This book sold by the tonne last year, and the resulting coverage of ‘ultra-processed food’ was unavoidable. I studiously avoided reading the book, though. I’ve dabbled in nutritional research in the past, and have a reasonable handle on how complicated the subject can be. I assumed that this was another book by a celebrity doctor who would be giving an oversimplified, somewhat self-promotional message.

But then I gave in and was pleasantly surprised.

This book is quite narrowly focused on the under-recognised harms of ultra-processed food. As one of van Tulleken’s interviewees memorably puts it: ’It’s not food. It’s an industrially produced edible substance.’

This is explicitly not a diet or self-help book, and van Tulleken repeatedly emphasises that there’s more to diet than this narrow topic: cutting out all ultra-processed food from one’s diet does not guarantee a long, healthy and happy life. The central argument is merely that the introduction of ultra-processed food is probably an under-recognised driver of ill health at a population level. I was fairly convinced by that argument.

I found the book easy and enjoyable to read, partly because of van Tulleken’s humorous style of writing and his personal anecdotes, but also because some of the background literature he cites is familiar to me. I sometimes found some arguments in the book a little reaching, particularly when it came to trying to connect the development of ultra-processed foods with wider ethical concerns in some multinational corporations. I came to accept this as a rhetorical device in keeping with the tone of the book.

I enjoyed this and felt that I learned from it, and regret misjudging it from its cover!

The cover of this book caught my eye when it was first announced, but its subtitle—’an A-Z for the weary’—didn’t appeal. I imagined it to be a slightly patronising self-help book, and I didn’t buy it when it was published in January. This brief review in the TLS changed my mind, and I thought I’d give it a go.

The book is a literal A to Z, from ‘A is for Acceptance’ through to ‘Z is for Zeitgeist’. Each chapter is only a few pages long, but provides some genuine insight into burnout, and the relationship between modern work and exhaustion. Schaffner is a ‘burnout coach’, which is not the sort of title that fills me with confidence, but she is a great writer and clearly brings a wealth of experience and insight.

This isn’t a self-help book in as much as it isn’t directive: there are no instructions here for overcoming burnout. It’s a book designed to provide insight. Many of the chapters were about things that were already familiar—Bartleby the Scrivener, for example, or the Stoic philosophers—but I did find value in having Schaffner’s reflections on how these examples related to modern-day burnout.

So, I enjoyed this more than I expected.

Here are some passages that I highlighted:

The writer Jonathan Malesic defines burnout as the experience of being pulled between expectations and reality at work. We burn out, he argues, not because we are exhausted but because our hearts are broken. Our love for work went unrequited – it did not love us back. And nor did it bring us the dignity, purpose and recognition for which we hoped. Burnout, he writes, is ‘an ailment of the soul.

When we are in the grip of anhedonia, we often cannot even remember what used to bring us joy, and what it feels like to be properly alive, engaged, connected and full of zest. If that is you, then I urge you to find a hobby. This is not facetious advice for the following reasons: hobbies serve no purpose other than making the person who performs them happy. Like child’s play, they are unapologetically non-instrumental activities. They cannot be monetised nor utilised.

Sometimes, being caught in a bad situation can drain us of all vitality, even destroy our will to live. When we are that unlucky, we turn into ghosts, neither fully alive nor dead. We may continue to function at a physical level, but our spirits appear to have departed. Empty shells, we are incapable of experiencing joy. In fact, more often than not, we don’t feel anything at all. We have numbed our feelings to such an extent that we don’t even register the true scale of our suffering. And this is the point, of course: because it would be too devastating to hear what our feelings have to tell us, it is safer not to feel anything at all.

‘Within our power are opinion, motivation, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever is of our own doing; not within our power are our body, our property, reputation, office, and, in a word, whatever is not of our own doing.’ In other words, what tends to be within our control is our inner life, our judgements, our reactions and how we treat others, while most other things, including what people think of us, are not.

The news we are fed is almost unremittingly negative. Studies have shown that it triggers our limbic system and stimulates the release of cortisol, thus deregulating our immune system, inhibiting the release of growth hormones and making us more prone to infections. As well as making us more fearful, aggressive and desensitised to the suffering of others, it can become a source of chronic stress. It can also kill our creativity.

During those dark nights of the soul, when all hope is gone and we feel lost and alone, we still have one option: to do the next right thing.

Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.

This book was a gift from some friends, and like all good gifts, it’s something I’d never have chosen for myself: with occasional exceptions, I tend not to read books about wars. This novel is set in Newcastle in County Down, during the First World War. It is a fictionalised portrayal of an army unit set up to manufacture lifelike masks for soldiers who had suffered facial injuries during the war. It became known as ‘the tin nose shop’.

A novel about a British army unit stationed in Northern Ireland is not an obvious choice of subject for an American author, and it felt a little tonally off, but I enjoyed it nevertheless. It’s really a book about post-traumatic stress disorder and the horror of war, and Snyder leans in heavily to the obvious allegory of a mask of normality hiding life-changing wounds.

Before reading this book, I had no idea about the historical existence of the ‘tin nose shop’. The venue on which the one in the book is based was actually located in London; Snyder’s introduction talks about relocating it to Northern Ireland after he holidayed there. I’m not sure if this was the right decision: the inevitable inclusion of the Easter Rising felt like an unnecessary additional complication to the plot. It worked for me, though: the imagery was lent a poignant vivacity by my previous visits to the town.

Without wanting to spoil anything, I was also surprised and pleased by the ending. I wasn’t surprised by the revelations at the end of the book, but I was surprised and moved by how they played out.

This isn’t the sort of thing that I’d normally read, but I enjoyed it nevertheless.

This is Rory Stewart’s memoir of his decade as a Conservative MP, from his election campaigns to his Ministerial posts. It is funny, readable, and a little bit gossipy. I think it will come to be viewed as one of the definitive accounts of this bizarre period in Westminster politics and probably one of the best insider takes. It is very well written.

And yet, I found it a little disappointing. I’ve often been impressed by Stewart when I’ve heard him speak on the radio or his podcast, and I’ve come to think of him as an insightful and intelligent political operator. Yet the experience of reading this book was a little similar to reading Hilary Clinton’s account of the 2016 US Presidential Election: I was left with the sense that Stewart lacked the distance and time necessary to properly reflect on his time in Government.

There are lots of examples I could use to illustrate this, but it was his account as the minister responsible for prisons that stuck with me most. He writes with some pride about his successful work to reduce the level of violence through his ‘ten prisons project’, and to improve the basic standards in those ten institutions. He says that he made a difference through extreme and close focus on the basic issues, including involving himself in detailed operational aspects of running individual prisons.

He hasn’t the distance to recognise the two obvious flaws with this approach.

Firstly, driving improvements in a way which is dependent on the actions and attitudes of an individual minister is guaranteed to make those improvements temporary, as successive ministers will choose different approaches and items of focus. To be truly effective, a minister needs to tackle the much harder job of figuring out how to embed a different approach in a system, with a broad coalition of institutional buy-in, so that the improvements outlive the ministerial appointment.

Secondly, inviting ministers to focus on operational detail is dangerous, firstly—and perhaps most importantly—because it leaves a major gap by having no-one focused on wider strategy, and secondly because it invites less thoughtful ministers to drive through absurd operational changes which are unnecessarily damaging to people’s lives. It comes dangerously close to the ‘we’ve had enough of experts’ view of the world which he criticises in passages about his previous experiences outside of politics.

Neither of these flaws necessarily mean that Stewart’s actions weren’t the right ones for the specific circumstance in which he found himself: they may well have been. But Stewart’s tendency to generalise feels misguided, and his often self-critical reflections feel weaker than they ought to because he doesn’t acknowledge—or perhaps doesn’t see—that he’s missing these bigger questions about his approach.

I’m glad I read this book: the insight it offers and the quality of the writing outweigh the problems. I perhaps hope that there will be another volume to come, maybe a decade hence, when Stewart has had a bit more distance and a bit more space to reflect more expansively on his experiences.

I received this book, the first in Icelandic author Sigurðardóttir’s ‘Children’s House’ series, as a very kind gift. The English translation is by Victoria Cribb. It’s a thriller-ish crime fiction, a Nordic murder mystery. It was a particularly thoughtful present as it’s been a while since I last read a book like this.

Predictably, early in the book, there’s a gruesome murder: truly gruesome, Stephen King-ishly horrific—but written more with a twinkling eye than with a desire to frighten the reader. The only witness is the victim’s young child, Margaret, who is traumatised and didn’t see much in any case. Freyja, who is the psychologist in charge of the ‘Children’s House’—a state refuge for traumatised children—becomes a central character in the novel as she supports the police investigation by coaxing information from the seven-year-old. Newly promoted Detective Huldar leads the investigation, feeling out of his depth and as though he must prove himself.

It’s hard to say much more about this sort of book without spoiling it. Suffice it to say that there are more horrific murders and lots of twists and turns. There are a few introverted teenagers who are into shortwave radio, some coded messages, and some questionable sexual relationships. It’s also redolent of Iceland: some aspects of the plot can only work in that singular country.

The plot was well-constructed with genuinely confounding twists. I didn’t guess ‘whodunnit’. There was interesting character development and a dash of insightful social commentary. The writing was atmospheric and engaging.

The Legacy may be the first of Sigurðardóttir’s novels I’ve read, but it won’t be the last.

This 2022 novel by Ian McEwan has been in my ‘to read’ pile since its publication, as I’ve enjoyed many of McEwan’s previous works: Saturday, Nutshell, The Cement Garden, The Innocent, The Child in Time, Machines Like Me, and The Cockroach have all previously been mentioned on this site.

I was a little put-off reading Lessons because I’d seen it described as a novel which featured a life story, also reflecting events in society from the late 1950s to the present day. This sort of novel is rarely well-written.

The central character of Lessons is Roland. We meet him aged 14 entering a sexual relationship with his piano teacher, in her mid-20s. From there, we follow him through the rest of his life: through love, marriage, single fatherhood, loneliness, and more. It’s tremendously ambitious and pulls off the trick of feeling genuinely biographical.

Roland is a drifter, someone who reacts to events around him rather than recognising his agency. This is frustrating on two levels. It’s sort of ‘good frustrating’ in terms of providing some narrative bite, but also ‘bad frustrating’, in the total lack of recognition of the background of privilege required to live in that way. If I wasn’t so predisposed by previous work to like McEwan, I’d say this was evidence of a desperate lack of awareness… but having read his previous works, I’m chalking it up to being a satirical choice he’s made with the narrative voice.

I have other nits to pick too. This isn’t a book where every word counts: it’s a baggy novel that felt like it could have been tightened up. In particular, I was frustrated by McEwan’s attempt to make this a sort of ‘state of the nation’ novel by frequently referencing contemporary news events. This could have been mostly excised without loss.

Yet, overall, this was excellent. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

This 2023 bestseller has been in my ‘to read’ pile for so long that Wendy ended up beating me to it. Interestingly, we had similar thoughts about it.

The plot concerns a young writer whose more successful friend dies in an accident. The writer steals an early draft of a novel from her deceased friend, works on it extensively, and publishes it to rave reviews.

This plot is not a million miles away from that of The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz, which I read and disliked a few years ago. Kuang’s handling of the subject is much better: she weaves in interesting questions about cultural appropriation alongside the more obvious issues of ownership of ideas and the boundaries of authorship. Kuang’s writing is also much more fun, bringing a satirical view of the culture wars with a wry humour, as opposed to The Plot’s ever-building air of tension.

In her acknowledgments, Kuang says that ‘Yellowface is, in large part, a horror story about loneliness in a fiercely competitive industry.’ I agree with that perspective, and I also think that it represents the better part of the book.

However, Wendy and I both found the final section of this book jarring. There was a quite sudden change in the tone of the book, the style of writing, and the characterisation of the protagonist. It was quite peculiar, and rather lessened the impact of the book for both of us. We debated whether this was intentional: was this a comment on what it’s like to read a book which is ‘finished off’ by another author? Neither of us could quite believe that to be true.

This would have been a better book if the final section had stripped away the satire and doubled-down on the moral complexity of its central questions. It’s a book that deserved an ambiguous ending, but had some dodgy black-and-white thriller content bolted onto the end instead. It was a shame… but I still think the book’s worth reading for the first two-thirds. And I liked this quotation:

Writing is the closest thing we have to real magic. Writing is creating something out of nothing, is opening doors to other lands. Writing gives you power to shape your own world when the real one hurts too much. To stop writing would kill me.

This 1958 Italian novel is set in Ferrara, a town in northern Italy, in the 1930s. I read the 1960 English translation by Isabel Quigly.

The novel centres on Dr Fadigati, who opens a practice in Ferrara. His surgery quickly becomes the fashionable option in town, and Fadigati is widely respected. He is noted to keep his personal life private. As the decade wears on, it gradually becomes known that he is gay, and he finds himself more and more ostracised as a result. At the same time, the Jewish narrator feels increasingly threatened by tightening racial laws.

It’s easy to see why this is an ’important’ book given the topics it covers. It does a good job of illustrating the creeping nature of intolerance, and it felt evocative of a small Italian community.

Yet, I can’t really say that I enjoyed it. It felt a little slow, despite its slim form. It also didn’t feel very reflective in tone, which I suppose must be attributable to the style of writing. I think it might also be one of those books that’s of its time: I suppose my response to a story involving a gay doctor is likely to be different to that of the average reader in 1960.

I don’t really feel motivated to go on to read any of Bassani’s other Ferrara novels, but you may feel differently if you read it.

This collection of 23 prose stories is based on interviews Judah conducted with people from around Europe. Documentary photographs accompany each story. It aims to build a picture of life in Europe for the ‘ordinary worker’, revealing a diverse community of individuals facing all sorts of challenges in life. Judah’s stories also often reflect life as the COVID-19 pandemic swept Europe; several are stories of refugees fleeing to Europe. Climate change is also a recurring theme.

I’m often intrigued to read about the work lives of others, especially when—like many in this book—the examples are very far removed from my day-to-day experience. It’s fascinating to have an insight into what it is like to take over the family vineyard or to be a pilot who guides cargo ships into harbours. This book provides insight into other worlds that can be found on this continent.

However, it’s taken me about six months to get through this book, which is entirely attributable to the style of writing, which I found very difficult to tolerate on two fronts.

Firstly, Judah writes every single story in the same consistent tone and style. This is a weird choice: when telling different stories from different parts of the continent, you would think it would be natural to vary the tone. For example, I’m sure farmers have particular idiosyncrasies in how they spin a yarn compared to flight attendants. Here, every story is flattened to the same mildly journalistic tone. To me, it feels like that sucks out a lot of the potential pleasure of this book.

Secondly, Judah has an altogether infuriating habit of slipping into the second person for a few sentences now and again. In his afterword, he says that he tried ‘techniques’ to ‘make you feel like any one of these people could be you’, and I think this weird linguistic tic must be what he’s referring to.

This passage provides a good example of Judah using the second person injudiciously:

You tell yourself you’ll never get married.

You tell yourself you know what love looks like.

You don’t expect it to look like a divorced Swedish Finn, who has spent most of his life in Germany, older, with two children over there, giving it a go in Ireland. You also don’t expect them to be called Patrick. Or to be living with his mother in a castle in County Cork.

Maybe it’s my quirk rather than his, but this makes me want to scream: ‘No, I don’t!’

Here’s an example of a random switch from third to second person:

The trolley rattling underneath her.

Her last glimpse of her husband’s face.

You’ll feel much better when this is out.

The doctor smiled. Then the anaesthetist bent over.

The cold gas coming out of the mask.

Count back from ten for me now.

You never make it to seven.

I can only assume that we’re using the second person in the third line as Judah is quoting either the husband or the doctor. I can live with that. But then, by the final line, we’re using the second person for a different reason: presumably as part of Judah’s ‘technique’. It just made me want to fling the book across the room.

Luckily, each of the chapters is a discrete profile of an individual, so it is the sort of book that can be readily appreciated in small chunks.

Despite all of this—and it feels good to get that rant out—I think this book is worth reading. Judah’s stories are varied and thought-provoking, and I think the whole made me feel a little differently about the things that unite people across Europe.

I came across Julia Sanches’s translation of Eva Baltasar’s Catalan 2020 novel after it was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize. It’s a short book, just 112 pages. The main beats of the plot are that the female protagonist falls in love with a woman called Samsa, they form a long-term relationship, and Samsa ultimately decides to have a child.

But, really, this is a book which is character-driven rather than plot-driven. As with the title, there are a lot of metaphors about geological formations and processes, reflecting how the emotional landscape in which we all live shifts over time. Despite the allusions to large expanses, the book feels claustrophobic: we’re stuck in the mind of the protagonist, a mind which is narrowly focused on her personal situation. The claustrophobia is leavened by humour, some of it deliciously dark.

This book perfectly evoked the main character’s feelings: it was a perfect marriage of language and emotion. I found the whole thing quite moving.

Some passages I highlighted:

I’m not a chef, I’m just a mess-hall cook, capable and self-taught. The thing I most enjoy about my job is handling food while it’s still whole, when some part of it still speaks of its place in the world, its point of origin, the zone of exclusion that all creatures need in order to thrive. Water, earth, lungs. The perfect conditions for silence.

I can give anything up, because nothing is essential when you refuse to imprison life in a narrative.

I look at her and feel woozy, even though she’s Scandinavian and makes her living from a multinational with blood on its hands. I look at her and she fills every corner of me.

The first person who had the idea of building a pyramid must have been insane. What about the guy who thought it made sense to stick someone in a rocket and shoot them at the stars? Samsa is crazier than the two of them put together.

Small children have the power to impose their happiness on the everyday anxieties of grown-ups. Their power is short-lived, a gold dust that dresses the shoulders and reminds you that you’re more than just an ordinary soldier, a sailor. It’s hardly noticeable. Grown-ups have lost all interest in shiny things. A grown-up is the opposite of a magpie.

It’s not that I think small talk is dumb, it’s that I’m pretty sure it’s more reckless than adopting a pet rat during a plague.