There are myriad exciting new books out. My shelves and I are overwhelmed. Harry keeps pointing at Transcription by Ben Lerner and announcing, ‘That’s how to write.’ I suspect from her previous books that when I do read The Palm House by Gwendoline Riley I will repeatedly say the same about it. I’ve only had the chance to read the first story in the new collection by Colm Tóibín, The News from Dublin, but this too seems to give that pure pleasure of really excellent writing.

But I am, as I say, overwhelmed. A pile of art books awaits me: on how the seasons shaped Constable’s paintings; on two sisters painted by Renoir; on Gwen John, the ‘seer of strange beauties’; on the work and life, inseparable, of Tracey Emin; not to mention Claire Berest’s novel about Frida Kahlo.  

When will I crack the spine (it’s an expression; I treat spines with the utmost reverence) of James Bailey’s new biography of Muriel Spark (I adored Frances Wilson’s one last year – I must see how this compares), of London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe, whose writing is always entirely addictive, or of Edward Chisholm’s Murder in Paris ’68, a story of French cinema, Alain Delon and an unsolved murder?

This is a happy and continual problem. Too many books. So much to discover. Longing for more hours in the day. How to respond? I’m re-reading Jane Austen. Sometimes you need old friends. They are all even better than and different from what I remember.

In Pride and Prejudice, I find new admiration for Mary Bennet. When Jane and Elizabeth come home after Jane’s serious illness (a slight cold) rendered them unable to travel three miles for many days, ‘They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature.’ When Jane and Bingley get engaged, Mary’s response is to ask how often she can use his library. Please assume my response the same as Mary’s if invited to some noisy event: ‘I should infinitely prefer a book.’

To everyone recommending that I watch The Other Bennet Sister, I’m sure it’s as lovely as you insist but I would spend the whole time thinking I should infinitely prefer Jane Austen’s books.  

In Emma, I now find more patience for Mr Woodhouse, though I can’t forgive his trying to ban cake from Miss Taylor’s nuptials, more amusement than frustration and even evidence of some insight in Miss Bates and a complete love of Emma in all her blunders, snobbish kindness and attempts to be better than she is, quickly forgotten when met with gossip.

(I am willing to concede here that Clueless, the greatest film adaptation ever made, does merit the time spent away from a book. Just.)

Persuasion is crueller than I recalled making Anne Elliot’s moments of quiet boldness all the more stirring. There is also so much intrigue. Charles Musgrove, who has married her sister after Anne refused him, and Anne’s relationship is fascinating. A young friend of the Elliot sisters is trying to marry their father. Lady Russell and Mrs Smith are supposed to be real friends to Anne but I think their behaviour, at times, abominable, for all their good manners. And then there is that marvellous argument between Anne and Captain Harville about the differences in how men and women love and who loves longer.

Whichever Austen I am currently reading is my declared favourite. Mansfield Park is my favourite. Though it makes me very angry. I want Fanny to find her own way without the boring Edmund, I want Mrs Norris utterly destroyed and I want Henry Crawford to take me out in his carriage. Sorry. Actually, I would drive the carriage. Together we could devise a scheme for removing Lady Bertram’s awful pug. Shocking sentiments. But less so than the novel, surely Austen’s best.

I have found time for one more indulgence: Lucy Carmichael by Margaret Kennedy. I opened it to meet Melissa Hallam saying to her new fiancé, ‘I’m so glad that you don’t mind putting the preposition last. Jane Austen frequently did.’ She is an emotional ascetic, clever and funny, and loves three people, John, however wayward with grammar, her brother Humphrey, currently abroad in search of a particular fly, and Lucy Carmichael. They met at university and together they are a force. I refuse to tell you more – don’t read the blurb – than to expect intrigue in an arts institute, plays afoot, politics, romance, manners upheld and disregarded and a character compared with Lady Catherine de Bourgh (I should like to see them sparring). Pym fans, (Pymaniacs?) this is for you.  

Originally published in 1951 but recently reissued, I wondered often why a beautiful painting of ice skaters formed the cover. When I found out, I felt as though I could glide, race and pirouette across a frozen river with the best of them, my heart soaring somewhere several feet above. It is heavenly.

OK, I also found time for a few short, modern masterpieces:

A lesson in moderation: I Want Everything by Sophy Henn, in which Little Ghost questions Big Ghost as to the veracity of such a statement. Does Big Ghost really want hiccups? Or an octopus for a hat? A superb follow up to I Hate Everything: we’ve all had days like that until Sophy Henn or Margaret Kennedy or Jane Austen come to the rescue.

A lesson in when to abandon decorum: Ant Party by Ross Montgomery and Sarah Warburton, in which all the etiquette of party invitations and the proper way to engage a dance partner are forsaken, to everyone’s pleasure. Except one anteater’s.

A lesson in pride and sensibility: Seahorse is Furious by Morag Hood, in which Seahorse is really, very furious. I too have always found it infuriating that the sea is wet.  

May your weekend be full of old friends,
Lizzie