Top Ten books read for the first time in 2020

The events of 2020 weren't necessarily the reason I exceeded my Goodreads target of 165, and 179 not my highest total anyway. Several were slender but intense poetry books; the fattest an unintentional re-read of Jilly Cooper's 'Riders'.  (There were quite a lot of comforting re-reads, but that forty-four  of them were five star has to be a reason for celebration.) 

So, in no particular order, these, read for the first time, were (probably) my top Ten.

Stan Barstow A kind of loving: I am kicking myself for not having read this when it was first published. So real, so authentic, such depth of philosophy from Vic Brown, and so painful a series of events.

Jane Casey: The Cutting Edge: I cleared the day to read this. Followed the sun from the front of the house to the back and finished with a satisfied sigh after five.

James Cormac: The Surfacing: Without doubt, it was the writing - un-showy and quiet - that so superbly sustained this. All the more spectacularly for the white blankness of the landscape and the sustaining of the tedium of the days

Claire Fuller Our endless Numbered days: That, in all its oddness and its fairy-tale-for-adults atmosphere, it immediately ensnared me and kept me glued until I finished it, says much for the mesmeric quality of the writing, which maintained an the ever-present potential for evil all the way through.

Lesley Glaister: Easy Peasy:  Nuances and depths of each of the characters; the understanding the capacity for cruelty we all possess, the misunderstandings and ignorances of childhood, the later fears and inappropriate behaviours as adults.

Mary Loudon: My house is falling down: It left me reeling, wondering about what if and why and how and what.

Benjamin Myers: The Offing : I didn't anticipate this being such a smooth and sweet and easy read; another one begun at lunch and finished before tea.

Michael Ondaajte: Warlight: That, in all its oddness and its fairy-tale-for-adults atmosphere, it immediately ensnared me and kept me glued until, in the second sitting, I finished it, says much for the mesmeric quality of the writing, which maintained an the ever-present potential for evil all the way through.

Ray Robinson: The mating habits of Stags:  a book about place and relationships, regret and misunderstandings, the tension of it tight and gently ever-winding,  beautifully, mesmerisingly told

Frank Westworth’s ‘Killing sisters’ trilogy: Hell. I've just finished this and feel as if I've been mugged.