Just finishing up Helen Simpson’s collection of short stories and I feel so… overwhelmed. She’s so damn good.
She writes so powerfully, no apologies for being smart and wordy and deep. Reading Good Friday, 1633 made me want to cry on the Victoria Line, but I couldn’t tell you why exactly.
I’ve found myself nodding vigorously in agreement at several points during my reading. It’s exhausting. No wonder she only publishes every five years or so. She’s brilliant.