Enchanting, if that word is not misplaced. Susanna Clarke’s delightfully austenesque style, full of wit and charm, breathes life into a world not so very far from our own. Early 19th century England is awash with nostalgia, of a sort, for an earlier time when magic and Englishness were near synonymous. For more than 400 years all that remains of English magic are theoretical magicians, steeped in a bookish history but unable to partake of practical magic. Mr Norrell of Hurtfew Abbey, Yorkshire, reduces theoretical magic to a mere nothing when he dramatically emerges on the scene as England’s sole practitioner of practical magic. England will never be the same again; or, depending on your point of view, England is finally returning to its natural state. Together with Jonathan Strange, his pupil and eventual colleague, Mr Norrell opens the door to unique opportunities in the ongoing battle against the French tyrant, Napoleon. But other doors are opened as well, and soon enough intrusions from Faerie begin to dominate events.

This is no mere exercise in fanciful world building. Clarke pours an intricate plot whose pace quickens markedly in the final third of the book. The climax is as dramatic, and unexpected, as you could hope. You will be surprised but entirely satisfied, I think. I took my time reading this book, revelling in Clarke’s masterful styling. I encourage you to do the same. Warmly recommended.

Love, loss, and loneliness combine in this superficially superficial novel. Murakami presents a world of isolated characters on singular trajectories, whose paths sometimes cross but never truly meet. Like the characters themselves, emotions are untethered, emerging as love unrequited, unconnected sexual desire, and an unspecified fear. Only child-like friendship, fiercely loyal, singular, and platonic, seems real, something characters can cling to but, sadly, not build upon. The prose is lithesome, youthful, and unadorned, yet at times almost dreamlike. Sort of a curious combination of Camus and Alain-Fournier. The setting, nominally Japan with a visit to a nameless Greek island, is sprinkled with enough namechecks of world brands such as Amstel, Heineken, Elizabeth Schwarzkopf, that it feels like it could be taking place anywhere, or in keeping with its orbital theme, somewhere high above the earth. Or perhaps we are in a dreamworld, the “other” place that the characters sometimes seek, or fear they have lost themselves to. This is a novel that will prompt new thoughts, but will not settle down into a one-line summary. Highly recommended.

Simply delightful. Stanley Fish appreciates “sentences that take your breath away.” His enthusiasm is infectious, fuelled by examples drawn from great literature. He makes you want to read each of those works (and countless others) slowly, so that you can savour every last sentence.

This is not a manual of style or correct usage; comparisons with Strunk and White are misplaced. There are a few simple exercises suggested, but what Fish is aiming at is not pedagogy, and certainly not pedantry. It is, rather, I think, a genuine wish to encourage readers (and writers) to refocus on the very stuff that makes great literature great: sentences.

What are sentences? They are basic building blocks of meaning, an organization of items in the world, a structure of logical relationships. It sounds a bit like the early Wittgenstein re-heated by J.L. Austin. It’s not. Stanley Fish is an unapologetic child of the New Criticism. His formula – Sentence craft equals sentence comprehension equals sentence appreciation – is nothing less than a justification for steeping oneself in the finest sentences that the history of literature can provide. Which is precisely what he does.

That the university town of Troy is described as “the Athens of the Midwest” ought to be a signal that a conflicted tragedy on a Homeric scale is about to unfold. And that’s mostly true, although the “Homer” is more Simpson than Greek. Tragedy abounds—from the songbirds caught off guard by winter’s full force in the opening paragraph, to child abandonment, infanticide (sort of), fratricide (sort of), roommate-icide (sort of), racism, paternalism, terrorism, and people who quote Nietzsche. In the face of so much tragedy, Moore offers us Tassie Keltjin, intrepid baby-sitter, kilt clad bassist, and bard. When Tassie expresses doubt that the stars and the planets have anything to do with our lives down here, her roommate, Murph, succinctly replies, “How could they not?” They’re both right: the gods have no interest in us, yet we find ourselves buffeted and banged about by random chance, coincidence, and gruesome reality.

Fortunately, Tassie, her family, and her close friends have uncanny wit and revel in verbal gamesmanship. Because there is no making sense of things. Life just doesn’t make sense. And so you’ve got to laugh.

Lorrie Moore packs a wealth of observation, and disappointment, into this burbling novel. Sometimes it feels so full, you’ll think it will spill its bounds. Yet, she manages to keep it and Tassie on course through the worst of everything, even a metaphoric visit to Hades, to renewed hope and the return to the life of learning, and Starbucks. Be prepared to be surprised, confounded, appalled, and amused. Highly recommended.