Night, by David Harsent
“There’s a smell of scorch in the air. And the time to be gone has gone.” So runs the last line of Night’s unnamed, prologue poem. The sense of menace in these two stripped-back and direct sentences goes only someway to preparing you for the shadowy and often threatening worlds David Harsent conjures in this collection. The loose tezra-rima style stanza forms which are used in many of the poems in the first-half nod towards Dante’s journey to the underworld, but in Night the damned remain on earth, propping up bars and wandering rainy streets, pursued by past lives. There is much that sounds like portent: “the sky on fire, cloud-wrack a bled bruise” but the prophecies remain undeciphered and unfulfilled. It is through this purgatorial half-light that Harsent brilliantly leads us, with ‘blood’ and ‘night’ echoing as talismanic signposts throughout.
The writing shows once again Harsent’s proficiency with form, intricate rhyme patterns are deployed providing incredible sonic-linkage in many of the poems. The poem ‘Moppet’, for example, crams 14 rhymes for ‘air’ into its ten lines, but with such subtly that the laconic voice which presides throughout this collection barely quickens its breath, while ‘Ballad’ shows there is still life left in that venerable metrical arrangement. This easy formalism works perfectly as the medium for the hard-boiled but lyrically adept narrator which closes the collection in the bravura 26-page closing poem, ‘Everywhere’. Even this poem, with its thrilling back-alley ambiance, begins with a sly nod to tradition: “First of the night and this ae night it’s gin” surely references the Lyke Wake Dirge, alerting readers to a possible after-life interpretation of Harsent’s poem.
The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag, by Alan Bradley
We first met the incomparable Flavia de Luce in The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag is her second outing and just as fun and engrossing. These mysteries are tightly plotted and intriguing all on their own, but the real star of the show here is Flavia: intrepid, daring, charming, and sharp, she tears through the story (on Gladys, her well-loved and faithful bicycle steed) with an aplomb and mesmerizing energy that belies her tender years and entwines herself firmly around the heart of anyone who meets her.
We begin this adventure in the local church’s graveyard, where Flavia is indulging her imagination with wild dreams of the grief that would be present at her own funeral, when she hears that most mysterious sound: a lone woman weeping. Flavia’s curiosity (and innate compassion) soon propel her into a mystery that reveals secrets carefully buried years before and sets her little village on end. Why would Rupert Porson, star of the BBC, puppeteer, and creator of the renowned Snoddy the Squirrel and friends, find himself in her tiny village? What did Mad Meg see in Gibbet Wood? Even childhood pursuits are not immune to a darker air in this mystery, and Flavia’s inventive and innovative mind will be put to the test in her search for the answers she needs.
The mystery itself is engrossing, but the heart of the book is Flavia. Intrepid, intelligent, compassionate, and charming, she inhabits each page with a vibrancy that makes following each twist and turn an exhilarating ride with the cleverest of chauffeurs. Flavia’s loyalty to and love of her family are a warm thread in her character, and her observations on life and morality belie her age. This is especially true in her dealings with the faithful family retainer, Dogger, a man who returned from war wounded in body and soul, and sometimes needs Flavia’s help in coming back to the life he currently lives:
This was sheer fantasy–I hadn’t touched the thing–but I have learned that under certain circumstances, a fib is not only permissible, but can even be an act of perfect grace. Read more

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