Blogger and bookaholic Helena Dahlgren

Dear reader,

Let us establish something right off the bat, just so we are clear. This is NOT going to be a conventional review of Morrissey’s Autobiography.

Most likely, seeing how it will be, inevitably, hopelessly, written by someone whose first online screen name was The Girl Least Likely To, it will be something more along the lines of rambling declaration of love and relentless self-scrutiny. See, when I attempt to speak of Morrissey’s much anticipated memoirs (humbly published as a Penguin Classic), I inevitably find myself speaking of my personal relationship with Morrissey. In this regard, I realise that I am far from unique. Oh, but then again, it's not like any other love; this one is different because it's us, no? In any case, we’ve been at it for years, the Mozzer and I. Needless to say, it has been – and is – a rather one sided relationship. Not that there haven’t been times when we’ve been close, mind you. I will always relish the day when I fleetingly touched his right shoe. It was a very nicely polished shoe, should you ask, and the air was reeking of stale post-bandy match sweat (this was in 1997, prior to the big Morrissey revival of 2004, so small multi-purpose venues were common in the world of Morrissey). Appropriately – poignantly – enough, the shoe encounter took place right as Morrissey was singing "Paint a Vulgar Picture", that paragon of fan-idol lyricism. The relationship between the worshipper and the worshipped is at best an unbalanced one, and Morrissey addresses it beautifully in one of the finest tracks from The Smiths very last studio album. In it, the devotee fleetingly touches their idol at the sound check, only to realise later on that "to you I was faceless, I was fawning, I was boring – a child from those ugly new houses, who could never begin to know". A similar realisation, although possibly from a different angle (is Morrissey referring to himself or one of his previous – infamous – biographers?), takes place in another Morrissey penned song, "Reader Meet Author" from Southpaw Grammar:

You don't know a thing about their lives
They live where you wouldn't dare to drive
You shake as you think of how they sleep
But you write as if you all lie side by side

Surely I wasn’t the only one who had that particular song glued to my brain last Thursday, when Morrissey came to Gothenburg for a signing? (Yes, I temporarily wished I lived in Gothenburg. And yes, I soon caved in to fear of being cruelly disappointed and/or humiliated – or both. Just suppose – the horror! – that Morrissey would detect the chicken I had had for dinner last night on my breath as I leaned in to embrace my teenage saviour…? I would have to leave the country, surely. Listening to Meat Is Murder yet not fully embracing vegetarianism remains one of my life’s biggest failures, by the way.)

Here’s another realisation: next birthday, Morrissey will have been in my life for exactly half of my earthly existence. Seventeen, clumsy and shy, I went to England and found not love nor luck but something far, far better. I found a certain Stephen Patrick Morrissey, and it was his songs, his words, his outlook on life that provided a much needed soundtrack to a time where very little made sense. (That, incidentally, is called adolescence, aka something we all must endure at some point, but I am nevertheless very grateful for Morrissey’s help.) Never even attempting to fit it amongst the hormonal hell of vodka-flavoured parties and dreary popularity contests that my high school had to offer, Morrissey was a godsend. Unabashedly bookish, caustically witty yet strangely compassionate, oozing with homoeroticism yet (mostly) claiming celibacy, he made me fall in love with Oscar Wilde, daffodils, Shelagh Delaney, and the black and white working class England of yore. He also provided snappy comebacks for unwanted questions. Why did I wear black? "I wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside." Do I seem a little strange? "Well, that’s because I am." What is the meaning of life? "There’s more to life than books, you know (but not much more)." And so on.

Oh, how I walked without ease on these, the very streets where I'd been raised on drab school day afternoons, Smiths and Morrissey mix tapes glued to my melting Walkman! Despite an age difference of just over twenty years, with heaven knows how many miles between us, Morrissey had so much to offer the teenage me: companionship, wit, lyrics that eerily captured my current mood, whatever it happened to be. More than anything, he got me. Let me in, then let me out, and for this I shall always be grateful. Yes, I’m older now, and I’m a clever swine, but there was a time when it felt like he was the only one who ever stuck by me. I still get misty-eyed just by hearing the opening chords of "Now My Heart Is Full" and have virtually every Morrissey lyric tattooed at the very bottom of my heart.

Do you sense a "but" coming? Oh, but here it is. In recent years, Morrissey has made some shall we say alarming comments that makes him feel a wee bit like that drunkenly outspoken, eccentric uncle you somehow always find yourself sitting next to at family gatherings. You love him dearly – how could you not, after all this time? – but you can’t help but cringe a bit, bracing yourself for the next debacle. You know, the oh dear, here we go again-ness of it all. I was, needless to say, not proud of being a Morrissey fan when he, right after the tragic events at Utoya, made a point out of telling the audience at a concert that this was nothing compared to what goes on at "Kentucky Fried Shit" every day. Somehow I can’t help but suspect that Morrissey, for all the good he has done to the maladjusted across the globe, is somehow lacking a sensitivity gene. Or does he simply enjoy the controversy? How else to attribute the fact that he, despite time and time again telling the world he is not a racist after NME’s "vicious attack" (his words, not mine) in the mid-90’s, continues to make statements that can be viewed as, if not downright racist, then at least deeply problematic? Morrissey, so much to answer for. And sure enough, he has to go there in Autobiography! Using vocabulary such as "Israelites" and "blackface" while attempting to clear one’s name in murky waters? Please.

So yes, I do have my reservations – reservations which also, ultimately, reflect on how I view Autobiography. But let us go back to the very beginning of the book, shall we? I did mention there is a book, didn't I? Not in the new year but, rather to the delighted shock of Mozophiles worldwide, THIS year?

Yes, the book. It's about time we talked about that, isn't it?

The first half of Autobiography could well be the finest piece of autobiographical writing I have yet to encounter. Full of the gloom and doom of post-war Manchester, introducing death, sexual ambivalence, Northern grimness, and virtually Dickensian characters such as teachers who are "old, and will never marry, and will die smelling of attics", it serves as the perfect backdrop for the tiny rays of light that do eventually manage to creep into the life of one lonely Northern boy. For, as we all know, the good life is out there somewhere, and it is when Morrissey discovers music - 60's pop tunes, Patti Smith, David Bowie (who in a poignant turn of events will go on to cover one of Morrissey's own songs, "I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday") and, most notably, the New York Dolls - that he knows this for a fact. A music fan first and foremost, with his signature style and wit to boot, Morrissey is heavenly when depicting the cathartic and escapist nature of music. In this, of course, he mimics the experience of many, many Morrissey fans (including this one), adding further weight and heart to lyrics such as "Rubber Ring" and "Paint a Vulgar Picture". But, true to form, Morrissey does not start dancing, laughing and finally living simply because he has found a coping mechanism. Yes, Morrissey does eventually meet Johnny Marr, who luckily turns out to be a window-tapper, and he throws himself into singing and performing with a near-sexual ferocity. He remains alone, but perhaps not forevermore. Well into his thirties, Morrissey finds requited love for the first time. Reader, meet Jake, who knocks on Morrissey’s door and stays for two years. Enter: tears of joy. What do you know, he has seen brighter sides to life! Here is yet another beautifully written and touching part of Morrissey’s life story, so when it gives way to a 40 page dive into the infamous Joyce trials where Morrissey (quite unsuccessfully) tries to make himself into a modern day Oscar Wilde, I can’t help but feel slightly disheartened. Yes, yes, we know, you bear more grudges than lonely high court judges, and clearly this is something that has had a great effect on Morrissey’s life ever since so I am all for the inclusion of such an event in his autobiography. It is, after all, his story to tell. Still, though: FORTY pages? Really? I turn the pages more quickly now, actually come close to stifling a yawn at one point (something I NEVER thought could happen while reading Morrissey’s autobiography).

Then there is that infinitely sad postcard from Kirsty McColl, written on holiday in Mexico just before she was killed in a horrendous boating accident, and suddenly Morrissey’s hand has a relentlessly firm grip on my heart again. He is very good at that: going on and on about something rather uninteresting, then suddenly, by a sudden turn of phrase or perspective, making things interesting again. Ah, the amount of loss and sudden death resonating against the pages of Autobiography! Seems so unfair, I want to cry. A more lighthearted note of the book takes place in the funny depiction of Morrissey’s musician acquaintances. Here, the already much talked of Chrissie Hynde dog biting incident earns top marks. I also love the fact that Michael Stipe, along with the previously mentioned Hynde and, of course, David Bowie, get an altogether positive treatment (and with "altogether" I mean "c’mon, it’s Morrissey!"). He never does reveal whether Kill Uncle’s "Found, Found, Found" is in fact about Stipey (a fact that, I shall hasten to add, he has previously refuted, but… well, see above) though.

The final part of Autobiography is a rapidly shifting yet beautifully structured series of countries, venues, and people passing through – with special emphasis, I am happy to report, on Sweden. Near 500 pages do not seem nearly enough – that is, as long as he at least tries to take the high road. I would gladly read 1000 pages of those "streets upon streets upon streets" of Morrissey’s childhood, of love found and lost and the songs that saved his life. Cheap digs on Julie Burchill’s middle-aged legs, though? Why, oh why does he have to make it so difficult for us to defend him? I mean, I LOVE Julie Burchill and I really believe that Morrissey respects her as a writer, in spite of their personal baggage, in spite of, well, spite. And yet, here we go again… do we sense a pattern?

I have said it before in this "review", and now I will say it again: it is the absolute prerogative of any autobiographer to depict one’s life however way they deem appropriate (or, preferably, inappropriate – oh yes, please!). Following that logic, every prospective reader of said autobiography – or Autobiography, as it were – should be free to read whatever they like into and out of the story. Now, this particular autobiography is rather tough to separate, seeing how it has no chapters, no clear chronology, just a never ceasing, mostly flawless wall of beautiful, essentially Morrisseyesque prose where the subject, rather than neat chapters, serves as a constant point of reference. Still, I choose to emphasise on the wonderfully bleak Victorian feel of Morrissey’s childhood, music, and love (there is quite a bit of love going out to his fans, as well, which needless to say is very pleasing indeed). Is it, then, okay to simply cut out the 40 odd pages of dull court proceedings and vindictive feelings, along with the seemingly pointless digs at physical flaws and looks? Can we really do that? If we could, there is no doubt in my mind that Autobiography is one of the finest bits of writing I have read in a long, long time. The things that irk me are, perhaps, there to put everything – including me, the former Girl Least Likely To – into perspective. Morrissey, ultimately, as a human being made out of flesh, blood, genius and a great deal of spite. Could it be?

I honestly don’t know, and therein lies perhaps part of the appeal. I will say this, though, all earnestness and big eyes, standing at the very front of the stage, desperately elbowing my way across bequiffed boys and daffodil clutching girls both taller and younger than I am:

Nothing’s changed, Moz, I still love you. Only slightly, slightly less than I used to. Oh, and please, please, please write more books. A novel – why not a darkly Victorian tale of bleak modern times? – would be absolutely smashing. Thanks, and see you soon! Who knows, maybe I’ll get to touch your hand one day…?

Love,

The girl least likely to

The Year of the Ladybird: A Ghost Story by Graham Joyce

The effortlessly genre defying Joyce's new novel takes place in the blistering summer of 1976. David, a young student, has come to the coastal town of Skegness to work at a holiday camp and, hopefully, watch his life begin. No sooner has he arrived than he begins to notice strange occurrences, all somehow connected to the resort: a man in a blue suit keeps appearing at the beach carrying a rope, a young boy in tow, and his colleagues drag him to late night meetings where emotions run high. As the heat wave intensifies and ladybirds begin to swarm the premises, political tensions rise while David is forced to confront certain traumatic childhood events. It is the year of the ladybird, the summer of love, the last days of the working-class summer idyll and - literally and figuratively - the beginning of colder times. The Year of the Ladybird works on so many different levels. As the title implies, it is indeed a ghost story, but also a coming-of-age story, a love story, a politically acute tale of the last (pre-Thatcher) glory days of the working class... This is the second book I've read by Graham Joyce and I'm very impressed with the range he has been showing so far. His writing will undoubtedly please the horror/fantasy crowd as well as fans of contemporary British novelists such as Ian McEwan. One objection, though: I wasn't crazy about how the (very few) female characters were portrayed. Still, as 1976 UK goes, I'm guessing it might be depressingly accurate. Okay then, she muttered. The novel as a whole is, after all, way beyond the realms of okayness, with the simmering heat and nightmarish quality of David's wanderings lingering long after the last page has been turned.

The Yonahlosse Riding Camp for Girls by Anton diSclafani

I am very much in agreement with Jan over this impressive debut - and no, that is not just my old horse loving, camp going self talking: truly, this is so much more than a story of a girl being sent to riding camp. Despite being set in the decorum obsessed South of the early 1930's, this is a fresh, bold, sad, and poignant tale of a girl coming into her own self, body, and sexuality in unforgiving times. DiSclafani's writing is exquisite and somewhat reminiscent of Curtis Sittenfeld, whose enthusiastic blurb made me curious in the first place (I love it when literary worlds collide like this!). Anton diSclafani is definitely one to watch!

Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter

A beautifully eclectic and delightfully eccentric read, this one. It begins in the 1960's in an Italian coastal town, where a beautiful, supposedly dying, actress emerges from the set of Cleopatra to get some well needed rest. Cut to modern day La-La Land and the crazed world of pitches and movie deals and an unforgettable cast where past meets present. This is the kind of novel that benefits from a very short plot description, so I'll be scant on the details. Suffice it to say that I truly enjoyed it. There are so many talented, diverse writers out there who deserve a larger audience; Jess Walter, whose previous works include The Secret Lives of the Poets and Citizen Vince, is one of them.

The House We Grew Up In by Lisa Jewell

By far Jewell's darkest and most engrossing book to date, this is the story of a seemingly picture perfect family whose lives take a tragic turn one Easter. Years later, the eldest daughter is back in her childhood home, unearthing the dark, dark secrets and sad, sad consequences of that day. If you think Lisa Jewell is a chick lit writer, think again. While her novels have an emotionally rich and satisfying streak, this is far darker and more mature than anything typically encountered in the chick lit section. Think mashed potatoes served with vodka, straight up. (Is that a weird analogy? I hope you understand what I mean: that while this is a novel visiting some pitch black places, it is also, ultimately, redemptive and comforting.) I raced through this.

Revenge Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

Speaking of chick lit: here's the sequel to Devil Wears Prada and if you're looking for something light and entertaining, with a near perfect fluff to edge ratio and plenty of fabulous New York apartments and the odd Hamptons sea front villa, you could do a lot worse than this. Deeply enjoyable in an escapist sort of way.

Heartbroken and Black Out by Lisa Unger

Last summer, I read almost everything Lisa Unger had published to date and fell in love with her strong sense of place and almost Harlan Coben-esque way of blending the mundane with the terrifying. As frequent blog readers will know, I have previously praised her two Hollows novels, Fragile and Darkness, My Old Friend. Her latest effort, set on a remote island in the Adirondacks, just may be her best standalone novel yet. I also recently read Black Out, which had a great, slightly gothic Florida setting (she is so good with settings - secretive small towns, sweltering Florida trailor parks, the pulse of New York City, you name it, Lisa Unger will make you see, feel, and smell it!) but had a few plot twists too many (more of a quirk than a flaw, really). Black Out had a certain late 90's vibe to it that made me think about Joy Fielding, a Florida based thriller writer whom I read religiously ten, fifteen years ago. I wonder if she's still got it...? Only one way to find out.

The Wall and Bad Influence by William Sutcliffe

As you may have seen on English Bookshop's Facebook page, I will be interviewing British writer William Sutcliffe during this year's installment of Culture Night and as part of the preparations, I have been reading up on his back catalogue over the past few months. Such a treat for a book geek and former student of literature, getting to read everything by one particular author in chronological order, looking for recurring themes and influences, a way into the very "themness" of their writing! These are the two books I liked the most - am very much looking forward to discussing them with him in person! I am currently in the process of preparing questions for William based on his entire body of work (no small feat, but fun!) and should you have anything you would like me to ask him, feel free to e-mail me at morrisseygroupie@gmail.com - or, better yet, come to the shop and ask him yourself after our chat!

On 2 May, this year's Edgar Award winners will be announced during a big banquet in New York City (would have loved to have tickets, incidentally). I have read the seven nominees in the Best Novel category and found some real gems, made several new friends, reunited with old ones, and, in a few cases, been mildly disappointed. All in all, though, the Edgar jury has settled on a solid bunch with nice versatility: we've got some fine historic crime writing, a toxic marriage where nothing - and I mean NOTHING - is what it seems, a blockbuster thriller satire, a heartwrenching privat eye procedural, some gritty New York City noir, and atmospheric Deep South small town drama. Granted, the jury's literary tastes are more directed towards tough crime than its cosier, tea-drinking cousin - but then again, so are mine (although I do love Agatha Christie and old school whodunnits), so you won't hear any complaints from me.

When I embarked on this particular adventure, in all fairness, I did it mainly to see how five of those books could compare to Gillian Flynn's and Dennis Lehane's. ”How”, perhaps, being closer to ”if”, ”if”, being more along the lines of ”if at all”. Now, I still think Gillian Flynn has it in the bag – her main rival being another awesome lady writer I discovered through this reading challenge, but I'll get to that later on – but I have to admit to some serious competition.

Let us start with Gillian Flynn and Gone Girl, then, seeing how I already reviewed it upon its publication in May 2012. Flynn's dark and twisty tale of Amy and Nick, a goodlooking thirtysomething couple with some seriously disturbing secrets, has become a bestselling phenomenon (and rightly so, although The Independent's "thinking woman's Fifty Shades of Grey" headline left me flabbergasted and slightly pissed off - I mean, COME ON! Fifty shades of arbitrary, anyone?). It is utterly absorbing, with positively Patricia Highsmith-esque plotting and a genuinely shocking twist - I nearly fell out of my seat! Flynn's prose is razor sharp and deeply addictive, her characters deeply fucked up the way all the best crime fiction characters are... I'm probably repeating myself here, seeing how I've been known to gush over Flynn on several occastions, but if you want to read more about Gone Girl, feel free to check out my rather fangirly review.

Al Lamanda is a name I had never heard of prior to the Edgar Award reading challenge, but I have to say Sunset was a pleasant surprise, raw, cutthroat and deeply human in its depiction of cop turned burnout John Bekker and his quest for justice and redemption. Twelve years ago, Bekker's wife was brutally raped and killed during a house break-in, the terrible deed made even more devastating by the fact that the couple's five-year-old daughter witnessed it. Since then, with their daughter institutionalised and Bekker spending his time drinking himself into oblivion in a trailer, no progress has been made on the case. The deed was believed to be aimed as a warning towards Bekker, who at the time was assigned to a special task force investigating organised crime. Main mobster Eddie Crist never admitted to the murder of Bekker's wife, but Bekker has always believed that he was somehow involved. Until, that is, Bekker finds himself naked and hungover, handcuffed to a bed in Crist's mansion. Crist has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and with months to live, he wants to solve the case that pushed Bekker into self combustion... and he wants Bekker to do it. This is a nicely paced pageturner with great characterisation and some rather heartwarming moments. Highly recommended. Full review (in Swedish) here: http://helenadahlgren.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/sunset-al-lamanda/.

Moving on to something else entirely, namely a satire on the blockbuster thriller (think Tom Clancy, Dan Brown, Michael Crichton, etc) where the protagonist, failed literary writer turned miserable creative writing teacher Arthur Pfefferkorn, decides to give recently deceased college buddy, bestselling author William de Vallée, a run for his money but soon finds himself involved in a series of events rivalling those in his dead friend's penny dreadfuls. I can see why Potboiler earned a nomination: Jesse Kellerman (son of Jonathan and Faye Kellerman) has created a fresh and amusing spin on the modern thriller, although a bit too tongue-in-cheek for my liking. Not my cup of tea, ultimately, but hopefully someone else's. Loved the meta blurbs from Stephen King and Lee Child, though, and I would no doubt enjoy it as a movie (no plans that I know of, though), particularly if the producers were to share my vision of old Sideways buddies Paul Giamatti and Thomas Haden Church as Pfefferkorn and Bill, respectively. Full review (in Swedish) here: http://helenadahlgren.wordpress.com/2013/04/16/potboiler-jesse-kellerman/.

Walter Mosley is a great writer. This I know first hand, having read and thoroughly enjoyed several of his Easy Rawlings books and – more than anything, because this is truly a remarkable piece of fiction that poses many difficult and important questions about today's society– The Man in My Basement. True to old form, All I Did Was Shoot My Man is an expertly delivered, gritty piece of noir with characters as shady as they are imperfectly sympathetic. If I had read the previous books in the Leonid McGill series, I would no doubt have gobbled this down. As it is, I find myself feeling a bit lost in Leonid's hectic world when so much in his past is alluded to and I have no way of keeping up, or indeed knowing when I am accidentally spoiled. I wouldn't recommend anyone jumping into the very middle of an ongoing series, but if you're into noir, do give Mosley and the delightfully morally ambigious McGill a shot – starting with the first installment in the series, The Long Fall.

Ace Atkins comes highly praised by the likes of Michael Connelly, and I can easily see why. The Lost Ones delivers some seriously good writing, with heaps of Southern atmosphere and a nicely flawed protagonist (yes, I do have a thing for those), former Army ranger turned small town sheriff Quinn Colson. The plot also delivers, although I can't help feeling a bit squeamish about anything involving children and animals (here, we have thirteen empty cribs in a horrifyingly negligent environment, a fatally injured baby and several neglected dogs... yes, that is the sound of Helena's heart breaking!). Still, despite the broken heart and all, this was another pleasant surprise for me, especially in terms of sense of place, and I will make sure to read the first book in the Quinn Colson series, The Ranger, asap. Can't help feeling a bit bad about reading the second installment first, though (see above). Surely I'm not the only one who prefers reading things in correct order? One has to assume, of course, that the Edgar jury is already well acquainted with any previous books in an ongoing series so this isn't really a valid objection.

I have been dying to read The Gods of Gotham, Lyndsay Faye’s take on the 1845 formation of the New York Police Department, for quite a while now. So glad that I finally got around to it, because this is top notch stuff, with impressive historic detail and an atmosphere so vivid that the reader – or at least this reader – soon starts thinking in flash, the 1840’s New York slang so important to the novel that a glossary is included. I am deeply in awe of the sheer ambition of this project, and literally could not put this darkly atmospheric historic thriller down. If Gillian Flynn doesn’t get it – "if" being the operative word – then Faye is a very strong contender for the prize, especially considering that this is only her second novel. Clearly, Lyndsay Faye is one to watch. I love period thrillers, and this is one of the best I’ve read for quite some time. And get this: her debut novel Dust and Shadow, set in Victorian London, deals with Jack the Ripper AND Sherlock Holmes! As a lifelong fan of all things Victoriana, may I please squeal for a bit? Perhaps go a pitch or two higher when mentioning that Lyndsay Faye, like Neil Gaiman, is a member of Sherlockian superstars Baker Street Irregulars;  is in fact so high up in the ranks of all things Sherlockian that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relatives have approved of Dust and Shadow? Lyndsay Faye, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

But then, of course, you have this other period piece among the nominees, written by a certain Dennis Lehane. Lehane, so highly renowned in the business these days that even those strange people who won’t openly admit to reading crime fiction (who ARE those people, anyway?) can’t stop praising him. Lehane, who with The Given Day, as if Mystic River and Shutter Island weren’t enough, placed himself at the very top of contemporary US fiction, regardless of the genre. I still get all misty-eyed when I think about the baseball scene in The Given Day - and I don’t even like baseball! Lehane can outwrite pretty much everyone, and sure enough, Live by Night is another winner, brimming as it is with atmosphere, spark, and remarkable characters (including Joe Coughlin, younger, considerably less law abiding brother of The Given Day’s Danny Coughlin). You have the speakeasies, the liquor fuelled night time drama, the bad, the gifted, and the damned… Yes, this is undoubtedly another stellar effort from Lehane, but I can’t help but feel that he is acting in a league of his own here. Call it reverse discrimination if you like, but I reckon it would be nice to see someone less senior awarded – and yes, obviously I would be thrilled if the winner turned out to be named Gillian Flynn, seeing how mindboggingly good she is, but I would be very happy to see Lyndsay Faye or Ace Atkins as the 2012 Edgar Award recipient. Needless to say, should the jury decide on Lehane, I would be thrilled as well. Clearly, the Edgar jury knows good books, and if you are interested in the American crime scene at all, you should do yourself a favour and start looking for "Edgar Award nominee" mentions when scouting for new literary acquaintances. I had a lot of fun reading this year’s crop and will make sure to do it again next year. Now, let the best (wo)man win...!

	1. Available Dark by Elizabeth Hand Because Cass Neary's return is every bit as triumphant, and gloriously bleak, as I hoped it would be.
	2. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn Who needs rollercoasters when you have Gillian Flynn? With Gone Girl, Flynn, already aflame with talent (exhibit A and B: her former novels Sharp Objects and Dark Places), emerges as one of the - if not THE -  most radiant literary thriller stars of today. I nearly fell out of my armchair twice while reading it.
	3. Dare Me by Megan Abbott Any book that makes me refer to My So-Called Life, Tom Perrotta, and Heathers in a review is bound to end up on a top 10 list somewhere. Add cheerleaders, along with pitch black wit and skin-on-bones taut prose, and we're talking top 3.
	4. Field of Darkness and The Crazy School by Cornelia Read If you have yet to acquaint yourself with the fierce, smart-mouthed, caffeine-fuelled ex-débutante one woman show that is Cornelia Read's protagonist Madeline Dare - honey, you've been missing out! I'm only just getting started myself, and am very much looking forward to reading the next two instalments (and praying for a fifth book during 2013).
	5. Broken Harbour by Tana French Not only by far French's finest effort to date (which speaks volumes in itself), but one of the darkest and most poignant takes on the economic crisis I've come across so far.
	6. Weirdo by Cathi Unsworth Because it reads as a UK Goth version of Gillian Flynn's Dark Places. Loved every page.
	7. The Daylight Gate by Jeanette Winterson As deeply unpleasant as it is beautifully written, Winterson's first true dip into the world of horror is one of the books I'll remember best from 2012.
	8. Radiant Days by Elizabeth Hand Because, really, no decent top 10 list is complete with just one Elizabeth Hand book on it. This ageless urban fantasy on art, loss, and relationships transcending time is another perfect example of why Hand is one of the best writers out there today - in any genre. Go, Rimbaud, and go, Liz!
	9. A Room Full Of Bones by Elly Griffiths I am utterly addicted to Griffiths novels featuring forensic archeologist Ruth Galloway, and this year's effort just may be the best one yet. Too bad I've already read next year's (which, incidentally, was every bit as good)...
	10. The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern Dreamy, atmospheric, and gorgeously written, this is almost too good to be a debut novel. Can't wait to read more!

Also highly recommended:

• The Circle by Sara B Elfgren and Mats Strandberg (watch out for part two, Fire, due out in the first part of 2013 - even better, in my ever humble opinion!)
• The Girl on the Stairs by Louise Welsh
• Dead Scared by S.J. Bolton
• Trust Your Eyes by Linwood Barclay
• The Submission by Amy Waldman
• The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker
• The Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore
• Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson

Would probably end up on the top 10 if I had, you know, read it:
Live By Night by Dennis Lehane (see you in 2013!)

Biggest mystery of 2012 (nope, not a crime novel):
How all those copies of the Fifty Shades books got sold. For an erotic novel, it is shockingly lacking in sex appeal (not to mention minor things such as literary qualities). My inner goddess just threw up in her mouth. Oh my.