sharkybookshelf's reviews
482 reviews

Irena Rey’s translators have gathered to work on their translations for her latest book, but it becomes increasingly clear that things are not quite as they should be…and then Irena disappears.

The line between fun romp and batshit crazy is a tricky one to tread, but Croft manages it in this story that follows a bunch of cooped-up translators slowly losing the plot. I enjoyed it, even if I wasn’t quite sold on the ending which did get a bit…out of hand.

Croft is, of course, an extremely accomplished translator herself, and her ability to navigate the nuances of language shines through. She pokes gentle fun at the peculiarities of both authors and her fellow translators - one senses that her own experiences and encounters have provided plenty of inspiration - and there’s some good-natured ribbing of nationalities and the temperament of various languages.

I loved all the tidbits about the craft of translation and working as a translator. Through her characters, Croft brings in the various debates around the role of a translator - to stay true or to interpret and adapt? I very much enjoyed the increasingly passive-aggressive footnotes, which are amusing but also cleverly add to the chaos of the story.

A fun, slightly unhinged but cleverly-written story of a bunch of cooped-up translators slowly losing the plot…

A 24-hour, sixteen-orbit cycle on the International Space Station as its six inhabitants carry out their tasks and observe the Earth…

For a slim book that takes place over a mere 24 hours, the writing is surprisingly dense and it felt like it took me forever to read - I mostly only had snatches of time in which to pick it up, rather than the immersive chunks of reading time it benefits from. And yet I adored it - in fact, it’s amongst my favourite books of the year.

I lapped up all the little details of life in space - I was a bit obsessed with astronauts as a child after a visit to the Kennedy Space Centre and it turns out I haven’t lost my fascination with the banalities of space life.

But what most deeply struck a chord was the awe and affection that the astronauts each held for Earth, her various natural phenomena and the beautiful landscapes they witness. I enjoyed the descriptions of what the characters were seeing and how they felt about it and their contemplation of humanity’s place on Earth, coloured by each of their own trajectories. I’d love to listen to this narrated over corresponding footage filmed from the ISS.

Look, there’s no plot, no character development and nothing much happens - it’s basically just six people floating around the Earth in a tin can getting on with their day whilst looking out the window a lot - so it’s not going to be for everyone. But if you want an immersive, wondrous appreciation of our planet and humanity’s place on it, this is it.

A stunning “all vibes, no plot” meditation on the awe of Earth, wonder of nature and humanity’s tiny place in it.

A daughter reflects on her complex relationship with her mother, in life and in death.

This book is entirely composed of non-chronological fragments of memories of a mother-daughter relationship which was difficult at times and thoughts on grief, both generally and the narrator’s specific experience of accompanying her mother through her terminal illness. There are some excellent and evocative observations in there, and some of the more general thoughts on grief strongly resonated for me.

But be warned, there is absolutely no plot, so won’t work for everyone. While there were a few references to the narrator’s post-Soviet childhood in Poland (I always enjoy glimpses of everyday life elsewhere), unless you have an active interest in reading about grief as I do, there isn’t much else to grasp onto that will pull you through the book.

A fragmentary, poignant meditation on grieving a mother with whom one has had a complicated relationship.

In one of Spain’s many remote, half-finished housing developments, two people meet - two people from either side of the fence which divides the residents from the “undesirables” in the abandoned half…

On one hand this is a story of a relationship between two people, on the other it’s a sweeping social critique of post-GFC Spain. With a decent pace, compulsive writing and a dual POV, it was quite hard to put down as I kept wanting to read just another couple of pages…

Against the backdrop of the desolation wreaked by the GFC in Spain, Ribas perfectly encapsulates attitudes towards those living on the margins of society and the us vs them mentality of those who don’t. With their financial assets tied up in now-worthless houses, the development’s official residents are all pretty much stuck there and the way they desperately cling to any shred of power that allows them to feel remotely superior to those on the other side of the fence is very well depicted.

The end did take a rather dramatic turn and I wasn’t sold on the practicalities, but it was an enjoyable read, if slightly bonkers at times.

An atmospheric, lively story of connection, social power imbalances and living on the margins of society in the desolation of post-GFC Spain.

A girl has died - Estela, maid to a wealthy family in Santiago and speaking from a locked room, recounts the long lead-up to the event…

This was good, but didn’t knock my socks off. Fundamentally, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting - from the blurb, I thought that a political dimension would be a prominent part of the story. For some reason I was expecting political commentary around Chile’s recent attempted constitutional reforms. Instead, this is a domestic thriller, and any commentary largely revolves around class and the treatment of domestic workers, with a sprinkling about living conditions in the south of the country and the city-rural divide. It’s more social commentary, really.

I did not love the writing style. I initially struggled to get on with the casual conversational tone - I do not particularly enjoy chatty verbal tics beyond a few lines of dialogue, and the constant addressing of the reader felt a bit overdone. But I did eventually settle into it (or perhaps I simply desensitised).

My misplaced expectations have resulted in a bit of a lukewarm review for a book which I actually rated four stars, because it was good for what it was. Although it did lose a bit of steam as the story progressed, I remained curious to find out what happened - we know from the start that a girl has died, but not how, whether it was an accident or deliberate - and there were elements of the story that I really didn’t see coming.

A chatty domestic thriller, with a side of Chilean social commentary.

In near-future Iceland, passing the controversial Empathy Test allows people to “mark” themselves in a public register - a referendum on making the test compulsory for all approaches, and the issue is divisive…

While the story specifically revolves around the idea of “marking” oneself as a compassionate (thus “good”) citizen, the interesting ethical questions that it raises are applicable more broadly and relevant to society today. Without presenting answers, Ísberg explores who decides society’s rules, and, crucially, what happens to those not deemed “good”, both in terms of the stigma and prejudice they face, but also whether they should be “rehabilitated” and whether that should be the state’s responsibility. The entrenching of positions on the upcoming referendum and escalating vitriol and threats were all too believable.

But the overall story felt incomplete - I’d have liked to know what happened to each of the characters further down the track as we left some of them in what felt like the middle of their story arc.

We follow four main characters navigating the weeks leading up to the referendum, allowing for a richer exploration of varying viewpoints on the question. But, and this is probably mostly a reflection of my lack of sleep at the time of reading, I did struggle to keep the different POVs straight in my head.

A tense story of choosing the sort of society we want to live in and how much that should intrude on privacy and differences - raised interesting ethical questions but ultimately felt incomplete.

Poirot’s dentist has dramatically committed suicide, but as one of the last patients to see him alive, Poirot isn’t so sure…

This was a solid murder mystery - the solution was ingenious, as ever, and I certainly didn’t figure it out. The tie-in to the nurses rhyme was clever, too. But I just didn’t feel particularly invested in all the secret service intrigue, which escalated rather quickly and was presumably a bit more exciting to read about in 1940 than it is now. I did very much enjoy the very last detail to be revealed though - an amusing finishing touch on Christie’s part.

Very solid murder mystery - clever, but didn’t quite draw me in and the stakes felt rather overblown.

Two novellas: Natsuko and her husband visit a resort frequented by her now bitter mother during her affluent childhood; The lives of four unmarried sisters living in an old-fashioned Tokyo neighbourhood are interrupted by a newcomer.

These two novellas really didn’t do it for me. The titular story didn’t particularly grip me and rapidly became too repetitive. There were some interesting insights into the financial expectations of supporting family and in-laws as well as societal attitudes towards disability, and there’s a lot around the importance of keeping up appearances and shame, which seem to be driving forces in Japan. Such societal insights are one of the reasons I love translated fiction, but they weren’t enough to compensate for a story that just didn’t hold my interest.

As for the second novella, well… It was incestuously erotic and weird and uncomfortable to read. I haven’t read the original story on which it is based (The Makioka Sisters), but I am not sure what the point of it was - the subsumption of one’s identity into one’s family? I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t really care - it was not for me.

Two novellas with interesting glimpses of Japanese societal expectations, but respectively too dull and too weird to hold my interest.

In the days leading up to Christmas and with a terrible storm on the way, Dómhildur, a midwife, delves into her grandaunt’s written reflections on life, death and human nature…

There’s not much of a plot to this one - it kind of quirkily meanders around, but I found it enjoyable nonetheless. Since Dómhildur is a midwife from a long line of midwives, I had expected more of the story to revolve around that, and certainly with more detail. However, the story (insomuch as there is one) is more of a fairly abstract series of reflections on life and death, our relation to animals and human nature more generally.

I loved the moments of daily life in Iceland, but also the glimpses of life for previous generations of midwives. With the darkness of winter hanging over everything and the impending storm, it’s an atmospheric read, too. But there’s the glimmer of Spring on the horizon - unsurprisingly, a thought-thread around light vs darkness runs through the book.

An atmospheric, meandering series of reflections on life and death, human nature, and light vs darkness.

This one came to my attention when it was longlisted (and ultimately Highly Commended) for the Wainwright Prize - the themes of identity, belonging and travel are all catnip to me, so it jumped out at me and I immediately ordered it.

It’s an enjoyable essay collection, with Lee using her own experiences as a Canadian born to a Taiwanese mother and Welsh father as jumping-off points to touch on how we relate to plants culturally, the use of plants as instruments of colonisation and how that feeds into our own identity and sense of belonging (or not). It’s also a celebration of the joy certain plants can bring us.

Lee’s introspective reflections on the plants we encounter in childhood books were particularly interesting - there’s a lot to unpack in the confusing nostalgia over British plants that are actually invasive (or downright pests) elsewhere.

I was left wanting to read more about the use of plants as tools of colonisation, whether through the exploitation of plants from colonies or the introduction of plants to colonies. Other than a few examples, it’s an aspect of colonialism which I rarely see discussed in depth, but which has shaped the current ecology of the world rather more than we realise.

A considered, intelligent and enjoyable collection of essays exploring our cultural and personal relations to plants, and how this shapes our identities and sense of belonging.