Gonna knock out some posts on this year’s reading before we hit the half-way mark of 2026. Here’s what I remember about January in St Louis. A snow storm came through near the end of the month. It was cold for a while. That was great. I ran as often as the street cleaning allowed. I spent some time applying for a job that I would later get. That was very good. And I read these books.

Georges Simenon, The Two-Penny Bar (1932) Trans. David Watson (2014)

What, you expect me to remember the plot of a Simenon I read five months ago? What I do remember is that this is one of the atmospheric-outskirts-of-Paris Maigrets. The search for the killer of a moneylender (Jewish, natch, boo) whose body has been seen being dumped in the river leads Maigret to a group of friends who spend weekends and holidays at an inn (the bar of the title) near Morsang, a village on the Seine about 40 km from the capital. They fish, paddle about, play cards, chase children, eat fulsomely, drink a hell of a lot, and sleep with each other. Maigret insinuates himself into the group, which is no trouble for him since he loves all those things too. (Except the adultery part. Maigret could never.) The vibes are immaculate, and the crime gets solved too.

Seichō Matsumoto, Tokyo Express (1958) Trans. Jesse Kirkwood (2022)

Born in 1909 in Japan’s Fukoka prefecture, Seichō Matsumoto did not publish until 1950. But then he made up for lost time, publishing over 450 books in the next four decades. These range from procedurals to psychological slow-burns in the vein of Patricia Highsmith or Celia Dale. Until recently, Matsumoto was hard to find in English. Happily, Modern Library (following on the heels of Penguin UK) has launched a program of reissues and they’ve started with one of his best. Tokyo Express (1958) begins with the discovery of the bodies of a man and a woman on a remote beach. Investigators rule the deaths a lovers’ suicide. But two detectives—one local to the scene, older, out of fashion; the other from the city, young, full of new ideas—aren’t buying it. Before long, they think they know who did it—but not how. Part odd-couple buddy story, part oblique criticism of a society desperate to repress its wartime past, the novel is famous for its plot, which centers on the detailed scrutiny of train time-tables. Trust me, this is a lot more exciting than it sounds. Tokyo Express is so clever you’ll be left shaking your head in appreciation at Matsumoto’s skill—and counting down the days until the next reissue appears.

Ray Nayler, Where the Axe is Buried (2025)

Nayler’s second full-length novel—after the excellent The Mountain in the Sea, about octopus intelligence—offers what are coming to seem his trademark elements: compelling characters; clear explanations of how systems function, whether these be ecological, political, or technological; and deep knowledge of political organizations and local customs gained from his other career in the foreign service. Set in an unspecified future in which many parts of the world are run by AI systems designed to maximize resources and human flourishing whereas others rely on more old-fashioned methods of coercion and surveillance, Where the Axe is Buried is a compendium of authoritarian strategies—and the resistances they inevitably provoke. Whether you read for the heart or the head, you’ll find much to appreciate here.

Anthony Trollope, The Way We Live Now (1875)

The subject of Episode 42 of One Bright Book. In my introduction to the episode, I said:

The central concepts of this terrific novel are cowardice and cruelty. Which is not to say it is a cruel or cowardly novel. How could it be, given Trollope’s amused interest in even the worst of the rogue’s gallery that makes up its cast of characters? But there sure is a lot of cruelty in its pages. Maybe we should be glad that even its worst characters don’t seem to take pleasure in their cruelty. (They are not Stephen Miller cruel.) But they are cowards, and in their desire to have things go their own way they will say or do anything, especially if it means they can avoid making a hard choice. Saying enough’s enough to someone else’s bad behaviour; taking responsibility for one’s own actions: these are things almost no one in this novel will do. That cowardice is what leads to cruelty. Something to think about re: our own day. Turns out The Way We Live Now is also about the way we live now.

Anne Youngson, Meet Me at the Museum (2018)

Anne Youngson was unknown to me when I noticed her two novels on the shelves of Leviathan. I figured James had a good reason for stocking them, so I asked him to tell me more. His response: “Light reading that doesn’t insult your intelligence.” Since that is my favourite kind of reading, I immediately moved them to the top of the TBR pile.

I started with Meet Me at the Museum because I love epistolary novels. As a teenager, Tina Hopgood wrote a letter to Professor P. V. Glob at the Silkeborg Museum in Denmark about the Tollund Man, which he had recently gained fame for identifying after the 2500-year-old body was found, perfectly preserved, by two peat-cutters in a bog. Glob—a real guy: his book was reissued by NYRB a while ago—wrote back, prompting the young woman to promise herself that she would visit the museum one day. Since then forty years have passed. Tina, now a middle-aged English farmwife with grown children, writes the professor again, this time because the friend she had planned to take the trip with all those years ago has just died. A reply to her lament for lost time arrives—but not from Glob, because he too is dead.

The letter writer is a curator named Anders Larson, who expresses mild interest in her past encounter with his famous predecessor and condolences on her recent loss. From this kind but detached beginning stems a lengthy correspondence in which two modest and decent people open up to each other about their shared puzzlement at how they came to have more life behind than ahead of them. The obvious comparison to Meet Me at the Museum is 84 Charing Cross Road and if you liked that one you’ll like this too. Like its more famous forbearer, Meet Me is gentle and modest in its ambitions and prose—but thrilling precisely because it doesn’t try to do too much. Its sincerity becomes it. As usual, James is right: it never insults your intelligence.

Youngson was in her 70s when she published this, her first book, written after her retirement from a career as an executive in the car industry. I’ve written before about how much the idea of the late bloomer means to me. (Maybe I’ll still do something with my life!) Learning about the author’s circumstances made me enjoy this lovely book all the more. I think a number of you would dig it, too.

Robert Jackson Bennett, The Tainted Cup (2024)

Rex Stout with monsters. The most dangerous place in Khanum is its sea-walls, where soldiers and engineers must constantly guard the empire from malevolent leviathans that inflict terrible damage any time they manage to breach the defenses. Yet these monsters don’t just threaten Khanum. They are also the source of its most powerful technologies. Alchemists have figured out how to synthesize the beasts’ blood and organs into bodily modifications that grant supernatural abilities and are thus coveted by the Empire’s citizens even though they are so powerful they often cause early death.

The narrator, Dinios “Din” Kol, has chosen to be modified as an Engraver: he remembers everything he ever hears, sees, smells, tastes, and touches. For obvious reasons, Engravers serve in law enforcement, typically serving as assistants to Investigators. At the beginning of The Tainted Cup, Din meets Anagosa “Ana” Dolraba. She is brilliant, idiosyncratic, vaguely disreputable. And she has asked for Din by name. Ana needs an Engraver more than most Investigators, because her agoraphobia and neurodivergence (she is so easily sensorily overstimulated she needs to wear a blindfold) generally keep her inside and away from crime scenes. (See what I mean about Nero Wolfe? And Sherlock Holmes for that matter.)

The pair have been tasked with solving the murder of a prominent Engineer. The man was found dead while visiting the home of a powerful oligarch, killed by dapplegrass, a modified plant that explodes from the inside anything that inhales or consumes it. Shortly thereafter, a section of seawall is breached and several of the Engineers responsible for protecting it are found dead in the same way.

I loved The Tainted Cup from start (a wonderful map) to finish (a teaser for the next volume). The solution to the crime is as good as the world-building: an impressive feat. A lot of books that try to do just one of those things don’t succeed. This is Bennett’s third series. I’ll be getting to them all.

Hans Peter Richter, Friedrich (1961) Trans. Edite Kroll (1970)

Postwar German children’s classic about the persecution of a Jewish child in 1930s Germany. The unnamed narrator has a best friend named Friedrich: the boys, born one week apart in 1925, grow up in the same apartment building, in an out of each other’s lives. At times, the narrator wishes he were part of Friedrich’s family. He looks up to his friend’s parents, warmer and wiser than his own. But the boys diverge as they age and Nazism takes hold on German life. For a time, the narrator manages—like his father, who remains friendly to Friedrich’s parents even after throwing in his lot with the Nazis, thanks to whom he has found work after long-term unemployment—to reconcile his friendship with the new norms of public life. But the contradiction can’t hold: the best part of the book concerns Kristallnacht, when Friedrich finds himself, in a moment of genuine ecstasy, that is, of being thrown outside himself, joining in with the destruction of Jewish property and life, starting with Friedrich’s home.

Richter served in the German army (he lost an arm on the Eastern front); after the war he studied psychology and sociology, but found his calling as a writer for children. Friedrich, the best known of his books, was for years a classroom staple in Germany. It’s easy to see why: it exemplifies the universalist school of representing Jewish life in the Nazi period: that is, it believes German Jews were as ordinary and as German as anyone else; their Jewishness was contingent and incidental to their lives. (In the guise of openness and acceptance, this view manages to reject the idea of Jewishness as meaningful in its own right.) It is also frank about German culpability. Which makes sense, given the audience it was written for. For the same reason, though, it’s not the book contemporary readers, especially non-German ones, are likely to most want on the subject. We might expect a book on the Holocaust to foreground Jewish experience, for example. We might want such a novel to have a Jewish main character. But that doesn’t mean the book isn’t worth reading. It is a document of its time, and carries its own interest, especially its willingness to suggest that there might be a thrilling element to destruction and persecution. A middle-grade book today probably wouldn’t do that, either. And that might be a loss.

Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance (1934)

The past couple of years I’ve been part of a group, headed by Shawn of the Shawn Breathes Books YouTube channel, reading Edith Wharton’s collected works. Regular readers will know I think she’s a genius. I was excited to learn more about where that brilliance came from, and enthusiastically agreed when someone suggested we tackle her autobiography. By the end of the book, I wasn’t so enthusiastic anymore. I didn’t quite expect a tell-all, but I certainly thought it would be more personal than it is. Which makes sense: A Backward Glance predates the era of personal writing. Wharton is discrete to the point of obliquity about her failed marriage to the Boston Brahmin Teddy Wharton and silent about her lengthy love affair with the journalist Morton Fuller. Her look into the past is glancing indeed.

Still, I remember a number of moments, including:

Wharton’s claim that she was taught only two things as a child (she had, to put it mildly, erratic schooling): modern languages and good manners.

Her further claim—which you can see motivating a book like Age of Innocence—that her childhood was worth remembering only because the New York of that time is as vanished a world as Atlantis.

What William Dean Howells told her when the dramatization of The House of Mirth flopped: “What the American public always wants is a tragedy with a happy ending.”

Little Edith, carrying around a book and making up stories from it even before she could read.

A nearly silent visit with Henry James to the aged George Meredith, in the grip of locomotor ataxia and deafness.

Countless drives in an open car through the English countryside with a profusely sweating Henry James, who adored motoring, though of course never drove himself.

What I took most from the book is that Edith Wharton was an excellent, devoted friend. Her shyness and social anxiety caused many to ignore or be disappointed by her. But those who got to know her were richly rewarded. Readers of this book, however, can only glimpse that person. A Backward Glance is interesting but underwhelming. Certainly not the place to start with Wharton, who just looms larger and larger for me as a great 20^th century writer.

More soon on February’s reading!