Category Fiction

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Asako Yuzuki: ‘I’m very far from the ideal Japanese woman’

Butter, her novel about a female serial killer, was a global hit. As Asako Yuzuki’s second book is published in English, she talks about criticism at home – and why she’ll be writing darker stories in the future

The next time Japanese novelist Asako Yuzuki comes to the UK, she would like to bake some traditional Japanese muffins for Paul Hollywood on The Great British Bake Off, she says when we meet over video call. It is evening in Tokyo, where she lives with her partner and eight-year-old son. “I’ve had my bath and am ready for bed,” she explains, via translator Bethan Jones, apologising for being in her pyjamas. She thinks the Bake Off judge would be particularly impressed by “marubouro” muffins, from Nagasaki. “Kazuo Ishiguro also comes from Nagasaki and British people love Ishiguro, so they are bound to love these muffins,” she continues. “They go very well with tea.”

As anyone who has read Yuzuki’s international bestseller Butter will know, Yuzuki is all about food. Based on the 2009 real-life “Konkatsu Killer” case (konkatsu means marriage hunting), in which 35-year-old Kanae Kijima was convicted of poisoning three men, Butter follows the relationship between journalist Rika Machida and Manako Kajii, a serial killer and gourmet cook, through a succession of interviews in Tokyo Detention Centre. Yuzuki even signed up for the high-class cookery school in Tokyo that Kijima attended as research. The result is an irresistible mix of social satire and feminist thriller, dripping with descriptions of buttery rice and soy sauce.

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Scholar, seductress, alchemist: who was the real Cleopatra?

The Egyptian queen has fascinated me from childhood, but following the archives led only to ancient gossip and Roman propaganda. Fiction was the way to liberate her from misogynist myth

Witch, whore, villain – there are few women who have been as vilified through history as Cleopatra VII. The disdain of ancient sources that sought to dismiss her as exotic and seductive has corrupted her legacy. But I take pleasure in knowing that her name has permeated through time with far more recognition than the men who wrote about her. Ask a 10-year-old child who Plutarch is and they’ll scrunch up their brows – but Cleopatra? Their eyes light up with glee.

Mine did when I was tasked by my schoolteacher to draw Cleopatra. My small hands searched through the box of crayons. I picked up the brown, its tip pristine from lack of use. It was the loneliest colour in the box, used only to draw mud or bark. The face I drew reflected my own in features and colour.

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Ben Markovits: ‘I used to think any book concerned with people falling in love can’t be very good’

The British-American author on arguing about Jane Austen, the joys of Jerome K Jerome, and revising his opinion of Philip Roth

My earliest reading memory
I used to read Donald Sobol’s Encyclopedia Brown stories with my mother. It’s a classic American kids’ series about a boy detective and his brilliant sidekick, Sally, who protects him as they tackle their arch enemy, Bugs Meany, a kind of high school bully version of Professor Moriarty. We’d sit in the kitchen together and try to solve the crimes. Of course, for me it was also an opportunity to hang out with my mom. I’m one of five kids; attention was hard to come by. But I was also drawn to the picture Sobol paints of small-town all-American life, which I don’t think I ever felt a part of. We moved around too much.

My favourite book growing up
I remember finishing JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings at elementary school and already feeling sad about the fact that I’d never be able to read it again for the first time. I have a dim memory that I was in school, because the feeling has something of the flavour of the school hallway and the bright lights on the shiny tiled floors, and the general sense of being shut in for the rest of the day. Some of my older brother’s friends had already introduced me to Dungeons & Dragons, which shaped the next few years of my life. Most of my favourite novels started with the idea of some lonely figure wandering out into the world to see what the world would do to him. (Later, Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers was another favourite.)

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Railsong by Rahul Bhattacharya review – a heartfelt tale of life on the Indian railways

We follow one woman across decades of change in this deeply compassionate novel of independence and dreams

Indian Railways has been a source of patriotic pride, controversy, endless cover-ups, labyrinthine bureaucracy and death on an industrial scale since its founding in 1951. Rahul Bhattacharya’s Railsong, his first novel in 15 years since The Sly Company of People Who Care, explores its other major and fiercely contested impact on Indian society, as one of the country’s foremost employers of women and sources of female empowerment, especially in rural areas.

We follow the irrepressible, motherless Charu Chitol, from her childhood in 1960s smalltown Bihar with her rail employee father, a frustrated writer and frustrated socialist, through her dizzying encounters with rapidly modernising big-city Bombay, and on to a railways personnel department job, first office-bound, then as a roving welfare officer, investigating pensions claims, frauds and other abuses. The book ends in the early 1990s, all post-independence goodwill long spent.

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Witches, Nazi collaborators and banned books: International Booker prize announces 2026 longlist

Thirteen books make this year’s longlist for translated fiction, which awards a first prize of £50,000

Olga Ravn, Daniel Kehlmann, Ia Genberg, Mathias Énard and Gabriela Cabezón Cámara are among those longlisted for the 10th International Booker prize, which recognises the best translated fiction published in the past year.

A “Booker dozen” of 13 books were longlisted for this year’s prize. One author-translator pair will win £50,000, to be split equally.

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Nonesuch by Francis Spufford review – a dazzling wartime fantasy

Dark magic, fascism and romance in blitz-stricken London: this exuberant novel is a popcorny delight

When I teach creative writing, I often find myself insisting upon the essential importance of fun: that while the process of writing can and should be challenging, there’s no benefit to be had in martyrdom, and actually a level of relish is neither an indulgence or a distraction, but pretty compelling evidence of an author having found her proper form and subject. It’s what keeps you coming back. If you aren’t bent gigglingly over your manuscript, like a stock photo model alone with her salad, then what’s the point of any of it? There’s a stable of classics I draw on to evidence this claim, great novels where a big part of the appeal is feeling as though you’ve stumbled into a very interesting person’s exact idea of a very good time: Woolf’s Orlando, Nabokov’s Pnin, Poor Things by Alasdair Gray, The Pisces by Melissa Broder. A lot of Austen, but maybe most of all Emma. And from now on, I’ll be adding Francis Spufford’s Nonesuch to the list.

His fourth work of fiction in a genre-spanning oeuvre, Nonesuch is a historical fantasy set during the second world war, every paragraph of which is packed with authorial zest. The novel opens in London, August 1939: war has been declared, but hasn’t yet made its reality felt in the city’s streets, and Iris Hawkins, an ambitious office clerk, makes her way through the sun-baked West End in a slinky dress. One half of a disastrous date later, she’s being whisked away to a DIY surrealist film club in bohemian Bloomsbury – not her scene at all – and two extremely fateful introductions: the first to Geoffrey Hale, a sweetly apprehensive BBC television engineer; and the second to the object of Geoffrey’s guileless infatuation, one Lady Lalage Cunningham, an icy aristocratic beauty with amazing hair and worrisome political sympathies. Cue chaos. Nonesuch follows the bolshy Iris from her seedy summer’s night through a regrettable Hampstead hook-up, and, eventually, neck-deep into a time-travelling plot by “magical fascist lunatics” to assassinate Winston Churchill. The novel is a pleasing pasticcio of romance, occultism, non-Euclidean geometry and airborne adventure across the blitz-stricken rooftops of London. It is difficult to imagine it would hold together quite so well in other hands than Spufford’s.

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Myth, monsters and making sense of a disenchanted world: why everyone is reading fantasy

I have made the leap from literary fiction to fantasy – for those who think it’s mere wish-fulfilment, here’s why we need that thing with the dragons

Fantasy doesn’t need defending. It is one of the great cultural forms at the moment, all-pervading, ubiquitous. Maybe even the dominant form of writing just now, in line with the bookseller’s joke that contemporary publishing divides into A: romantasy and B: everything else.

But it might need explaining a little bit, for those who don’t get its pleasures; who still see it as wish-fulfilment, or as a low form that literary fiction gets to look down upon or direct a puzzled tolerance towards. As a writer of literary fiction who has borrowed and rejoiced in fantasy tropes for years, and has now himself written an out-and-out fantasy, I’m beyond embarrassment. I’ve been reading and loving fantasy all my life, and for me its best creators stand comfortably alongside the greats of any genre. And yet, I’m still encountering a faint sense that there is something to be accounted for in writing fantasy. That I ought to have reasons for wanting to do that thing with the dragons, no matter how culturally pervasive it is.

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‘Last year I read 137 books’: could setting targets help you put down your phone and pick up a book?

BookTok influencer Jack Edwards motivates himself with reading goals – and he’s not alone. Authors and avid readers discuss the rise of metrics, and reveal how many books they finished last year

Every January, thousands of readers log on to Goodreads, Instagram or TikTok and make the same declaration: this is the year I read 50 books. Or 75. Or 100. Screenshots of spreadsheets circulate, templates for tracking pages and percentages are downloaded, friends publicly pledge to “do better” than they did last year. What was once a private pastime is announced, quantified and, in some corners of the internet, judged.

The appeal is obvious: in a distracted age, reading can easily become crowded out by work, screens and fatigue. Literacy rates in the UK are stagnating: in 2024, around 50% of UK adults read regularly for pleasure, down from 58% in 2015.

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