Books of the decade: 2010-2019

Can there be a ten-year period in which more changes than the one between being seventeen and being twenty-seven? Of course everything depends on circumstance and there are anomalies, but it does strike me that this is the decade in which I went from child under my parents’ roof to adult paying my own bills, and what—even assuming the acquisition of a life partner and the possibility of one’s own children—can possibly compete with that for upheaval? So the task of choosing ten books of the decade (and I will limit myself to just ten, this time) feels like not just a commentary on my reading, but on how that reading has shaped and reflected my life.

81thpjdmfnl2010: Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel. It has to be this. 2010 was the year I started university, and Mantel wins it by a whisker; George Eliot (particularly Daniel Deronda and The Mill on the Floss) is close behind. But up until then, I don’t think I had quite realized that it was possible for contemporary fiction to be as rich and dense as what I rather naively and snobbishly thought of as “the classics”. Wolf Hall was the first novel I read that opened my mind to that possibility.

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2011: The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia, by Sir Philip Sidney. The vast majority of my reading in this year was for university, and there are lots of reading memories that seem ineradicable, but The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia was perhaps the longest (I also read The Faerie Queene in 2011, mind you). I got through it during shifts at my summer job back home, not even bothering to be surreptitious and read it under the counter. It’s outrageously overcomplicated allegorical pastoral Tudor romance, and yet I found myself entranced.

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Arden Shakespeare editions

2012: Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I know this is a dick move and Desert Island Discs lets you have them for this very reason, but in the summer of 2012, I read every single word that William Shakespeare ever wrote, as well as some he probably didn’t. It took a little less than three months and by mid-July I was starting to dream in blank verse. Nothing else even came close to matching that experience that year.

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2013: The Makioka Sisters, by Junichiro Tanizaki. An odd and messy year. I graduated, continued living in Oxford, scraped together internships at literary agencies and my old college’s Development Office, and read a fuck of a lot of Terry Pratchett, for no doubt obvious reasons. However, Tanizaki’s extraordinary perception about romantic and social relationships in mid-20th century Japan reminded me forcefully of Jane Austen, and I’ve not stopped recommending this book since.

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2014: Young God, by Katherine Faw Morris. This was the year in which I started blogging about my reading more seriously, reading other litblogs, and writing for the now-defunct Quadrapheme, which meant free books and new contacts in publishing house. In amongst the riches, Young God stood out like a hammered thumb: it’s reminiscent of Winter’s Bone in that it’s about a young Appalachian girl who grows up before her time, but it is, if possible, even grittier, bleaker and more disturbing. What a winner.

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2015: The Wolf Border, by Sarah Hall. The first year in this decade where the winner is hands-down obvious and uncontestable. I was sent this for review and was so smitten, I read it twice in four months: the combination of lush landscape writing with an utterly unsentimental but also un-bleak portrayal of single motherhood fit its subject matter so well. It didn’t just show me what good writing was; it showed me that there are a million ways to live, and most of them are only just now being written into stories.

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2016: The Likeness, by Tana French. Not the first Tana French novel I read, but as I finished that within about a day and turned immediately to this, the second in the Dublin Murder Squad series, the distinction is fairly academic. And academic is the point in this deliciously clever engagement with The Secret History tropes (overintellectual young people are faced with murder, must navigate treacherous shoals between story and reality; so meta, I fucking love it). It’s my favourite of hers because of the descriptions of the house and the friendship dynamics—she gets into the meat of how people relate to each other—and I read it just as I was beginning work on my own book, which has similar themes.

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2017: Do Not Say We Have Nothing, by Madeleine Thien. Getting harder now; 2017 was the year I started working at Heywood Hill and my access to books skyrocketed (no longer was it necessary to buy new titles with my own money or indeed even request them half the time; boxes of proofs come to the shop every week). Thien’s Booker- and Women’s Prize-shortlisted novel is a gorgeously written family saga set in communist China, about music and integrity and survival. I rather wish it had won both prizes.

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2018: Ghost Wall, by Sarah Moss. I couldn’t stop talking about this, all year, and all of 2019 too. The first five pages are a devastatingly scary, moving, gut-grabbing experience, and the rest of it—telling the story of teenage Silvie and her father’s increasingly unhinged obsession with neolithic British customs—hurtles, with an extraordinary stop-start combination of sticky tension and humid tedium, towards what feels like an inevitable climax. It’s utterly magnificent and it, too, should have won both the Booker and the Women’s Prize.

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2019: As we know, 2019 was an exceptionally good reading year overall—so good that I couldn’t even narrow my top books down to ten, and had to settle for twenty. There was no one standout title, though, so instead I’m nominating Willa Cather, and the three of her books I read this year. She is an exceptional writer whose evocation of landscape and grasp of psychological nuance makes her feel well ahead of her time. Both Death Comes for the Archbishop and The Song of the Lark are wonderful, not to mention the much lesser-known A Lost Lady: short but perfectly formed and breathtakingly empathetic.

This list, written on a different day, would probably have produced a different outcome—choosing books to represent a whole decade is so subjective a task that the decisions, though not totally arbitrary, often feel balanced on the knife’s edge of how I happen to feel right this minute. All of these are brilliant books, though, and have meant a lot to me over the past ten years.

Do you have any books of the decade you’d like to share?

Books of the year, 2019

This year I revised my reading goals downwards, quite radically, from 200 books to 120. As of this writing, I’ve read 185 books in 2019, which is pretty gratifying. It does present something of a problem, which is that narrowing down the top ten (or whatever) books of the year gets exponentially harder. I’ve done my best anyway. There are more than ten, because it was a good year and I make the rules.

41c8al52l8l._sx331_bo1204203200_Selected Poems of Adrienne Rich. One of the very earliest reads of the year and still one of the best. At the time of reading, I wrote, “On every page, practically, there is a line that reaches into my chest. I choose to love this time for once/With all my intelligence: that one I knew already, but what about this: What happens between us/has happened for centuries/we know it from literature//still it happens […] there are books that describe all this/and they are useless. Or this: The woman who cherished/her suffering is dead […] I want to go on from here with you/fighting the temptation to make a career of pain.” Unbeatable.

9781473639058What I Loved, by Siri Hustvedt. Read in a day, on a sofa in a nice flat in Paris while wind howled outside. A totally brilliant book, following the friendship between two men–painter Bill and art historian Leo–and the intertwining of the lives of their families, including Leo’s wife, Bill’s first and second wives, and their two sons: Leo’s Matthew, and Bill’s Mark. Both intellectual and terrifying; I found it hard to sleep after finishing it and it’s continued to haunt me.

 

cover159135-mediumThe Warlow Experiment, by Alix Nathan. Based on a true story: in 1793, a Mr. Powyss offered £50 a year for life to any man who would undertake to live in solitary confinement underground for seven years, without cutting his nails, hair, or beard, keeping a journal of his thoughts. The advertisement was answered by one man, a labourer with a wife and a large number of children. Nathan skillfully integrates the class upheaval occurring in England at the time, and the voice of John Warlow, the semi-literate ploughman who takes up the offer, is poignantly and viscerally rendered. Not one to miss for lovers of historical fiction.

9780857524485The Five, by Hallie Rubenhold. This group biography of the “canonical five” women presumed to have been killed by the same person–known to history as Jack the Ripper–in 1888 is long overdue. Rubenhold gives each woman her own section, exploding sensationalist myths and prejudices with every word. Only one of the five, for instance, was employed as a sex worker; only one (the same one) was under twenty-five. More significant  are the facts that the majority were alcoholics, and separated from a husband. Compassionate and unsentimental, Rubenhold’s description of the trajectories of their lives makes the similarities between these women and the homeless population of modern London painfully clear.

9781786331519Daisy Jones and the Six, by Taylor Jenkins Reid. A magnificent novel about the rise and fall of a rock band in ’70s California, told through the transcripts of interviews for a documentary. Reid nails atmosphere: the drugs, the sex, but also the strangely untouchable, self-centered innocence that permeates this milieu. Daisy Jones could have been a Manic Pixie Dream Girl (with added smack problem), but her emotional vulnerability is leavened with grit; Camila Dunne, wife of the lead guitarist, could have been a caricature of a stay-at-home mother, but her integrity is the moral backbone of the book. Reid also has some beautiful, scary things to say about creative collaboration, the hard work of making music, and the ease with which we can fuck up our own hearts.

9781786894373The Chronology of Water, by Lidia Yuknavitch. This, mes enfants, this is how you write a book. More specifically, it is how you write a book about your life, your life that is so fucked up from start to finish, your father who abused you and your mother who drank her way to blankness and your gift for swimming and the way you wrecked yourself  for years and found writing and found sex with women and found pain as expiation and found men and lost men and lost a baby and eventually made a home. Yuknavitch is certainly not “likeable” throughout, and occasionally her self-destruction becomes frustratingly repetitive, but she writes like a demon and there is one chapter – the one where she and her first husband try to scatter their stillborn daughter’s ashes – that made me cry on the bus, that ought to become a staple of auditions as a dramatic monologue. If you love Cheryl Strayed, don’t miss.

imageNorth and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell. Some amusing soul on Goodreads has described this as “Pride and Prejudice for socialists”, which isn’t too far off base. The story of Margaret Hale, daughter of a Devonshire vicar whose crisis of faith makes him move his small family to Milton, a Northern manufacturing town, and John Thornton, one of the mill owners there, is all about misconceptions, preconceptions, and class snobbery. Unlike Austen’s novels, though–and understand that I love them, so this isn’t a dig at the divine Jane–Gaskell’s writing feels distinctly modern and political in its sensibilities, from the unusual directness of her characters’ dialogue to the frank acknowledgment of class struggle.

43206809Things In Jars, by Jess Kidd. Kidd’s third book is set in a familiar Victorian Gothic London, but her elegant, witty prose invigorates the setting. (She is particularly good at the literally birds-eye view; several chapters open from the perspective of a raven, allowing some lovely atmospheric scene-setting.) Our protagonist, red-haired Irish investigator Bridie Devine, is a magnificent addition to the ranks of spiky Victorian ladies in fiction, and her tentative love affair with the ghost of a heavily tattooed boxer is conveyed delicately. The is-it-or-isn’t-it supernatural flavour of the central mystery makes this book perfect for fans of The Essex Serpent–and, as a bonus, Things in Jars has an excellently dry sense of humour.

x298Lost Children Archive, by Valeria Luiselli. Reading this after the Women’s Prize shortlist announcement, my frustration at the composition of that list was refreshed. Luiselli takes a Sebaldian approach to her two-pronged story. One strand follows the journey of a group of migrant children from Mexico as they ride the border freight trains, sleep rough, and–sometimes–die, trying to get to a better life. The second follows the road trip of a married couple who are both audio journalists, and their two children, ostensibly traveling towards the American Southwest in order to produce a story about the migrant children. Luiselli’s philosophical, detailed style occasionally outstays its welcome, but mostly Lost Children Archive is a heartbreaking, fiercely intelligent wonder.

41081373Girl, Woman, Other, by Bernardine Evaristo. Almost, but not quite, an interlinked collection of short stories: each of the twelve chapters here follows a different woman (mostly black and British), and one of the book’s pleasures is discovering how they’re all connected to and through one another. Evaristo has always had great skill with potentially controversial topics: the generosity she extends to her characters nullifies any charges of bandwagoning when it comes to stories about gender, race, and class. This book in particular demonstrates that black women were fighting and winning these battles many decades before “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirts and social media accounts became a thing. In her application of the tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner principle, Evaristo reminds me of no one so much as George Eliot.

91at5ojnm-lThe Porpoise, by Mark Haddon. This is the sort of book that the Hogarth Shakespeare project should be trying to produce (interestingly, he was apparently asked to write it for them, and ended up pulling out of the project due to creative differences). Haddon moves from present-day privilege (globally connected aristocratic businessmen certainly have power equivalent to autocratic monarchs) to the ancient Mediterranean to a Tudor London where George Wilkins–Shakespeare’s co-writer on Pericles, the obscure play that this novel engages with–is punished after death for his sins against women. It’s excellent, the prose crisp, the pace thrilling, the connections between different parts of the novel resonant and moving.

91lkpci3gnl-1Shadowplay, by Joseph O’Connor. Set in the Lyceum Theatre in 1878, and with a cast of characters including Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Bram Stoker, and (briefly) Oscar Wilde. Fantastically evocative historical fiction with a wide streak of poignancy and an even wider streak of queer desire and anxiety. One for fans of The Wardrobe MistressThe Phantom of the Opera, and indeed Things In Jars.

 

38462._sy475_Giovanni’s Room, by James Baldwin: An outstanding short novel about a closeted gay American man in Paris, who falls in love with an Italian bartender but abandons him for (he thinks) a respectable life married to a woman. This abandonment has…consequences. Baldwin’s a beautiful writer of sentences–quotable but never sententious–and quite how he lays claim to a reader’s emotions in such a short space and with pretty limited use of interiority is something I’ll only be able to work out upon rereading, if then.

hbg-title-9780349012131-5Corregidora, by Gayl Jones. I read this twice in three months and it revealed more each time. The story of a blues singer and her maternal line’s traumatic intergenerational relationship with the Portuguese slaveholder who owned her ancestors, it’s also about sexuality, femininity, how to make good art, and whether it’s even possible to redeem pain in that way. If you like Toni Morrison, if you aspire to produce any kind of art (but particularly music), if you want to know how other times and places have navigated the path between desire and trauma, read it.

67483723_10214047205910175_1158198541944881152_nOhio, by Stephen Markley. The best post-9/11 novel I’ve ever read: detailed, lyrical, raw, all those book review words. Four high school friends reconverge in their hometown, one night in the early 2010s. They don’t all meet, but that night illuminates the history they share and the path their country has taken since. The Iraq war, Alanis Morrisette, OxyContin, summers at the lake, your boyfriend’s truck, baby lesbians, post-industrial hellscapes, Obama’s election, white supremacists, memorial tattoos, homecoming dances, football games, small-town rumors, the mystery at the centre of existence – Ohio has them all, and all wrapped up in beautiful, headstrong, confident prose. Maybe a little too headstrong at times, but if I have a weakness it’s for stylistic overkill. It worked for me.

to-calais-in-ordinary-time-hardback-cover-9781786896742To Calais, In Ordinary Time, by James Meek. A conceptually brilliant novel set in the 1400s, as a company of bowmen head towards the southern coast of England to join the war against France, and the Black Plague comes up the country in the opposite direction. Told in three different registers that evoke the distinctions in speech between noble, peasant, and clerical characters, it’s never a particularly easy read but never a dull one either, and it deals with sexual and gender expression in a way that feels both extremely contemporary and remarkably sensitive to the time.

eevsk_8xuau0fjzThe Jewel, by Neil Hegarty. Hegarty’s second novel centers around the theft of an almost miraculous artwork: a painting buried with its artist as a shroud, but later exhumed and hung on the walls of a Dublin gallery. When it is stolen, the chapters shift between the perspectives of the thief, the specialist tasked with recovering it, and the curator in charge of the robbed gallery. Hegarty’s character sketches are precise and painful: the corrosive effect of cynicism on a man’s soul, the revelation of the cancerous depth of abuse in a supposedly loving relationship, the searing trauma of a sister’s death in silent, repressive late-twentieth-century Ireland.

71851293_10214584094972066_9126527404867584000_nOlive, Again, by Elizabeth Strout. Here Strout brings together characters from books spanning her entire career, but mostly the book is about Olive Kitteredge as she ages, including her second marriage, in her seventies, to the gentle and persistent Jack Kennison. Strout has been working, hard, for a long time now, and it shows in the writing, which has that particular level of finesse that is only possible from someone who has wrestled daily with language and finally come to a deep understanding with it. She uses a smooth, almost placid linguistic register as a container for explosive feelings and behaviour.  Olive, Again is a magnificent piece of work, and yet, perhaps because of its subject matter—old age and death—it has the feeling of a swan song. I desperately hope it isn’t.

This is also the place to mention two authors of whose work I’ve read three instances each this year, and been totally seduced and bowled over by both.

isbn9781473694439Siri Hustvedt. I read the aforementioned What I Loved (probably her most famous), Memories of the Future (her most recent), and A Woman Looking At Men Looking At Women: Essays on Art, Sex and the Mind (self-explanatory, I should think). All are excellent, if tough and rigorous. Encountering her mind is bracing to one’s own.

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Willa Cather. Astonishingly modern in her lack of sentimentality, yet with the courtly lucidity of a much older era, Cather is long overdue serious attention in the UK, although American readers still know her pretty well. I read three of her novels this year that were new to me: A Lost Lady, Death Comes For the Archbishop, and The Song of the Lark. I still have a copy of My Ántonia, which I first read in middle school and intend to revisit in 2020. All of these copies were old green Virago paperbacks and came from The Second Shelf, which sells rare books and first editions exclusively by women (including, you’ll be pleased but hopefully not surprised to hear, trans women), and which has a shelf full of more affordable things specifically for those who, like me, are slender of purse.

Highly honourable mentions: Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift, The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon, The Snakes by Sadie Jones, Memories of the Future by Siri Hustvedt, The Terror by Dan Simmons, The Pisces by Melissa Broder, Arabs by Tim Mackintosh-Smith, The Artificial Silk Girl by Irmgard Keun, The Old Drift by Namwali Serpell, This Is Shakespeare by Emma Smith, The Adventures of Maud West, Lady Detective by Susannah Stapleton, Sorcerer to the Crown by Zen Cho, The Body Lies by Jo Baker, Unapologetic by Francis Spufford, The Horseman by Tim Pears, Collected Ghost Stories by MR James, The Eighth Life by Nino Haratischvili, We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver.

Forthcoming (I hope): best children’s books I read in 2019, and January 2020’s most exciting new releases!

holding pattern

I have been intending to write a full-length post on Katherine Rundell’s The Wolf Wilder for at least a week. I have also been intending to write up my books of the year, and mulling over the idea of writing up my books of the decade. However, the best-laid plans, etc.: work has gone completely, utterly, resplendently batshit, not only because it is Christmas and Christmas in a bookshop is always mad, but because our bespoke book subscription service got a (small!) write-up in The New Yorker, and it has been huge for us. No one expected it to be quite so huge. Our little three-person team has been working flat out for over a week, needing help from incredibly kind colleagues on other teams, and with no signs of significant slowing anytime soon. Today was the first day since last Monday that I’ve felt I have enough time on my hands during work hours to make myself a coffee and go to the bathroom. (And, obviously, write this.)

I’m really enjoying reading all of your end-of-year posts, when I can, and would like to be commenting on them more – at the moment, clicking “like” must suffice. I’ll do my very best to find some time for my own: I really like the feeling of rounding off each year with a look back at the reading that’s shaped it, and would hate to not do it. I hope you all have lovely, lovely holidays.

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vital details

It was such an ordinary evening, but every detail of it would matter; every detail would become vital.

Wed Wabbit, Lissa Evans. 2017.

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Lissa Evans had my heart with Old Baggage, a novel for adults about a suffragist’s attempt to impart meaning to her life after the battle for the vote has been won, which came out in 2018. Seeing that Wed Wabbit was released just a year before that only increases my sense of admiration. How talented do you have to be to produce not only a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and complex adult novel, but also a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and cacklingly hilarious children’s novel, within the space of two years? Pretty bloody talented.

Our heroine is ten and a half-year-old Fidge (her mother named her Iphigenia, and her little sister Minerva; her father acquiesced on the condition that he be allowed to give the children unfussy nicknames, so they are Fidge and Minnie). She and Minnie live with their mum. Their dad, a firefighter, died (of cancer or a similar terminal illness) a little over a year ago, a fact with which Fidge is struggling: she hasn’t let anyone hug her since then. Minnie, age four, is going through something of an obsessive stage: her favourite animal is a stuffed red velvet lapine to whom she lispingly refers as “Wed Wabbit”, and her favourite book, which Fidge is obliged to read over and over again, is a nauseatingly cheery and reductive story entitled The Land of Wimbley Woos:

The first picture showed a group of happy-looking Wimblies. Each was a different colour, but they were all shaped like dustbins with large round eyes and short arms and legs, and they radiated a sort of idiotic jollity. Fidge turned the page and continued reading in a bored, rapid mutter.

“Yellow are timid, Blue are strong, Grey are wise and rarely wrong. Green are daring, Pink give cuddles, Orange are silly and get in muddles. Purple Wimblies understand The past and future of our land.”

“Wead it pwoply, with expwession,” commanded Minnie.

Fidge is a tough cookie, but she is looking forward, with heartbreaking intensity, to an impending outdoor-activities holiday. On a last-minute shopping trip into town the day before, her mum’s slowness combined with Minnie’s need for the latest Wimbley Woos book causes them to be too late to buy the flippers that Fidge so desperately wants. Mutinous with resentment, she kicks Minnie’s beloved Wed Wabbit—intending only to take out her frustration—directly into traffic. Minnie runs out after him, and…well, no, it’s a children’s book. But she is hospitalized, and Fidge—now wracked with guilt—sent to stay overnight with her Uncle Simon, Auntie Ruth, and cousin Graham. Graham is hopeless, apparently terrified of everything and overprotected by his parents but convinced of his own superior intellect, “large and pale, like a plant that has been heavily watered but kept in the dark”. While Fidge is there, there’s a thunderstorm, and something extremely odd happens. In Evans’s own, deliberately hand-wavey explanation,

Fact: when Fidge had thrown all Minnie’s toys down the stairs at Graham’s house, the thing that had happened next—the huge soundless static explosion—must have somehow churned them together, and who knew what might—

Yes: Fidge, and Graham, and all of Minnie’s toys (including a pink and purple elephant named Ella and a bright pink diamanté mobile phone that makes a very annoying sound when it rings), and Graham’s “transitional object” (a plastic promotional carrot from a supermarket, which his rather dippy parents are hoping will serve as a locus for all of his fears and help him cope with change), are in The Land of the Wimbley Woos. And not just in a generic sense, either: they are, specifically, in Minnie’s copy, and therefore in Minnie’s version of Wimbley Land. (The Purple Wimblies, upon all of which she has drawn moustaches in felt-tip in her copy of the book, are moustachioed here.) Much more problematic, though, is the fact that Wed Wabbit is also in the book—and here, in what is clearly some corner of Minnie’s fearful and confused psyche, he is extremely powerful. In fact, he has overthrown the Wimbley King (who doesn’t mind, mostly because his greatest ambition is to be left alone), and established himself as a vast (literally; everything is bigger in Wimbley Land, so Wed Wabbit is about twenty feet tall) and terrifying dictator.

Well, terrifying to the Wimbley Woos, anyway. When Graham and Fidge first meet this tyrannical incarnation of Wed Wabbit, the inherent ridiculousness of the situation brings them together for the first time:

“WIMBLEY LAND HAS BEEN WUN IN A WEGWETTABLE WAY, BUT NOW THE TIME OF WECKONING HAS COME,WEQUIWING A BWEAK FWOM THE PAST AND A CWACK DOWN ON TWEATS AND WELAXATION. IT WILL TAKE AN EXTWEMELY STWONG STWUGGLE TO WIGHT THESE WONGS AND I—”

Graham let out a huge snort, and Fidge found she couldn’t hold back any longer and they were suddenly both yelping with helpless, uncontrollable laughter—Graham doubled up, Fidge with tears actually running down her cheeks.

(That’s not a formatting error above, by the way; Wed Wabbit speaks in 62-point all-caps.)

In order to depose Wed Wabbit, Fidge and Graham—plus Ella, the carrot (who demands to be referred to as “Dr. Carrot”, despite Graham pointing out that the “DR” printed on her base stands for “Douglas Retail”, the name of the shop where the vegetable promotion was occurring), a plucky Pink Wimbly and a somewhat long-winded Grey Wimbly—must bring all the Wimblies together to take out the Blues, who serve as castle guards.

Honestly, I’m nearly 1000 words into the review and we’ve just about sorted the meat of the plot. Wed Wabbit pretty much defies description in that regard, but in the best possible way. It is an intensely weird premise and there is no point in pretending it is not—but then, Evans knows, and is entirely uninterested in, its level of weirdness. The mechanism by which Fidge, Graham and the toys get into Minnie’s book—much less get out again—is never explained and hardly dwelt upon. Wed Wabbit isn’t about believable world-building; it’s about using the structure of a quest narrative (free Wimbley Land from tyranny!) to intelligently parallel an arc of internal emotional development. Both Fidge and Graham need to let go of something that is holding them captive: Fidge, her refusal to give or receive hugs (which here are metonyms for affection and the vulnerability that comes with being demonstrative), and Graham, his terror of everything and his belief in the superiority of intellect above pragmatism or kindness. Both of them, in other words, have their own Wed Wabbits lurking in their hearts.

For the most part this is fairly subtly done (at least, I imagine a ten-year-old wouldn’t necessarily twig). There is one moment, I think, where Evans slightly overplays it:

“But why?” asked Graham. “What does he get out of it? OK, so he’s the boss and the whole country’s terrified of him, and everyone rushes about obeying his orders, but he’s stuck in the castle, he never gets out, he never does anything or talks to anyone or has any fun or…” He suddenly became aware that Dr. Carrot was looking at him in a significant way. “What?” he asked defensively. “You’re not trying to say that’s like me, are you?”

Why, yes, yes indeed.

Fidge’s turn, when it comes, is better managed: having done what they believe necessary to defeat Wed Wabbit, she realizes one final thing is in order, and—reluctantly—hugs him. Instantly, he shrinks, colour returns to Wimbley Land (amongst other things, he has been draining everything to white), and good governance is restored. (Not, mind you, by the re-installation of the Wimbley King. The Oldest and Wisest of the Grey Wimblies, who has by now learned the art of brevity, is elected ruler in his stead.)

Fidge and Graham’s personal quests, though a hook to hang the rest of the book from, are not really the funny bits. Those are mostly to do with the Wimblies, who can only communicate in the singsong rhyme scheme of their book, and whose self-conceptions are entirely based around the assumption that each color Wimbly is only good at one thing. (This is, in fact, key to the strategy that ends up overthrowing Wed Wabbit, but I won’t spoil everything for you.) The rhyming provides almost infinite opportunities for wit, and Evans takes full advantage of them. The Wimbley King’s apathy, for instance, is delightfully articulated by the fact that he frequently can’t be bothered to think of end rhymes:

“Sorry, I didn’t hear your question./This muesli’s rather good./Bim bestion.”

When Wimbley Land is freed, it’s not just from Wed Wabbit, but from the shackles of trochaic tetrameter. A Pink Wimbly thanks Fidge in the structure of a limerick:

“But it’s us who can’t thank you enough/We know that your journey’s been rough/For such a brave fight/Your talents were right/You’re clever and stubborn and tough.”

“It wasn’t just me,” said Fidge.

A Purple with green blotches clapped Graham on the back.

“One straw is so weak,” it bellowed. “But take and weave a handful—/Such strength together!”

“That didn’t rhyme,” said Fidge.

“Blank verse,” said Ella.

(I think, actually, it’s a haiku.)

The strength of Wed Wabbit, therefore, isn’t necessarily in its plot: even though describing it takes ages and sounds quite mad, it’s in the service of a not-so-unusual story, about how to find strength at moments when you feel weak, about how to make friends and move through fear. Where it shines is in its complete dedication to being batshit, its ability to convince us that yes, of course, a four-year-old’s idea of a terrible dungeon would indeed include squashy bananas and warm milk with a skin on it, because those are the things she hates. That’s what makes it, not just a good children’s book, but a good book, like Pixar doesn’t just make good movies for kids but good movies in general. In fact, I’d quite like to see Pixar adapt this.