I finished A Luminous Republic with a slight sense of unease—not because the novel had let me down, but because I wasn’t entirely sure what I had just read. That’s part of its brilliance. Andrés Barba’s short novel is one of the most unsettling and enigmatic books I’ve encountered for quite some time. I read the English edition translated by Lisa Dillman, whose crisp, controlled prose perfectly matched the unsettling restraint of Barba’s story.

Narrated by a civil servant with the sort of cool detachment that would be admirable in the minutes of a council meeting but feels almost surreal when describing mass hysteria, societal collapse, and the mysterious deaths of children, the novel recounts the extraordinary events that unfolded when thirty-two feral children appeared seemingly from nowhere in the fictional South American city of San Cristóbal. No one knew where they came from; no one knew how to handle them. The city, naturally, fell apart trying.

The dry, documentary style of narration is inspired. It doesn’t just describe the events — it actively withholds emotional clarity. The more inexplicable things become, the more the narrator recedes into procedural memory, reports, newspaper clippings, and bureaucratic euphemism. It’s a little like reading the minutes of the apocalypse.

What the novel is about is harder to pin down, and therein lies much of its power. Is it an allegory for how societies treat ‘outsiders’—a reflection on racism, xenophobia, classism, homophobia? Is it a parable about the viral spread of dangerous ideas, about how fear and misinformation can sweep through an ostensibly civilised population? Is it something else entirely? The novel doesn’t deign to offer answers. Different interpretations seem to fit neatly at different moments, and this slipperiness made the book linger in my mind long after I closed it. That one of the characters (the mayor of San Cristóbal) is named Victor Corbán surely must be an echo of Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán— perhaps it is coincidence, but I could help thinking that it must be a clue to the sorts of unpleasant ideas Barba was targeting.

I suspect it’s a book that reveals more with each re-reading—and I’m looking forward to testing that theory.

Despite its potentially science fiction premise—feral children spontaneously appearing, a society crumbling in response—the book feels grounded and painfully plausible. There’s no sense of magic or fantasy here. Just human frailty, fear, and the haunting realisation that sometimes, there are no satisfying explanations.

I don’t often seek out science fiction, and I wouldn’t ordinarily be attracted to a novel that sounds this peculiar. Yet A Luminous Republic captured me completely. It didn’t change the way I view the world, but it certainly furnished me with some new metaphors for thinking about it. For a short book, it is luminous indeed.

This was a book Wendy and I read together over the course of a month—just a few short essays before bed each night. That context probably matters: I suspect that reading it slowly, letting the ideas settle, and chatting together about them gave it a resonance that I might have missed had I powered through it on my own.

The book is a series of short, thematic essays intended, as the title suggests, to inspire a little hope. Each reflection begins with a story, often drawn from art, literature or history, and builds into a modest argument or observation about what might make life feel a little less bleak. That structure—anecdote, idea, note of optimism—could easily have become formulaic, but I found it surprisingly satisfying. The source material is varied, and the tone strikes a compelling blend of melancholy and grace.

The first section, ‘reasons of darkness,’ is the one that stuck with me most. It’s unusual to find a self-described book of hope that begins in the mud: suffering is inevitable; people lust for vengeance; we are all profoundly flawed. But instead of glossing over these, the book leans in. These darker reflections feel honest rather than heavy, and it’s from this honesty that their hopefulness arises. I found that strangely comforting.

If you’ve read much from The School of Life, you’ll know the tone: measured, thoughtful, gently philosophical. But this volume stood out to me for its coherence: while none of the ideas felt new to me, seeing them collected and loosely stitched together under the banner of hope lent them fresh significance. It was less about new insights and more about the quiet joy of recognition, of seeing well-worn thoughts in new light.

Compared to On Confidence, which I read in one go, Reasons to be Hopeful felt more textured and rewarding. That may be less about the content and more about the way I read it: this is a book that benefits from being slowly savoured. Read too quickly and you might miss the point entirely.

I’m not sure it radically changed anything for me, but it did recalibrate the tone of my internal monologue a little. And that’s no small thing. At the end of a long day, it reminded Wendy and me of the good in the world, and helped us both frame those pre-sleep ruminations with a little more tenderness and a little less despair.

It turns out that hope, when served in measured doses, can be rather potent after all.

I’ve long admired Annie Ernaux’s writing for its relentless honesty—her refusal to flinch from the rawest corners of human experience. That fearless openness drew me to The Use of Photography, co-authored with journalist Marc Marie and translated by Alison L. Strayer. It’s a brief, piercing book, documenting an unlikely intersection in the early 2000s of two intense experiences: Ernaux’s chemotherapy for breast cancer and a passionate affair with Marie.

The book’s central device is strikingly intimate: photographs depicting the aftermath of their encounters, typically showing clothes discarded around their apartment or other settings. Each photograph is paired with independent reflections from both authors, exploring the memories and emotions these snapshots evoke.

Ernaux and Marie beautifully intertwine two contrasting experiences: the deeply challenging reality of cancer treatment, usually viewed as purely negative, and the exhilaration of their affair, typically seen as positive. The intermingling of these experiences felt profoundly true to life—highlighting the complexity of our emotional landscape, where joy and sorrow coexist in constant interplay.

As ever, Ernaux’s writing is exceptional. Her prose remains reflective, vivid, and emotionally honest, making the book not just insightful but deeply moving. The narrative flows effortlessly—I found myself eagerly turning the pages, absorbed by the nuanced interplay of reflection and vulnerability.

I found this both compelling and poignant—an exceptional exploration of intimacy, memory, and life’s contradictory beauty.

This recently-published novella seemed to arrive with little fanfare, which is odd given that André Aciman has become something of a byword for wistful longing. I only came across it by chance, in a newspaper review, and couldn’t find a copy in any of my local bookshops. As often happens with favourite authors, I approached it with a touch of trepidation: I’ve enjoyed several of Aciman’s previous books, and there’s always the risk that a new one will be a pale retread of earlier triumphs. Happily, Room on the Sea stands proudly in its own right.

The novel follows two professionals approaching retirement, summoned for jury duty, and the unexpected relationship that develops between them. It’s set in New York, but it felt like a Neapolitan novel to me. Naples features in several evocative descriptions and discussions, and the emotional tone—sun-drenched, slightly chaotic, soaked in feeling—seemed more Italian than American. This is something I enjoy: there’s a particular warmth to novels with an Italian sensibility, and Aciman leans into that here. It’s a short book, with just 158 large-typed pages, but one which transported me completely.

The central characters are older than in many of Aciman’s previous novels. That change in perspective gives the book a slightly different quality: still emotional, still romantic, but with a more nuanced and complex edge. This is not a tale of the aching intensity of teenage love; rather, it’s about the unsettling, joyful thunderclap of connection that can strike even in a settled, middle-aged life. There’s something especially affecting about that.

The narrative spans just five days and focuses on the relationship between two fully realised characters, rounded out by the lives we glimpse beyond the page. Aciman draws a world that feels vast despite the narrowness of the story’s window. The effect is a little like listening at a door: we can only hear fragments, but the richness of what lies beyond is palpable.

There is, as you might expect, a good deal of wistful longing and bittersweet reflection—Aciman’s stock in trade—but it never feels overwrought. In fact, there’s a quiet joy at the heart of this novel: a sense that love, even when complicated or fleeting, can still be life-affirming. The open-endedness of the conclusion struck exactly the right tone. We don’t know precisely what happens next, but we’ve understood enough to feel its emotional truth.

I thought this was as good as anything Aciman has written. It’s short enough to read in a sitting and resonant enough to linger for much longer. Even if it’s not quite your thing, it won’t detain you long—but for me, it packed a slightly melancholic, slightly joyful, and more than slightly reflective punch.

Can a building make you happy—or quietly chip away at your mental health?

That question caught me off guard when I picked up Alain de Botton’s The Architecture of Happiness from the library. I’d recently read On Confidence, from his School of Life organisation, and was reminded how much I’ve enjoyed his previous work. This volume caught my eye—partly through familiarity, partly through curiosity. Could architecture really shape our emotional lives?

De Botton argues that the physical environment—buildings, homes, public spaces—does far more to shape our mood than we typically acknowledge. This isn’t a book about design tips or architectural history; it’s a gentle, probing exploration of how our surroundings reflect and influence who we are.

It made me reconsider how Wendy and I make decisions about our home. We tend to ask, ‘Does this look nice?’—not, ‘Will this make us feel more at peace here?’ We’ve recently used a lot of Mizzle, and even at their most florid, Farrow & Ball’s copywriters don’t mention an impact on mood. But perhaps they should. If de Botton is right—and he makes a compelling case—then colour, shape, texture, and proportion aren’t just aesthetic flourishes; they’re part of the emotional architecture of our lives.

I was particularly struck by his critique of brutalism. It’s a style I’ve long admired—solid, unapologetic, defiantly ugly in a way I find rather beautiful. But this book unsettled that affection. Would I really want to live with exposed concrete walls? Could I stand that level of severity every day?

There’s a difference, I realised, between architectural admiration and emotional sustenance. Striking buildings might please the eye or stimulate the mind—but they don’t always nourish the soul. De Botton argues that beauty isn’t always bold or dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet, human, and oddly hard to describe until you step into a space that just feels right.

That was the shift for me. I’d thought of architecture as something to look at, or photograph, or analyse—like sculpture on a civic scale. But The Architecture of Happiness reframes it as something intimate and daily: the backdrop to our moods, our habits, our lives.

It’s a gentle, intelligent, and quietly radical book. I’d recommend it to anyone curious about how the spaces we inhabit end up shaping us in return.

I picked up Hunchback out of curiosity—it’s a hugely successful Japanese novel by disabled author Saou Ichikawa, translated by Polly Barton—and it turned out to be unlike anything I’ve read before.

The story revolves around a profoundly disabled protagonist residing in a care home, whose primary outlet for self-expression is writing and publishing erotic fiction. Over the course of this short, engaging novel, the central character begins exploring sexual fantasies with a care worker, a premise that immediately raises complex ethical and philosophical questions.

Ichikawa handles these sensitive themes deftly and with nuance, inviting reflection on the nature and philosophy of sexual desire, the boundaries of consent, and the societal norms that shape our perceptions of sexuality, especially within the context of disability. What’s particularly striking about the book is its ability to balance depth with humour—there’s an undeniable comedic undertone throughout, which enriches rather than detracts from its exploration of challenging topics.

Despite its brevity—I read it in a single sitting—the book left me with plenty of food for thought, and I’ve continued contemplating its themes since finishing it. This is a refreshingly original novel, one I’d wholeheartedly recommend for its thoughtful yet human exploration of rarely addressed topics.

Having recently enjoyed On Confidence, I decided to delve deeper into the writing from The School of Life, and this charming little volume immediately caught my eye. Physically, it’s delightful: slim, cloth-bound, beautifully designed, and thoroughly pleasing to handle and read.

The book comprises a series of short, reflective chapters, each addressing aspects of emotional maturity, personal development, and growth. Rather than adopting the didactic tone of self-help guides, the writing is thoughtful and gently philosophical. It’s less about prescriptive solutions and more about offering insightful reflections.

While I enjoyed reading this, I didn’t encounter many novel ideas. Instead, its strength lies in how clearly and engagingly familiar concepts are presented. It serves as a valuable reminder of the importance of emotional growth, mindfulness, and self-awareness.

One aspect of the book that gave me pause was its critical stance towards formal education—an inherent theme of the book, suggesting schools overlook essential life lessons. Though I appreciated the book’s viewpoint, I found myself partially disagreeing. Schools might not prepare individuals comprehensively for every emotional or practical challenge in life, but it’s unreasonable to expect they fully should. Personal development is, after all, a lifelong endeavour extending far beyond the classroom.

Overall, What They Forgot to Teach You at School is a thoughtful, attractively presented book that I’d readily recommend. It may not revolutionise your worldview, but it might remind you of valuable lessons worth revisiting.

This book had frequently been recommended to me over the years, particularly in medical circles, but somehow I’d never got around to reading it until now. John Berger’s text, accompanied by evocative photographs by Jean Mohr, paints a literary portrait of a rural doctor practising in England in the 1960s.

The book offers a fascinating, often moving insight into the life and work of Dr John Sassall, the independent-minded physician who serves his community through both home visits and work at the local hospital. Sassall emerges as a charismatic, somewhat idiosyncratic figure who embodies the traditional paternalistic notion of a doctor as a pillar of the community, deeply embedded within the social fabric of his village.

Reading an original 1960s library edition added an extra layer of reflection for me, prompting consideration of how dramatically medicine has evolved over the intervening decades, even while the central aim and values of the profession have stayed the same. The absence of today’s omnipresent healthcare bureaucracy—management structures, commissioning—is striking. Sassall operates with remarkable independence, personally determining what’s best for his patients without the layers of accountability and oversight common today. On the one hand, this autonomy clearly benefits the community when a practitioner is dedicated and insightful, as Sassall appears to be. Yet, viewed through a contemporary lens, the lack of checks and balances feels risky, particularly given Sassall’s single-handed practice. Nobody can know everything, and it’s a worry to wonder how Sassall managed patients with conditions he knew less about without evidence-based guidelines to draw upon.

Equally thought-provoking is the book’s portrayal of the doctor’s role as a confidant and central social figure. While it was common during my medical training to hear that doctors had replaced priests as the recipients of people’s innermost worries, I wonder whether that’s still true today. It seems medicine, and perhaps society itself, has moved on. Healthcare feels more transactional and commodified, further from the deeply personal, community-rooted interactions described by Berger.

A Fortunate Man provided me with much food for thought, exploring both the continuity and considerable change in the medical profession. It’s a reflective and engaging work that I’d recommend highly—not just to medical colleagues, but to anyone interested in the shifting relationships between doctors, patients, and the communities they serve.

The photo is a background detail of a photo from the book, noting the times at which smoking is permitted on the ward. It seems strikingly old-fashioned, until I remember that smoking rooms were still common is hospitals when I started my training. It’s amazing how quickly society—and our perceptions of it—can change.

A hotel room I recently checked into had a small bookshelf, which was nice. This was one of four volumes squeezed between two unmatched bookends.

I have a vague cultural awareness of The School of Life: I enjoy and follow Alain de Botton’s writing, so I heard about this project when he founded it. The School of Life Press is a small offshoot, and I was mildly intrigued to see what it offered.

I therefore plucked this from the shelf and dived in, reading it from cover to cover in a single sitting (it’s quite short).

It discusses confidence as a learned skill, which is always a helpful reminder. The cover image of a ship being tossed by the waves exemplifies this: the new seafarer will be terrified, whereas the old hand has learned to trust the ship and so is confident in even the roughest waters.

That observation probably isn’t new to you, and that’s typical of this book. It’s a concise summary of well-worn wisdom, but it doesn’t have much new to say. There was one observation that was new to me: that those who see the good in others are likely to be less confident themselves, as they tend to place a higher value on the opinions of others (rather than seeing everyone else as idiotic and therefore relying on one’s own view and drive).

I’d have enjoyed a meatier and more challenging book on the topic, with a little more personality to it… but then again, a book like that would probably be too long and divisive to be left in a hotel room.

It was certainly more welcome than a bedside Bible.

This 2011 debut novel was much-acclaimed—but passed me by completely. When I came across some of the extensive praise for it recently, I thought I’d take it out of the library to see what all the fuss was about.

It’s a slim novel in 19 chapters, each of which presents an individual vignette. It is narrated by the youngest of three brothers who were born to teenage parents in 1980s rural New York. The chronologically presented chapters take us through their childhood, exploring their close knit family unit until it loosens as the boys come of age.

I have to confess that I didn’t really enjoy this. There is something about novels narrated by children that I struggle to connect with, even (or perhaps especially) when they are critically acclaimed. I often find their perspective a little unbelievable, and the device of imaging what a child sees in adult relationships tends to come off as a little twee to me. The effect is to reduce the emotional impact of the plot, which seems a shame when it is as loaded as in this book.

I suppose this just wasn’t for me.