Everything I Read in October

On dark and chilling books in October...

Unintentionally, I ended up reading some quite dark and chilling books this October. I’m not a mood reader in the sense of choosing books based on the season, but the ones I picked this month turned out to be dark and oppressive. They weren’t your typical gothic novels or thrillers — they were literary fiction. And sometimes, literary fiction is scarier than anything else.

So yes, it was a great reading month. I was deeply absorbed in these books, both for entertainment and critical reflection. The books I chose held profound philosophical themes, each worthy of its own essay (which I may write in time). But for now, in the usual format of my ‘everything I read’ series, I’ll give you a summary of why I enjoyed each book, along with a bit of textual analysis of some of my favourite quotes.

Intermezzo, Sally Rooney (5.0/5.0)

At first, I was certain I was going to hate this book. The opening pages seemed dull and lacked plot. But as I highlighted more and more lines—34, to be exact—I realised that this book was a masterpiece. 

That’s the thing about Sally Rooney. She’s not meant to be read for fun; she’s not a light beach read or an accessory for your Instagram post (I do wonder what Rooney thinks about this form of marketing for her novels). Rooney is a highly intellectual writer meant to be read critically. If you don’t engage with her work in that way, you’ll likely miss its depth—or even find it boring.

I left a comment on Leah Beth’s brilliant post that made me realise why I love Rooney’s work so much:

You hit the spot with this one! Rooney’s works are meant to be read critically for the full impact. Her books have minimal plot and are more about societal observations. And at the core of Rooney’s work is her critique of social class as pointed out. I think the problem is that a lot of people who pick her novels up because they are cool or popular don’t have experience of a working class background or at least read through that critical lens. Rooney’s works are not meant to be enjoyable, they’re meant to be enlightening. To not enjoy the novel because it’s not like the series just emphasises this class divide because not being middle class is difficult and not fun! 

Rooney’s main focus, at its core, is social class and the relationships between and within different classes. This aspect makes her work especially resonant for those from a working-class background, like me (a perspective I often read through critically). For those from a middle- or upper-class background who may resist seeing things from the perspective of the less privileged, her work might fall flat or seem inaccessible.

In this novel, there’s even a stark class divide between the two brothers, Ivan and Peter. Despite their family bond, their age gap and radically different lifestyles make it seem, at times, almost impossible for them to relate. Peter is a thriving lawyer who can cover his girlfriend’s medication costs at the snap of a finger, whereas Ivan is a struggling chess player living paycheck to paycheck—and that’s assuming people actually pay him on time.

I think it’s for this reason that I adore Ivan. I became genuinely attached to his character, while Peter’s treatment of others left me unimpressed. Although Peter’s behaviour stems from his own difficult circumstances, the dichotomy between these two brothers feels like a microcosm for exploring class. In many ways I find Ivan’s character tragic (and somewhat like Jude in A Little Life). I felt a strong affinity to his character that I had no other (in a long while) 

On the surface, this might appear to be a novel about brotherly relationships (I love seeing sibling dynamics, especially brother-brother relationships, which feel refreshing in a market saturated with sister-sister stories). Yet this relationship is, at a deeper level, about class. If you’re reading only at the surface level, this novel might feel dull.

Over time, I hope to develop a more in-depth essay on class in Rooney’s work, but for now, consider this my little rant.

Overall, I think this is Rooney’s best work yet. The philosophical undertones were a chef’s kiss (see my essay on Rooney’s philosophical musings here), and she retains her hallmark of controversial relationships while bringing fresh conversations to the table. 

These were some of my favourite lines: 

‘Oh, you take conversation too seriously, she says. Life isn’t just talking, you know.’

‘But don’t you think you enjoyed it? She says. All the time you spent practising, don't you think it made you happy sometimes?’ 

‘Other people prefer you to suffer’ 

‘Her quite well-organised existence’ 

‘To be in the presence of her intellect: lifted into finer air. Still feels that way. Admires her in that way still, beauty of her mind’ 

‘A mother is not an endless thing’ 

‘See what happens. Go on in any case living’

Another Brooklyn, Jacquline Woodson (3.5/5.0)

This one has been on my TBR for a long time—I heard it was crushing. And it was, though not the type of crushing I had hoped for. Nonetheless, the writing was absolutely beautiful in a devastating way.

Another Brooklyn is a coming-of-age novel that follows August, a young girl growing up in 1970s Bushwick, Brooklyn. The story unfolds as adult August recalls her teenage years, exploring friendship, family trauma, and the struggles of navigating girlhood in a harsh urban landscape. Alongside her close-knit group of friends, August grapples with loss, racial identity, and the search for belonging, all while confronting the complexities of memory. Woodson’s prose captures the raw beauty and challenges of Brooklyn life, creating a poignant and nostalgic reflection on adolescence and resilience.

It’s short and impactful, tying everything up perfectly as a novella should. Writing a novella, I believe, is even harder than writing a novel because there are fewer words—you need to do more with less. And I think Woodson did exactly what she needed to do. The thing is, I’m just not a novella person. I need a full story where I can become attached to the characters over 300+ pages. I wanted more of these characters. But that’s just my preference and doesn’t take away from how stunning this work is.

The line that characterised the text for me was: 

‘Who hasn’t walked through a life of small tragedies? Sister Sonja often asked me, as though to understand the depth and breadth of human suffering would be enough to pull me outside of my own’ 

Woodson subtly weaves poverty and hardship into the narrator’s story, highlighting the challenges August faces in 1970s Brooklyn. While August and her friends navigate their own struggles, her mother’s voice serves as a haunting reminder of a different kind of suffering—a suffering that remains back home, where people face hunger and even greater hardships. Her mother asks, “What about those starving in our home country?” reminding August to count her blessings, however few they may seem.

But Woodson doesn’t allow this perspective to overshadow August’s experience. Through her nuanced portrayal, she insists that August’s pain is equally valid and worthy of attention. The novel’s power lies in this tension: the acknowledgment that suffering is relative, yet every struggle deserves to be heard. Woodson captures this delicate balance, showing that while there is always someone enduring greater hardships, the challenges faced by the narrator and her friends are still profoundly impactful and shape the very core of their lives.

At its core this is a tragic novel, but there is also beauty to childhood friendships in this novel. The power these girls find in each other, despite their different backgrounds. It’s so pure and brings fire to their lives. 

As mentioned, the novella is lyrical and could be seen as a long poem. So here are some of the lines I loved the most: 

‘As we stood half circle in the bright school yard, we saw the lost and beautiful and hungry in each of us. We saw home’

‘We came by way of our mother’s memories’ 

‘... opened our mouths and let the stories that had burned nearly to ash in our bellies finally live outside of us’

‘Maybe this is how it happened first for everyone — adults promising us their own failed futures’

‘When we asked, What do you love? Sylvia looked around her perfectly pink room and said, I’m not the boss of me. How the hell would I even know’ 

‘When you’re fifteen, pain skips over reason, aims right for marrow’

A Kiss For The Absolute, Shuzo Takiguchi

I also write reviews for an online magazine, and A Kiss For the Absolute was also a work I read this month. This is a beautiful poetry collection written in Japanese and translated into English. I don’t often read poetry collections because I struggle to absorb the information when just gliding my eyes over the page (I need to critically annotate each word) but this one was enjoyable and reading some contextual information on Takiguchi helped bring these poems to life.

For my full review, please see here.

I Who Have Never Known Men, Jacquline Harpman (4.5/5.0)

Why didn’t I read this book sooner? I Who Have Never Known Men may sound like an unusual title, but trust me, once you dive in, you’ll see the genius behind it. Harpman’s novel, recently translated from French, is a revelation—I’m so glad it’s now accessible to English speaking readers (namely myself).

This haunting, dystopian novel follows a young woman held captive in a bunker with 39 other women. None of them know why they’re imprisoned, and their only interactions are with guards who give no clues about the world beyond the bunker walls. The narrator, known only as "The Child," is significantly younger than the other women and has no memories of life outside. She’s never known family, love, or the structure of society, so her world is starkly isolated.

The story is deeply philosophical, probing questions of identity, freedom, survival, and connection. It’s a profound meditation on existence and what it means to be human when all familiar contexts are stripped away. The way it was written, the form and narrator's story also reminds me of Atwood’s The Handmaid's Tale — and I think this contributes to the effect it had on me.

The only flaw, and why I rated it 4.5 stars (spoiler ahead), is that you don’t find out why they were imprisoned. Harpman leaves readers in the dark, offering no answers to the mystery of the bunker. At first, I just wanted to know. But on reflection, I think this lack of knowledge serves a purpose—it critiques our endless desire for answers and highlights the unsettling reality of living without them.

This is a philosophical meditation, and I’d love to explore its themes further over time. Harpman raises intriguing questions about knowledge and what experiences truly shape a human being. It’s a chilling speculation that makes you wonder: if our conditions were completely different, would we still be human?

I also found the concept of time fascinating in this novel. Trapped in a bunker, the women lose any natural sense of time. Yet, through the narrator’s ability to count her heartbeat and the other women’s prior knowledge, they manage to realign themselves with the structured time we rely on as humans. This is, overall, a beautiful portrayal of the female community. Despite its haunting atmosphere, it isn’t a brutal novel; it’s both unsettling and, surprisingly, wholesome.

So for now, here are some of the most poignant lines in the novel:

‘Is there satisfaction in the effort of remembering that provides its own nourishment, and is what one recollects less important than the act of remembering?’

‘We came to the conclusion that they left you here because any decision can be analysed, and that their lack of decision indicated the only thing they wanted us to know, which is that we must know nothing.’

‘I was happier when I hadn’t understood anything, when I hated you all because you kept your secrets’

‘Something that everybody does becomes meaningless. It’s just a habit, a custom, nobody knows when it started, they just repeat it mechanically’

‘It is strange that I am dying from a diseased womb, I who have never known men’

The Bee Sting, Paul Murray (4.0/5.0)

I regret picking this one up on audiobook; it’s simply too good not to annotate. But I committed to listening, and, honestly, even hearing it was a beautiful experience—both haunting and tragic in that unique, everyday way. And I guess a plus was the narration was in Irish!

It’s the kind of novel that sinks into the mundane moments, elevating them to something painfully relatable. There’s something distinctly Irish about its tone and humour, a melancholic charm that captures both the struggle and the resilience of each character. 

I went in expecting it to be primarily from Cass’s perspective, but getting to see the story through each family member’s eyes added a whole new layer. Watching the chaos unfold from all their vantage points made it even more compelling. The Bee Sting feels like a modern bildungsroman for each of them, as they navigate the messes of their lives with this combination of realism and something almost magical in its familiarity.

Paul Murray has crafted a darkly humorous and profoundly moving novel that digs into the Barnes family’s fall from prosperity. Imelda, once known for her beauty, hoards obsessively, clinging to a sense of stability as everything else crumbles. Dickie, who was a successful car dealer, becomes a recluse, sinking into peculiar projects, as if retreating from reality. Their children, Cass and PJ, are each mired in their own struggles—Cass spirals into self-destructive behaviour after a broken relationship, and PJ, tender and uncertain, tries to find his footing in a world that seems forever shifting beneath him.

I’m not sure what it is about Irish authors / novels but they are some simple yet so impactful. You just can’t go wrong with one. This is one that will leave you with your hand over your mouth at the end of it. 

Unfortunately I have no quotes for this one as I listened to the book so I just had to appreciate the lines in the moment.

Study for Obedience, Sarah Bernstein (2.0/5.0)

A study for obedience is very much what the title suggests: a study of obedience. 

This novel examines the forces that drive individuals to comply with authority, even when doing so may conflict with personal morals or ethics. Through fictional characters or case studies, it delves into themes of conformity, moral choice, and the boundaries between individual agency and societal pressure.

By dissecting the complex factors that lead people to submit to commands, Bernstein raises questions about autonomy, responsibility, and the human tendency to follow orders—even at the cost of personal integrity. 

I thought I would enjoy this book — or not enjoy but find it critically engaging but it just felt basic. I didn’t feel like learnt anything new and half the time I was lost and disconnected from the plot. I know others love this book so don’t let my review discoufage from giving this one a go.

The books I did not get around to

Out of my ambitious TBR here are the books I did not get around to for no particular reason besides lacking time with my job and writing on here: 

1. Klara and the Sun, Kazuo Ishiguro

2. Mongrel, Hanako Footman

3. Misrecognition, Madison Newbound

4. Tender is the Flesh, Agustina Bazterrica

What I would like to read in November

Here is my unrealistic tbr for November:

1. Second Sister, Chan Ho Kei

2. Slow Boat, Hideo Furukawa 

3. Parade, Rachel Cusk 

4. Tender is the Flesh, Agustina Bazterrica

5. Post-Traumatic, Chantal V. Johnson

6. Death in Her Hands, Ottessa Moshfegh

7. A Secret History, Donna Tart