Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.
Conceived by Zola and sullied by Jonathan Franzen, the modern saga is in poor health. But Anne Tyler might be its saviour.
Michel Houellebecq’s novel imagining his country under Islamic rule featured on the cover of Charlie Hebdo. But it’s not the satire you’d expect.
On Stephen Sondheim’s 85th birthday, he will be revered as the genius of musical theatre. But his failures are just as fascinating as his successes.
Leo Robson reviews the double-Booker Prize-winning author’s new novel about Australian identity.
David Goldblatt is one of a loose group of football writers, all of them men born in the 1960s, for whom the sport since the summer of either 1989 or 1990 has been a slightly poisonous let-down.
On self and voice in new novels by Rachel Cusk and Will Eaves.
The French author has never been internationally popular, but he is nevertheless widely studied. Leo Robson looks at the reaction to his Nobel win, and what this tells us about the way his work is perceived.
Two new prizes are making fresh demands of fiction – and the Booker is taking note, writes Leo Robson.
The editor, critic and writer, who was literary editor of the New Statesman in the 1960s, head of English at UCL and founded the London Review of Books, has died, aged 83.
While the cold case thriller owes its life to new techniques such as DNA profiling and new disciplines such as forensic anthropology, the genre’s practitioners vary in their degree of commitment to these origins.
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