Switzy by Emma Cline reviewed by Adèle Geras

 “Someone had told him once: You should always leave a party right when you think to yourself, I'm having such a good time at this party. Because after that they had said the night could only go downhill.'  This thought is one that David Hastings, the hero of Switzy, recalls from his youth.

Before I begin this review, I should warn readers that this is a book about euthanasia. We know right from the start  and even before we pick it up that the subject matter is not going to be hilarious or even very exciting. Nevertheless, we are drawn into the story and follow every twist and turn eagerly almost as if we didn’t know what’s going to happen at the end. 

David is very wealthy . His memory has fractured and crumbled and he has made all the necessary arrangements for an assisted death in a clinic in Zurich. The book begins on the plane he’s travelling in and ends with his death. He's accompanied throughout by Cody, who is his assistant and helper. There’s a stop off in London to see (very briefly) his daughter and grandson, and another visit while he’s in Zurich to see Tom, his friend from childhood. 
These visits are short, unsatisfactory in many ways, but necessary for David’s peace of mind. It’s hard to know if the account we’re reading is an accurate retelling of events, given David’s splintered memories. His is the only voice we hear.As the book progresses, we see his reality becoming more and more difficult and fractured and his thoughts and memories coming and going in frighteningly dislocated ways.

Giles Coren loved this book so much that he threatened to eat the Chair of the Booker Prize judges, Mary Beard, if Switzy didn’t make it on to the shortlist. He’s since taken that threat back, but it made me wonder why an absolutely bravura display of brilliant writing as well as a real page turner hadn’t made the cut.  In passing I ought to mention that I find the title baffling. It's a nickname for Switzerland, obviously, but sounds chirpy and cute, which is very much the wrong note for a novel like this. When I finished reading, I admired Switzy enormously without loving it. 

I think it’s because, as David tries to make sense of a world that’s disintegrating around him, he describes everything to himself. He grasps at things and we see them in unexpected ways: bathrooms, lights, fabrics, city streets, his own body and its functions. And because Cline is such a good writer, the descriptions are sharp, vivid, even poetic and they stay with us. This leaves an impression of something crafted, worked on, somehow not raw or jagged enough for the subject matter. 

The end of the story is what we have been waiting for.  It’s sad, of course, but sobering rather than moving. Cline had resisted the temptation of making her hero lovable. She has avoided sentimentality and that’s a true achievement. It leaves a reader with many things to think about.

AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, IT'S NOVEMBER? by Penny Dolan

October 2026 became busy, with an ‘Afternoon Tea in Queen Victoria’s Carriage’ on the Embsay Heritage Railway; an unexpected but welcome visit from ‘long-lost’ cousins, a day wandering the Walls of York with a friend, a fine film about the Life of Caravaggio, and an Azuma to Kings Cross and back, seeing dear family people. All the experiences very spirit lifting – and with a wonderfully empty week to look  forward to as well.

Better still, the week would be one of those rare gaps where there was nobody-and-nothing going on. There would be no ‘Visiting Men*’ in or around the house, no people mending things, installing things, collecting or delivering essential things. Just nobody, not even the person needed to repair the dishwasher. No. Men.

The week would be the perfect week for catching up on ideas or projects. Heavens, what bliss!

And then?

And then . . . a revolting, coughing-wheezing-cold-in-the-chest bug descended. The ‘empty’ week was spent under layers of heavy bedding, along with the rattling and rustling of medications and endless coughing and spluttering. Quiet and peaceful, it was not! 

Days passed, and nights, and at last the miserable bug has started shifting. I am Still Standing, though more often sitting, lolling or dozing and have done nothing word-wise for days. October, you promised so much! What just happened?

I look at the calendar. Saturday 31st October! Already? But it is Halloween and, very thankfully, I am still on the right side of That Midnight Door - and hope to remain so.

Plus I do have a few hasty words written now. These: November's Awfully Big Blog Adventure post!

Hoping you had the Halloween you wanted, that you're enjoying a fine All Hallows Sunday, and that you'll have a cheering and healthy November! With enough time and brain-space for your words during those weeks ahead.

Penny Dolan

*nb. Our visiting Repair People are all men.

Better late?

Not that it represented a threat to world democracy, but I do apologise for missing my blog date of the 25th. The reason? I'm currently editing a book for a former manager. He hails from Japan, speaks good English but can't, as he very readily admits, write it.

Well, he can put the words down in English on paper, but what we end up with is something like this:

Why dangerous? First, thinking “a failed product will succeed if the times catch up,” a company re-launches the previously failed product with the same desire story—but what has in fact arisen in society is a completely different desire. Second, “imitating only the outward form of a successful competitor”: Ray-Ban Meta is selling, so we too will release a product with the same form. But the essence of success is not the form; it is the positioning against a different desire that has risen in that era. Third, “misreading the signs of the future”: absolutising a past failure, we miss the new desire of the AI era—“to get the right answer without interrupting my life.”

As he himself says, what emerges from his pen is Janglish, and it needs a proper English speaker and writer to knock it all into legible - and comprehensible state. So, for years now, I've been editing the short articles he writes for a blog and they've been hard work but also fun. I can manage one in three hours. They're also intended to be read online, so his initial drafts are far simpler in execution. Thus, easier to edit and polish.

This book, however, is on another plane. It's about Design and oh boy, people who work in Design often make incomprehensible French philosophers read like Enid Blyton. I was once asked by a departing colleague - from the same Design department - to write accounts of four projects she'd managed. She wanted her successor to be able to bring himself up to speed with what he was taking over. So I did, and she was happy and, so I heard later, was the successor.

So happy, in fact, that he thought one of the articles should be submitted to an academic Design journal. Off it went. And back it came, with the observation that, as interesting as the subject was, the text wasn't in a style befitting the journal. This translates as - and I've been backed up in this by others, so it's not just sour grapes on my part - it didn't read like an academic article. Or to put it bluntly, it was too easy to read. 

So I'm currently halfway through a tome about Design and it is HARD WORK. I can manage to 'translate' 5 pages a day, 3 days a week, and when I'm finished each day my brain feels as though it's been boiled in a vat with rusty cannon balls. And then poached.

And that's the reason I missed my October 25th date.

CREATIVITY -- PART OF BEING HUMAN by Sheena Wilkinson

‘If you can’t get another publishing deal,’ my husband said cheerily last week, ‘will you just stop writing?’ 

Ouch. Also no. I’ve been writing stories since I was eight and I’m now fifty-eight. Stories have always been how I make sense of the world. But I have always wanted readers. Little Sheena touted her stories around whoever would read them, and big Sheena’s exactly the same. As regular readers will know, I self-published the sequel to Mrs Hart’s Marriage Bureau. (Miss McVey Takes Charge, Writers Review Publishing, 2025) but I’d be lying if I said this would be my first choice in future. At the moment I have a book about to go on submission, an almost-complete first draft and an unexpected novel idea that will soon be at new-notebook -buying stage. And if I don’t get a publishing deal for any of them … well, I’ll worry about that another day.

MY ACTUAL BOTTOM DRAWER FULL OF WRITING PROJECTS 

Recently, some friends and I have been chatting about the importance of creativity in our lives, and how we need to separate the joy of the writing from the not-always-joy of the publishing industry. We are all published writers though some, like me, are currently out of contract; most feel there's something missing in our lives when we aren't making something. Especially when, for whatever reason, we aren't writing. 

It doesn’t need to be with words. Emma Pass is an award-winning author, who can certainly knit magic with words, but she’s also become extremely nifty with yarn. ‘I taught myself to knit just before the Pandemic hit, and it's become one of my favourite things to do!’ Emma says. ‘However, I've consciously made the decision to keep it as a hobby and only make items for other people as gifts, rather than trying to sell pieces and turn it into a "side hustle". For me, it's a way to relax, and if it became a "job" I wouldn't enjoy it anymore.’ 

EMMA AND I KNITTING 

Fellow novelist Rachel Ward has garnered quite a following on social media for her daily photographs. I’m not the only person whose morning is always brightened by one of her beautiful pictures of Bath. Rachel says, ‘I take photographs, paint and draw, and while I do sometimes sell and exhibit these, nowadays the point is very much to enjoy creating as an end in itself. With painting, I often deliberately choose a subject with colours that will nurture a good mood. It feels like bathing in colour and light, and is a real tonic, whatever the weather or whatever life is flinging at me that day.'

BLUE AND WHITE, AND ORANGE (RACHEL WARD) 

I don’t have the talent of either Emma or Rachel, but I do love making things. Recently, when a good friend died, I wanted to buy her daughter a ‘Mrs Rabbit’ toy (from Peter Rabbit), but decided it would be more meaningful to make one. Now I am no seamstress, and although I own a sewing machine, I have not mastered its wily ways, so my Mrs Rabbit was made by hand, from scraps. She’s a bit rough and ready, but I know she meant more to my friend’s daughter than if I had simply gone out and bought a mass-produced toy. 

MRS RABBIT

In the past few years I've joined the local Women's Institute. Apart from making friends in a new place, it's helped to reconnect me with that love of creating things. The WI actively encourages creativity through its celebration, not only of traditional home crafts, but of music, drama, the spoken word, and other activities. 

MONEYMORE WI'S ENTRY IN THE BELFAST AUTUMN FAIR -- SO MUCH CREATIVITY 

Last week I visited the National Museum of Ireland's Museum of Country Life in County Mayo. This collection highlights the everyday objects people made and used throughout centuries of (mostly rural) life. Many of these things were necessities – baskets, small boats, furniture, tools – but all are characterised by attention to detail and form following function – which is surely at the heart of all good design. These sturdy objects reminded me that, even in the harshest times, in societies where the focus is purely on survival, humans have always expressed their creativity. A tin lamp was functional, but also beautifully carved. Fishermen’s Aran sweaters were warm and water repellent, but their patterns, as well as being unique to each clan and therefore a useful means of identifying a body washed ashore, were intricate and intrinsically beautiful, and in turn influenced by ancient Celtic patterns, with their own symbolism. We have always told stories, made music and art, as a way of making sense of, and sometimes expanding, our worlds.

That’s one of the many reasons why some people’s desire to use AI to ‘make’ a picture, a story or a song is so baffling. Apart from the serious ethical and environmental issues, why would someone not want to make the thing themselves? It’s a fundamental human need. I want my books to be published and to do well, because I made them, grew them from an idea, nurtured and wrestled them through multiple messy drafts to finished book. It’s the process that gives value to the product. 

A COLLAGE I MADE AT A RECENT WRITING COURSE WITH JEN ALEXANDER -- THIS HAS SPARKED A WHOLE NOVEL IDEA

And the process is what we need as humans. Indeed, creating – anything from a loaf of bread to a sonnet – is partly what makes us human.  

Warne's Adventure Book For Girls - by Sue Purkiss

I was doing a bit of sorting out in the hut recently, and came across this book, gathering spiders' webs in a corner. It's called Warne's Adventure Book for Girls. It has no date, (nor is the illustrator credited) but I'm guessing it was published in the early 1930s. (Frederick Warne and Co. were the publishers of Beatrix Potter's books, and later of the Observer series of beautifully illustrated non-fiction books.) I think I may have got it from the big second-hand book shop in Dulverton, Exmoor, just down the road from Seven Fables, the jewel of a book shop which has close links with Jackie Morris and specialises in nature books.

Anyway, I decided to have a proper look at it. It has sixteen stories, and I ended up reading all of them. They're set in several different countries, including Scotland, Africa and Australia as well as England; some of them are historical - such as The Countess in a Cage, by Grace Aguilar, which tells the grim story of the Countess of Buchan, said to have placed the crown on Robert the Bruce's head, who was imprisoned by King Edward of England in a cage hung from the battlements of the castle of Berwick-on-Tweed. The language for this one is archaic and fanciful: she is described as having that beauty which is the holy emanation of the soul that lingered still with power to awe the rudest heart, to bow the proudest in voluntary respect. Would you see this kind of language in a modern children's book? I think not.

But this story is an outlier. Most of them use contemporary language, and while the attitudes of the time are clearly - inevitably - there, they are stories with girls/young women at the centre, driving the story - riding motorbikes and piloting planes, and definitely with agency. Raven Rock, by Mary Shrewbury, tells of a group of Sea Guides, who have nowhere to meet in the winter. Peterson, a retired coastguard, could have helped them, but doesn't believe in girls having a Patrol. But then they are called on to rescue a boy who has fallen over a cliff called Raven Rock. The narrator, Loot, takes her life in her hands to rescue him, and in the process, she finds a very precious memento of Nelson which old Peterson has lost. So of course, Peterson's attitude changes: he sees what girls are capable of, and he can't do enough to help them.

This story is told in a very matter-of-fact sort of way: Loot doesn't see herself as a hero, she just does what has to be done. But it's tense and exciting - especially if you're someone who's afraid of heights, as I am.

Then there's another one about hunting. Vivien, 15, has come to live with her cousins on their farm in the countryside: as nowadays, the farm is not making money. When the hunt sets off, there isn't a horse for her, so she follows on foot. By mistake, she finds herelf in the grounds of General Carew's house. The fox dashes past her into a greenhouse: horrified at the thought of it being torn apart by the hounds, she locks the door to keep it safe. The General appears as the hunters are crashing about and sees them off angrily. 

Vivien's cousins are furious with her. But she strikes up a friendship with the General, and in the end, everything comes right.

I enjoyed reading the stories. Certainly there were some aspects which felt uncomfortable - one set in Africa, for instance, was imbued with the acceptance of Empire and colonialism. But it also demonstrated respect for the culture and traditions of the Africans - that was part of the point of the story. Which was interesting, and a bit unexpected. 

And what struck me was - generalisations coming up - that we tend to assume a certain lofty superiority to past attitudes. We're critical, for instance, of it being the girls who do the washing up etc in The Famous Five books, or of Susan being ultimately interested in make-up in The Chronicles of Narnia. But in these stories, the girls are very definitely the heroes, and very active ones too. They climb mountains, they rescue prisoners from brigands, they save children from poisonous snakes - they are certainly not passive.

It's often said that we are living in a golden age of children's books. And I think that's true. But perhaps - just possibly - sometimes, our assumptions about attitudes in the past are not entirely justified. 

Halloween thoughts - by Rowena House

A post about different approaches to non-fiction as art gave me a fresh perspective about my seventeenth-century witch trial work-in-progress this month, and how unknowable historical facts blended with memoir in a type of speculative writing that is both fiction and something else.

The article was by Sean Glatch, an American educator and writer whom I’ve quoted here before. I’ve put the link at the end because it’s rather long.

In it he says, ‘Speculative nonfiction describes nonfiction that heavily incorporates speculative elements ... It’s kind of like educated guessing. The writer uses what they know to guess at what they don’t, using invention, wondering, and speculation to uncover deeper truths.’

Drop the ‘non’ before ‘fiction’ in this quote and that’s what I’ve been doing for the past six years or so, uncovering what I think is a deeper truth within a witch trial pamphlet: that is, it takes serious critical thinking to reject the orthodoxy of one’s times, so I shouldn’t be too quick to judge the pamphleteer who inspired my protagonist.

This echoes the last post by Mr. Glatch which I quoted here in August about the generated idea within a story: something inspires you to write it, but then you discover something else.

For me, the something else was how good our brains are at forming and holding onto irrational beliefs. When those beliefs are backed by the force of religion, political orthodoxy, and social norms, it takes courage and a lot critical thinking to reject them. 

 

I tested this hypothesis against my own past experience as an economics journalist working within powerful media and governmental organisations. For example: orthodox western economics insists that growth is a social good – the ‘right’ way for people and countries to escape poverty – regardless of the fact that it also exhausts irreplaceable natural resources like forests or fossil fuels, doing irreparable harm to the physical world on which we as a species depend for our survival.

Rational? I think not. Point that out, though, and you’re some kind of eco-freak.

Point out that a ‘witch’s’ cat or dog isn’t a demon conduit for the devil’s power and you’re also out of a job, right?

There is no way of knowing if the real pamphleteer on whom I based my character sincerely believed in witchcraft, nor if the trial judges did, or the jury that heard the cases, or the original pamphlet’s readers, or the poor souls who went to the gallows for impossible crimes.

But as Halloween approaches and witchy things are a bit of fun – or grounds for a feminist retelling of a shameful period in our history, one that tragically echoes in too many parts of the world today – I do hope people will also think about superstition rationally, and false beliefs in general.



Link to 'Making Art from Life' by Sean Glatch

https://writers.com/feature/making-art-from-life?ck_subscriber_id=1593143874&utm_source=convertkit&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Making+Art+from+Life+-+23709393&fbclid=IwY2xjawVEcdxleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR7KEhVZyeKeDniR0rX7EJ-wE_QBgxeaeCUIKDzX0ppOQ2FzGLGk3EHMZEql_Q_aem_rQ3HiCb3M1lzpbabFWDdKw

Rethinking the old hag - by Lu Hersey

 I've been on holiday in Cornwall this week and completely forgot to write today's blog post. So this is a hasty update on one I wrote a couple of years ago, very suitable for the upcoming Halloween, or season of the witch...

When you think of the word 'hag', what image does it conjure in your mind? The wicked, nightmare crone of fairy tales, probably. But in reality, throughout most of history, by my age I'd be classified as a hag. It's a word defined by most dictionaries as 'an ugly, old and unpleasant woman'. Only a reasonably supportive bra and good modern dentistry saves me (and even then, I probably fit the bill). 

During the notorious witch trials, a high proportion of the women strangled and burnt at the stake as witches were simply old, post-menopausal women. Toothless and wrinkly, no longer of any interest to men, unable to easily support themselves financially, and often with only a cat for company. Ostracised by society, they were more likely to voice their opinions freely (the modern version would be giving fewer fucks). Frankly, I fit at least two of those categories. I'd have been strangled and burnt, for sure.

Even today, old women garner very little respect in society. No matter what knowledge or wisdom they've gained from being around for so long, once they don't look great, they're largely ignored. It's still OK to treat them with contempt. I recently read former gynaecologist Adam Kay's autobiography, This is Going to Hurt - in which he devotes at least half a chapter to his intense dislike of doing operations on older women, in detail. No sensitivity reader needed, apparently. Old women, like people with ginger hair, are still fair game for society's derision and snide remarks.

Of course old men don't look great either, but far fewer were burnt as witches simply because they were cantankerous, old and ugly. No one derides them for having age related prostate problems or wrinkly old bollocks. And they can still garner respect for some reason, however nasty they might be. Look at Rupert Murdoch (to name but one...)

Anyway, to get to the point - isn't it time we change society's attitude to old women? We need to portray a society where old women aren't all blood-thirsty, embittered old hags who want to cook children and render their fat down to make mysterious potions. (Although I wouldn't want to entirely exclude this kind of activity - after all, it is coming up to halloween.) But we need positive portrayals in children's stories, alongside the evil hag. Include old women simply as people who've been around a long time and have seen a great deal - who might even be able to tell you something life changing. A nugget of invaluable information that transforms your future. Whatever. I try to include at least one in every book I write.

And that's the end of my rant for today. Now pass my broomstick, I'm going out.

PS I write a substack called An Old Hag's Snippets of Folklore, Myth and Magic - in case you're interested. And I have a Patreon account called Writing the Magic on a similar theme. I like to repeat myself :)

One more time? By Steve Way

 

Hi. I hope you don’t mind indulging me one more time. I’m wondering if this is becoming an addiction…

 

A few more signs…
BORDEAUX   Where water doesn’t have enough to occupy itself.	SEVILLE   Train station twined with Paddington.
BERLIN   Visit the naturist commune managed by Lyn.	BERLIN   Come a see the bears queuing up for breakfast at the city zoo.
PATAGONIA   (Gonias also like being stroked.)	You’ve been to RIYADH Why not visit WRHYTHNG
HAMSTERDAM   Where hamsters go to chill out….	HAMSTERDAM   Holding back the hamster invasion…
And some more limericks…
There was a girl from New York, Completely addicted to pork, She gave her doctors a fright, By eating it day and night, So they set about stealing her fork.	There once was a lady called Lynne, Who ran a bar in Dublin, She went out of business I fear, For she refused to serve beer, Citing drinking a sin.
Larry the Number 10 cat, Is ‘mouser’ to PMs short, tall or fat, One didn’t like pets, And refused him the vets, So Larry just pooed in his hat.	Larry the ‘mouser’, Ran up the PMs trouser, Negotiation stopped it seemed, As the PM loudly screamed, (Though the Commons was none the wiser.)
A Welshman visited France, And found himself in a dance, The ‘Moulin’ girls were amused, The audience looked on bemused, While he whirled around in a trance.	A Scotsman by the name of Harris, Decided once to visit Paris, For a very silly bet, He ate ten tons of Crêpes Suzette, And thereby did himself embarrass.
A silly man from Amsterdam, Invented a potato jam! On toast it tasted rank and vile, Making people run a mile! But… it was quite nice with ham!?!
Then some road signs…
ZIMBABWE WAY	GOA WAY
CHESTER-LE-STREET STREET	LONG AND WINDING AVENUE Leading to ROCKY CLOSE
LOVER’S LANE Leading to CALL-IT-OFF-CLOSE	HELL >   Please follow the diversions while we repair the Good Intentions Causeway (we’ve been meaning to get round to it for ages.)
Registry Office >   < Solicitors Office	LOIS LANE
DIVERSION      à	ART GALLERY
Finally, you can’t blame a lad for dreaming…
STEVE WAY WAY

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the ‘Real Story’ series, we find out that our heroine should really be referred to as ‘The Princess who does PE’. Also how Goldie Lock gets on in the Bear’s house as she’s being trained to be a reluctant thief by her parents. We also discover what happens when the Dumpty family roll into town as part of the food circus and how the plan of The Three ‘Blind’ Mice to play a trick on the farmer’s wife nearly goes wrong. Little Billy Goat Gruff tricks his friends into believing that an ogre is guarding the gate leading to the delicious green field, so they need to hide while he deals with the situation… and then discovers the awful truth… Finally, The Grand Old Duke of York needs help from the impending invasions by The Grand Young Duke of Oldham and The Grand Middle-Aged Duke of Newcastle. His soppy men will be no use after marching up and down hills… he needs the support of some hardened fishermen from Scarborough, who recommend knitting as a form of defence…