This review marks my new role as regular contributor to the blog The Mookse and the Gripes. The book is Barbara Comyns' Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead, a novel so darkly powerful yet "strewn with hidden gems of wry humor and glitter[ing] with flashes of tenderness." I hope you will check out the review - and then read this wonderful book.
Writers are solitary creatures – or so our collective imagination has it – their work taking shape within the dim, dusty confines of some tucked-away workspace. Cloaked in the guise of this popular mythology, the writing itself becomes the creation of a distant, inscrutable figure, and we approach it with trepidation, as if stepping onto hallowed ground where all readers are trespassers. Thus, reading is seen as an adventure, but one which inspires thrills of a deeply personal nature. How do we tread on the work? Do we project ourselves onto its pages, we wonder. How do we dare? How, when it so clearly represents the worldview of an author we wish we understood, at which we can only guess?
Publication announcements, bookish items of note and the occasional literary musing.