The best short novels that offer something deep, uncompromising and stylistically inventive

Kristóf (1935-2011) was a Hungarian writer who fled to Switzerland during the war and wrote in French.

The Notebook (the first in the trilogy) is currently number one on my list of all-time favourites. It has all the elements of storytelling that I love: deep, psychological insight into the human heart; adroit use of archetypes, which give the book a timeless, folkloric feel; concision (no waffling) and a poetic, pared-back language that creates a sense of startling immediacy.

Kristóf writes about World War II through the eyes of two young brothers in a Nazi-occupied country (unnamed), and she shocks us awake not through sensationalised violence but through matter-of-fact narration.

It reads like a cross-between dramatic monologue and biblical parable – she stretches the novel form and opens up new possibilities for writing. 

Hedayat (1903-1951) was an Iranian writer who knew that death and the mythic experience of Kairos time exists a hair’s breadth away from what we commonly experience as human life.

The Blind Owl was the book that gave me permission to write fiction: instead of writing a novel in standard form, I wanted to create a liminal space, a threshold world between real and unreal; to invite readers into an unfamiliar (and hopefully transformative) vision of humanity.

This is exactly what Hedayat does in The Blind Owl: we are immersed in a fable of otherworldly, repetitive, poetic, dark, and mesmerising power. The story (of jealousy, despair, the cyclical nature of life and death) has a rare depth and a sense of universal reach precisely because it has one foot in the liminal.

Repila (b.1978) is a Spanish writer, whose work was recommended to me by a UK publisher: “The Boy Who Stole Attila’s Horse is a work of mythic genius that portrays tragic inevitability in a quite terrifyingly awesome way (I mean awesome in the archaic sense)."

The book tells the story of two brothers – Big and Small – trapped in a deep well and slowly starving to death. The language is precise and gut-wrenching, but the narrative reaches beyond its own particulars – compelling as they are – to work as a furious allegory of inequality and injustice.

What I love about the book is precisely this combination: one visceral scene in a well becomes a global commentary on the shadow side of the human. 

Diop is a French writer (b.1966) and this book won the 2021 International Booker Prize.

I don’t seek out war stories, particularly those set in the trenches of the Great War, as this one is, but At Night All Blood Is Black isn’t your standard war novel.

I was hoping for something beyond the mud and the bayonets, the horror and its unending aftermath. I was hoping for an understanding of the paradox of being human and, even though the book is unapologetically bleak, I wasn’t disappointed.

How come? The love between the soldiers, Alfa and Mademba, is at the heart of the story – it’s a key source of its power – and then Diop delivers a blindside, which I’m not going to give away. Read it and disappear. Let the language be your lantern in the dark. 

Kang is a South Korean writer, who is also a poet. When I read her books, I get a sense of her integrity and curiosity.

There’s nothing wrong with books that entertain, distract or straightforwardly inform, but I’m always drawn to books that try to do something deeper and more challenging. The Vegetarian, winner of the 2016 International Booker Prize, is one of these books. Kang seems driven to uncover, unpack, dig ever deeper, often in pursuit of something she knows she’ll never quite arrive at.

She sets up extraordinary – off the wall – scenarios and lets the characters play them out: a wife wields power by refusing to eat meat; her brother-in-law gets off on painting her body with flowers. This is thrilling psychological drama in an intense, erotic outburst.