Heron Books

Blake continues to swirl and explode in my thoughts, thanks to Philip Hoare’s latest book. Add to that that recent days have been bathed in sunflower light, that it may actually be warm enough to melt a clock, that I have been reading Nick Makoha’s poetry collection about Jean-Michel Basquiat* and that we have not one but two events with art historian Franny Moyle coming up and it seems that we need to expand the art section. With my unbiased and well-honed eye, I am quite confident in claiming that my six-year-old niece is an artistic genius. She drew a picture of me in the old shop which nods to…

Were I to descend to the depths of Dante’s Inferno or to find myself in Milton’s wild Eden, were I to travel in time to the Library of Alexandria when it was at its most well-stocked and revered (i.e. pre-Julius Caesar accidentally setting fire to it – seriously Julius, smoke outside), were I merely to pop to Tate Britain, I should like Philip Hoare to be my guide. Not because I think he would know the way through these places, any more than I. Judging by his exceptional writing, he does not move linearly or chronologically. I just think he would know everyone we met. He would pull a scroll…

I’ve been enjoying Of Thorn & Briar: A Year with the West Country Hedgelayer by Paul Lamb. For a man named Lamb, he sure seems concerned about keeping livestock in their place. (See also: a laboured joke about him being on the lam, since he lives an itinerant lifestyle travelling between jobs in his wagon and living on site for as long as the hedge needs him.)*   His book about restoring hedgerows through traditional techniques and rejuvenating the habitats of so much wildlife is gentle and kind, though the work itself is back-breaking (not to mention cold – he requires lots of tea and hefty spoonsful of peanut butter…

Discussions in our book groups frequently turn to the importance (or not) of likeability in a main character or narrator. Linked to this, though quite different, often we find ourselves considering how much we identify with a character, always an interesting admission when they are particularly reprehensible. I am very happy to read books told by people with whom I have little in common and whose attitudes or behaviour are not likely to get them invited to many dinner parties. But it is lovely to meet someone in a book and think, ‘here is a kindred spirit.’ Liddy in Dim Sum Palace by X Fang is just that. She cannot…

I should like to live in Julian Barnes’s Benign Republic. Its principles, set out in his new essay, Changing My Mind, seem reasonable and clear and include full restoration of all arts and humanities courses at schools and universities. I shall let you discover its other commitments and then, perhaps, we can disagree about them. I may change my mind. You may change yours. Our minds may change us. Our memories of the discussion will vary. In time and with age my strong opinions may transform or become more weakly held or the opposite. It is a fascinating essay on memory, words, politics, books and time and the nature of…

I don’t think I’m revealing much by beginning this newsletter with an announcement that I love books. I love books. I love lists. I love lists of books. I love books of lists. I love lychee flavoured mentos.* Thanks to Mariajo Ilustrajo, I’m declaring this on an even more regular basis as I skip about the shop with copies of I Love Books, a picture book about a little girl who HATES books. When she is set the task of reading a whole book during the school holiday, she is distraught. But… perhaps the right book might entice her to explore new worlds, meet enchanted frogs, venture to a piranha…

May I invite you to join me in quiet indulgences, in re-reading a book, in watching the daffodils open, in listening to the ‘thud of dozy bumblebees.’ In the past few weeks hundreds of books have been published. The shelves are delighting in their new cargo. Absolute bangers rampage across the bestseller lists. The postman pours packages into my outstretched arms. Books throw themselves at me demanding to be read next (that’s how I interpret it but the buildings in Clifton are not entirely flat…). And yet I have devoted the past few days to re-reading, first Rural Hours by Harriet Baker then, inspired by this, Dusty Answer by Rosamond…

A few days ago, I opened the fridge only to discover a mouse sitting next to my oat milk. Fetching more tote bags, I was greeted by a mouse nestled amongst the herons, quite unafraid. One popped up in Harry’s coat pocket. Another was sunbathing in the window under a daffodil. I suspect there to be more, perhaps between the pages of Brambly Hedge, Alice in Wonderland and The Tale of Desperaux or reading Spiegelman and Steinbeck. Rarely has a mouse infestation brought such delight. The latest Adventuremice book is out and we have been preparing for it very sensibly: we have fought over which is our favourite character and…

Dream Count is a novel about four women. Dream Count is four connected novels. Dream Count tells and retells the stories of four women so that the reader at first knows them and then realises the ways in which one cannot know someone. Dream Count is a novel about romance. Or, its opposite. Dream Count is about the brutal realities of and brutalisation of women’s bodies. Dream Count explores lasting friendship and momentary connections across generations and cultures. Dream Count, clearly,should not be summarised. Dream Count is a major event in publishing, with reviewers and readers poised to share their views having waited more than a decade since literary rockstar/feminist…

Following last week’s dizzying strategies for world domination, I descended from the ceiling to focus on something closer to home. Mary Shelley in Bath, introduced by Fiona Sampson and illustrated by Eleanor Macnair, is a collection of Shelley’s writing during her time in the city. It includes short stories, a chapter of Frankenstein, diary entries and letters. According to the diary entries, she reads, writes, draws and walks. Sometimes she reads aloud. That she is there because her unmarried stepsister is about to give birth to Byron’s daughter goes unmentioned. ‘Read Curtius and work. Read the Memoirs of the Princess of Bareith aloud in the evening; walk.’What happened between? The…