FICTION READING LIST
TThe year 2020 was, for me, one for reading books by famous, best-selling authors whose works I had not read before. First is the Belgian author, the late Georges Simenon, whose Inspector Maigret murder mysteries were wildly popular in mid-20th century Europe. I enjoyed Pietr the Latvian and Maigret at Picratt’s for the precision of the story-telling and the political incorrectness. Classism, racism and misogyny, dealt out with unapologetic aplomb. Nasty, but upfront.
Next, four books from Louise Penny’s Inspector Gamache series. Most of these take place in the fairy-tale village of Three Pines, in Canada’s Québec. The meals are described in such mouth-watering detail that we can barely tear ourselves away from the table to notice the bloodied corpse spread-eagled across the carpet. The character portraits are as charming as the dénouements are improbable, but who cares! The Tarte au Citron is to die for. Literally.
Elena Ferrante’s novels, set in post-war Naples, involve more subtle crimes— the smothering of childhood hopes, the public humiliation of young suitors. Her most recent, The Lying Life of Adults, is contemporary yet the voice and characters seem hardly changed. It begins with the protagonist Giovanna overhearing her father say she looks like his despised sister, Vittoria. In that instant, her life is thrown into chaos and she’s off, hurtling recklessly towards lies, truth and adulthood. Ferrante picks at the common scabs of humanity with such cunning skill that we feel the pinch on our knees, as she winces.
I read Susannah Clarke’s Piranesi and loved it from the very first paragraph. The best thing about it might be that it is short, particularly given the outsize ideas contained within. Space and time, for instance. Truth and integrity. Love, joy and a glimpse of infinity thrown in as an afterthought. Really, quite wonderful.
My favourite this year, though, is a set of three illustrated books, Inside Moebius—an autobiographical tour of the artist Jean Giroux’s final years. Best known by his penname, Moebius, his skill was phenomenal and output prodigious. His greatest gift, though, was his raunchy wit. In these books, using his own potato-nosed, sag-bellied self as hero, Giroux confronts his many addictions— weed, of course, but also weightlessness. He’s always soaring up into the heavens, unencumbered by machines or gravity. Other pursuits include female beauty, spiritual truth and irreverence. In one of the books, there’s an image so gloriously obscene that I’m amazed the page didn’t spontaneously combust. Won’t tell you which one it’s in! Go on. Find it yourself. ■