My year of reading women: Part 2

I’m back to wrap up my 2019 reading project. For a brief reminder about this year’s reading theme, you can go back and revisit part 1 here. 

There was a sort of plan to branch out and cover a wide range of geography and themes in my reading, but I don’t know how successful it turned out. I barely ventured pre-1950 and geographically I ended up limiting myself to North America, Europe and Africa, a smidgeon of Australia thrown in unexpectedly. It was Gary Younge’s article which originally inspired me to look at African writers, and his recommendations were all absolutely superb (I’ve been meaning to send him an email to thank him for the inspiration). But I only attempted one book from the Middle East – unsuccessfully – and otherwise skipped out entirely on South America and Asia. Shame on me. I kept my eyes and ears open for a broader range of diverse voices, but circumstances, opportunity and want kept me focused elsewhere.

As an avid reader, I just love the process of reading and the joys it brings me. But having a year-long reading theme feels like an epic journey. As 2019 winds down, I’m wistfully reflecting on my reading peregrinations and where it has taken me. I can’t recommend themed-reading years enough: it adds a layer of real depth, meaning and cohesion to your year, and the process was such a treat. There’s a greater layer of satisfaction to my reading experience, and the challenge of finding the ‘right’ writers was part of the fun.

At the same time, there’s also a slight sense of ‘relief’ in that I can now go and read whatever fiction I want without feeling constrained. A bittersweet feeling, I suppose. Though 2020 will surely mean another reading theme.

I mentioned in the last post that, being in Kyiv, and much preferring good old-fashioned tangible books, I was limited in my choices. But I have no qualms about reading on my Kindle when I must. But my Kindle tends to be for my commute or non-fiction choices. But I did make one notable exception.

Here we go. We last left off in [late] July.

August: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (American, 1963). Grim, depressing and full of forlornness, but considering it was autobiographical made it so much more powerful and impactful. If I’ve read a more harrowing account of one woman’s descent into suicide, I can’t recall it. (Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho, many years ago?)

At this point, I was also nearing the end of two non-fiction works, which were solely commuting reads: Watching the English by Kate Fox (English, 2004), an ‘anthropological’ study on what makes the English English (flawed but usually pretty interesting) and Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir (French, 1947). That one had its moments but it’s heavy-going at times.

September: I did something unusual here – I read another book by one of my earlier authors: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits by Laila Lalami (Moroccan-American, 2005), whose The Moor’s Account was my highlight of the year. This one was less good, but felt more authentically [north] ‘African’ in that it told the stories of a range of different migrants desperate to reach European shores. This was a Kindle read and timely and topical considering events in the news.

I also unexpectedly got a nice birthday present: a collection of Australian short stories. I was very touched by this, especially considering most people don’t know when my birthday is and I keep it pretty quiet. It was the only gift or even birthday acknowledgement I got from a non-family member, which made it all the more special. Though the book was about 75% male, I have read a few of the women’s contributions.

I dived into a bit of non-fiction with Denmark Vesey’s Garden: Slavery and Memory in the Cradle of the Confederacy by Ethan Kytle & Blain Roberts (American, 2018) but otherwise it business as usual with Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, by Olga Tokarczuk (Polish, 2019). I feel like I was just ahead of the curve on this one. Only a few days after I started reading this one (Kindle), Tokarczuk was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. Not that awards necessarily mean that much, but I did feel rather smug that I was prescient enough to download this one when I did. I’d heard much about her (though I have yet to read Flights, her most well-known book that got generally good reviews last year) but was attracted to her most recent because of the way she weaved William Blake’s poetry into the plot. I’ll quote Marcel Theroux here: ‘Drive Your Plow is simultaneously unsettling and oddly companionable. Suffused with William Blake, astrological lore, and the landscapes of middle Europe, it’s both a meditation on human compassion and a murder mystery that lingers in the imagination.’ It also involves animals getting their revenge on human misdeeds. (that is not a spoiler) I’ll be reading Flights at some point next year.

Also: Anecdotes of Samuel Johnson by Hester Thrale (Welsh, 1786). What it says on the tin. I can always read a bit of Samuel Johnson.

October: Bookworm: A Memoir of Childhood Reading by Lucy Mangan (English, 2018) and Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi (Ghanaian, 2017, another of Gary Younge’s recommendations). Homegoing is a great book, covering a few generations of two different sides of Ghanaian sisters and their descendants’ divergent paths in life, starting from the 17^th century and ending in the present. 

[Aside: I started Milkman by Anna Burns (Northern Irish, 2018), her Booker Prize winner from last year about the Troubles in Northern Ireland, but I couldn’t get into it at all and barely gave it much of a chance. I will instead go with Bear in Mind These Dead by Susan McKay (Northern Irish, 2008), in the new year, which is a non-fiction account of the Troubles.]

November: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters (English, 2002). Here is where I made an exception to my [Kindle] commute reading choices, and plumped for a bawdy tale of lesbian erotica set in Victorian England. If you’ve read Waters and know about her oeuvre, you’ll have a good idea of what a rollicking good romp her books can be. I can’t remember the last book that had me so nervous and anxious for the fate of certain characters – it felt like I was watching sports at time, such were the knots in my belly. Strange though this: I don’t feel much compulsion to read any of her other books, despite how much I enjoyed this one.

Also for this month: I’m the King of the Castle by Susan Hill (English, 1970), just okay, and Lust in Translation: Infidelity from Tokyo to Tennessee by Pamela Druckerman (American, 2008).

Why this Druckerman book? A brief tangent:

Simon Kuper, a Financial Times journalist, has written a couple of my favourite books, one of them being Football Against the Enemy, for me arguably the best book on football/soccer ever written, and the inspiration for one of my worst and most pilloried blog posts, a 2010 World Cup preview. The book is an all-time classic and I first read it in the late 1990s. I’ve reread it twice since. I’ve also enjoyed a couple of his other books and read most of his FT columns, which are not just about sport.

Amongst the plethora of baby books I read – disclaimer: most were read for entertainment purposes and many of these are surprisingly fun, informative and engaging reads – the one that stood out was Druckerman’s Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting. It was easily the most illuminating and enjoyable. Throughout the book she talked about her husband and children and halfway through, after various hints and clues, I deduced that Kuper was her husband. How apt was this, I thought? The wife of one of my favourite writers had written perhaps my favourite baby book. Once I’d put two and two together, I was so excited that I sent Kuper an email and we actually exchanged a few emails over the course of a few weeks. A charming chap.

Other than Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauviour, I can’t say I’ve read any more works by romantic partners. And that this came as an unexpected surprise made it all the more exciting, though I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because of all the funny digs Druckerman made at poor Simon’s expense, allowing me to see a more human insight into the man, away from his football and political writing persona. (if you are an FT reader, you may well know Kuper – here’s just one good example of his writing, a ‘Lunch with the FT’ feature with Roger Federer)

So anyway, I figured a book on cheating and infidelity by the author of my favourite baby advice books would be an intriguing read. It was decent.

December: The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar (English, 2018), which I talked about at the closing of my last post and Beloved by Toni Morrison (American, 1997). The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock…what a gem. I loved this one. A bizarre story about a merchant, a courtesan and a mermaid, set in 1780s Georgian London. If you like historical fiction with a bawdy, salacious and sexually juicy twist, a tale of whores, harlots, strumpets and their shenanigans, you’ll like this one. Very addictive and hard to put down.

With Beloved, it just seemed the right time to read it, with Toni Morrison’s passing this year. And there was somewhat of a slavery theme to my reading this year: this one, along with The Moor’s Account, Homegoing and Denmark Vesey’s Garden.

I also gave Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel (English, 2009), another Booker Prize winner, an unsuccessful second attempt after giving up a few years back. These prize winners can be pretty hit-and-miss and I honestly don't know what my problem with this one is. Maybe third time's a charm? I'll try again in 2025.

And that, dear loyal readers, is my wrap on 2019’s year of reading.

Of course, it wasn’t all about women. There was much else besides.

Final female tally, fiction and non: 25

Final overall count, completed: 42

Female fiction top 3:

1 The Moor’s Account

2 The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock

3 Homegoing

Barely missing the cut: The Friend and Nights at the Circus. I actually want to reread Nights at the Circus. It’s a dense read as it is, but there was a lot to unpack in it. It’s definitely worth a reread at some point (all good books are).

Other highlights of the year: Late Bloomers by Rich Karlgaard and two I’m currently reading, which are equally illuminating: When Einstein Walked with Gödel: Excursions to the Edge of Thought by Jim Holt and Moneyland by Oliver Bullough, about the world of kleptocracy (offshore money, crooked oligarchs, money laundering, etc).

But the two that felt like such great accomplishments, and a huge weight off my shoulders: The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa and The Anatomy of Bibliomania by Holbrook Jackson. They were both enjoyable albeit fairly dense and heavy. They each lend themselves to dipping into a bit at time, the first because it’s a rather rambling existentialist diatribe and the second because it’s a weighty tome – literally – with small print and a rather esoteric, ethereal style to it. These were both fun journeys akin to my year of reading women in that I started them early in the year and anticipated finishing them late this year, which is exactly what happened. Three to four pages a day, with the occasional break.

After the Bibliomania book, I’m still not sure whether I qualify as a bibliophile or a bibliomaniac.

Onto 2020

So what is next year’s theme? Apologies for my arrogance and hubris here, but year after year I make the same damn resolution: read less. I might be one of the few who says something like this, but I really do think it might be a good idea to sacrifice a bit of quantity for something else (not quality: this year has been one of the best for pure, unadulterated joy and exceptional quality).

As always, loyal readers, I’m open to ideas. Here are the options:

1 Take a year off reading altogether, and focus solely on writing (ha ha) or reading news, articles, etc. I read a lot of this [kind of crap] as it is, but maybe a year off might do be some good.

Okay, let’s be serious now, that definitely ain’t happening.

Remember – a year with a theme, and trying to doggedly stick to it, really makes reading so much of a treat. It adds a layer of challenge to it, in many ways one of will power and not deviating when the mood catches you.

1 A year of rereading some of my favourites. The challenge with this one is that some of these books aren’t in my possession – some are back in the US, some have been given away, so I’d have to make sure I can track them all down. On this list would be Middlemarch, Madame Bovary, Master and Margarita and some Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, VS Naipaul and Gregor von Rezzori.

2 Big, weighty tomes and some real door-stopping classics. This one would include a couple books I’ve got waiting on my shelf: The Brothers Karamazov (Dostoyevsky) and The USA Trilogy (John Dos Passos). There’s also a copy of the Grapes of Wrath at home (Steinbeck), which could get by on quality unless we go with a minimum page requirement which would mean big fat juicy works. That might mean limiting myself to 6-7 works of fiction for the year

3 White Anglo-Saxon males (Updike, Bellow, Joseph Roth, Steinbeck, Dickens) – I’m partially kidding, but this doesn’t sound like a ridiculous idea.

4 Reading what people tell me to. In other words, soliciting recommendations from my nearest and dearest friends and readers, on books that impacted you in some way, maybe even books that ‘changed your life’. One book a month – so 12 lucky readers who get to nominate a book for me to read, and I have to read it.

Please free to weigh in with your thoughts.

And thanks for reading if you’ve made it to the end…all three of you.