Literary fiction: February's best-written recent releases

(I) Read an extract from our first pick below PICKING THE BEST-WRITTEN BOOKS AND SEAN MCNULTY FEB 4 The following is the strongest monthly list we’ve looked at to date. We’ve selected two books as the best-written of these (we’ll send out our second choice soon). Our first pick is Yes, send me more picks of the best-written books, and masterclasses by their authors on prose style. Upgrade to paid I RIVER ESCAUT, CAMBRAI, FRANCE, 1917 We know life is finite. Why should we believe death lasts forever? * The shadow of a bird moved across the hill; he could not see the bird. * Certain thoughts comforted him: Desire permeates everything; nothing human can be cleansed of it. We can only think about the unknown in terms of the known. The speed of light cannot reference time. The past exists as a present moment. Perhaps the most important things we know cannot be proven. He did not believe that the mystery at the heart of things was amorphous or vague or a discrepancy, but a place in us for something absolutely precise. He did not believe in filling that space with religion or science, but in leaving it intact; like silence, or speechlessness, or duration. Perhaps death was Lagrangian, perhaps it could be defined by the principle of stationary action. Asymptotic. Mist smouldered like cremation fires in the rain. * It was possible that the blast had taken his hearing. There were no trees to identify the wind, no wind, he thought, at all. Was it raining? John could see the air glistening, but he couldn’t feel it on his face. * The mist erased all it touched. * Through the curtain of his breath he saw a flash, a shout of light. * It was very cold. Somewhere out there were his precious boots, his feet. He should get up and look for them. When had he eaten last? He was not hungry. * Memory seeping. * The snow fell, night and day, into the night again. Silent streets; impossible to drive. They decided they would walk to each other across the city and meet in the middle. The sky, even at ten o’clock at night, was porcelain, a pale solid from which the snow detached and fell. The cold was cleansing, a benediction. They would each leave at the same time and keep to their route, they would keep walking until they found each other. * In the distance, in the heavy snowfall, John saw fragments of her—elliptic, stroboscopic—Helena’s dark hat, her gloves. It was hard yet to tell how far away she was. He shook the snow from his hat so she might see him too. Yes, she lifted her arms above her head to wave. Only her hat and gloves and the powdery yellow blur of the streetlamps were visible against the whiteness of sky and earth. He could barely feel his feet or his fingers, but the rest of him was warm, almost hot, from walking. He pulsed with the sight of her, the vestige of her. She was everything that mattered to him. He felt inviolable trust. They were close now but could not make their way any faster. Somewhere between the library and the bank, they gripped each other as if they were the only two humans left in the world. * Her small ways known only to him. That Helena matched her socks to her scarf even when no one could see them in her boots. That she kept beside the bed, superstitiously unfinished, the novel she had been reading in the park the day they understood they would always be together. The paper-thin leather gloves she found in the pocket of the men’s tweed coat she bought from the jumble sale. Her mother’s ring that she wore only when she wore a certain blouse. That she left her handbag at home and slipped a five-shilling note in her book when she went to the park to read. The boiled sweets tin she kept her foreign change in. * Helena carried the handbag he had bought for her on the Hill Road, soft brown leather, with a clasp in the shape of a flower. She wore the silk scarf she had found in the market, made hers now by her scent, autumn colours with a dark green border, and her tweed coat with velvet under the collar. How many times had he felt that velvet when he held open her coat for her. A finite number. Every pleasure in a day or a life, numbered. But pleasure was also countless, beyond itself—because it remained, even only in memory; and in your body, even when forgotten. Even the stain of pleasure and its taunting: loss. The finite as unmanageable as the infinite. * They walked to his flat and left their wet clothes at the door. No need to turn on the lights. The blinds were up, the room snow-lit. White dusk, impossible light. John was always surprised, he never stopped being astonished, at how little there was of her, she was tiny it seemed to him, and so gentle and fierce he couldn’t breathe. He had bought the scented powder she liked and he filled the tub. He added too much and the foam spilled over the steaming edge. “A snowbank,” she said. * The young soldier was lying only a few metres away. How long had the boy been staring? John wanted to call out to him, make a joke of it, but couldn’t find his voice. * Pinned to the ground, no weight upon him. Who would believe light could fell a man. * John’s child-hand in his mother’s hand. The paper bag of chestnuts from the vendor with the brazier in front of the shops, too hot to hold without mittens. Leaning against his mother’s heavy wool coat. Her smooth handbag against his cheek. Peeling the brown paper skins of the chestnuts to the steaming meat. The tram squealing on the track. The edge of his mother’s apron escaping from the edge of her coat, the apron she forgot to take off, the apron she always wore. Trams, queues, the smells of fish and petrol. Her softness against his hard childhood. Her scent before he succumbed to sleep, the burnished warmth of her necklace as she leaned over to him. The lamp left on. Buy Held UK/Ireland Buy Held US/Canada The Auraist project explained 'Writers who don’t obsessively polish their writing must be made to walk the plank.' SEAN MCNULTY AND PICKING THE BEST-WRITTEN BOOKS · JAN 22 'Writers who don’t obsessively polish their writing must be made to walk the plank.' Rob Doyle's third book, THRESHOLD, was published in 2020 by Bloomsbury, and was shortlisted for the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the Year. Doyle's debut novel, HERE ARE THE YOUNG MEN, was published in 2014 by Bloomsbury and the Lilliput Press. It was selected as one of Read full story A guest post by Sean McNulty Edits the Auraist substack, which selects the best-written books from UK and US prize shortlists and major reviews, and publishes masterclasses on prose style by their authors. If you find yourself admiring the kind of writing championed here, and don’t mind paying 2.50 a month to help support such books and writers, then please consider upgrading to a Patron subscription, which entitles you to: — Exclusive masterclasses on prose style from the highest-profile writers — Submit books for review alongside major recent releases in the genre of your choice — Access the full archive of picks and masterclasses In time, we’ll also restrict commenting and other features to our Patrons. With a Patron+ subscription you will also receive, if you wish, a yearly elite-level, highly detailed prose edit of up to 5k words, and a supportive Zoom follow-up for any clarifications. Submissions, pitches, and requests to republish our interviews and picks should be sent to auraist@substack.com. Become a Patron or Patron+ If you know someone who appreciates fine writing, perhaps you could send this post to them. Thank you. Sean McNulty Auraist. Writing with style. © 2024 Sean McNulty