translated fiction

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.30

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I enjoy satire but I think it can be hard to sustain, becoming bitter and distancing. Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico (2022, transl. Sophie Hughes 2025) judged this just right – at only 115 pages it is quick and incisive.

Anna and Tom have emigrated from an unnamed southern European country to Berlin, drawn by its cool reputation and cheap housing (at that time). The novella opens with an interiors magazine style description of their home, all verdant plants, string lights, mason jars, marble pastry table, and on and on and on… an overwhelming piling up of what they own and how they’ve styled it.

The next chapter gives the reality of living in that space: the clutter, the cleaning, the dust, the constantly accumulating mugs and tissues:

“It wasn’t order they so desperately craved, but something deeper and more essential. […]

In itself, chaos could be joyful, creative; But in that context, it only seemed to signal impermanence.”

Therein lies the problem. Anna and Tom are millennials who have grown up with the internet from its early iterations, they are constantly online looking at images, and feel very insecure when they can’t curate their reality like an Instagram post.

“Anna and Tom spent much of their first year in Berlin carefully constructing this mythology. And it wasn’t personal to them; its value lay precisely in its universality…. it was the topic of countless lifestyle articles and documentaries, and circulated on the Facebook timelines and Instagram feeds of an entire generation.”

They remain entirely ignorant of Berlin beyond cool places to socialise, and Germany itself. Their work is carried out online, their friends are just like them. They don’t learn German, they use Google translate.

“It never occurred to them, for example, that the distinction between Alt- and Neu- buildings in property listings had been drawn by the Allied bombings.”

Telling the story in the third person is entirely right: Anna and Tom have no innate sense of self, no inner life. They don’t know who they are if they are not viewed externally. While Latronico relates this very much to a specific online generation:

“They lived a double life. There was the tangible reality around them, and there were the images, also all around them.”

I also felt it was long-established folly to believe that what you own is who you are. Apparently Perfection was inspired by Things: A Story of the Sixties by Georges Perec, which shows how this conflict between image and reality, consumerism in a search for meaning did not arrive with the internet!

Advertising, which is both implicit and explicit in Anna and Tom’s world, is constantly promoting the idea that worth as a human is determined by money spent. You are your sofa/kitchen/car… But then, advertising also encourages consumers to constantly find themselves wanting, because there is always more money to be made by selling more stuff:

“The collective upheaval of the 20th century was over and the vestiges had been translated into the language of individualism—that is, of consumerism. Freedom had turned into abundance.”

Of course Tom and Anna aren’t happy. Their reality will always be messy at the edges, unlike a cropped image. They are also entirely incapable of working out why they aren’t happy. Content, well-adjusted people won’t spend as much money chasing illusion, so these answers won’t be sold online.

In an attempt to find meaning, they are clicktivists. I felt this was where Latronico was most scathing, whereby they and everyone in their bubble tells themselves they are socially engaged and responsible, just so long as it doesn’t mean any real action needs to be taken in their own lives, which could inconvenience them in any way:

“They identified as feminists and spoke out against social injustices, which in practise meant they were willing to express outrage at instances of racism or sexism that took place in New York. […] in practise, their social commitment amounted to using Uber only if it was snowing and always leaving tips in cash. They didn’t eat tuna.”

But for the most part I didn’t think Latronico despised Anna and Tom, I thought he felt for them as they struggled against what is essentially existential despair, without any tools to manage this. They were baffled that where they lived, what they owned, where they ate, and the holidays they took weren’t working. How could this be, when all those things looked great in online posts?

Perfection is short and snappy. It manages to be pinpoint specific and universal. Another fascinating read from Fitzcarraldo Editions!

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.28

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I really enjoyed Gaito Gazdanov’s The Buddha’s Return when I read it a few years ago, so I’m pleased to return to him with The Spectre of Alexander Wolf (1947-8, transl. Bryan Karetnyk 2013) published by Pushkin Press in one of their lovely smaller editions with French flaps.

It opens beguilingly:

“Of all my memories, of all my life’s in innumerable sensations, the most onerous was that of the single murder I had committed.”

This isn’t quite as it initially appears – the killing took place during the Russian Civil War. A man shoots the horse the narrator was riding, and in self-defence he shoots back. He then steals the other soldier’s white horse, later selling it and fleeing to Paris.

He is living in Paris and working as a journalist when he comes across a book of collected stories called I’ll Come Tomorrow by Alexander Wolf. Reading it, he is shaken by one of the stories, The Adventure of the Steppe in which the events above are described almost exactly.

As the book is written in English, when he is in London he visits Wolf’s publisher, who assures him:

“Mr Wolf is an Englishman; I’ve known him for many years and can vouch for that. What’s more, he’s never left England for more than two or three weeks at a time, which he spends mostly in France or Italy. He hasn’t travelled farther; I can say this with certainty.”

However, he is shaken on his return to France when he meets Voznesensky, a drunken acquaintance who has a copy of the book and claims to know the author. Voznesensky is incredulous at the thought of “Sasha Wolf, an Englishman!”

So who is Alexander Wolf? Was he the dead soldier? An Englishman who holidays in Italy? A Russian who lives in Paris?

Having set itself up as a possibly metaphysical detective story, the novel then takes a swerve into almost a completely different genre, detailing the narrator’s love affair with Yelena Nikolayevna.  She’s an enigmatic woman with a mysterious past (!) but gradually an intimacy begins to build, despite an “unnatural divide between the inner life and physical life that was so characteristic of her”.

The sudden shift is somewhat disconcerting but Spectre… remains very readable. Essentially the story is less about plot and more a consideration of where we look for meaning. The narrator channels his energy first into Wolf and then into Yelena, but ultimately he has to create his own meanings with his mortality a constant consideration:  

“I thought about how Wolf had become – and not so much Wolf personally as the very thought of him—the involuntary personification of everything dead and sad that existed in my life.”

By the ending, not everything is fully explained, although reader can piece events together. I think by leaving the plot unresolved, Gazdanov keeps Spectre…  as a philosophical consideration foremost, encouraging the reader to make their own meanings as the narrator needs to do.

I also think there is humour in it, I don’t think we’re supposed to take the narrator as seriously as he takes himself:

“Everything that my existence had comprised until now—regrets, dissatisfaction and a sense of the manifest futility of everything I did – began to seem very distant and alien to me, as though I was thinking of something that had taken place long ago.”

I realise I’ve been a bit vague, but Spectre… is an enigmatic and slippery book to both read and describe! It is an eloquent contemplation of its themes, so if you fancy those wrapped up in a few somewhat unresolved narratives then give it a try – I certainly enjoyed it a great deal.

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No. 25

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Daniela Krien is an author I’ve been meaning to try for a while, and today was the day! The Fire (2021, transl. Jamie Bulloch 2023) follows long-term married couple Rahel and Peter over a few weeks as they try to find their way back to one another, or at least identify if that remains something they want at all.

They have planned a break from their Dresden home, to a cabin in Upper Bavaria. Right before they are due to leave, it burns down.

“Had this happened ten years ago the two of them would have shaken their heads. ‘Who knows, there might be a silver lining…’ Peter would have probably said, giving her a comforting hug. But he’s not so laid back anymore. His subtle sense of humour often veers towards the cynical nowadays, and their lively discussions have given way to a polite amicability. But, worst of all, he’s stopped sleeping with her.”

A recent professional crisis for literature professor Peter has left him and Rahel increasingly distant. Told from Rahel’s point of view, she is desperate to recover their intimacy, but is at a loss as to how to achieve this, despite being a psychologist and used to discussing other people’s relationships.

“In literature he loves impatient, tempestuous souls. Only in books does he get close to them without feeling threatened.”

They end up staying at the remote home of a friend of Rahel’s late mother. Ruth’s husband Viktor has had a stroke so she needs Rahel to watch the house and garden, and care for her considerable menagerie of animals, while she is at the rehab centre. Ruth and Viktor’s home was a constant in Rahel’s tumultuous childhood, and the backdrop to some of the unanswered questions she has from that time.

Over their days there, Rahel will reflect on her past, both her childhood and the thirty years she has shared with Peter. Their somewhat chaotic daughter Selma will arrive with their young grandchildren, they will swim in the lake, care for the animals, eat food and drink wine, and things will change almost imperceptibly but irrevocably.

“It occurs to Rahel that, particularly in a marriage, the sum of what isn’t said for outweighs the sum of what is.”

The Fire builds careful character studies of Rahel and Peter: who they are professionally; as spouses; and as parents as well as individuals. In middle-age they are trying to navigate their place in a changing world. Both are increasingly frustrated at work in different ways. Krien considers generational differences, compounded by Rahel and Peter growing up in the GDR which Selma is scathing about, resentful of her parents’ anti-capitalist leanings which means limited inheritance for her.

The characterisation is subtle. I’m not sure I particularly liked Rahel or Peter, but I didn’t particularly dislike them either. They were believable, flawed people, somewhat unhappy, trying to work out what would make life better for them. This would make a good read for a book club, with plenty to discuss in terms of character and relationship dynamics.

Krien’s writing is pared-back and understated. She trusts the insight of her readers, very much showing and not telling. The ending isn’t tied up neatly, the writing is too sophisticated for anything trite. But it is a satisfyingly realised story, leaving me keen to explore this writer further.

“Nobody else she knows has this connection with literature. Peter doesn’t just read books, he works with them, relates what he’s read to himself, his views, his behaviour and changes them if necessary. For him, literature is like a living counterpart. Sometimes even more alive than what plays out before his eyes. And unlike people, he finds it indispensable.”

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.24

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It’s been years since I read Yuri Herrera’s Signs Preceding the End of the World but I remember being impressed by it. Published in translation by the always interesting AndOtherStories, his debut novel Kingdom Cons (2008, transl. Lisa Dillman 2017) is a fable of just over 100 pages.

It is told from the point of view of Lobo, whose parents left him an accordion when they went to ‘the other side’ which I took to mean the USA. He makes his living singing on the streets and in cantinas, until one day he sees The King.

He decides he wants to be part of the Court, and so he goes to the King’s palace:

“The royalty of a king determined these things: the man had settled among simple folk and turned the filth to splendour. Approached from afar, the palace exploded from the edge of the desert in a vast pageantry of gardens, gates and walls. A gleaming city on the fringes of a city in squalor, a city that seemed to reproduce its misfortune on street after street.”

The King takes a shine to him, and so Lobo becomes The Artist, part of the coterie. Frequently referred to as a ‘fool’ or ‘clown’, he is the court jester, a musician placing The King in folk ballads.

“The Artist bowed again and followed the man, fit to burst into tears and blinded by bright lights and his future.”

Also in court are The Heir, The Manager, The Journalist, The Doctor, The Witch and other courtiers. The Artist falls for the daughter of The Witch, but there is much he doesn’t know about her, and how things run at Court, although he starts to piece them together.

Of course, this isn’t a medieval centre of rule, but a modern day drug cartel. We see the politics between cartels, the violence and power struggles at a step removed, but they are there. (The only violence I found difficult was the killing of a bird, which isn’t directly depicted.)

I didn’t find the fairytale/fable framing to be obfuscating or sanitising what was taking place. Instead. I thought it was a clever move by Herrera to show how embedded cartels are in society, how they draw on long-established societal structures, and how there is wider complicity. It is an inventive way of approaching a story so frequently told.

Kingdom Cons is a quick read, almost a short story. The characters are deliberately lightly sketched, presenting as long-established archetypes to emphasise how the running of the cartel is nothing new. It is powerful in its demonstration of how mythology endures, questions who should be mythologised, and the use that is made of myths.

“It’s as if there is no right to beauty, he thought, and he thought that the city ought to be set alight from its foundations, because in each and every place where life sprouted up through the cracks, it was immediately abused.”

Novella(s) a Day in May 2026  – No. 22 & 23

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Well, I knew it would happen eventually and possibly not for the last time this month – work demands and home renovation chaos meant I didn’t post my NADIM yesterday. I did manage to read a novella and finished it around 10pm but I was soooooo tired and also achy from hoicking furniture around in a manner that would have health and safety professionals fainting clean away, that I decided my bed was calling.

The novella was Eurotrash by Christian Kracht (2021, transl. Daniel Bowles 2024). This is the first by Kracht I’ve read but apparently it forms a sort-of sequel to his 1995 novel Faserland, presenting as auto-fiction about a writer called Christian who wrote that novel (and in a running joke, is consistently mistaken for Daniel Kehlmann.)

The novella follows Christian and his mother, whom he finds “thoroughly objectionable”, taking a road trip across Switzerland. She has recently been discharged from residential mental health care, and has asked him to visit her in her apartment where she self-medicates on a heady mix of cheap wine, vodka and phenobarbital.

“Perhaps today, rather than just pretending, I would succeed in accepting her as she was, and then, for once, not vanished down the bottomless rabbit hole of memory, but be amenable to the moment, to her delusions, to which I could simply open myself. What on earth did she want?”

Christian is deeply angry about his family history, which includes his grandfather being Nazi and a father who worked for a right-wing media mogul. He’s also furious about Zurich, about trappings of wealth, about seemingly everything. Wherever he turns he finds things morally abhorrent, and he doesn’t seem mistaken in this.

“It had been put into my mind that the circumstances of my childhood and youth were in some way special or extraordinary, where in reality they were steeped not only in bourgeois mediocrity—for that I’d have been able to accept—but also in profound menace.”

His mother adds to this when she decides to cash in her stocks and shares for a trip to Africa, and it seems she is quite wealthy from investing the arms trade. She and Christian travel around Switzerland with 600k in a shopping bag, driven by an accommodating taxi driver, encountering various immoral people from where they have to make their escapes. They also keep trying and failing to give the money away.

As the novella continues, it becomes more metafictional, with Christian describing a scene he wasn’t privy to:

“It was as if I had floated out of my brain and taken a walk, as ether, had flowed out of the plot I had been part of, even, and as if it had thereby become possible for me to be omnipresent, which, in the end, I was anyway, in my story.”

And then his mother summarising Eurotrash thusly:

“Your mother. Takes her along to some saccharine melodrama, tragedy, comedy, whatever, starring yours truly. Promises her who knows what, seeing that she’s got to drink herself to oblivion constantly and choke down pills for her unendurable pain. And then he blames everything on Switzerland, the Nazis, and the Second World War.”

I probably wasn’t in quite the right mood for Eurotrash, being really very tired, and I remained ambivalent about it for most of the book. A lot of the blurbs pitch it as a dark comedy, but aside from a few moments I didn’t find it particularly funny, due to how bitterly cynical and disillusioned Christian is.

However, I kept reading because Kracht’s style is so readable, and ultimately at the end it genuinely surprised me by being quite tender and moving, despite my reservations (personal, not literary) about the set-up for the final scene. So all in all I’m glad I persevered!

And then today I read Clear by Carys Davies (2024). I think I was the only person in the bookish blogosphere who didn’t get on with Davies’ debut novel West, but on the strength of this I might give it another try because I absolutely loved Clear.

Set in 1843, it takes the clearances as its starting point. Landowner Lowrie is going to evict Ivar from the island somewhere between Scotland and Norway where he is the sole remaining inhabitant, and where he has lived his whole life.

“Walking along the bank between the two low waters and the lightly moving wind, he thought about that, the pleasure of it—sitting with Pegi and quietly knitting; Pegi very still, his hands barely moving as they worked the needles; the only other motion a cobweb quivering in the atmosphere near the ground.”

Into his solitary, quiet existence comes John Ferguson, a minister who has left the Scottish Church to join the Free Church, and as a consequence has no money. This puts him in a vulnerable position and he ends up being employed by Lowrie to tell Ivar he will have to leave. Lowrie assures John that Ivar will not be disadvantaged by the move, something John’s feisty wife Mary sincerely doubts:

“Thinking of reports she’d read in the newspapers over the years of people in Sutherland and Wester Ross and the Hebrides who had not, in fact, done well for themselves; who had wanted very much to stay where they were and farm, instead of seeing their houses burned or reduced to rubble and the land they’d worked for generations laid under sheep.”

Things become further complicated when John is seriously injured on his first day and his belongings destroyed by the sea, including the few words he had written down to try and speak with Ivar in Norn. As Ivar cares for him, the two men start to build a fragile bond despite having no common spoken language.

“It was so long since anyone […] had looked at him properly, and if he’d been asked to describe his feelings he might have reached for that word in his language that described what happened when a rock is covered and uncovered by the sea – when, briefly, the water rises up and submerges it completely before it falls away again and reveals it.”

Clear is beautifully written, poetic and precise. It builds a carefully tender portrait of an emerging relationship between two people whose lives are so entirely different. And ultimately it surprised me by becoming a real page-turner! An absolute stunner.

Image from here

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.20

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It’s been years since I read Han Kang but I did like The Vegetarian and Human Acts, so I was looking forward to reading the novella which came between those two, Greek Lessons (2011, transl. Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won, 2023).

In mainly alternating chapters, it tells the story of a teacher of Ancient Greek who is losing his sight due to a long-standing condition, and his pupil who has spontaneously stopped speaking for the second time in her life. His chapters are mainly first-person, hers are third-person.

To be honest, if I heard this premise described without knowing the author I would think it sounded clunky, and I’m a bit tired of unnamed narrators too. But that just shows how little I know because Greek Lessons was a tenderly realised exploration of human connection and the role of language.

The woman is recently bereaved and has also lost custody of her son. She lives alone and is entirely isolated:

“She knows that no single specific experience led to her loss of language. Language worn ragged over thousands of years, from wear and tear by countless tongues and pens. Language warm ragged over the course of her life, by her own tongue and pen.”

The teacher reminisces about a love he had when young. She was deaf and used sign language. He was worried that when he lost his sight they wouldn’t be able to communicate:

“I know now that, had we in fact lived together, I wouldn’t have needed your voice after I went blind. For even as the visible world would gradually have receded like an ebb tide, at the same time, the silence we shared would have gradually become replete.”

In this way Greek Lessons looks closely at language: its limitations, the silences between what is said, what it opens up and what it closes off.

“Despite what her psychiatrist and mother had hoped, the stimulus of social interaction couldn’t fracture her silence. Instead a brighter and more concentrated stillness filled the dark clay jar of her body. In the crowded streets on the way home, she walked weightless, as though moving encased in a huge soap bubble. Inside this gleaming quiet, which was like gazing up at the surface under water, cars roared thunderously by and pedestrians elbows jabbed her in the shoulders and arms, then vanished.”

As these two people move towards one another, Kang questions how much true intimacy is derived from a shared language, and how much language enables avoidance of intimacy:

“She would have still had language then, so the emotions would have been clearer, stronger.”

Greek Lessons is very densely written, so although it’s short it isn’t a fast read. It is a detailed exploration of loss in many guises: the senses, people, love, roles, choices. There isn’t really a plot and there isn’t resolution, so definitely not the read for when you’re looking for those. But as a fractured, elliptical exploration of her themes through the lives of two lost people, it is engrossing.

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.11

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Jhumpa Lahiri was a novelist I used to read as her books came out, then I entirely lost track of her and now have some catching up to do. Interestingly, she wrote Whereabouts (2018) in Italian first, having lived in Italy for a time, before translating it into English herself in 2021.

The novella follows the unnamed narrator over the course of a year, as she considers her past, present and future while she moves within various environments in an unnamed city. The vignettes have titles such as At the Trattoria; In the Pool; On the Couch. Only In My Head recurs, three times. In other words, it is a contemplation of her metaphysical whereabouts from within her physical whereabouts.

The narrator feels a sense of separation: living alone, being single, with no immediate family around. In her mid-forties, her father has died and she has a strained relationship with her mother. There is a vague crush on the partner of her friend, easily relinquished. She works as an academic and writer, and so her career necessitates a degree of isolation.

In the Office: “My colleagues tend to keep to themselves, as do I. Maybe they find me prickly, unpleasant, who knows? We’re forced to inhabit close quarters, we’re told to be accessible, and yet I feel peripheral.”

There is a tension within the narrator. She seems content in some respects yet also dissatisfied, but unable to articulate what it is she yearns after, or if she does so on any significant scale. I’m not a subtle enough reader to know for sure, but possibly the translation by the author from a language to which she was comparatively new, added to the slight sense of dislocation, of spaces between what is felt and what it is possible to put into words.

In My Head: Solitude: it’s become my trade. As it requires a certain discipline, it’s a condition I try to perfect. And yet it plagues me, it weighs on me in spite of my knowing it so well.

But while she grapples with the bigger issues of her life, she remains alert to small moments too. I liked the unspoken comradeship she forms with a philosopher at a much-dreaded three day work conference:  

In the Hotel: Without planning to, we wait for each other every morning and every evening, and for three days our tacit bond puts me obscurely at peace with the world.

Small moments include physical pleasure as well as cerebral reflection:

In the Sun: The simple sandwich I always get amazes me, too. As I eat it, as my body bakes in the sun that pours down on my neighbourhood, each bite, feeling sacred, reminds me that I’m not forsaken.

Throughout the year there is a gentle, almost imperceptible movement towards something better, a potential for more happiness in her life.

Whereabouts is not the book to pick up if you want a pacy, plot-driven read. It is a finely observed study of a person’s interaction with place, while allowing them to remain somewhat unknowable to themselves and the reader. It is about the thoughts, the places and the moments that make up every day lives and the tiny yet significant changes that occur.

Simon has also reviewed Whereabouts this month, for his #BookADayinMay. You can read his review here.

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.6

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Hollow Inside is the debut novel of Asako Otani (2023, transl. Ginny Tapley Takemori 2026), published by the ever-wonderful Pushkin Press. At only 108 pages it is an accomplished portrayal of a woman trying to find peace within and without.

The narrator is Hirai, self-described as:

“A plain woman just shy of forty in a grey skirt. I had the feeling that by blurring my focus I could be completely assimilated into the jostle of strangers around me on the swaying train. I crossed my eyes slightly and concentrated on erasing my existence.”

We join her when she has been living for four months with Suganuma, slightly older at the age of forty-two. They met at work bonding over their love of the same boyband from their youth.

It is Suganuma who suggests they live together, fed up with the cramped flats and loneliness of living alone.

“As far as I was concerned, my decision to move in with Suganuma meant that I’d given up. A future in which I was married and had children was looking impossible.”

Suganuma is more sanguine, seemingly content in her life choices, and overjoyed at living together as Hirai wryly observes:

“It happened so fast I couldn’t help thinking that if she only handled her work in the same way she’d be able to live in a larger flat of her own.”

Suganuma works mainly from home, 3D printing pets for bereaved owners. The title comes from the figurines and from Hirai’s identification with them.

Hirai also has no sexual attraction to men and ambivalence towards being a mother, both of which she wishes were different. She feels she doesn’t fit, and limits social contact with colleagues and with her family.

“Every single one of my childhood and college friends now had their own family, and for years now the only contact I had with them was liking each other’s social media posts.”

In a very short space, Otani establishes a sympathetic but not sentimental character study of Hirai, showing her pain and confusion as she struggles to find a place for herself. By the end of the novel, she will made some significant decisions, but the author avoids trite conclusions or neat resolution.

To end, regular readers will know I never shy away from an entirely obvious choice:

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.3

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I hadn’t heard of Rock Crystal by Adalbert Stifter (1945, transl. Elizabeth Mayer, Marianne Moore 1945) before, despite the fact that according to the back cover, Thomas Mann called Stifter “one of the most extraordinary, the most enigmatic, the most secretly daring and the most strangely gripping narrators in world literature”.  I picked it up because NYRB Classics always prove interesting, and this was no exception.

It opens with beautiful descriptions of its alpine setting:

“Among the high mountains of our country there is a little village with a small but needle-fine church-spire. Conspicuous above the green of abundant fruit trees, this spire—because the slates are painted vermilion—can be seen far and wide against the faint blue of the mountains.”

Rock Crystal is a Christmas story, and so the weather is very different:

“On the mountain, in winter, the two pinnacles called ‘horns’ are snow white and on clear days stand out in the dusky atmosphere with blinding brilliance; all the alpine meadows at the base of the summits are white then, as well as their sloping shoulders; even the precipitous rock faces or walls as the people call them, are coated with a white velvet nap of hoar-frost and glazed with ice tissue.”

And so the scene is exquisitely set for a fable, almost a fairytale. Certainly Rock Crystal’s central premise is a fairytale trope: two young children Conrad and Sanna, live in a village high in the Alps and walk through the forest to visit their grandparents in the valley.

They visit, collect their presents, and their grandmother warns them not to dawdle as they head back home. On the way home, the clear bright day changes rapidly with snow fall.

“There had descended upon everything a pervading sense of peace. Not the sound of a bird, although a few birds usually flit about in the woods even in winter, and the children on their way to Millsdorf that morning had heard them twitter.”

I thought the detail of the birds was so clever, horribly foreboding even as the children enjoy the snow.

Gradually the snow obliterates everything, so they lose their markers and without realising it walk onto a glacier.

“It was entirely dry, and they had smooth ice to walk on. But the whole cavern was blue, bluer than anything on earth, a blue deeper and finer than the vault of heaven itself, blue as azure glass with a faint light inside. There were massive ribs overhead, and more delicate ones, with pendant icicles, point lace, and tassels, the way leading further still—they knew not how far but they did not go on.”

Stifter places the reader alongside the children as they find some shelter as night falls and struggle not to fall asleep, knowing the dangers of doing so. I really couldn’t determine how this would work out.  

And so the story, beautifully told, becomes unbearably tense. The complete disorientation is vividly conveyed, and these two small children against the immensity of the environment seem utterly lost.

In the introduction, WH Auden amusingly observes that Stifter takes “breathtaking risks of appalling banalities” yet somehow avoids them all. Who am I to disagree?

Rock Crystal quietly evokes the power of love of family, of community, and of place. A truly memorable read.

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.2

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Stefan Zweig is a favourite writer of mine, I find him so insightful and compassionate. I also really like Pushkin Press Classics published in the smaller editions with the French flaps, so I was pleased to find just such a copy of his 1927 novella Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Woman (transl. Anthea Bell 2003).

It opens at a guesthouse on the French Riviera, “ten years before the war” with the unnamed first-person narrator remembering the arrival of an attractive single man who quickly absconds with Henriette, the wife of a manufacturer. Her absence causes quite a stir:

“Silently, one by one, as if put to shame by so shattering an emotional outburst, we crept back to our rooms, while that stricken specimen of mankind shook and sobbed alone with himself in the dark as the building slowly laid itself to rest, whispering, muttering, murmuring and sighing.”

The narrator takes a more liberal view of Henriette’s conduct, which puts him at odds with the other guests. I enjoyed Zweig’s gentle humour here:

“Well, it’s of no importance here to go back in every detail over the stormy course of an argument conducted between soup and dessert: only professionals of the table d’hôte are  witty, and points made in the heat of a chance dispute at table are usually banal, since the speakers resort to them clumsily and in haste.”

The narrator’s assertion that “I’d rather understand others than condemn them.” attracts the attention of Mrs. C, who from the way she’s initially described sounded easily in her nineties, but as it turns out is sixty-seven! She deliberately builds an intimacy with the narrator in order to tell her story, and he becomes the silent interlocutor to her tale.

“It is intolerable to spend one’s whole life staring at a single point in it.”

She describes how, at the age of forty-two, grieving her husband and with her sons fully grown, she arrived at Monte Carlo.

“I came there out of tedium, out of the painful emptiness of the heart that wells up like nausea, and at least tries to nourish itself on small external stimulations.”

She is not a seasoned gambler, but her husband enjoyed the casinos so she visits, and there becomes consumed by the vision of a young man compulsively placing bets.

“His face spoke the same fantastically extravagant language of extremes as the hands”

[…]

“A fear of something dreadful, something I had felt invisibly enveloping the young man like a miasma from the first moment.”

What follows is a character study of Mrs C and a portrait of addiction which is entirely believable. With his characteristic humanity, discernment and understanding, Zweig considers the supressed tragedies of people’s lives and how we continue to live.

Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Woman possibly felt more dramatic on initial publication – for twenty-first century readers nothing especially unpredictable takes place. But that is not to diminish it in any way. The evocation of strong feeling, and of trauma, is so sensitively realised that it remains a deeply affecting read.

This story has been filmed several times, including a made for television version with Ingrid Bergman. However, in its depiction of the glamour, seediness, seductions and betrayals of gambling, it also reminded me of a film I saw recently with lovely JacquiWIne, Bay of Angels: