He took an envelope out of his drawer, and, conscious of taking only a mild risk, since the whole unwieldy administration of All the Russias, which kept working, even if only just, depended on the passing of countless numbers of such envelopes, he slid it across the top of the desk. Frank is a genial Everyman, fond of Russia yet exasperated with its bureaucracy and corruption – this “magnificent and ramshackle country.” He knows how things work and isn’t above giving a bribe when it’s expedient for his business: And though she’s not an author you’d turn to for plot, more does actually happen here, including a gunshot. While her characters and scenes still underwhelm – I always want to go deeper – I liked this better than the others I’ve read ( The Bookshop, Offshore, and The Blue Flower), perhaps simply because it’s not a novella so is that little bit more expansive. I have previously found Fitzgerald’s work slight, subtle to the point of sailing over my consciousness without leaving a ripple. For what seems to printer Frank Reid – whose wife Nellie has taken a train back to England and left him to raise their three children alone – like an ending may actually presage new possibilities when his accountant, Selwyn, hires a new nanny for the children. Its title is both literal, referring to the March days in 1913 when “there was the smell of green grass and leaves, inconceivable for the last five months” and the expatriate Reid family can go to their dacha once again, and metaphorical. Its pre-war Moscow setting seemed to take on extra significance as I read it during the early weeks of the Russian occupation of Ukraine. One of her later novels, this was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. The Beginning of Spring by Penelope Fitzgerald (1988) The daffodils have already gone over bluebells and peonies are coming out and all the trees, including the two wee apple trees we’ve planted at our new house, are sprouting hopeful buds.

This is the first of two, or maybe three, batches of spring reading for me this year. Reading with the seasons is one way I mark time. (From To Star the Dark by Doireann Ní Ghríofa)

Karl ove knausgaard 2022