paris for her writing, or her social life. It will be wonderful! Not long after they move in the mimosa tree, which people come from all around to see, dies. What a terribly significant event this turns out to be.

All along there is an undercurrent of psychological tension. We know that something terrible has happened, as we listen to Claire tell her story through her own narrative, her relationship with Gilles, her friends, and even her lawyer. It is revealed through translucent layers, each building upon something quite dark.

The author, Camille Laurens, calls into question the definition of love. Can women ever receive that which we hope for, from our fathers, husbands, or lovers? Or, as she maintains, are we all fearful of abandonment? (I thought that was such a personal fear, but perhaps not.) Your Promise will reside in my mind for a very long time, as I contemplate the ability to keep a promise. Or, why, we even make them to one another in the first place.

They seem so very difficult to keep.

Camille Laurens is an award-winning French novelist and essayist. She received the Prix Femina, one of France’s most prestigious literary prizes in 2000 for Dans ces bras-là, which was published in the United States as In His Arms in 2004. Her previous books include Who You Think I Am (2017), Little Dancer Aged Fourteen (2018), and Girl (2022). She lived in Paris.

Thanks to Other Press for sending me this incredible novel to read and review. It is a precursor to the books I’ll read for Paris in July 2026.

Bookstore Girls by Kei Aono (translated by Haydn Trowell)

Ebooks weren’t real books - they were just data. A completely different thing. A bookstore wasn’t simply a place where books were sold - it was a place where customers, publishers and booksellers met, where conversations happened sometimes even clashes. That was how you ended up with something new. It was a place where people connected through books - that was what a bookstore was, and that was why she loved them. (p. 307)

Bookstore Girls is such a satisfying book to read for those of us who love books. Bookstores. And, Japan. In fact, you don’t even need to admire Japan to appreciate this book, which is an ode to books, and readers, everywhere.

Photo credit here.

Japanese bookstores, such as the one pictured above, offer a haven like no other. Yet, Kei Aono gives an insight into the business that may not be widely known. She draws the connections between publishers and booksellers, sales managers and he public, authors and editors. Each provides a vital element to the success of a bookstore.

Through characters which at first, to me, seemed like they jumped out of a soap opera (overly dramatic and shallow), we are given the story of all that goes on behind the scenes. From the petty jealousies, to the romantic liaisons, from competition to advancement, we see the machinations of the book business first hand. By the end of the novel, I have arrived at a new appreciation for its two main characters, Riko and Ali, who have overcome their differences to work toward a mutual goal. 

And, as a blogger, I share in Riki’s early self-reflection:

She wasn’t a literary critic, she didn’t read systemically or in large volumes - ten books a month was her best…There was no way she could compete with professionals, academics, critics and translators often visited the store - what would they think of a clumsy, self-important recommendation tag?  (p. 137)

Yet, maybe, just maybe, we can have a positive influence on advancing the literature we love into the hands of those readers who may appreciate it as well.

Thanks to Pegasus Books for the opportunity to read and review Bookstore Girls, which won the Grand Prize in the “Book I want made into a movie” category at the Shizuoka Bookstore Awards. It has since been adapted for television, and it will be published in the United States on June 2, 2026. 

The Deserters by Mathias Enard, translated from the French by Charlotte Mandell (International Booker Prize 2026) “…the trace of violence is never easily erased.”

 

“…he’d like to tear the war out of him like a dead scab - the rifle is still on his knees, though, the memories inside him…” (p. 108)

I kept looking for a connection between the bedraggled soldier coming out of the bush, covered in slime and filth and dried blood, to the story of Paul, and Maja, and their daughter, Irina. 

I think the best connection is the bond they share in suffering the effects of war.

We don’t know the war from which the soldier deserted; I can’t help but wonder if it was WWII which had so much effect on Paul. But, does it matter which war? They’re all horrifying. And Mathias Enard makes mention of so many: WWII, the attack on the Towers in New York City, Russian invading Ukraine, and even now we find ourselves involved with Iran.

Paul Heudeber, director of the Mathematics Institute of the Academy of Sciences in GDR, is a politician, a mathematician, a communist, the lover of Maja, and the father of Irina. Maja is a politically active woman from the West, and their daughter narrates their story for us.

It is particularly poignant how she speaks of the love between her parents. Though never married, they never stopped loving each other.

“You are my malady - my passion has the malady of infinity, my love can only be written with your name. There is no other way to designate love but to say your name. Come back to me soon.” ~Paul, in a letter to Maja (p. 42)

They are not the only couple in the novel, however. The deserting soldier has found a woman, walking with a wounded donkey and several packs of her belongings. Her hair is shorn, her fear is great, with reason, we learn later on. Together they make it to the Black Rock, to what they hope will be utter escape and freedom. 

I think one of the points Enard is so eloquently making is that there is no escape. There is no freedom, in a world which always seems so capable of producing a new war. A new way of wounding one another. We can only hope, and search out peace, as the soldier tries to do.

“…after the border will I be returned to myself, will my wounds be erased, I’ll look for a place to heal, a place to get cured, a place of oblivion.” (p. 133)

May he find it. May all our wounds be erased. 

The Wax Child by Olga Ravn, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (International Booker Prize 2026)

 

“We knew so little about the Devil in those days, now everyone knows so much about him.” (p. 42)

The Wax Child has been growing on me, holding me in a power all its own. At first, I thought, “Okay, witches. The seventeenth century. How is this relevant, and who cares?”

(I knew it was a mistake to read The Remembered Soldier first.)

But, now I keep thinking of The Wax Child. Indeed, it has woven a spell over me, just as the incantations of the women themselves were spoken periodically throughout the book. Here are a few:

“Take a swallow bird. Take her heart and roast it on a  stick. Take then the swallow’s tongue and place it under your own. Eat then the swallow’s heart. Carry with you thereafter the swallow’s tongue, and whenever someone is angry with you place the swallow’s tongue underneath your own and speak to the person who is angry and her anger toward you will at once be stilled.” p. 26

“Cast some blood of a jar into the fire, so that it makes a smell, then all the girls of the house will piss themselves. Or  give them blood from a bat and those who have mixed with men will play piss themselves.” p. 61

“Take the water from the eye of a stallion that has not yet been led to a mate, and with it wet your own eyes, then all can be seen that would otherwise be unseeable, and this three mornings in succession.” p. 76

Jomfru Christenze Axelsdattar Kruckow, a noblewoman, has fashioned a doll made of wax. It is this doll, who cannot open her lips, or move her mouth, which tells us the tale of Christenze, Maren, Apelone, and Dorte. They do unspeakable, unchristian things. They meet in secret, and their very existence seems to threaten the men around them. They ultimately meet their demise at the hand of these men; all but Christenze are tied to a ladder and burned alive. Christenze herself is beheaded.

“Since they (the women) are weak, they find a secret and easy manner of vindicating themselves by witchcraft. Where there are many women, there are many witches.”  (p. 73)

Ah, now I see the point. Judging by appearances, judging out of fear, judgment of any kind cannot be made blanketly, with any amount of accuracy. Ravn calls into question men who judge falsely, creating what is termed feminist fiction. But, I think it is a more widely applicable problem in our society.

The mood she has created, blending her imagination with fact, is commendable. The novel reads as a poem, and a disturbingly horrific one at that.

(Thank you to New Directions for sending me a copy for review.)

Taiwan Travelogue by Yang Shuang-zi, translated by Lin King (International Booker Prize 2026)

Reading anything after The Remembered Soldier was bound to be a disappointment, and as such this is the spirit with which I opened Taiwan Travelogue. I’m not terribly interested in Taiwan, any more than any other country, and yet, every once in a while I came across a quote which struck my jaded point of view.

Consider this passion to record one’s thoughts, so similar to my own:

“What drove me to write was neither a political agenda nor money, but a simple desire to record my observations whenever I saw or heard anything interesting, or whenever I felt moved to reflect on something…Over time, piles of notebooks and scraps covered my desktop and drawers, and slowly consumed the study’s bookshelves, windowsills, and floors.” p. 73

Thus speaks Aoyama, a young novelist who has traveled to Taiwan to document the country. She has been given a translator, named Chizuro, to accompany her. It is through their eyes that we glimpse Taiwan when it was a colony of Japan. Many of our glimpses depict food. It seems, in fact, that most of the novel is about the food they consumed, for Aoyama is passionate about it.

“My gluttony isn’t limited to exquisite or expensive foods, either-whenever I start craving something, anything, my stomach burns with this insatiable greed until I get my hands in whatever it is. That’s the monster in me.” p. 83

I would say that the monster within her concerns more than food. The homosexual undercurrent in this novel begins in a fairly subtle way, and then becomes more and more pronounced. I am not interested in reading about lesbian mentality, especially when the writing itself is not very good. There is no subtle nuance, there is no real plot, nor, to me, much of a redeeming point in Taiwan Travelogue. Ultimately, it both bored, and disappointed, me. 

Read it, if you want to read endless descriptions of food, on every page, along with Aoyama’s ever growing attraction to her translator. How it won the National Book Award, let alone a place on the International Booker Prize long list, is beyond me.

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje, translated from the Dutch by David McKay (International Booker Prize 2026)

 

…she leans over the retouching desk restoring other people’s lives. 

I think, more than any other line, this quotation encapsulates The Remembered Soldier. Yet, how can one fragment of a sentence thoroughly impart the impact of this book? It can’t.

When I first saw the title, and the cover, on the International Booker Prize, I balked. “I do not want to read a book about war,” I said to myself. But, The Remembered Soldier is about so much more than war. It is about memory, and identity, being a soldier, and perhaps most importantly of all, being married.

An American author would come out and tell you everything boldly: Julienne found Amand, after searching for eight years, in an asylum; he’d lost his memory, but she claims to be his wife; going home together, they forge a life together. That wouldn’t be much of a story, would it? 

Fortunately, it is not nearly so simple. The nuances must be carefully gleaned to solve this puzzle. We must live through his memories, or lack thereof, and while relying on Julienne’s stories for background we wonder if perhaps she is lying, just to keep him with her.

Julienne says marriage is just like having children, it’s for life, she says, he’s not a dog you can get rid of if you’re not satisfied, and her candor is so disarming that he almost wishes he really were her husband.

Is he? Isn’t he? We don’t know, although we read of their life as a married couple. He builds her a special table to retouch the photographs she takes, as photography is their business. He wakes up next to her in their shabby bed, gets the coal, picks the milk up from outside the door, heats the water so she can wash. In a thousand ways, they are one. 

And then, he must pursue the vision he has, of Kathe, in yellow…

And he dreams he finds not Kathe, but the war, and he realizes that’s what he’s been looking for the whole time, it’s just that he gave his war a woman’s name, and her body is ravaged and cold and infertile and she’s married to death. 

Don’t be deceived. Read on, my friend, to find out who Kathe is. Who Julienne is. Who the remembered soldier is. And as you’re reading, prepare to be mesmerized by writing the likes of which I have never known. This is a book which will I never forget, a mystery I would never have conceived on my own, the quality of which I am unable to accurately describe.

In my opinion, it is the only true contender for the International Booker Prize 2026, and most certainly ought to be declared the winner.

Anticipating The International Booker Prize 2026

We’re about to embark on an epic journey across the world’s fiction, traveling paths forged by the magic of translation. I can’t wait to share the treasures we discover. ~Natasha Brown, Chair of the International Booker Prize 2026 judges

The International Booker Prize will announce the long list of thirteen books on Tuesday, February 24. Once again, the Shadow Jury awaits this announcement with great anticipation. What will this year bring us from the world of translated literature? Which author, and which translator, will equally share the £50,000 prize?

Our Shadow Jury for 2026 is comprised of the following bibliophiles:

• Stu, who is mostly found on Bluesky here and on Instagram here.
• Vivek is on Instagram here.
• David is writing the blog David’s Book World, and can be found on Bluesky here.
• Frances is found on Bluesky here and on Instagram here.
• Paul is on Goodreads here.
• Jeremy is on Bluesky here and on Substack here.
• Marina is writing the blog Finding Time To Write, and can be found on Bluesky here.
• and me, here at Dolce Bellezza and (rarely) on Instagram here.

Together we will read and review the books which are on the long list, eagerly discussing amongst ourselves which we deem most worthy of the prize. Sometimes, we agree with judges. More often, I dissent. But agreeing with them or not, in no way deters from the pleasure of reading books in translation and going through the door they open to broader understanding of the world in which we live. Although I am a reader, and not a translator, I feel much as one of the judges describes below:

To translate is to undertake a powerful act of generosity, creativity and connection to ferry literature across from one language to another, to forge kinship across distance. ~Nilanjana S. Roy, International Booker Prize 2026 judge

I cannot predict with any amount of certainty what will be revealed as a contender for the prize on February 24. However, I am hopeful that a few of my favorite books in translation, which have been published from May 1, 2025 to April 30, 2026, will be selected. Specifically, I am hopeful to see these books (click on the cover to go to the publisher):

As you can see, my knowledge base is largely Japanese, but I have read all of these books and consider them to be exceptional. We shall see what the judges have considered exceptional in the weeks to come…

Sisters in Yellow by Mieko Kawakami (“It’s only because I have you guys that I can do any of this.”)

The power of Sisters In Yellow stunned me.

I could not read it quickly, for the pages dwelt inside me with increasing heaviness. As Hana told her story, my compassion for her grew such that I could hardly contain it.

Where do you go when you have no one to turn to? Hana seemed to begin with a color. Yellow, to be specific.

Yellow was how all this started. I met Kumiko, who had yellow in her name, and she was the first one who’s taught me about yellow bringing fortune, and that was how I was able to leave Higashimurayama and find my own place and my own life.

Hana’s mother has no capacity for parenting. She works at a bar, connecting with the men she finds there for brief interludes, leaving Hana on her own. Hana must be the responsible one in the family. So, it is easy for her to leave with Kimiko, a friend of her mother’s, in search of a better home.

Kimiko and Hana set up a bar, which Hana names Lemon, and soon they have more money than Hana has ever known. The new adults in her life, Kimiko and her friends, show her ways to survive that make her feel she is thriving. Until the mounting dangers, and fear, show her that her life is really crumbling. 

The despair that Hana feels is heart wrenching. What does she have? No career, no family ID, no education.

How do people go on living? People I passed on the street, people reading newspapers in the cafes or drinking booze in the izakaya, eating ramen, going out with friends to make memories, people coming from somewhere, going elsewhere, laughing, raging, crying, people who live for today and would wake up and do the same tomorrow. How did they do it? I knew they had honest jobs, earned honest money. But embarrassed I didn’t understand was how they’d first obtained the qualifications to live within that honesty. How had they made it to that side? I wanted someone to tell me. My nights were sleepless, filled with worry, tossing and turning, and my thoughts grew distorted, so much so that I almost called my mother.

But, Hana’s mother can’t help her. And when Hana’s friends suggest that Kimiko and the other adults in their circle, have taken advantage of her, Hana cannot help but feel betrayed.

I’d always believed Kimiko had saved me. And the more I got to know her, the more I became convinced that she couldn’t live without me either, that there was no other way. That was why I’d been so desperate. But, I was wrong…

This is the crux of the novel, I believe. Did Kimiko take advantage of Hana? Or, as one of my principals said when I expressed disgust over a parent’s behavior, was she simply doing the best that she could? What ultimately matters is how Hana faces the reality of her life. She cannot answer for how she has been treated; she can only answer for how she will, in turn, treat others. 

As we all, one day, will do.

The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino (“Sometimes, all you had to do was exist in order to be someone’s savior.”)

“The last time I met Ishigami, he presented me with a mathematical conundrum.,” he said. “It’s a famous one, the P=NP problem. Basically, it asks whether it’s more difficult to think of a solution to a problem yourself or to ascertain if someone else’s answer to the same problem is correct.” 

Is there anything like a good mystery? I mean, a really well-thought out puzzle resembling a mathematical problem which begs to be solved? Such is the mystery which Higashino gives us in this novel. 

But, maybe the most important part of the novel isn’t about who committed a crime. 

When Ishigami comes forth with the confession that he has killed Yasuko’s ex-husband, the whole point of the novel suddenly becomes clear. It was never about who committed the crime.

It was about the devotion of one of the suspects. 

In fact, perhaps this should be labeled more of a desperate love story than one of murder. Although there are an abundance of clues, and curiosity about who will discover the truth (the detective or the physicist), these aren’t the most important elements.

The most important element is Ishigami’s character. He is a lonely teacher at the High School, working there only for the money as his passion is solving mathematical problems. Bur, his passion extends to his neighbor, Yasuko, as well.

I am gobsmacked by Higashino’s cleverness. He masqueraded a tale of devotion as one of murder and had me sidetracked all along. The Devotion of Suspect X is as brilliant a thriller as I have ever read.

Best Offer Wins by Marisa Kashino

 

It always amazes me to see the books that are selected for Reese’s Book Club, or Oprah’s, or The Good Morning America Book Club. They are nothing if not trite. Or, poorly written. At least Marisa Kashino seems to use her experience as a reporter, and her Japanese-American ethnicity, to support her novel, Best Offer Wins.

When I put this book on hold at the library, I actually thought it would be suitable for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19. 

It is not.

Instead, it is a novel that resembles The Devil Wears Prada in that we have a young, professional woman, aspiring to achieve more than she has. In fact, Margot borders on having a psychosis so eager is she to have a house. And a baby. But first, the house.

When she hears of a home which will soon be listed, she stalks the owner, getting herself invited to the owner’s home for dinner, and consequently ruining any chance of buying it before it hits the market when her ruse is uncovered.

But, her plans to obtain this house continue to unfold, each more bizarre than the next, until we are left with an outrageously tragic scenario that further spoiled the whole plot with its unbelievable, overly dramatic, nature.

Maybe it’s because I already have a house. Maybe it’s because I’m not materialistic. Maybe it’s because I know that things do not a person make. But, I am shocked by the accolades that this book has received, from Alex Michaelides for one, because personally, I cannot wait to return to a piece of true literature.

And, I have some advice: do not get sucked into reading what celebrities endorse. It’s has never been worth the effort for me.

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata (Part Two) “He stood gazing at his own coldness, so to speak.”

 

(Click on image for information.)

I learned about Chijimi linen in Part Two of Snow Country. Ojiya Chijimi is the art of turning plant fibers into fabric with the help of sun and snow. One of the last steps of making this special fabric is to lay it on the snow for ten to twenty days, where it is bleached by the elements. 

Why does Kawabata include this tradition in his novel? To be sure, he tells of one of the art forms in the country he is depicting. But, maybe, in the stretch of my imagination, it also points to the condition of Komako’s heart. For surely she loves Shimamura, just as surely, he cares very little that she does. Her heart seems to be bleached by the coldness of his heart just as the linen is bleached by the sun when it lies on the snow.

It makes me sad.

Kawabata won the Nobel Prize, for which Snow Country was one of the novels commended, in 1968. It is an incredibly spare, and often, to me, disjointed novel. As the characters speak, they don’t seem to be answering one another. It’s as if each is carrying on with his or her own thoughts, regardless of what the other has just said. I found myself reading, and rereading, certain passages for clarity. And maybe that is just the point: Shimamura and Komako are never truly communicating. Not in any meaningful, or lasting, way.

How can this be called a love story? To me, a love story involves two people who care about each other, and it is clear that Shimamura is able to care for little but himself. 

If a man had a tough, hairy hide like a bear, his world would be different indeed, Shimamura thought. It was through a thin, smooth skin that man loved. Looking out at the evening mountains, Shimamura felt a sentimental longing for the human skin. (p. 85)

This longing doesn’t mean it becomes actualized, however. Kawabata doesn’t give us a clear indication as to why Shimamura is so emotionally detached. Could it be, in part, because he comes to the snow country from Tokyo?

Tokyo people are complicated. They live in such noise and confusion that their feelings are broken to bits. Everything is broken to bits. (p. 90)

Maybe this accounts for some of his emotional aloofness. But, Komako attributes this distance to gender. 

It will be the same wherever I go. There’s nothing to be upset about…And I can’t complain. After all, only women are really able to love. (p. 98)

Even as they watch a fire destroy a cocoon-warehouse, and a woman’s body fall from the balcony, it is Komako who is screaming and Shimamura who is passive. 

If Shimamura felt even a flicker of uneasiness, it was lest the head drop, or the knee or a hip end to disturb that perfectly horizontal line…Komako screamed and brought her hands to her eyes. Shimamura gazed at the still form. (p. 128)

I have no ability to comprehend such a cold and heartless person; whether a person comes from a city or a small mountain town, whether a person is male or female, whether a person has a tough hairy hide or a thin skin, we are meant to love one another. It is a sad story that Kawabata gives us, and the fact that Snow Country contributed to a Nobel Prize means it must have a lot to say to a lot of people who ponder the heart of mankind. 

Or, the coldness therein.