Published in 1967, McPhee’s book on oranges was recently recommended in The Economist as a particularly good bit of non-fiction writing. In its first form, it was a much shorter article in The New Yorker, but the author felt that he had too much fascinating material to keep to a single article, and so the book grew out of it.

Oranges is an esoteric and lightly humorous history of the relationship between humans and oranges. It focuses in particular on the development of orange juice made from pasteurised concentrate, which was a huge shift the industry was undergoing at the time the book was published.

I didn’t know how much I didn’t know about oranges before I read this book. They are berries. They are not ‘true from seed’, so if you plant the seeds from an orange, you might get a tree that bears lemons or limes or grapefruit or any other citrus: most Florida oranges are grown via grafts onto lemon trees. There’s a whole weird history about women and oranges, with a remarkably persistent belief that if a woman touched an orange tree, it would die.

This is a book that is strange and charming, clearly crafted with love by someone who just wanted to share information that he found fascinating. The enthusiasm shines through on every page. And, more than that, it’s easy to see how the modern work of non-fiction authors like Jon Ronson and Will Storr flows directly from the innovative style McPhee adopted in his early work.

If I could summarise in only one word, then I’d describe this book as ‘delightful’.

Last month, I enjoyed a series of reflections on silence by the Norwegian explorer Erling Kagge. Walking is the follow-up, published in 2020, in which Kagge shares reflections and observations about putting one foot in front of the other. He draws on all kinds of sources, from ancient philosophy, to his father’s death, to cutting-edge cockroach research.

Kagge’s overall message is that walking makes us human: the more one walks, the more human one becomes, and the more knowledge one absorbs about oneself and the world. He argues convincingly that if people walked more, the world would be a better place. And he suggests that walking is the ‘best medicine’, in terms of both physical and mental health.

Kagge also quotes an astonishing statistic, which I’ve since found comes from a 2016 survey, which says that 75% of 5-12 year olds in the UK spend less time outside each day than the average UK prisoner (one hour). I’m amazed that I’ve never come across that statistic before in my public health work.

I’m predisposed to like this book because I agree with most of its arguments. I was particularly struck by a passage in which Kagge discusses how our perception of time changes according to the speed of travel:

When you move fast to save time, time moves fast, too. I’m always struck by how little time you actually save by driving. When you walk, time stretches.

This rings true. I’m lucky enough to be able to walk to work each day, but on the rare occasions when my 45-minute stroll is compressed into a shorter bus or car journey, I feel like I have lost rather than gained time. The walk really does seem to stretch my experience of time. I think this applies beyond walking: Wendy and I recently reflected that a recent holiday was hampered by arriving too fast on a direct flight, rather than us having the luxury of slower travel.

I thoroughly enjoyed this short set of reflections, and I will recommend it to others.

Earth is the second (and latest) book in Boyne’s promised quartet of novels themed around the elements. I read the first in the series, Water, last month.

You may recall that Water focused on Willow Hale, a woman who moves to a remote Irish island as she spends time coming to terms with the collapse of her family life. Earth picks up a few years later, and is narrated by Evan Keogh, a young island resident who was a relatively minor character in Water.

At the start of Earth, Keogh is a professional footballer, on trial as an accessory to the rape of a young woman allegedly committed by one of his teammates. As with Water, we gradually come to learn more about Keogh’s life story and the abuse he has suffered in his past, including while coming to terms with his sexuality. We also, of course, follow the progress of the trial while learning about the truth of the events the trial considers. Many of the revelations about Keogh’s background hark back to events described in Water, in a way that makes me look forward to re-reading the whole of the quartet at some point in the future.

As is Boyne’s usual style, his characters are all damaged, complete and emotionally complex. Often, Boyne’s plots are ridiculously implausible (and that’s certainly the case here), but he’s an author for whom that doesn’t matter. In Boyne’s novels, the plot merely serves as a background to character development, it is not the focus of the work. It is a little like opera in that sense.

Earth felt like a more direct novel than Water. In Water, most of the abuse is at one remove from the main characters who are reacting to it. In Earth, the narrator himself is both a victim and a perpetrator. This makes it a slightly harder read in some senses, but overall, I found that I enjoyed it slightly more than the first novel in the series.

The themes explored in Water and Earth were very similar: the long-term effects of abuse, pricking consciences, and the difficulty of reconciling public perception with reality. Boyne’s storytelling ability made the stories feel completely different, but I’m nervous as to whether he can pull that off twice more.

I look forward to finding out: Fire, the next in the series, is due to be released in November.

My sister bought this memoir for me, commenting that the tales of camping holidays in the UK and France in the 1970s would remind me of our childhood—though I must immediately clarify that, as the youngest sibling, the 1970s predate my arrival!

The book did, however, bring back memories. It was funny: there were anecdotes that made me laugh out loud, and also reminded me of situations in which we’d found ourselves.

Kennedy spins a good yarn: there aren’t many writers who can eke out pages of humour and tension from getting lost when driving in France, for example. She has real storytelling skill.

By the end, though, I began to struggle: it did feel a little strung out and perhaps a touch repetitive to me. To sustain its length, I would have preferred it to be a little more grounded in growth or self-reflection, or perhaps to have a little more variety of mood or depth of characterisation.

But I nevertheless enjoyed this. It was very nostalgic, and I would never have come across this book by other means, so that makes it a great present.

As you can see, I bought this book by renowned actor Obioma Ugoala when it was first released; it has since been re-released with the much better title The Making of a Man. It is a memoir focusing on Ugoala’s experiences of racism and sexism in his life and career, along with reflections on the complexities of masculinity. It’s also an argument for change, and a challenge to us all to improve society.

There was much in Ugoala’s account that I found shocking. For example, we’re of a broadly similar age, and it is astonishing to me that someone growing up at the same time as me could have been the victim of openly racist remarks from his teachers. It opened my eyes, as did many of the experiences that followed. His account of being told, as part of his upbringing, that ‘racism is not your fault, but it’s going to be your challenge’ was deeply moving—and to hear that having this sort of conversation is a ‘standard’ part of childhood for black children in the UK is heartbreaking.

And yet, the thing that struck me most about this book was Ugoala’s capacity for forgiveness. He talks about forgiving his teachers, for example, and explains repeatedly how he does not blame many of those who have demonstrated terrible behaviour towards him. His deep-rooted belief in the need to improve society, to tackle problems systemically and at a population level, results in an inspiring and superhuman ability to avoid pouring opprobrium on individuals. I found it extraordinary, and I can only aspire to his capacity.

This was an inspiring and insightful read, perhaps even uplifting, albeit one that reveals some deep-seated problems in our society.

Erling Kagge, a renowned Norwegian explorer, has ventured into some of the most extraordinary places on Earth, from the North and South poles to the summit of Everest. His book, ‘Silence’, is a compilation of 32 profound reflections on the various facets of silence. These reflections are not just theoretical but are born out of Kagge’s personal encounters with silence, such as the profound stillness he experienced during his solo expedition to the South Pole or the inner calm reminiscent of meditation.

Deep down in the ocean, below the waves and ripples, you can find your internal silence. Standing in the shower, letting the water wash over your head, sitting in front of a crackling fire, swimming across a forest lake or taking a walk over a field: all these can be experiences of perfect stillness too.

The book’s structure of short, self-contained reflections lends the book a slightly unfortunate sense of superficiality, which belies the depth of its insights: many of the ideas are interesting and worthy of deep reflection.

I suspect this book would have been best read one section at a time, allowing reflection and consideration. I didn’t read it like that: I read it in a day. I probably got less out of it than I could have as a result, and this might be a book I dip back into from time to time.

Kagge repeatedly refers to silence as luxurious, an opinion which seems to come up with some regularity in the New York Times. I liked how Kagge expanded this idea, not just pointing out the relationship between access to silence and financial wealth but also encouraging us to see silence as valuable in its own right:

Shutting out the world is not about turning your back on your surroundings, but rather the opposite: it is seeing the world a bit more clearly, staying a course and trying to love your life. Silence in itself is rich. It is exclusive and luxurious. A key to unlock new ways of thinking. I don’t regard it as a renunciation or something spiritual, but rather as a practical resource for living a richer life.

He also talks a couple of times about the value of silence in a relationship, and the pleasure of feeling relaxed enough to sit or walk in silence with those we love most. This felt especially relevant to me; it’s something Wendy and I have often reflected on.

I have already bought Kagge’s follow-up, Walking, and look forward to digging in—in silence!

I’ve read a few of John Boyne’s novels over the years, and enjoyed them all. It was therefore no surprise at all that I enjoyed this short 2023 novel, the first of a promised quartet themed around the elements.

Set on an isolated Irish island, we follow 53-year-old Vanessa Carlin—who changes her name to Willow Hale right at the start—as she spends time coming to terms with the collapse of her family life. The collapse was caused by the actions of her husband, which are gradually revealed across the whole course of the novel, and in which the world assumes her to be complicit.

The arc of the novel, following Carlin/Hale’s retreat from the world, reminded me a lot of the non-fiction book Wintering by Katherine May—there is certainly a degree of thematic similarity between the two. It’s a novel about reflection, regret and recovery, as well as much more besides.

I enjoy Boyne’s writing for its deep interest in people: his characters seem complete and emotionally complex. I find his novels comforting, even while the content is often challenging, as I can be confident in his robust storytelling skill.

However, Boyne sometimes veers towards cliché in his expression of ideas. I’ve sometimes wondered whether this is a deliberate authorial choice to represent the way that real people often make sense of the world, or whether Boyne has a bit of a blind spot for cliché. In this book, a character reflects on the lack of a word for a parent who has lost a child: a clichéd observation that collapses after a moment’s thought about the speed of change in infant mortality rates versus the speed of the development of English. This stood out because I didn’t believe that the character would give in to that sort of cliché, which made me favour my blind spot theory over authorial intent.

But regardless: I thoroughly enjoyed this, and have already bought the second book of the quartet.

I borrowed this 1944 novel from the library after seeing it featured in the New York Times newsletter Read Like The Wind. I found it to be a funny and gently comforting read.

The book is set in England in the late 1930s, and the titular character is an orphan in her twenties whose self-confident temperament does not fit the social mores of the time. Uninterested in what is ‘right’ and ‘proper’ for a young lady, she ploughs her own furrow with innocent charm.

In an attempt to get her to conform to her social standing, her uncle sends her into ‘service’ as a parlourmaid in a large country house, with amusing consequences. On the surface, this novel is a traditional farce, but scarcely beneath the surface, Sharp uses that comedy to skewer pretty much all contemporary societal norms. The looming war doesn’t escape judgement either.

Sometimes, I read historical novels and find them a bit of an effort, even if that effort is rewarded by what I take away from them. Not so this book: the pages flew by, and the humour was right up my street. It didn’t feel like I was reading something that was eighty years old.

Some highlights:

She had got to the Ritz. She had got as far as Chelsea—put her nose, so to speak, to a couple of doors—and each time been pulled back by Uncle Arn, or Aunt Addie, people who knew what was best for her, only their idea of the best was being shut up in a box—in a series of smaller and smaller boxes until you were safe at last in the smallest box of all, with a nice tombstone on top.

“She likes to see a young lady who doesn’t put stuff on her face,” said Mr. Wilson. “If I may say so, so do I.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do any good,” said Cluny frankly. “I’ve tried it, but I look worse.”

“They all look worse,” said the chemist. “Only they haven’t the sense to know it.”

The bluntness of a friend in pain is never hurtful.

“Please can you lend me a good book?” he asked politely.

Before answering Betty switched on a second light, which thoroughly illumined the whole room. The conjunction of a highly desirable appearance with a great deal of sense had inevitably taught her much that young girls were not commonly supposed to know: for instance, that a strong light is almost as good as a chaperone.

“Darling,” said Andrew, as they finished their coffee, “would you like to marry me next month?”

“No, thank you,” said Betty. “What a fool idea, darling.”

I have so often thought how in all English art the place of women is taken by landscape. Your poetry is full of it, you are a nation of landscape painters. In other countries a man spends his fortune on a mistress; here you marry a fortune to save your estates.

If you had a smattering of education you would realize that perfection of form can give validity to any sentiment, however preposterous.

Steinbeck’s 1945 novel has been on my ‘to read’ list for years. I’ve finally got round to it after a friend pressed it into my hands. I had recommended Sombrero Fallout by Richard Brautigan to her, and she said that she felt the two had similarities of style and theme. I agree.

There’s probably little point me rehearsing the plot of such a famous book, but if you’re unfamiliar as I was, Cannery Row is set during the Great Depression and is formed of a series of interlinked short stories about characters who live on a street of sardine canneries. It’s a charming, nostalgic, funny and wise book whose characters live long in the memory.

It’s one of those short classics that I wish I’d read sooner.

This book combines a history of the development of PowerPoint software, an ode to its functions, advice on presenting well, and—most up my street—an excoriation of poor corporate communication. The prose is written in a personal, conversational style, interspersed with PowerPoint slides—a couple of which I recently shared. It is a riot of a book.

Davies argues powerfully and convincingly that PowerPoint is often wrongly blamed for failures which lie elsewhere—usually in poor decisions about communication. Too often, screeds that should have been documents are pasted onto slides.

I didn’t understand why everyone was so contemptuous of a tool I found so joyous and liberating. I understood that bad presentations were bad. I’d sat through a lot of them. But I couldn’t quite see why everyone blamed the tool itself. It seemed like blaming pulpits for the boringness of sermons or printing for the tedium of books. I started to get a chip on my shoulder about all this PowerPointHate.

The section about presentations before PowerPoint—overhead projectors, transparencies, and those special felt-tipped pens—brought memories of giving presentations at medical school flooding back. Even in my fourth year, by which time PowerPoint was pretty common, we were routinely expected to have a backup on transparencies in case of ‘technical failure’—I remember deciding to buy transparencies that my printer could print onto, at what seemed like enormous expense. I hadn’t thought about that in years.

The second on corporate communication was great, which isn’t surprising: Davies was heavily involved with the creation of gov.uk which has a brilliant style guide. It is a shame that it is not more often followed by government departments. The line that will stay with me for longest is the astute observation that the word ‘key’ can almost always be deleted from any corporate document without consequence.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book.