One of my earliest memories of reading involves the beloved children’s book, The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss. I was particularly enchanted by the small red fan that the Cat elegantly balances on the tip of its tail. At just five years old, I progressed to The Famous Five series, where I navigated the complexities of Enid Blyton’s characters, such as Aunt Fanny and Uncle Quentin. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, I found the lives of the Famous Five, set in serene Dorset, far removed from my own reality, which was framed by a view of my Johannesburg garden filled with pale grass and a solitary peach tree.
As I continued to explore literature, I was captivated by the imaginative richness of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. The concept of a wardrobe serving as a gateway to an alternate realm was particularly striking. Despite my fear, I was intrigued by the White Witch, who commanded a sleigh drawn by white reindeer.
During my teenage years, I encountered Chéri by Colette, a novel that profoundly affected me. Its themes of sexuality, longing, and the inevitability of aging resonated with me, even though I struggled to fully comprehend them at age 14. Set in France, a country I had yet to visit, the story presented a male character whose only source of power was his physical beauty. I often found myself reading it on the bus to school, all the while neglecting my assignment to study John Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn.
In my forties, I discovered the works of the late J.G. Ballard, who skillfully combined intellectual exploration with engaging narratives in his later fiction. In Cocaine Nights, for instance, a charming tennis coach at a Mediterranean resort is revealed to be a psychopath, yet he garners admiration and support from those around him. This clever social critique cloaked as a beach read shifted my perspective on how to approach my own writing, particularly regarding themes involving beaches and swimming pools.
Two books that have significantly influenced my desire to write are Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin and The Lover by Marguerite Duras. Their poignant prose, filled with beauty and emotional depth, continues to inspire my own literary endeavors.
I typically avoid revisiting books that I found unappealing; it feels as if we have little to offer one another. However, one book that I consistently return to is Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space. His philosophical musings on spaces like attics, cellars, and corners provide constant inspiration and surprise.
Later in life, I rediscovered I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou while writing my own autobiographies. This powerful narrative recounts her childhood experiences with her formidable grandmother in the oppressive, racially charged South of the 1930s. Angelou’s commanding voice stands out, offering an authenticity and emotional depth that elevates her life story into a remarkable piece of literature.
Currently, I am engrossed in Butter by Asako Yuzuki, a provocative novel from 2017 that tackles themes of daily misogyny. One scene that particularly resonates with me features the narrator escaping from a night filled with professional belittlement and disappointing intimacy to seek solace in a bowl of comforting noodles, of course, with butter.
Deborah Levy’s My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein is set to be published by Hamish Hamilton on April 16. To support the Guardian, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com, though be aware that delivery fees may apply.
