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Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.
Isabel Waidner on their Goldsmiths-shortlisted novel We Are Made Of Diamond Stuff, marginalised writers, and the Isle of Wight.
In Isabel Waidner’s Goldsmiths Prize-shortlisted novel, Reebok is discussed along with Robert Rauschenberg, commas enable syntactical flow, and genders blur or disappear.
The Cockroach is billed as a modern take on Kafka’s Metamorphosis that doubles as political satire. But as you move through the book, it becomes less clear what it has to do with either Kafka or Brexit.
This is a work full of pills, porn and pseudo-nuance – almost-but-not-quite clever.
Was the most recognisable writer of her generation little more than a high-class intellectual con-artist?
Rushdie’s Booker-nominated Cervantes homage Quichotte is prone to lapses in tact and taste, and a lack of respect for the reader’s time or powers of concentration.
This brave, terse, unsettling novel provides yet more evidence of Levy’s skill.
Focusing purely on football, and with a staff of 57 writers and editors, is the new British arm of the start-up any good?
Using an elaborate conceptual framework, the novel takes place during a mildly fractious 20-minute house viewing.
Yeats and Beckett haunt Barry’s Booker-longlisted novel about a woebegone pair of middle-aged Cork-born gangsters waiting in a Spanish port.
