Non-Fiction

Dead of Winter by Sara Clegg (Granta, £10.99)

A fantastic exploration of the darker side of midwinter traditions.
Part history, part travel writing, Clegg takes us on her travels around the UK and continental Europe in search of the darkest folk practices of the festive season, served up with side of snarky wit. We meet anarchic horse skulls in Wales and Kent, go on a night walk in the cemetery to catch a glimpse of those who will die in the new year, attend a parade of horned Krampus monster who beat festival attendees with birch sticks. The book is at well researched without getting bogged down in academic language. Oh, and don’t skip the footnotes – they would make Terry Pratchett proud

–Kate

The English Year by Steve Roud (Penguin, £14.99)

A deep and rich guide to the customs, festivals, and seasonal traditions that shape the English calendar. Month by month, learn about the folklore, history and how celebrations evolved and what they reveal about everyday life. The book works equally well as a reference to dip into, or as a leisurely read from cover to cover. Ever informative for the many years I have owned a copy, it has always given me an appreciation for our national cultural rhythms.

–Carl

Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire (Penguin, 9.99)

Pedagogy is evergreen! Making this a seasonal pick not just because we’ve had two busy non-fiction book group discussions on it in the last month, but because it still feels so relevant to community organising and approaches to teaching and learning today. Within Nottingham we’re seeing huge changes proposed to higher education courses, including potentially losing all modern language degrees in the city. Thinking about alternative approaches to education, value and community feels more important than ever and Freire, although not the easiest to get into, sets out a roadmap for meaningful connection and transformation.

–Sarah

Goliath’s Curse by Luke Kemp (Viking, £25)

Unsettling, but also strangely hopeful, Goliath’s Curse is a history of societal collapse, tracing patterns from ancient empires to modern global states. He argues that extreme inequality and elite hubris have always weakened “Goliath” powers (Russia, China, the U.S. etc), making them fragile despite seeming invincible. The book mixes deep historical research with urgent warnings about possible ‘catastrophic collapse’ from the convergence of climate change, inequality, AI, and nuclear risk. A morbidly fascinating (not sure what this says about me) survival manual for the future. How likely? You can only judge for yourself.

–Carl

 Reading in the Dark by Seamus Deane (Vintage Classics £9.99)

This is Deane’s memoir of growing up in mid-twentieth-century Derry, in the heart of the Bogside. It’s the best book I’ve read about the Troubles, but also a terrific chronicle of boyhood. Deane was a published poet, and it shows. Each of the segments – some only a few pages long – works as a metaphor for the inscrutable society the narrator is growing up in. Deane was slow to admit that this was a memoir, so you will often find it in the fiction shelves.

–Deirdre

Fiction

The Signalman by Charles Dickens (Galley Beggar Press £5.99)

Who doesn’t love a ghost story on dark winter’s nights? While A Christmas Carol is the obvious choice, The Signalman is also a haunting and atmospheric story of psychological tension and supernatural mystery. A troubled railway signalman sees a figure no one else can see, hears bells ringing in his signal box when no one else does… A cautionary reflection on technology and a warning against isolation. Short yet memorable, it is arguably Dickens’ most compelling exploration of fear and fate.

–Carl

Katabasis by R.F. Kuang (Harper Collins £22)

Does a sojourn in Hell count as seasonal? I’m saying so (for this newsletter at least!). I think there’s something wonderful about delving into a chunky book as the evenings close in, and this one doesn’t take itself too seriously, while also pulling from a huge range of work on the afterlife. What’s a sleep-deprived perfectionist to do when they accidentally kill their thesis supervisor and one of the most renowned scholars to ever live? Go and bring him back from death, of course! If you’ve thought about reading Dante, but never quite got round to it, why not explore the underworld through this tongue-in-cheek Cambrigian iteration instead? You’ll have more fun!

–Sarah

The Book of Dust trilogy

There was something not quite right about Northern Lights, I never worked out what it was although I read the trilogy twice. However, I love The Book of Dust. There is humour scattered throughout that makes me laugh out loud, and the commentary on our world sneaks through every now and then to make me think. And it’s a rip-roaring yarn, full of adventure and mystery. The first book tells how Malcolm Polstead and Alice Lawson save baby Lyra from the tentacles of the Magisterium’s CCD (secret police a la Stalin-era Russia). Then the second and third jump forward 20 years to tell what happens when Pantalaimon leaves Lyra to find ‘what she’s lost’, and Lyra hunts for him along the Silk Road, also following the trail of the rose trade, which is in danger from the unfathomable and violent Men from the Mountains.

–Pippa

The Plague by Albert Camus

OK, it’s Christmas, but let’s pretend otherwise as I want to recommend The Plague, and it’s really just not that seasonal. Camus’ novel is about an imaginary plague in the real Algerian town of Oran, first published in French in 1947 and set in the forties. At first it was rodents coming out and dying, singly, then in numbers, then the first people started to get ill, and then… well, you can imagine the rest. How did people react? The main clergyman in town blamed the people for this wrath of God, Doctor Rieux does what he can to save people, a visitor tries to do everything he can to leave the town but nobody is allowed to leave. Meanwhile the body count rises, and the dead need to be buried. How do people cope?
It was hard to read this book post-COVID and at the time of the COVID inquiry and still see the book just as an historic classic. Everything we thought and felt during the pandemic is here. Camus was prescient, though writing about the plague of the far right of his time.
The most telling sentence in the book though is from the narrator, whose identity is revealed only late in the book. They remark “I had continued to be a plague victim for all these long years”.

–Ross