The season of fireside reading is officially upon us! So for those in need of some suggestions, here are six of my favorite novels — and one much-loved play — I think are well worth picking up this winter.
“She Stoops to Conquer” (1773) — Oliver Goldsmith
Some lighter fare first. For those new to eighteenth-century literature, “She Stoops to Conquer,” a short but chirpy play, is a natural springboard. Set against the intimate, fire-lit rooms of an English country manor, this comedy of manners revolves around the quick-witted Kate Hardcastle, as she outmaneuvers her Janus-faced suitor Charles Marlow. With gentlewomen like Kate, Marlow is a bashful, deferential mess of a man. Meanwhile, in the company of working-class women, he is a bold (frankly, rather creepy) rogue, a reality Kate exposes in an elaborate ruse. “She Stoops to Conquer” explores the absurdity and humor in the everyday performance of class and gender norms — and the sometimes frustrating, sometimes endearing reality of human mutability. It’s the perfect panacea for a dull winter day.
“Northanger Abbey” (1817) — Jane Austen
For those unfamiliar with Austen’s beloved literary ribbing of the Gothic, the novel chronicles the development of Catherine Morland, whose preference for the genre colors her perception of the world from the modish streets of Bath to the halls of the eponymous estate. To the young protagonist, macabre intrigue is not just the stuff of books but of reality, too. Catherine discovers that her instincts and fears are not so much mistaken as misplaced — no matter what well-meaning but overly-secure beau Henry Tilney might say to the contrary. In a Radcliffean twist, Austen, in her archly astute way, shows us that everyday vices like avarice, tyranny and deceit are just as terrifying as any Gothic spook.
“Fathers and Sons” (1862) — Ivan Turgenev
Although “Fathers and Sons” examines a mid-nineteenth-century Russian ideological schism, one needn’t be a Russianist to appreciate the work. Turgenev’s nuanced, compassionate portrait of generational conflict stands the test of time. The novel opens with recent university graduate Arkady Kirsanov, as he returns to his father Nikolai’s provincial estate. His friend Yevgeny Bazarov, a medical student and self-styled nihilist whose worldview has already rubbed off on Arkady, comes along. Nikolai and his brother Pavel are troubled by the disparity between their (apparently antediluvian) liberal, reformist views and the young men’s skepticism toward progressivism and Slavophile traditionalism alike. When Bazarov and Arkady meet the captivating, financially independent Madame Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova and her quietly dignified sister, Katya, the young men must grapple with their supposed emotional indifference and their burgeoning affections.
“The Rainbow” (1915) — D.H. Lawrence
Set primarily in the East Midlands of England between the 1840s and the early twentieth century, “The Rainbow” traces three generations of the Brangwen family, beginning with the union of a sensitive farmer Tom Brangwen and Lydia Lensky, a flinty Polish widow living in exile. The novel then focuses on the increasingly hostile marriage between Anna Lensky, Lydia’s headstrong daughter by her first husband, and Tom’s possessive, insecure nephew Will. Finally, “The Rainbow” follows Anna and Will Brangwen’s daughter Ursula in her pursuit of moral truth and vocational purpose in a mercenary society and in her search of emotional depth in her relationship with complacent soldier Anton Skrebensky. Part commentary on intergenerational relationships, part criticism of English industrialization and urbanization, part exploration of female hetero- and homosexual desire, part examination of the communication breakdown between men and women, it’s nearly impossible for me to condense “The Rainbow” into a neat summary. Lawrence’s language is fervid; his imagery, lush; his narrative, all-encompassing. The best I can say is, well, read it.
“Snow Country” (1956) — Yasunari Kawabata
Kawabata’s austere novel, expressed in crystalline and somber prose, reflects on the beautiful in the melancholy and on the isolation that arises from aestheticism devoid of human sentiment. For years, Shimamura, an idle married man from Tokyo, frequents a hot spring town nestled in the white-capped Japanese Alps, where he sees a young geisha named Komako. Though forced into her profession by financial necessity and gender constraints, Komako’s inner life is dynamic and rich. She cultivates her passion for music and dance insofar as she is able. She feels with vigor and delicacy in equal measure. While Komako comes to love him, Shimamura is unable to derive any finer feelings from what he sees as a transactional, carnal affair. At most, he pities her. But Shimamura, who lives off family money and merely pretends to have an interest in the performing arts, is much more to be pitied — or scorned. Only as a witness to Komako’s humanity can Shimamura realize the hollowness of his own life, though perhaps too late.
“My Brilliant Friend” (2012) — Elena Ferrante
The first installment of Ferrante’s “Neapolitan Novels” is a colossus of twenty-first-century fiction. Ostensibly, “My Brilliant Friend” centers on Elena Greco, a young woman in a working-class neighborhood in post-war Naples, as she recounts her childhood friendship and rivalry with Raffaella “Lila” Cerullo. Elena sees herself as retiring and both intellectually and physically unremarkable. In contrast, she views Lila as admirably fierce, adroit and beautiful. All the while, Lila berates herself for her crudeness and hot-headed nature. She holds Elena in high esteem for her diligence, composure and subtlety of mind. As the pair age, rhythms of class and gender limitations set them on divergent life paths. Nonetheless, their relationship with one another continues to inform how they perceive the world and how they conceive of themselves. The visceral, unrelenting honesty of Ferrante’s style — particularly in the expression of women’s rage in the face of gender and economic oppression — gives “My Brilliant Friend” a singular potency. Ferrante’s characters are literary forces of nature, even if they don’t always recognize it for themselves. Elena is simultaneously highly conscious, prudent, awkward, penetrating and powerfully resolute. Lila is indomitable, coarse, elegant, enterprising, loyal and vulnerable. Their “friendship” (the word is woefully inadequate) is manifold, running the gamut from hatred to love and dissolving the boundaries of selfhood. The result is magnetic. Brilliant, even.
“Sing, Unburied, Sing” (2017) — Jesmyn Ward
Ward’s lyrical and gripping novel begins in the fictional Mississippi town of Bois Sauvage and follows Jojo, a precocious thirteen-year-old, and his little sister Kayla, siblings born to a Black mother Leonie and a white father Michael. The pair — both of whom possess the ability to communicate with the (un)dead — are raised primarily by their maternal grandparents; Leonie, traumatized by the murder of her brother and addicted to drugs, is mentally absent, while Michael is physically and mentally absent, serving out a sentence for drug trafficking. Upon the end of Michael’s sentence, Leonie and her family embark on something of a modern Odyssey to Mississippi State Penitentiary, coming face to face with the ghosts — literal and figurative, past and present — of US slavery, convict leasing, the prison industrial complex and the experiences of interracial families in a racist society.
Contact the editors responsible for this story: Norah Catlin, Anabelle Meyers
