Category: Books

It is that time of year. It’s cold. But there’s lots to be excited about. Next year will be my last year as an unmarried man. I’ve already met and proposed to my future wife, this isn’t just wishful thinking. Although I suppose it was. I have also read books this year which I will remember for a long time. These are my ten favourite reads from July to now. My January to June post is here. I hope everyone has a good rest this December, and I look forward to seeing your ‘best of’ lists.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)

I read this quite soon after The Unconsoled by the same author. I think that book changed my brain chemistry. Never Let Me Go is more conventional, but the way Ishiguro reveals his world is so idiosyncratic and engaging. It has more in common with The Remains of the Day than I expected. Same story, different skin. I look forward to reading Kathy H. again, I won’t forget her easily.

Eastmouth and Other Stories by Alison Moore (2022)

I have strong memories of reading this collection in a shelter looking at the gap between Lytham and Southport, on my lunch break. There are too many favourite stories to list. But this was a collection that felt tailor made for my tastes. I can see myself going back to it for inspiration and motivation.

Little Scratch by Rebecca Watson (2020)

I read this novel after listening to an interview with Rebecca Watson on Robin Allender’s podcast, The Allender Calendar. They discuss if the novel is in fact experimental. Maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s a brilliant read in which the ‘experimental’ element (sentences run concurrently on the page, often to mirror the ‘real’ action against the thoughts of the narrator) feels absolutely necessary.

Poor Ghost by Gabriel Flynn (2025)

I read this book in Pendle on a weekend away. I love the way Flynn weaves the two narratives together. When a novel is constructed like this, I’m usually waiting to get back to the more interesting half. But I was just as interested in Luca’s ups and downs (mostly downs) in America, as I was in his return to Manchester. Andy is such a finely written character and the dynamic between him and his ghost writer Luca is brilliantly realised.

Dark Tales by Shirley Jackson (2016)

I think I resisted Shirley Jackson for a long time because I was scared her work would not live up to its reputation, but the work is totally peerless. The writing is so clear, and the ideas so immediate. I will be looking out for more of her work next year (very, very late to the party). My favourite stories from this collection were ‘Louisa, Please Come Home’, ‘Jack the Ripper’, and ‘The Bus’.

Cold Hand in Mine by Robert Aickman (1975)

Again, a writer I had been putting off for a while. And again, these stories are now burned into me. They are on the longer side, but they never feel too long. Not every writer can pull that off. Some short stories drag more heavily than novels. I think Aickman is a genius. It’s the double of ‘Pages from a Young Girl’s Journal’ and ‘The Hospice’ that sold me when I was reading Cold Hand in Mine. There’s real power here. There’s magic.

Municipal Gothic: Thirteen Ghost Stories by Ray Newman (2022)

A fantastic collection by Ray Newman which I read over Halloween. I was struck by the sheer variety of stories. We’re in the world of hauntings. But the hauntings are so various and the styles so numerous that it’s never dull. If I had to pick a story, it would be ‘Director’s Cut’, or possibly ‘Who Took Mary Cook?’. But then there’s the first story, ‘The Curse Follows the Seed’, which reminded me of the best episodes of Inside Number 9.

The Proof of My Innocence by Jonathan Coe (2024)

This was my first Jonathan Coe. I wanted to see a take on cosy crime after sitting through the Thursday Murder Club film on Netflix, which was (in my humble opinion) shite. While this novel delivers on that front, it turns into something else, and then into something else again. Inventive and very readable. Also, it’s one of the few books this year that I read with my partner. I read it first. As a fan of Friends, she got something else out of it. It’s nice when that happens. (Addendum: I don’t mean to come across as anti-cosy. I don’t think you should dismiss books outright based on genre. If a book is good, it’s good. I’m currently reading The Christmas Clue by Nicola Upson, almost the definition of cosy crime, and I’m loving it.)

The Building Inspector by Myriam Frey (2025)

A collection of short stories from Nightjar Press. I hope the first of many, because this is an excellent book by Myriam Frey. I read it in one sitting, in the dead of night (basically by candlelight). Scary, sharp stories. Instead of being weighed down by the ongoing story of the inspector, the collection lives by its central character. At once terrifying, infuriating, and all too real. Pick this up.

Best British Short Stories 2025 ed. Nicholas Royle (2025)

I finished the latest Best British from Salt last week. I think it’s the best one I’ve read so far. I said in my little read-by-read on Bluesky that Ian Critchley’s ‘Ghost Walks’ was my favourite in the anthology, and I’ll stand by that. I think it’s the most fun I’ve had with a story all year. Other highlights for me include ‘The Headteacher’ by Okechukwu Nzelu, ‘Fabrication’ by Imogen Reid, and ‘Flatten the Curve’ by Naomi Wood. But there’s not a dud in this book.

In 2023, I set myself the challenge of reading a hundred books in one year. In no way did reading a hundred books in 2023 make me feel more at ease with the passage of time, but it is something I have kept up. I don’t think it’s necessarily a useful, healthy, or admirable thing to do. I might make 2025 my last year of aiming for the arbitrary hundred. In the meantime, these are my favourite reads from January to the end of June.

Porn: An Oral History by Polly Barton (2023)

I was completely taken in by the formalism, and then it was fascinating to read a series of conversations about the unspoken, and like the best books, I was thinking about Porn when I wasn’t reading it.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens (1870)

I have an app on my phone for tracking the books I read. Appropriately, the ending to my notes on Drood are missing, and I can’t remember what I was going to say, or had said in January.

The Coiled Serpent by Camilla Grudova (2021)

Each story its own brilliant piece of invective. Strange, lurid, scatological. Balls to the wall weird. Written clearly and with intent.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy (2023)

It took me a while to get into the rhythm of this novel, but I was fully in by the end. Hard to write about books you love in a brief paragraph, but needless to say, I laughed, I cried, I was sad when it was over.

Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country by Edward Parnell (2019)

I wrote another post about reading Ghostland in Whitby, and how it sort of saved my sanity when things got a bit spooky at our hotel. A great book about memory and ghosts – the older I get, the more I think all great books are about memory.

Shadow Lines: Searching for the Book Beyond the Shelf by Nicholas Royle (2024)

I could read Nicholas Royle write the telephone book. Enjoyed this book as much as White Spines, if not a little bit more. A very generous reading experience, which encourages more reading. Eagerly anticipating the next entry in this planned trilogy.

The Earth, Thy Great Exchequer, Ready Lies by Jo Lloyd (2021)

There is a deep sense of mystery in these stories, especially in the title story, which might be my favourite. I found it challenging and rewarding, and it was unlike a lot of collections I’ve read recently. Elliptical, liminal universes.

That’s Your Lot by Limmy (2017)

Limmy’s second collection feels more assured than his first, and I really hope he writes another book, although I am also a fan of his improvised stories on Twitch. There was a story in this book, ‘The Daysnatcher’, which made me cry in public, and that wasn’t something I was necessarily expecting from Limmy.

The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro (1995)

This novel took over my life for a while. I was happy to let it take over. It is genuinely unlike anything I have read, and it hit me emotionally in ways I didn’t expect. Ishiguro probably is the best writer I’ve read, and I look forward to reading more of his work in 2025. Number nine… number nine… number nine.

The Benefactors by Wendy Erskine (2025)

Wendy Erskine’s debut novel was an absolute pleasure to read. I usually think it’s bullshit when the marketing for a book is like, “This book is devastating, but also very funny,” as if humour is an added bonus. But The Benefactors is laugh out loud funny. It is also a gripping drama. It isn’t bullshit. It’s probably the best novel published so far this year (that I’ve read, obviously). Short story writers do it best.

In February, my partner booked a stay for us in Whitby. In the mornings, we walked the mile into town. On our second morning at the inn, our room door contracted due to the cold, and we couldn’t leave. There was a small casement window, through which we spoke to the maintenance manager. It was a problem door, he explained. Eventually, we got out and then about, but our feelings towards the inn had changed, and at the end of the day I was slightly reluctant to return. We had a new room, because of the problem door. It felt like we weren’t supposed to be there, and possibly that was true.

That night, someone came into our room. I heard the sound of a keycard unlocking the door. My partner leant over the bed. ‘Hello?’ But the figure was leaving, closing the door behind them. In my memory, they left slowly, walking backwards, retracing their steps into the courtyard. The sensor light came on a couple of times, but I saw no one outside. It was two in the morning.

We called the emergency number on the inn’s website. The lady on the other side assured us that if the intruder tried the door again, she was only next door. This added to the strangeness. She was next door. It was somehow less than reassuring. I made a coffee. The silver kettle was awkward. The cord was too short. I spilt a few drops of boiled water onto my wrist. I took the unfamiliar mug back to bed. I sat on top of the covers, trousers on. I started reading Edward Parnell’s Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country, which I had bought from the Whitby Bookshop. I was drawn in by Richard Wells’ cover illustration. But then I started reading, and I felt a huge sense of relief. The book was more than good; it was just what I needed. I made another cup of coffee. I was at ease with the kettle. The mug didn’t seem that different to my favourite mug at home. The book had done its job. I felt calmer, despite the Nescafé.

Ghostland is both a memoir and a selective history of the British ghost story, with a particular focus on M.R James, but that description isn’t quite right. The book it reminded me most of was All the Devils Are Here by David Seabrook. It’s a book with ginnels. If you want to get lost in its pages, that’s easy to do. Parnell writes about the power of family, how our immediate family shapes us, even when they’re no longer with us. There is a great sense of loss in Ghostland, but also love; Parnell’s love for his parents and brother, but also his passion for the writers he explores in the text.

I was primed to like Ghostland. (As the kids say, I’m well into this hauntological shit.) But it still had an infectious quality. Since reading, I thought again about the M.R James stories I read last October. I took on the challenge of reading all of his ghost stories. As October dragged on, and Halloween came and went, the challenge became more profound. I was sick of his voice in my ear. Maybe the trick to M.R James and his uncanny stories was to eat them slowly. Shortly after finishing Ghostland, I treated myself to the BFI boxsets of the BBC’s A Ghost Story for Christmas strand. I spaced them out over about six weeks and loved every one, and I wouldn’t have made the effort if it wasn’t for Ghostland.

On the drive home from Whitby, I read more of Ghostland. I fell asleep with the book in my lap, and it dropped into the footwell as my partner accelerated onto the motorway. I had weird dreams about the fens, ghosts, henges, and hooded figures. There is something special about dreaming a book. At home, I finished Ghostland in a couple of days, which is quite speedy for me. I read one long chapter in bed, holding the book up above, straining my arms. I hadn’t done that since I was twelve, working my way through Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, or various Beatles books. The book has become a part of my personal history. Whenever I think about it, I will remember our stay in Whitby, our intruder in the dead of night.