Mammoth by Eva Baltasar, translated by Julia Sanches (And Other Stories, £12.99)
The third book in Eva Baltasar’s loose triptych of modern womanhood (the second part, Boulder, was shortlisted for last year’s International Booker prize) is the best yet. When a young lesbian in Barcelona wants to get pregnant, she throws “a birthday party that was actually a fertilisation party in disguise” and toys with using the “broad-shouldered sperms” of a swimming instructor. But she has ambivalent feelings about the process and moves into an isolated farmhouse, where her only companions are a dog that invites itself to stay, and a neighbouring shepherd. Her interactions with nature (cat lovers beware) are woven into reflections on life, love and desire, where the only thing worse than being alone is being surrounded by people. It all builds to a conclusion both inevitable and irresistible – apt for a book with such a strong, pungent flavour.
Dear Dickhead by Virginie Despentes, translated by Frank Wynne (MacLehose, £18.99)
“I feel like it’s riddled with holes. But I like the fact that it’s provocative,” says one character in Virginie Despentes’s characteristically colourful new novel. The dickhead of the title is Oscar, a middle-aged writer in France whose correspondence with actor Rebecca makes up the bulk of the book – though their emails are mostly sparring monologues. Oscar, whose sister was childhood friends with Rebecca, has just been accused of inappropriate conduct by a young woman with a big Instagram following, but he’s not exactly contrite. “This whole MeToo thing is just revenge of the sluts.” To an extent the premise is an excuse for lots of highly entertaining Bernhardian rants on the subject of men v women, generation v generation, and more. But a more subtle and complex angle comes through as the story proceeds, even if the best Oscar can hope for is that, as his daughter tells him at one point, “You’re a lot less of a dickhead than before”.
