The fiercely independent spirit of surrealists and other people trying to survive during World War 2 permeates this opulent novel with ghostly quotes and rebellious beliefs.

Laced with angels, forests, dreams, and women, this diary becomes increasingly fraught with questions of obedience, patriotism, dictatorship, and freedom.

Will your own perceptions be radicalized or soothed by this war story?

Before ‘uplit’ was even invented, there was DBC Pierre. His fiction has been described as a ‘joyful celebration of the human spirit’ and that is none more evident than in his protagonist in Lights Out, Gabriele Brockwell, a twenty-something narcissistic pleasure seeker optimistically stumbling through life before ultimately finding his place in it. A book that leaves you with the thought that optimism is the key to turning bad luck into good.

This is an early example of mythology being used for a deliberate purpose: in this case, the promotion of Christian chivalric virtue. Full of dreamlike images and allegories, it also had a great influence on early fantasy writing, even if those creating early fantasy tales had never read it. And then, of course, there’s Monty Python.

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. 

Biblical allegory is hard to do well. Bible stories themselves have infinite depths, but their allegories are often didactic, especially when author parallels the original story too closely. Stephanie Landem’s In a Far-Off Land is anything but didactic. Set in 1930s Hollywood, the novel is equal parts Prodigal Son retelling, romance, and murder mystery. By allowing the story to take on a life of its own, Landsem avoids the Sunday School vibe, and in the end, I understood the Prodigal Son archetypal characters better.

This play profoundly affected me (even though it only played out in my head and not on a real stage). It is both disturbing and moving. It is absurdist, but that nightmarish detachment from reality somehow sends an even stronger shock to the system in its warnings about how fascism takes hold: that strong human tendency towards social thinking (emerging neuroscience research suggests a substantial overlap between physical pain and social pain).

This is much more than just an allegory on authoritarianism, however. Recently, people have used it to explain how easily society gave up on a public health approach to the ongoing Covid pandemic. Maybe getting COVID-19 repeatedly and, at some point, eventually getting long-term COVID-19/turning into a Rhinoceros is not so bad?

I found this book to be a powerful allegory that made me think deeply about the purpose of life and how it can be either wasted or used to result in indescribable benefits for all eternity.

I have read it a couple of times, listened to it on audiobook, and look forward to reading it again—an indication that there is a lot in this book to think about.

With E.R. Eddison’s book, the hook is identity. I love that the major characters are all avatars, manifestations of each other, and that they don’t know it is the underlying mystery Eddison wants the reader to discover without being told.

All of his men derive from the godlike Mezentius, and all his women derive from the Goddess. Their lives and characters intertwine the real and imaginary worlds of Earth and Zimizmvia. The human Lady Mary is the real-world avatar of the Zimiamvian goddess Fiorinda, who is the lover of Duke Barganax, who is the otherworld personification of the real-world Lessingham, widower of Lady Mary and lover of the Zimizmvian princess Antiope.

If you start to get confused, you are on the right track! Eddison aims to confuse, mystify, and enter you all simultaneously.

This classic is about the need to speak up when someone sees something wrong. The story mirrors what many seemingly good people did not do during the WWII Holocaust. This story is told about different groups of animals, which is easier for young readers to understand. When the Terrible Things come to take away one group, the others feel relief. But one by one the Terrible Things take away another group. During this time no one speaks against what’s happening. They are just happy their time hasn’t come. By the time the Terrible Things come for the last group, there is no group left to protest and save them. The author wrote this book to “encourage young children to stand up for what they think is right, without waiting for others to join them.” That’s exactly what children in my books do and what I want to encourage in readers.

If a happy medium between those two extremes exists, you can find it in the series kicked off by this novella. If the government doesn’t demand complete control over magic, you can bet they’re still going to dedicate an agency to it. The stigma in this world against the “paranormally-abled” becomes an allegory for stigma against other minority populations, used to good effect in terms of world-building and character development. The stuffy government agent and the civilian getting caught up in a case together are another well-worn trope, but Hawk excels in breaking stereotypes through the small touches, which is important for intricate storytelling in shorter forms.