Marcus Berkmann
I tend to read non-fiction for review or research and fiction to keep me sane. This year I have rarely been more than two books away from another Georges Simenon. I started late last year with three old Maigrets I found on a shelf (fortunately my own), then progressed to the romans durs, fantastically bleak, unforgiving portrayals of psychological collapse, recounted in the old rogue’s characteristically flat, unemotional prose. The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By (Penguin, 1938) is justly revered; Monsieur Monde Vanishes (1952) has recently reappeared under the NYRB imprint; but I particularly admired The Little Man from Archangel (1957), which is out of print and shouldn’t be. Personally, I need to be quite emotionally robust to get the most out of these books, or so miserable that the even deeper miseries of his characters actually cheer me up.
Oldish and newish novels I have also enjoyed this year include Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys (1995), Barry Unsworth’s The Song of the Kings (2002), Alexei Sayle’s The Weeping Women Hotel (2006) and John Preston’s The Dig (2007).
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