Numero Zero by Umberto Eco

umberto-eco-numero-zeroNumero Zero, by Umberto Eco. My review for Shiny New Books.

For a short novel, Numero Zero is amazingly leisurely and discursive. It’s like an Arabian Nights for conspiracy theorists, historians of the late 20th century and political sceptics, with stories within stories, asides, facts, speculation, satire and nods to the past and future. If that sounds like a bit of a mess and possibly hard going, in fact it’s jolly and generally entertaining, if slightly uneven.

Read the full review at Shiny New Books


“The point is, everything we heard was false or distorted … we’ve been living a lie. I’ve always said: never believe what they tell you …”

“And your story ends there…”

“Eh, no, this is the beginning of another one, and perhaps I only became interested through what happened next…”

Gorsky by Vesna Goldsworthy

gorskyGorsky by Vesna Goldsworthy. My review for Shiny New Books.

Gorsky is an enigmatic, much-gossiped-about billionaire who is rarely seen at his own famously gorgeous parties; there is a suggestion of some enormous unresolved romance in his life; his public character has something staged, unusually deliberate, theatrical about it—you could say that his personality is “an unbroken series of successful gestures”, if you wanted to quote from The Great Gatsby. And you probably do want to quote from The Great Gatsby; I did from the blurb onwards.

Read the full review at Shiny New Books


There was something so obvious in his slightly taciturn appearance that, almost from day one, I called him the ‘The Great Gorsky’…

You must eat your boots first | Spelk

Marooned
Howard Pyle, Marooned. Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

My short story, published by Spelk | Short, sharp flash fiction

Some years ago during one of the dull seasons—our work was very much on the seasonal side—my Waterstones branch entered a Book Tokens company competition on ‘opening lines’. We had to identify the opening lines of various more-or-less famous novels. We also had to come up with an opening line of our own. For whatever reason, ‘I’d been prodding the Frenchman with my boot all day to see if he was dead’ was the egg that my subconscious laid and we used that. It bothered me a little, it itched, and I knew that I wanted to make a story from it some time. Much later, the story suddenly came to me in the shower; at that time most of my best ideas, such as they were, seemed to emerge under hot water. I used to covet a pen with ink that would hold to the watery tiles, but that could be wiped away later. Continue reading

Glass by Alex Christofi

christofi-glassGlass by Alex Christofi. My review for Shiny New Books.

Alex Christofi’s debut novel is a mildly eccentric, likeable and interesting not-quite romp.

Read the full review at Shiny New Books


I have come to wonder whether I will make it through my twenty-third year. In the nine months since my mother died, I started a new job, which led me to meet a number of new people, one of whom I killed in a misunderstanding. But other things happened in the first twenty-two years that I should explain first.

The Inheritors by William Golding

Golding-InheritorsThe Inheritors by William Golding. My review for Nudge.

A chewy but fascinating and impressive prehistorical novel by the author of Lord of the Flies. Golding himself thought it his best.

Read the full review on Nudge


‘The people’ are returning from their winter quarters by the sea. They are troubled by a sense of ‘other’. The familiar landscape has changed and there are signs and shadows that worry them. One by one they meet the new thing, something beyond their understanding.

The Spectre of Alexander Wolf by Gaito Gazdanov (translated Bryan Karetnyk)

The Spectre of Alexander WolfThe Spectre of Alexander Wolf by Gaito Gazdanov (translated Bryan Karetnyk). My review for Nudge. When is someone you killed dead? Mystery, guilt, love, philosophy, and death in a very Russian thriller. Read the full review on Nudge


The opening is an almost conventional attention-grabbing shocker: ‘Of all my memories, of all my life’s innumerable sensations, the most onerous was that of the single murder I had committed.’ From then on it’s quite different. Not immediately, urgently, collar-shakingly different, but different from the opening, and different from other books.