By Tim Winton

What a rush this book is. Winton has produced a novel that is exhilarating both emotionally and physically. This story of a young man’s adolescence spent surfing gives you the rush of the waves and hormones all at the same time.

We follow a character known by his nickname Pikelet, his audacious friend Loonie and their much older mentor Sando, who lives with his wife near the beach. The three men establish such a pure and innocent bond based on adventure. Their relationship is intoxicating, but this is a story so any stability cannot last. We see the world through Pikelet’s eyes as he grows up over a couple of years and develops his own distinctive personality that is not part of any group, family or society. Winton’s portrayal of a young man’s maturity is subtle and honest.

Although Winton’s brevity and clarity of language are crucial to the book, they are not the things that I hope to remember. Instead, I want this book’s tone to stay with me. The melancholy and pathos feel so genuine, especially as they morph over the lifetime of our protagonist. It is this feeling that I wish to keep. And I envy Winton for succeeding in making me feel this way.

By Deborah Cameron

Although I haven’t read much of the literature around the idea that men and women are from different planets and are therefore unable to communicate with one another, I’ve been sceptical of it for a long time.

Thanks to Deborah Cameron’s book, I am no longer sceptical. I am downright outraged by these silly myths of ‘innate’ male and female difference. It is true that there are biological differences between the sexes. We even use our brains a little bit differently when it comes to speaking. But, as Cameron shows in this succinct and straightforward book, almost all of our cultural memes in this area are based on myth.

Cameron uses piles of research, including meta-analyses, to present alternatives to the Mars/Venus narrative. She shows, for example, that although men may generally appear to be more assertive in certain situations, women are also assertive in those situations and others. By the same token, men, who are presumed not to be able to understand a sensitive refusal for sex (the underlying theory of ‘just say no’ campaigns), can indeed interpret such signals when they are about other things, such as taking out the rubbish. Cameron shows that language use is all about context, and that men and women are both as sophisticated speakers as one another depending on context.

In such a short book, she has performed a powerful feat. She needed only 180 pages to ask me to look again whenever I hear of this Mars/Venus idea. And she even gave me some decent examples of how I can challenge it.

By Brian Aldiss

Some writers build complex worlds and populate them with countless philosophies and cultures. That is the Tolkien school of storytelling. Other writers take a single, original idea and tell a straightforward story that hints at the big ideas someone like Tolkien would focus on. As a proper sci-fi writer, Aldiss is one of the latter kind. Greybeard is an exemplar of Aldiss’s school of thought: a lean, controlled, character-driven story with an easy idea at its heart.

The idea is that in the future, a military accident renders humanity sterile. No more children means an ageing, dying population and a collapse of infrastructure. But Aldiss is much more concerned with his characters, who include a chap called Greybeard and his wife Martha, than the technicalities of infertility or political strife.

Aldiss unravels Greybeard’s biography amid present-day scenes, which has the effect of building this story from a wide base. The transitions are seamless, when it is usually so easy to rely on such clichés as “this thing in the present day reminded him so much of the thing from his childhood that I’ll now cover in the next chapter”.

But that’s enough about the craft. Aldiss is so competent that you do not notice his handiwork while you’re reading. Instead, you’re focusing on this absorbing tale of an old man living in shacks in villages by the river.

The story is at its most captivating when it describes how Greybeard and Martha cope with the opportunistic politicians, phoney shamans and outright tyrants who are born by the catastrophe. To experience this novel is to make the choices Greybeard makes while asking yourself whether you would do the same. And it is to be drawn in by Aldiss’s colourful and vivid descriptions of life after the accident that sterilised humanity.

What a simple idea, what a brilliant book.

By Jill McGivering

It would be easy to dismiss McGivering’s debut novel as ‘me-too lit’. She and her publishers spotted the success of The Kite Runner and, driven by McGivering’s personal experiences as a frontline war correspondent, hatched a plan to produce another book about Afghanistan for Western readers. This approach may indeed be what happened. But the product nevertheless surpasses any cynical design the audience may wish to infer.

McGivering has written a gripping and provocative novel. The Last Kestrel delves beneath the headlines beamed daily from Afghanistan in order to educate and inform its readers, not so much about the conflict but the people who inhabit it. McGivering’s approach is rather straightforward and even predictable: a jaded but still ethical British journalist drives the plot along through her investigations into a murder and army corruption. With this vehicle, McGivering can reveal something she never could in her BBC reports: the ‘truths’ that remain unreported for their lack of ‘evidence’. This is McGivering at her most subtle and her most provocative. The frustration of her protagonist at not being able to report truthfully and fairly what actually happens receives a mere mention, but it underpins the conflicted nature of every other character. Even the journalist, fuelled by the truth, cannot be truthful.

That said, the primary narrative will be enough to drive most readers through this gripping book. McGivering lays down more twists and turns than a Taliban fighter lays landmines. But never does her story take on the epic, swashbuckling tones of a Hollywood action adventure. It remains fixed to its subjects: the people, not the politics, nor the military strategies. In this way, McGivering shows us the realities experienced by Afghans caught up in this war. Tender mother-and-son relationships, brotherhoods and marriages all come under McGivering’s gaze – and she portrays them with what feels to this reader as great authenticity.

By Brian K Vaughan and Pia Guerra

It is somewhat ironic that a comic book in which 99% of the characters are female focuses on the sole male character. But that is the world we live in, and I give the authors of Y: The Last Man credit for inventing a very simple but enthralling scenario. The situation is this: an unknown virus has killed all mammals on Earth that carry a Y chromosome – ie, all men – except for Yorick, an American loser, and his pet monkey, Ampersand.

Vaughan therefore sets up a very exciting and dynamic narrative: Yorick must be protected from the virus or the people behind it, the mystery of the attack itself must be uncovered and at the same time, civilisation must continue to operate despite a 50% drop in human population, which is an effective 80% drop in societal organisation since men held most of the power in the world before the virus.

This scenario means that Vaughan can explore how the world would work in light of such a catastrophe and if women were in charge. Although this series of comic books is gripping and exciting, with plenty of twists, here is where it falls down. Because it is a comic book inspired by other comic books and Hollywood, Y: The Last Man cannot imagine a women-only world through anything other than a male lens. This means that the baddies are testosterone-fuelled warrior bitches. If the book’s silly premise came true, doubtless there would be such a group. But it feels very convenient, very Hollywood, very male, to place them at the forefront of the baddie camp.

Nevertheless, this is old-fashioned, action-packed, quick-witted fun. One has to be aware of the biases and privileges portrayed unconsciously, but the bright artwork and the sharp quips make it very entertaining at least.

By Alan Hollinghurst

Hollinghurst splits his novel into three parts. Each follows Nick Guest as a twentysomething in London for the first time. It’s the 80s. Nick lodges with the family of a Tory MP and bonks blokes in the nearby keyholder-only garden. His story is a kind of Great Expectations: social mobility, the obstacles thereof, and how a young man grows up.

Although Nick is one of those protagonists who it’s hard to understand fully – we never get that close to him – his journey is enthralling. I felt like a proud parent, watching him fumble naively through love, and then settle into solid cynicism. The reader really feels that Nick is growing up. He comes to realise the politics of daily life, of relationships and families.

But perhaps one of the best things about Hollinghurst’s excellent novel is the way he treats people. The author is more than happy to satirise certain stereotypes, and yet he does it as if he’s their friend. This is not an angry novel designed to attack Thatcherites. In many ways, it does attack them, but it kills them softly. The Tory MP with whom Nick lodges notes that his cleaner and her daughter can move into his house while he’s summering in France. They can give it a full clean from top to bottom, he says, it’s a kind of holiday for them too.

It is fun and ignorant comments like these that make the book such a joy to read. They lift it from what otherwise could be a staid bildungsroman or, worse, a political rant. Above such shrewd characterisations is Hollinghurst’s mastery of language. His rich descriptions are far more readable than those of Dickens. And he can show how some tiny things can be full of wonder. The line of beauty of the title is the perfect example – a simple artistic motif, self-involved yet transcendent at the same time, and always full of possibility. Such is Nick, such is life.

By Lone Frank

Although scientists have been studying genes for decades, the consumer genomics industry is only just finding its feet. A rash of companies have rushed into the market over recent years. They offer all sorts of genome services, from tracing your ancestors through to your likelihood of developing Alzheimer’s and even genetic-match dating.

Lone Frank is the first writer to step into this field and scrutinise it with the attention it deserves. Clutching her own genome in one hand and her laptop in the other, Frank marched around the world interviewing the key players in this fledgling industry to found out what exactly they are up to. She also learnt a great deal about herself too.

Frank balances her dual objective of discovering both the industry and her own genetic fate rather well. The author’s interest in her own genome brings the book to life in ways that might have been impossible otherwise. It is therefore hugely gratifying to read an interview with, say, the founder and director of Iceland’s deCODEme, Kári Stefánsson. deCODEme is one of the first companies offering genomic testing to the public. Frank’s meeting with this “notoriously gruff” man has a fascinating tension to it, for she is conversing with him as both a journalist and a client. Even ‘client’ in this context contains the complex nature of ‘patient’ and ‘customer’. A candid Dane, Frank spars with the “majestic” Stefánsson, who she notes is the descendent of a tenth-century Icelandic poet remembered for loutish behaviour.

It is by pulling together such fascinating observations with her probing questions and the patient’s need for reassurance that Frank tells her story. She gradually builds up a series of unique portraits – not just of Stefánsson but also people such as James Watson, co-discoverer of the double helix, and Tamara Brown, the head of research at Zurich-based GenePartner, which claims to be able to find genetically suitable love interests for folks who are happy to send off a DNA sample.

Although Frank describes a very entertaining journey, it is apparent that she has no destination. Her book should win readers and acclaim for being first off the mark, but it could have been even better if it had an argument or at least a stronger objective. As it stands, she appears content merely to examine the genomics industry – and maybe we shouldn’t expect anything else of a first look – without concluding much. This is certainly a sector to monitor, so hopefully Frank can keep her eye on it for us.

By Polly Courtney

Some would say that an author’s decision to ditch her publisher over charges of sexism just as she needs publicity for her new novel are cynical. Having read It’s a Man’s World, in which shrewd capitalist nous rules, I can see why Polly Courtney did it. She’s a smart businesswoman. And while I don’t doubt her good feminist intentions, I cannot help but question her methods.

Everything Courtney said in the flurry of publicity surrounding the launch of It’s a Man’s World and her strategic unshackling from publisher HarperCollins was sound. She doesn’t have a problem with the existence of chick lit, she said, only that the line between it and the broad ‘genre’ of women’s fiction is blurring to the detriment of readers and authors. “My writing has been shoehorned into a place that’s not right for it,” she said. “It is commercial fiction, it is not literary, but the real issue I have is that it has been completely defined as women’s fiction… Yes it is page turning, no it’s not War and Peace. But it shouldn’t be portrayed as chick lit.” There are lots of things to unpack here, but the main one is her acknowledgement that her writing is commercial in its outlook. One has to be wary of an author who implies that she sits down at her desk and thinks how to tell a story that will sell rather than one that will move its readers. She’s admitting that her objective is money, not art. We should not be surprised by this: she graduated from a City career to one that combines commercial fiction with corporate consultancy. Moreover, her protagonist in It’s a Man’s World is charged with transforming a failing business into a profitable one. Alexa is incentivised to do that by her desire to succeed in the corporate arena and – just in case anyone doubted her capitalist credentials – a £20,000 bonus.

Courtney concentrates on exposing corporate sexism and the impact of sexism on its victims. The novel is effective at showing how people are hurt by sexism, and how seemingly innocent choices can create a sexist culture. Although many of her characters are walking clichés (the misogynistic pig, the clean-tidy-friendly gay man, the charming but characterless boyfriend, etc), Courtney manages to expose the injustice and hypocrisy of sexism. Alexa looks down on the office’s busty, giggly assistant Sienna, who turns out to be a classic Machiavellian using sex to climb socially and professionally. At least we feel from Courtney that this is wrong – not that Sienna chooses to behave promiscuously, but that she feels that society gives her no other option. But here’s Courtney’s hypocrisy: although Alexa disapproves of Sienna’s behaviour, she spends a lot of time fretting about her own appearance before important business meetings. In one early scene, Alexa even recognises the irony in her desire to look glamorous while wanting to be judged on her performance. Alexa is just another version of Sienna: using image to get ahead – less leopard-print, more Jimmy Choo.

So this is where Courtney falls down: she points out Sienna’s lack of choice, but is not brave enough to direct her protagonist to subvert it. Instead, the only character who does make a stand against this awful sexist situation is Georgie, the unattractive, aggressive feminist activist burdened by a man’s name. It seems that Courtney isn’t the only one with a shoehorn. Georgie is not motivated by appearance or money or status (as Alexa is); Georgie is focused on demolishing sexism. It’s most unfortunate that in Courtney’s world, Georgie is an outsider, portrayed as utterly different from Alexa and Sienna and every other woman who ‘just wants a career’. In Courtney’s world, it seems that Georgie will never be accepted. Although Alexa comes round to Georgie’s way of thinking, she can no longer operate in the phallocentric corporate world. She has to work for a small, non-profit organisation instead – a job offered to her in a honey-dripped Hollywood ending.

This brings us back to Courtney’s description of her work as commercial, and reveals a great deal about this writer. It appears that she is resigned to the fact that feminism and capitalism are incompatible. And her decision to write commercial fiction shows that while she has the interests of Alexa, Georgie and Sienna at heart, she just cannot bring herself to operate outside of money-dominated patriarchy. She wants to make money, not art.

It is true that capitalism and feminism are strange bedfellows. More than that, they are locked in epic battle. Make no bones about it: the reason for the persistence of sexism is capitalism. The reason why feminism became something only for the intellectual classes after the Seventies was because everyone else – including the liberated women – concentrated on making money instead. I don’t mean to say that they wanted money for the sake of it; everyone wants money for all sorts of different reasons – usually top is providing for one’s family at the basic level. The fact that Alexa has to be up to her nose in sexism before she’ll even acknowledge that it’s a hindrance shows just how diverting cash actually is. That sexism continues despite the various revolutions, in parallel to the onward march of capitalism, is no coincidence.

It’s why a feminist such as Courtney shies away from writing a book about Georgie (and humanising her away from a stereotype). The promise of cash would be much less than if she writes a book about Alexa, who wants to drink fine wine, look good, return a business to profitability and liberate the sisters before bedtime. Courtney’s novel admits that this cannot be achieved. Perhaps her departure from profit-hunting HarperCollins signifies a new path, new tactics and new objectives.

Somewhere, real Islamists are laughing. It would give too much away to say why, but trust me: if an Islamist has read this book, he’ll be in hysterics. (Do Islamists laugh?)

It doesn’t give much away to say that my point is because this book is pretty rubbish. You only have to read the opening sentence to know how weak it is. “With quiet finality, the tube train drew to a stop.” More like: “With an exasperated sigh, another unknown writer who can’t get a publisher dies.” Unpublished writers – especially those without the deal-making credentials of Ms Rimington – are advised to write an opening sentence that shakes or provokes or tickles. Ms Rimington’s opening line is as flat as Lincolnshire. And I’m not even going to waste time on the word ‘finality’. Other examples of the author’s lack of creativity with language include wrong words such as “rust-streaked” (pocked? pimpled? blistered? not streaked, surely) and plenty of superfluous words. Find the unemployable immigrant in this sentence: “And the weather, as the hours passed, got steadily worse.” If it’s over several hours, of course it’s steady. Death to adverbs!

Moving away from words, Ms Rimington’s style is often didactic and patronising. Classic telling not showing. “Large-denomination bank notes”? Because that’s not clunky! Does Ms Rimington not know which denomination? Did she forget that she has complete control over her creation? The novel is also filled with conventional debut-novel clangers. Scenes that tell us nothing about the characters in them. What does the fact that the protagonist swipes her ID card to gain entry into MI5 headquarters have to say about her? How much more could we learn about her if she had to react to her ID card not working? Is the ID card even relevant at all?! The author must do better if she is to persuade her readers to stick with her and not read one of the fifteen billion books that do not contain useless detail. Even Dickens’ infamous descriptions were worth something to the story!

And finally, of course, there is the story itself. Here is where Ms Rimington shows some originality. A terror plot inspired or planned by Al-Qaeda is not all it appears. I won’t say any more, but that’s the gist. And it’s a pretty good idea. On the other hand, when most of the book is filled with tension and grave danger and issues of national security, the real point of the plot becomes somewhat banal. At least it makes sense of the feeling one gets throughout the book that this is more Midsomer Murders than Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I’ve no doubt that Ms Rimington is a spy who fancied writing. Le Carré, on the other hand, is a writer who spied for a bit too. That’s the difference. And the great tragedy is that Ms Rimington was bound to get a publishing deal just because the publishers could emblazon her cover with all the “former MI5 chief” crap. But writing is not her vocation. Perhaps all submissions to publishers should be made blind – one way of weeding out those whose vocation is not writing. A bitter argument, you may say, but I’d love for them to give it a go.

By Rebecca Skloot

Some books contain knowledge, others thrills. Skloot has managed to fill her book with both. The story of Henrietta Lacks was on the edge of history until Skloot took up the challenge of dragging it back to the centre. Lacks would have been all but forgotten had it not been for the investigative skills of this impressive young journalist. And yet the great impact Lacks has made on modern science continues to reverberate today. How could she have been forgotten? Well, lots of reasons (as Skloot outlines), but perhaps the most sensible explanation is that she herself did not do anything directly. It was cells from her cervix that enabled the acceleration of research 10 times faster than would have been possible without her.

Lacks died of cervical cancer in 1951 but, just before her death, her doctor took a sample of the tumour multiplying inside her. When scientists at her hospital noticed these cells’ incredible ability to divide perpetually – that is, without dying after around 50 divisions as normal cells would – they began to share them around. Lacks’ cancerous cells, known as HeLa cells in order to anonymise their source, became the cornerstone of medical research. Their immortality meant that they were perfect for testing new drugs and therapies, for understanding various cellular functions and for investigating the causes of cancer and other conditions. Having died in 1951, Lacks knew none of this. And neither did her family, until decades later when they found out that HeLa was a multibillion-dollar global business.

Although other journalists have tried to tackle this story, none have thrown half as much at it as did Skloot. Skloot has made the story of HeLa personal again, and she does this using several shrewd techniques. Foremost among them is the way she weaves together the narratives of Henrietta, her descendents and the writer herself. Skloot inserts herself into the story, as the researcher and reporter who befriends the extremely wary Lacks family. This excellent book could not have been written without the patience and understanding of both Skloot and the Lackses. And Skloot does not conceal that in any way. Her tentative, awkward conversations with Henrietta’s descendents are just as dramatic and exciting as the achievements of HeLa cells themselves. As a talented writer, Skloot also captures the way her various characters talk – not to make it personal for the sake of it, but because it is important that these people are represented after having been denied that for so long.

The other thing that Skloot does very cleverly is to contextualise the treatment of Henrietta at the hands of medical professionals both during her condition and after her death. She writes about the mistreatment of black patients in the Fifties, the abuse suffered by people with mental illness around the same time and, moreover, the startling way that scientists around the world traded and tested HeLa cells without apparently wondering who they came from.

The thrills in this book are legion: the investigative reporter’s trail, the shock of revelations to do with Henrietta’s treatment, the rollercoaster of friendship between Skloot and Henrietta’s family, and the unravelling science beneath it all. An outstanding contribution to popular science and modern history.