Professor Oatley begins from the vantage point that fiction presents opportunities for the reader to ‘model’ or ‘simulate’ worlds. We become partners with authors in a play of fictional actions and emotions that trigger neurons in the very same centres in our brains that would be activated were we to be performing these actions or experiencing these emotions for real. The object of this play is social as we situate ourselves in a social world. And being so, it is at the same time conversational, that being a key component of the social. It turns out that talking about fiction, as readers, is one of the most useful things we could be doing.

Unsurprisingly this is rich ground for a cognitive psychologist and sometime novelist to plough. The main portion of the text sets up the basis for the fiction as simulation theory. Here, every statement seems to be supported by some psychological study. But few, if any, of the supporting materials are challenged. Which may be the way psychologists build positions, seemingly by accretion. For my part, I worry that the conceptual roots of these various studies and theories from the past hundred or more years may not, in practice, cohere so nicely. But perhaps this is merely a way of noting that psychology is not philosophy.

The final three chapters are especially interesting: ‘Writing fiction’; ‘Effects of fiction’; and ‘Talking about fiction’. The first of these provides some practical guidance for potential authors, drawing upon Flaubert’s writing practice. That practice consists in five phases: planning, scenarios, drafts (of which there are many), style, and finally the finished draft. The chapter on the effects of fiction asks whether reading literature is good for you. Oatley treats this primarily as a question about measureable outcomes such as increased cognitive or problem-solving abilities. He acknowledges that in a time of severe pressure on educational curricula, such demonstrable benefits may be essential to sustain literature’s place in our schools. But of course for many, the idea that literature might be good for you is really a question about whether it is morally improving. Here Oatley hands off to Martha Nussbaum’s writing, uncritically, to settle the matter. The final chapter may be particularly interesting to those of us who attend book clubs or participate in online discussions of our reading. Oatley states emphatically: “To talk about fiction is almost as important as to engage with it in the first place” (178). It’s a great statement and I agree with it, naturally, though I would prefer to see much more on the relation between such discussions and the (potential) moral benefits of reading literature. That, however, is not a criticism, merely a wish for future reading.

Although written for a general audience, Such Stuff as Dreams has a vast number of citations in the forty pages of endnotes that function almost as a parallel text. It seems, at times, as though Oatley has canvassed every possible study, monograph, or text at all relevant to his project. Thankfully his twenty-plus page bibliography should provide the keen student of these ideas ample fodder for further investigation.

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.