I once found a single pencil note in the margin of a twentieth-century novel that read, in a hurried hand: "see: women who don't speak are not silent—listen for the unpaid sentences". That tiny observation sent me on a six-book rediscovery route that reshaped how I think about silence, labour and...
Read more...
Reading Guides
Charity shops are little laboratories of discovery. I’ve spent years rooting...
Reading Guides
I still remember the first time a translator’s preface changed how I read a...
Reading Guides
I found it once: a paperback tucked into the poetry shelf, its barcode worn,...
Interviews
I used to sit in the back of bookshop events, watching authors answer polite...
I found it once: a paperback tucked into the poetry shelf, its barcode worn, its author’s name faint. It had been misfiled—an accident, a whim, or the last reader’s secret—and that tiny error became the spark for a month-long reading route...
I used to sit in the back of bookshop events, watching authors answer polite questions and watchful readers applaud the carefully smoothed edges of a career. The same passages get rehearsed: the origin anecdote, the “in one sentence” pitch, the...
It started with a cramped spine, yellowing edges and a library stamp that suggested my copy had been shuffled into the wrong shelf decades ago. That misfiled mid-century novel—part domestic portrait, part social satire, written by a doubly...
I love tiny independent imprints in the way some people love flea markets: for the surprises, the mismatched treasures, the sense that something has been salvaged rather than manufactured. If you ask me which small press you should follow next, my...
I rarely approach a translation like a passive reader. When I find a neglected novel with two competing English versions, I treat the moment as a small literary excavation: which translation will unearth the author’s original rhythms, cultural...
I bought the book for a pound from a charity shop on a wet Tuesday afternoon. It was shelved among other paperbacks that had outlived their first readers—spines softened, dust jackets creased—until a laminated sticker from Oxfam suggested they...
I love the small archaeological thrills of secondhand bookshops: the smell of dust and glue, the cliff-like stacks, the thrill of a spine that hasn’t yet been discovered. But what really makes my heart quicken are the traces left by previous...
When a midlist novel slips out of print notices, fades from the pages of review roundups and ends up mis-shelved in used bookstores, it isn't always because it's bad. Often it's a casualty of marketing cycles, publishing trends and the attention...
Interviewing a small-press editor is one of the most rewarding things I do. These are the people who read obsessively in the margins, who argue for manuscripts that larger houses overlook, who shepherd difficult books into the world with limited...
It happens to me quite often: I want to read a foreign-language book that several translators have brought into English, and the internet is full of passionate, contradictory advice. One critic praises a new edition for its "faithful" rendering; a...