LITERARY FICTION
A CHILDREN’S BIBLE by Lydia Millet
(Norton £13.99, 240pp) THE pandemic amplifies the resonance of this brilliant end-of-days escapade by Pulitzer Prize- nominee Millet. We begin in a lakeside mansion in the U.S., where a group of well-to-do types are summering with their children.
But while the latter are preternaturally mature, the former are soon doolally from drink and drugs.
It’s the same abdication of responsibility that has led to the climate crisis, as teenage narrator Evie and her peers know well. But when a devastating storm wipes out the area’s infrastructure, survival becomes a very real concern.
Millet’s title refers to the book that Evie’s adorable younger brother loves and, as the apocalyptic events take a turn for the stranger, Biblical echoes begin to emerge.
Witheringly sardonic Evie has numerous zinging lines in this gleefully inventive novel that pulls no punches in terms of its message, but never sacrifices entertainment.
What’s more, if the conclusion doesn’t leave you with goosebumps, then you should probably check your pulse.
HEAVEN AND EARTH by Paolo Giordano
(W&N £14.99, 416pp) IF YOU’RE pining for an Italian break, then this might be the remedy: Heaven And Earth is rooted so deep in idyllic Puglia that you can almost feel the red soil under your sandals. One summer, teenager Teresa encounters three boys from a nearby farmhouse: spoilt Nicola, his cousin Bern, and albino Tommaso. The trio belong to a religious sect headed by Nicola’s father — in spite of which, Bern and Teresa soon become entangled.
But the boys’ bond is far deeper than she can know and, in adulthood, tension erupts into tragedy.
Theology, infertility and extremist environmental activism torridly combine in Giordano’s novel, the taut first third of which has the heightened atmosphere of a fever dream.
Sadly, the melodramatic remainder slowly saps the stamina with lengthy expositional monologues: this may have been a European bestseller, but the characters were definitely more invested than I was in their convoluted mythology.
THE VANISHING SKY by L. Annette Binder
(Bloomsbury Circus £14.99, 288pp) IN THE pretty German town of Heidenfeld, nothing seems to change: generations live in the same half-timbered houses and worship at the same churches every Sunday. But this is 1945, and normality a strained pretence.
Worry has made hausfrau Etta fat, even though food is scarce: worry for her eldest, Max, who has been two years at the front; for her youngest, Georg, now at the Hitler School; and for her husband, Josef, who’s determined to serve despite his walking stick.
And Etta’s relief when Max is sent home is short-lived as his devastating shell-shock emerges. Meanwhile, Georg plans to desert, knowing he’ll be hanged if he’s caught.
Binder was born in Germany herself and evokes great sympathy for Etta and her painfully fractured family, while opening up unusual angles on the terrible conflict. Written in purposefully even prose that is nonetheless harrowing, it’s an intimate tragedy that’s all the more powerful for refusing the ending we fervently hope for.