To make lists is a dangerous thing, especially if it’s a question of advising people on the one book to stuff into the top of the rucksack they have to drag up an unpromising mountain, or one which is most likely to block out the sound of children trapped at home over the summer. This narrows down the list to books that are unquestionably

worth reading, and — for me — books that are not very likely to bore, whatever else they may do. This list is a small excerpt of the books that are in the front row of my bookshelves. The ones that are even slightly yawn-inducing go in the back row — strange, V.S. Naipaul is often found in the back (except for The Loss of El Dorado), but all six Jane Austens are in the front. How can this be? Oh no, I’m a female! Anyway…

(1) Stet by Diana Athill: An apropos antidote to Sir Vidia’s most recent grouchy grumbling, this is the very book he referred to as “feminine tosh”: Diana Athill was his editor for decades, and knew him rather well. Stet is a memoir of a time when the manuscripts of Miguel Street (Naipaul), Goodbye, Columbus (Philip Roth), Wide Saragasso Sea (Jean Rhys) and even Jaws (Peter Benchley) first passed through her hands. This is a book that opens the door onto the secret backstage of literary performance, and the second half includes intimate portraits of writers Athill knew — including Jean Rhys, Molly Keane, Alfred Chester and, of course, Naipaul. Her portrait of him is reason alone to buy this book: after the disaster of losing him to another publisher (some 18 books later), the silver lining glimmers — “Oh, I never have to be nice to Vidia again”, she realises, in a happy epiphany. Athill’s devotion to literature, and her irreverent attitude to the human sides of eminent writers, make this a very entertaining read indeed.

(2) The Secret History by Donna Tartt: I reserve a special place in my heart (and bookshelves) for the “crashing good read” — in which category this is a masterpiece. A dark psychological mystery built around a group of Greek scholars at a Vermont college, the book revisits a wild Bacchanal and the unexplained disappearance and murder of one of the group. Donna Tartt’s page-turner re-introduces the reader to the vanished world of Greece, and is an unforgettable story of an exclusive East Coast set made subject to the ancient Furies. A book to be devoured with the rain lashing at the windows of a quiet hill cottage.

(3) The Collaborator by Mirza Waheed: An impressive first novel, The Collaborator is the story of the last Kashmiri boy left behind in a remote village, long after all the friends of his childhood have gone “sarhad paar”. He is (unofficially) employed by the Indian Army to routinely descend into an abandoned valley to collect the ID tags of dead Kashmiri youth, killed by Army bullets as they attempt to make their way back home. He is also haunted by the thought that — one day or the other — he is likely to come across the decomposing corpses of his friends. The Collaborator is an important novel — not least because it’s written in the authentic voice of an insider, but because Waheed’s lyrical language captures both the beauty of the landscape as well as the tragedy of an endless, terrible war.

(4) Tender Hooks by Moni Mohsin: Mohsin’s delightful confection Butterfly is back, this time trying to find a wife for her much-divorced and balding cousin Jonkers (son of Aunt Pussy and Uncle Cock-Up), whilst also attending every tabaahi GT (oho, get together, baba) in Lahore and hatching sinister plots to steal her best friend’s maid (after her own ditches her for a lucrative job in Dubai). This light-hearted satire is guaranteed to make you laugh and feel perfectly at home in the cut-throat world of upper-class Lahore. If you haven’t read the first one in the series —Diary of a Social Butterfly — the delights that await you are enviable.

(5) Known Turf by Annie Zaidi: One of the many interesting new titles coming from Tranquebar, this compilation of reportage stands out for Annie Zaidi’s unpretentious voice. She writes about the known tragedies of this country with a fresh directness, and it is hard to remain unaffected. For example, when she meets a Benarsi sari weaver who breaks down and weeps while confessing that all she has to eat is some boiled potatoes — no spices, no rice, no dal, nothing at all. What makes the book compelling, though, is Zaidi’s own personal narrative, which is woven through the reportage: such as her account of growing up as a Muslim in an increasingly divided country, or her observations on the ritual of chai, with its unaccountable tastes and preferences.

(6) Touching the Void by Joe Simpson: I am distressed by people who tell me how good the film of this memoir is, because it does only a patchy job of capturing the drama of the book. In 1985, Joe Simpson and his climbing partner Simon Yates attempted to climb the west face of the 6,344-metre Siula Grande, in a remote part of the Peruvian Andes. The climb to the top was bad enough and then Simpson broke his leg during the descent. The book is dedicated by Simpson to Yates who attempted to get him down the mountain by belaying — one of the great acts of sacrifice in the history of mountaineering — but finally, in an impossible situation, Yates had to cut Simpson’s rope as he dangled in the mouth of a crevasse and leave him for dead. While reading the book I knew that Simpson had (obviously) lived to tell the tale but could barely credit the fact, even after finishing the book, which I read through without stopping, in a state of mesmerised terror. Perhaps not the perfect companion on a mountaineering expedition, but just right if one is merely camping comfortably in the shade of the mountains.

(7) The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddharth Mukherjee: This Biography Of Cancer needs no introduction — it made several front pages when its gifted writer won this year’s Pulitzer Prize (for non-fiction). Perhaps the best time to read it is on a break — not just because it’s nearly 600 pages long, but also because it is written with such genius that once begun, it commands the reader’s undivided attention. The history of the scientists, doctors, patients and researchers who discovered, worked with and experienced cancer is essential reading for anyone who wants to understand the nature of human endeavour — and especially for anyone who wants to truly understand cancer. I turned several times to the photograph of a plump, gently smiling woman — the first person to be successfully treated with Herceptin. Mukherjee tracked her down, as he did an unlikely survivor of childhood leukemia from the 1950s. The story of this disease has been turned into an epic tale, not least because Mukherjee’s literary talents are formidable. I cannot praise this book
enough.

(8) Granta112: Pakistan: A timely anthology from Granta — it seems that whatever else may be happening in the country itself, Pakistani writers are at the top of their game. Granta: Pakistan opens with a fantastical re-telling of the Laila-Majnu story by Nadeem Aslam that had me hooked right away with its atmosphere. There are many other gems in this collection — and not all the writers are Pakistani — but Basharat Peer, Fatima Bhutto, Mohammed Hanif and Uzma Aslam Khan are all contributors and reason enough to buy and read.

(9) The Virago Book of Ghost Stories, Volume 2 edited by Richard Dalby: The well-written ghost story is one of the hardest literary acts to pull off, and women seem to have dominated this genre effortlessly. There is a Volume 1 in this series (naturally), but the second volume, which features 20th-century writing by women, is the runaway winner and makes one wish that Richard Dalby had included just a few more stories from his remarkable collection. This anthology features truly scary stories by several great writers, including Rebecca West, P.D. James, Penelope Lively, Antonia Fraser, Edith Wharton, Joan Aiken, E. Nesbit, Jean Rhys, Mary Butts, Richmal Crompton. Oh dear, the list goes on — don’t miss this collection. Begin with The Grey Men by Rebecca West, and you’ll be hooked (and properly creeped-out, I hope).

(10) Maus by Art Spiegelman: In my opinion, the greatest graphic novel ever drawn and written. It has never been out of print since the second and final volume came out in 1992, when it also won a special Pulitzer Prize. Art Spiegelman has recorded his parents’ experience of the Holocaust as Polish Jews, as well as his own fraught relationship with them over the years. Spiegelman’s father is an exasperating and eccentric old man who is driving his son crazy but his story is tragic and funny, despairing and hopeful, and ultimately just breaks your heart. The artwork and visual metaphors of the book have created a third dimension of meaning, in which the Jews are drawn as mice, the Nazis as cats, and the Poles as pigs. If you haven’t read this already (no doubt you have, but still…), do.

The author is a bibliophile who has been working as a film editor for 12 years. She studied literature at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi, and at the University of Oxford, UK.