I read this book recently after having it strongly recommended to me by one of my very best friends. In fact, she even read me a few excerpt and that pretty much guaranteed that I was going to give it a read. She described it as “a book that every woman should read” and I agree with that sentiment – though I’d take it further. It’s a book that everybody in general should read.

At its heart, it’s essentially an analysis of our current concept of romantic love – one tied closely to many of the author’s personal experiences. It looks at how marriage was once much more of a transactional thing which occasionally included “love” and a positive by-product, but which, over time, we’ve replaced with the current concept of having a romantic partner who is essentially a person’s “everything” person who will fulfil their every emotional need. While the shift was originally a radical and feminist thing, Tamara Tenenbaum argues that there’s potentially just as much misogyny baked into this as there was in the transactional era.

A lot of us have been enamoured by the idea of giving up everything in the name of somebody we love, but very often the reality of this is that women end up sacrificing everything for a man, and ending up with a relationship dynamic that serves him much more than it serves her. So, for instance, she might have less time for her friends because the romantic relationship is supposed to be more important and “enough” on its own. It also explores the feelings of frustration and discontentment that people feel when they try to make their partner the person they turn to for every possible problem they have. It collects a lot of thoughts I’d often had about these things and wraps them together in a very coherent and compelling way, backing them up with research where possible.

The author also explores a lot of related issues, such as expectations and pressures placed on women and the different sets of struggles that people face in individualist cultures, versus those where community is put before all other things. It’s not a clear-cut thing of one being good and the other being bad. There’s also a particularly depressing section on dating apps and how they ultimately feed into the de-humanisation of women by men who can’t handle getting rejected. Of course, how could she not talk about the ridiculous beauty standards women are expected to follow too?

One section that I particularly enjoyed spoke about how being single is often treated as a transitionary period and so prompts people to feel like something is missing if they’re not in a romantic relationship. It’s something you find strongly reinforced in so much media and it’s not something I think I’ve ever seen properly called out before – but it’s no wonder people quickly couple up with people (often people who may not be right for them) when they’re encouraged to feel incomplete when they don’t do this.

I, and the author, certainly don’t want to suggest that monogamous romantic relationships are a bad thing for anyone to want, but I think Tamara Tenenbaum does an excellent job of encouraging people to think critically about these things and to think about what they need vs what they’ve been socialised to think that they need to be happy. She doesn’t claim to have all the answers, but she does encourage us to ask questions and I think it’s important that everybody do that.

Rating: 9.6/10

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After the incredible experience of reading Volume 16, Volume 18, like Volume 17 before it, felt more like filler. It’s not bad by any means, but it’s certainly not the heart-wrenching peak that the series reached when it recounted Koro-sensei’s backstory. This feels like slightly more of an “ordinary” volume.

The most interesting thing, I suppose, is that it details Nagisa and Karma’s trip to the International Space Station in their attempts to find a cure for their teacher. It stands out for being so different to anything else that has happened before now… but at the same time, it doesn’t feel quite as profound as it should. I’m not quite sure why, but I didn’t really feel like it was written as though it was this really amazing thing, but more just like any of the challenges the class had faced before, even though it was really different.

Once that’s over, the volume focuses on romance because Valentine’s Day comes along. Karasuma and Jelavitch get a lot of attention and there’s a whole subplot about the pair of them going out for dinner together. I’m sure there are some fans for whom this will be a very positive development, but I was kind of indifferent to it. I’ve never really been invested in the bond between these two characters and while their interactions here are still interesting, it felt more like an attempt to start giving different characters an “ending” rather than actually moving the main story along.

Besides this, you also have a lot of stuff about the characters coming to terms with the fact that their time in the “Assassination Classroom” is slowly coming to an end. It’s all good to read, but again, it doesn’t feel like it brings us much closer to the end. Slightly naval-gazy in a way. I don’t think anyone will dislike it, and the visit to space is kind of cool, but it’s the second volume in a row that doesn’t feel like it does much, unfortunately – though I did enjoy it more than Volume 17.

Rating: 8.2/10

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I’m sure that everybody knows that Black Beauty is a novel about a horse, but what a lot of people probably don’t know that it is a novel told from the perspective of a horse. That was quite a surprise to me, when I started, but a pleasant one, because I’ve never read a story that’s narrated by a horse before.

It all follows the titular Black Beauty – a horse who goes through many different names as he changes hands throughout the course of the novel. His voice was one that I really liked actually. The author has done a good job of imbuing him with a sort of animal innocence, but without making it so that the writing lacks depth and is super simplistic. A lot of the time, he condemns humanity’s treatment of horses (usually based on horrible things he sees happen, or even that happen to him directly) but the innocent quality to the writing stops it from ever feeling self-righteous to me.

I admire it for tackling animal rights, because I have yet to read any other book from its era that goes out of its way to advocate for them. Indeed, it’s much more common to read stuff from the 19th century which reflects a sort of callous disregard for the wellbeing of animals.

I was shocked by how bleak the story was at times, because when you hear something is told from the perspective of an animal, the initial thought is that it is probably going to be light-hearted. I’d actually compare it to Animal Farm, where animal characters are used to share quite a serious message, except that I think it manages to be much more engaging and to do a better job than Animal Farm.

Black Beauty’s journey between different owners can sometimes feel a little bit aimless and to be honest, it doesn’t have a particularly well-defined over-arching plot. Sometimes it can be a little bit hard to keep track of all the human characters, because they seem to come and go so often. I also felt that chapters were so short that it felt like it was stopping and starting a lot, and I say that as a lover of short chapters.

But, ultimately, I am don’t have a lot to criticise Black Beauty. It’s a very pure novel in a lot of ways and that endears me to it. It’s a perfect example of a piece of children’s literature that appeals to all ages because it doesn’t talk down to the reader.

Rating: 7.5/10

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This is the second novel in the Brandon Sanderson era of the Wheel of Time, the thirteenth overall in the series, and the penultimate instalment! I have to admit that while the previous book, The Gathering Storm, felt like a really exciting new start that really got things moving again, Towers of Midnight (though an enjoyable read) was a little less exciting. It’s still good for sure, but by this point I’m used to the intriguing new Brandon Sanderson style and it felt a little more like a book that was lining things up for the finale (which isn’t strictly bad).

One thing that delighted me, and which those who have read my other reviews might be able to guess, is something that I feel like I’ve been waiting to happen for about four books. I don’t want to say what it is, because it’s a bit of a spoiler, but, gosh, it puts me in quite a happy state of mind as I look ahead to the finale. I think this is a development that is likely to please any fans who have come this far in the series.

For once, I think the Perrin storyline was probably the one that I enjoyed the most. I still find his relationship with Faile to be quite excruciating, but this book was about he and his people trying to make peace with the Children of the Light. It was a good bit of fantasy political drama and actually probably the book which has made the Children of Light more interesting than ever before. It felt like a really nice endpoint to tensions that have built for many books, and I have no doubt that it’ll pave the way for some even more interesting storylines in the book ahead.

I also quite enjoyed how Rand was written in this one. I grew to find the character kind of insufferable after about four of five books because of his arrogance and emotional detachment. This was addressed in a meaningful way in The Gathering Storm, particularly towards the end, and so I was looking forward to seeing how he was written here – and you know what? I think I’m starting to like him again. I’m glad that his character arc wasn’t just him becoming increasingly cold and inhumane.

So, as I say, it’s mostly lining things up for the finale and getting people to be where they need to be for The Final Battle. It’s not the most exciting book of the bunch, but it’s far from being one of the most boring too. It’s been a long journey and I am glad that this penultimate book has left me in a position where I am thinking “I look forward to seeing how it ends” rather than “I just want it to be over” and I was genuinely worried it might go that way a few books ago.

Rating: 8.2/10

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Over the years, I’ve not really read many non-fiction books about medieval history. I tried to read a few when I was a young adult but always gave up on them because I found them far too dry for me to get any enjoyment out of. It’s a shame because it’s not as though I’m not curious about that era of history. Warrior Monks did not have that problem at all though. While it is possible that I might simply have a greater appetite for work like this now that I am a little older, I think a big part of it is that it’s written in a highly engaging way that even manages to capture a little humour – there were two or three times it made me genuinely laugh out loud.

The book covers the history of the Knights Hospitaller in Britain. For those not in the know, the Hospitallers were a Catholic military order and they were active around the world for hundreds of years. Although my own set of morals and values are far removed from those that the Hospitallers adhered to, something that I found quite impressive about this book was how it made me actually feel quite fond of them – and even had me rooting for them a few times. With a history that spans multiple centuries, the book covers a lot of ground and it’s pretty fascinating to see how the order behaved in different ways at different times, and how its influence grew and shrank. I remember feeling a little emotional when reading about how they lost a priory which had been their’s for practically all of their history.

What I enjoyed the most was reading about how they were effected by other historic events which were happening contemporaneously. One chapter dealt with a witchfinder accusing a prominent Hospitaller of witchcraft – it certainly endears you to them when you’re reading about how they’re challenging something as sinister as the witch trials. The absurd claims that were made about them and their associates are also mildly entertaining to look back on (despite the discomfort of knowing that other people lost their lives because of similar accusations). Their involvement with the War of the Roses was also especially interesting to me, along with the hard times they ultimately faced as a consequence of Henry VIII.

One particular strength of the book is that it doesn’t just focus on the big picture. Yes, you do get that as well, but wherever possible, it’s interspersed with human stories and anecdotes. Of course, there aren’t a huge number of these because of how distant the history is, but they make a huge difference and are often some of the most enjoyable bits – the story of the witchfinders is a perfect example of that. Knowing the personal struggles of a lot of the people involves in this history was a big part of what kept me invested throughout. It really breaths life into something which might otherwise feel quite detached from normal human existence.

The ending was great too – I don’t want to “spoil” anything (as much as you can spoil non-fiction history), but it explained the legacy of the Hospitallers that is still felt today. I thought it was an excellent way to illustrate the interconnected nature of things and that even medieval history is relevant to the world we live in today. It was also just quite touching after everything you’ve read about them by that point. If you’ve got any interest in the era, I definitely recommend giving this book a read.

Rating: 8.3/10

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Like many people, I mostly knew Nigel Kneale as a just a TV writer. I say “just” there specifically to mean “that was the only medium I knew him to write in” rather than to imply that TV writing is somehow lesser than prose writing. I loved Quatermass in particular, and hadn’t seen anything that he’d written that I didn’t like. I was delighted, then, when one of my very best friends gifted me Tomato Cain and Other Stories, which is a collection of Kneale’s short fiction.

Much of his work here is just as good as anything he wrote for TV and there’s a huge variety in the types of stories too. A couple of them are dark retellings of fairy tales – one where a downed military pilot finds an old structure that brings to mind the people frozen in place in Sleeping Beauty, another takes inspiration from Snow White and sees a bitter older woman convincing a young girl in her care that she is ugly.

You’ve got some classic horror in there too, with a story called Minuke that is essentially about a haunted house. It’s very much the type of story that most horror fans will have consumed before, but not only is it a really good version of it, it’s also a relatively early one too, so it deserves praise and recognition for that.

Others have a kind of dark whimsy to them – specifically a story about a taxidermist who heads to the local pond to capture frogs for his projects (which involve posing them as if they were little people). In the end he meets an hilariously ironic fate. Another one of them deals with a child who appears to befriend a scarecrow, but the scarecrow is alive and quite clearly not a scarecrow, but you don’t really know what is going on as you only see from the child’s perspective.

Some of them are quite rooted in reality too and just deal with human dramas – usually with a fair amount of tension. One is about a man in a chip shop who knows his wife is being unfaithful. Another is about a man doing the best he can to avoid having an emotional response to his mother’s death (and succeeding for the most part). It’s nice to know that each story could be about literally anything. One of the most distressing stories, about rats, is also one that isn’t completely outside of reality.

I’m not sure which my favourite of the bunch was. It might be a story that deals with the end of time itself, but from a very mundane perspective. It was really quite chilling. Though there are lots of great ones – including a sad story from the point of view of a ghost, and a story about a guy who cons a bunch of people to the detriment of us all (a story for our times).

Funnily enough, it was probably Tomato Cain itself which I found the least interesting – which was a loosely comic story about how a man got the nickname “Tomato Cain” but even that was still mildly enjoyable. Nothing in here is bad, but overall it is a fantastic collection of stories that’ll often make you laugh, and consistently make you uneasy.

Rating: 8.7/10

Buy it here.

This is probably the best feminist horror story I have ever read – and I appreciate that that might sound like an unusual genre. There have been so many advancements in mental health during the last couple of decades that it’s easy to forget just how terrible things were in relatively recent history – especially for women. The Yellow Wallpaper illustrates that in a very chilling way.

The whole story is told from the perspective of a woman whose husband and doctor have decided that she needs to start taking things easy. Her own feelings and perspectives are never really listened to or taken seriously, and what should have been something relatively mild, ends up becoming much more serious.

I think it’s a story that’s just as relevant now as it was when it was first published back in 1892. For one thing, it stands as an important historic record of the type of experience many women had at the time (even if this story is entirely fictional). Also, while things are much better these days, women’s health being dismissed and consequently not tended to properly is still an enormous problem today – and a lot of people in my life have first-hand experience of this.

It’s a short piece of work (it only takes about 30 minutes to read it all), but it really highlights the author’s strengths that the story and characters all still managed to have such a big impact on me. Right at the end, it’s not clear exactly what has happened, and I know that some people have a supernatural interpretation of it. It’s a good story to discuss with people for that reason, and while I am not sure if I subscribe to the supernatural reading, even if you do, I don’t think it makes the story any less serious or weakens its commentary on society.

What I found particularly upsetting was how the narrator’s mental decline is very apparent as the story goes on. At the start, she’s perfectly lucid, but by the end her grip in reality is very loose – and the saddest thing of all is that the people who are supposed to be in a position to help her are actually the ones who are making her worse. It’s the hopelessness of it all that makes it so heart-breaking.

I don’t want to say too much more, because it’s only a short piece and I don’t want to give too much away, but I definitely recommend it to just about anyone. There’s very little to lose by sparing half an hour to read it, but there is an awful lot to gain. It’s an important slice of feminist literary history.

Rating: 8.8/10

Buy it here.