Easily the most original novel of the year was Charlotte Hobson’s The Vanishing Futurist (Faber, £16.99). It tells the story of an English governess who finds herself caught up in the Russian Revolution; but instead of retreating to the safety of Cornwall, she stays on in order to join a sort of prototype commune run by the charismatic Futurist Nikita Slavkin. Entirely sui generis, it also boasts the year’s best cover design. This is the book I’ll be giving people for Christmas.
World events were gloomy when Ann Patchett’s Commonwealth (Bloomsbury, £18.99) and Ali Smith’s Autumn (Hamish Hamilton, £16.99) appeared. Each of these books describes the best in human nature: our capacity for love and loyalty and kindness; our love of storytelling. Fantastic writing, big ideas and generosity of spirit. If I had been in charge of the Man Booker Prize this year, I would have given it to one of these.
Speaking of which, how on earth did Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh (Penguin, £8.99) find its way onto the shortlist? I absolutely hated this squalid little tale of small-town revenge, which rejoiced in its own nastiness. The characters are flat, the story flimsy, the writing clichéd: it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, like last night’s onion gravy. When I heard the author being interviewed on the radio, I was disgruntled to find that she sounded lovely: her editor should tell her to stop trying to shock.
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