I read some excellent books in November – a mix of literary fiction (novels and novellas), translated literature, essays, and poetry – but overall it was a month dominated by Nordic literature (Norway, Denmark, and Finland). So, without further ado, here’s a brief look at the seven books. Barring one, you can read the detailed reviews on the rest by clicking the title links.

THE LOWLIFE by Alexander Baron

Originally published in 1963, The Lowlife by Alexander Baron is an engrossing, darkly humorous novel about a charming Jewish gambler with a distinctive, compelling voice; an avid reader who lives in a shabby boarding house in post-war London, gets caught up in a young family’s domestic drama, and finds himself crossing paths with the underworld.

Told in the first person, we meet the suave, unrepentant, uniquely named Harryboy Boas, the lowlife of the title, who resides in a cheap boarding house in Hackney, east London. Harry whiles away his days gambling at the greyhound tracks, reading Zola in his spare time, always ensuring he has enough money in hand to cover his meals and rent. When Lady Luck favours him, Harry is on cloud nine: flush with cash, he treats himself to hearty meals at his favourite cafés, spends unhurried mornings reading, and immerses himself in the races each evening. But in the world of gambling, fortunes turn quickly. When his luck runs dry, Harry falls back on earning a living as a Hoffman presser – work that brings in just enough to keep him afloat, with a little left over to bet at the races again. It’s a precarious existence, yet one he finds satisfying in its own way.

At the boarding house where Harry resides, we meet its small cast of residents. There’s Mr Siskin, the passive-aggressive owner who occupies the basement flat, and the elderly Miss Ethel Gosling, lonely and depressed by the recent death of her sister. And then the Deaners arrive, setting in motion a chain of events that soon spirals out of control and upends Harry’s life. By turns frenetic and entertaining, comic yet laced with danger and darkness, The Lowlife navigates themes of guilt and memory, war trauma and the longing for redemption, struggles of the everyday and middle-class aspirations, social class and snobbery, racism and prejudice, fraught families, parenting and sacrifice; rich, varied elements that are seamlessly woven into a propulsive narrative.

THE BOAT IN THE EVENING by Tarjei Vesaas (Translated from Norwegian by Elizabeth Rokkan)

The Boat in the Evening by Tarjei Vesaas is a mesmeric, dreamlike book about the mysteries of the natural world, memories, death, man’s relationship with landscape, solitude, loneliness, and the yearning for human connection. It’s a difficult book to pin down. Not a conventional novel, it’s described instead as “a series of semi-autobiographical sketches” infused with hauntingly poetic scenes, striking imagery, visions, and hallucinations. Across its sixteen pieces, the work dissolves the boundaries between prose and poetry – while structured as prose, each chapter pulses with a lyrical, trancelike intensity.

The opening piece, “As It Stands in the Memory,” is a haunting and poignant portrayal of a strained father-son relationship set in the depths of winter. The second piece, “In the Marshes and on the Earth”, is cinematic in scope, with its evocative portrayal of humankind’s communion with the natural world. “Spring of Winter”, a sketch of young love, unfurls in a snowstorm as “whiteness poured down into the comers incessantly” and where “the snow near the lamps was trackless”, while death and menace hang over the chapter “The Drifter and the Mirrors,” where a man, seemingly at the end of his tether, leans out over a river, entranced by the “mirrors”, perilously close to falling in (“The thought of slipping becomes stronger the longer one looks down into the water”).

The highlight of the book comes towards the end in the chapter called “The Melody” and presents a miniature portrait of family life, home, and childhood. Vesaas captures the natural world in all its splendour – its stark beauty and grandeur intertwined with the sense that it can also often be a desolate, unforgiving, and inscrutable place. 

BARON BAGGE by Alexander Lernet-Holenia (Translated from German by Richard and Clara Winston)

Alexander Lernet-Holenia’s Baron Bagge is a strange, haunting novella of love, loss, war, trauma, and the dreamlike liminal space between life and death set in Eastern Europe during the First World War. Narrated by Bagge, he recounts his singular experiences in 1915, the year he served as a first lieutenant in the Count Gondola Dragoons under the command of the erratic, hot-tempered, and perhaps even mentally unstable Captain Semler.

Under fresh orders, the unit is dispatched on a reconnaissance mission for the division and the army, and they set off, led by the temperamental Captain Semler, who charges ahead with reckless determination and no discernible strategy. Holenia infuses this section of the story with much tension and foreboding as the reconnaissance patrol gallops into uncertainty, the threat of a sudden Russian assault ever-present. When the patrol reaches the bridge near the Ondava, it is immediately attacked by the Russians. In the skirmish that follows, the baron is hit by stones and briefly loses his bearings, yet, against all odds, the men survive and make their way to Nagy-Mihály astonishingly unharmed.

The most peculiar encounter of all is Bagge’s first meeting with Charlotte Szent-Király, the daughter his mother had hoped he would marry. To his surprise, Charlotte openly declares her love for him. Bagge is taken aback – had they not just met? Shouldn’t she take time to know him before professing such feelings? Still, Charlotte remains steadfast in her love, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, Bagge finds himself drawn into her charm. As Bagge falls in love with Charlotte and begins to feel truly at home amidst the warmth and gaiety of Nagy-Mihály, the thought of returning to the battlefield with the looming spectre of death becomes almost unimaginable. He would rather spend his days with Charlotte than heed Semler’s call to leave the town and pursue the enemy – but does Bagge even have that choice?

THE WAX CHILD by Olga Ravn (Translated from Danish by Martin Aitken)

Set in 17^th-century Denmark and told through a singular narrator, Olga Ravn’s The Wax Child unfolds as a dark, haunting, eerie tale of misogyny, power, scapegoating, and witchcraft, particularly rooted in the intense wave of witchcraft trials of the period.  The backdrop here is the region of Jutland in the country, which experienced one of the most feverish phases of witch-hunting in the 1600s, fuelled by ignorance, religious beliefs, royal power, and local politics.

At the centre stands an extraordinary narrator: a wax doll fashioned by its mistress, Christenze Kruckow, the novel’s protagonist. Sculpted to resemble a child, mute yet perceptive, the doll bears witness to Christenze’s life and, crucially, to her death. Now buried – “I speak again to the soil that covers my face” – the wax child recounts the past and also views the future, sifting through the events and undercurrents of fear, power, and accusations that shaped Christenze’s fate. As Christenze flees Funen to the larger town of Aalborg (“This was not Nakkebølle, it was not even Funen; shudders ran even through my hardy wax, this was Aalborg, 1616, city of hate”), she encounters Maren Kneppis, who “gleamed with a light that was golden, as though she were part deity, part effervescent ale”, along with her circle of friends – Apelone and the one-eyed widow, Dorte – and soon becomes enmeshed in their lives, part of a wider community of women. 

At around the same time, the King of Denmark intensifies his campaign of putting an end to witchcraft, urging citizens to report suspected witches, escalating trials, and condemning the accused – most often women – to the stake. Composed of brief fragments and longer vignettes – some only a paragraph, others stretching to three to four pages – Ravn’s narrative feels like an incantation, as she infuses it with the language of spells, potions, and old magic. This lends the novella a strange, hypnotic, almost otherworldly aura, even if it sometimes seems abstract.

LOWEST COMMON DENOMINATOR by Pirkko Saisio (Translated from Finnish by Mia Spangenberg)

Originally published in 1998, Pirkko Saisio’s Lowest Common Denominator is a beguiling tale of growing up in 1950s Finland, narrated from the perspective of a young girl struggling to make sense of the ever-shifting expectations of the many adults who populate her large, extended family and shape her understanding of the world. The novel, however, opens in the present, where our narrator is Pirkko herself – now an adult, a mother to her daughter Elsa, and still a daughter navigating the complex relationship with her own father. After having returned from a trip to Korea, she calls her father for a chat, only to find him sounding unusually distressed and disoriented.

Once the father is admitted to the hospital, and Pirkko finds herself lingering in its corridors, the narrative slips into the past, as episodic memories of her parents, extended family, and childhood fears and insecurities rise to the surface. These drifting recollections, moving fluidly across time, evoke a richly detailed childhood and gradually assemble a portrait of the many people who moulded her – family members across generations, friends, teachers, and other figures whose presence influenced her inner world. For much of the book, these memories unfold as long-form vignettes that capture specific moments from her early years, mirroring the non-linear yet sharply etched texture of memory itself.

One of the most striking aspects of Lowest Common Denominator is the way the narrative seamlessly oscillates between the first and third person, positioning Pirkko simultaneously as storyteller and subject. The first-person perspective immerses the reader in her immediate experiences, as well as reliving the distinct, formative years of childhood, while the shift to third person allows her to observe herself from a distance, reflecting on her past with a keen, sharp awareness (“I had become she, the one always under observation”).

I USED TO BE CHARMING by Eve Babitz

I Used to Be Charming is a spirited and lively compilation of previously uncollected nonfiction writing by Eve Babitz. Spanning nearly 50 pieces written between roughly 1975 and 1997, the collection is an eclectic mix of magazine articles, essays, celebrity profiles, cultural commentary, travel pieces, lifestyle reportage, and occasional personal reflections. Babitz wrote for publications such as Mademoiselle, Esquire, The Washington Book Post World, Movieline, Vogue, LA Style, The New York Times Book Review, Smart, The Los Angeles Times, and so on. In other words, it is a wide-ranging anthology of articles that showcase Babitz’s voice across decades – her journalism and her unique eye for culture intertwined with personal experiences.

Some of my favourites in this collection are the lengthier pieces, which dwell on her interactions with movie and music personalities, the vibrant LA art scene, comparisons between LA and New York, as well as the cultural haunts that embodied the spirit of LA.

In “My God, Eve, How Can You Live Here?”, Babitz slips effortlessly into the role of an expert travel guide, leading the reader through her beloved LA, and pinpointing what truly matters on a visit, picking out the best of what LA has to offer. “Sunday, Blue Pool, Sunday” – the title probably a playful riff on U2’s popular song Sunday Bloody Sunday – is a reflective piece on languid life in LA, specifically the relaxed, sun-drenched atmosphere of Sundays by a swimming pool. In “All This and The Godfather Too,” a piece that pulsates with Babitz’s characteristic cool and casual, smart and glamorous style, she recounts her time on the sets of The Godfather, observing Francis Ford Coppola and Al Pacino at close quarters and offering sharp, amused insights into their temperaments and artistic vision. “Jim Morrison is Dead and Living in Hollywood” is a compelling, nostalgic, candid reflection on Jim Morrison, exploring the stark contrast between the myth and reality of the lead singer of The Doors. 

I Used to Be Charming can be read as a document of a certain time and place, filtered through Babitz’s astute eye and brought to life through her blend of cultural reportage and intimate reflections. The result is a rich, often dazzling portrait of Los Angeles and its world of dreamers, glitterati, misfits, and nightlife. 

THERE LIVES A YOUNG GIRL IN ME WHO WILL NOT DIE by Tove Ditlevsen (Translated from Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith & Jennifer Russell)

Generally, I’m not much into poetry, I’m not the right reader for it, but Tove Ditlevsen’s collection of poems piqued my interest because I’ve loved her prose so much – The Copenhagen Trilogy, The Faces, and the short story collection, The Trouble with Happiness.

There are some wonderful poems in There Lives a Young Girl in Me Who Will Not Die, gathered together from a slew of collections from 1939 to 1973; although I must say, I strongly preferred the first half of the book to the second. In these poems, Ditlevsen dwells on some similar themes that made her prose so compelling – anxiety and depression, a mother’s insecurities, troubled love, death, the nostalgia of childhood, and, as Olga Ravn in the introduction states, “Ditlevsen’s poetry is always about the discrepancy between ‘who I ought to be’ and ‘who I am’.

In the poem “Anxiety”, Ditlevsen is assailed by mounting fears and insecurities at night that rob her of restful sleep (“But I am seized and swept across turbulent waters of dread”).

Are there seven seas of anxiety

where every single drop is bound

to drip its poison into my mind,

until love and hope cannot be found?

Are there oceans of anxiety

where every single wave

is destined to crash into me,

bringing horrors I alone must brave?

“I Love You” is about fleeting and precious love not hampered by commitments and daily drudgery (“For I will never darn you tattered socks or see you trudge about with a frown, and you will never find me tired and glum, wasting away in an old nightgown”). “The Eternal Three” dwells on the two types of men Tove often meets and how all women are caught between these two (“There are two men in the world who always cross my path, one is the man I love, the other man loves me”).

In some of these poems, Ditlevsen muses on the fragile nature of love, as in the poem “Admission”…

Don’t you see? I want you to understand:

Anything entrusted to me slips from my hand,

and so, for the sake of our happiness, my dear,

do not care for me so much, you hear!

It’s definitely a collection worth exploring for both its wit and sadness, especially if you are a fan of Tove Ditlevsen’s work.

That’s it for November. I began December with Alba de Céspedes’ There’s No Turning Back, which was wonderful (review to follow soon), and I’ll probably read Teffi’s From Moscow to the Black Sea for ‘NYRBWomen25’. Plans on the anvil also include reading another Miss Marple and Stories for Winter and Nights by the Fire from the British Library Women Writers Series.  Plus, I plan to release my Best Books of 2025 post around mid-December, so watch this space!