A new favourite, albeit an absolutely heartbreaking one. The Future Is Peace is written by two peace activists – Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon – who have become like brothers despite growing up on opposite sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Both have lost family members to the ongoing conflict, and they write with immense honesty, grief, compassion, and courage.

The book unfolds as a journey across the region, reflecting the dual-narrative tours they lead together.
Along the way, they weave together politics, personal and family histories, mythology, religion, biblical stories, and the complex historical narratives that continue to shape this part of the world. Rather than offering simple answers, they invite the reader to sit with complexity while never losing sight of the humanity of the people living it.

What struck me most was their unwavering conviction that violence can never be the path to peace. Instead, they make a compelling case for empathy and dialogue. Coming from two people who have endured unimaginable personal losses, those arguments carry a particularly poignant weight.

This is not an easy read. At times I found it incredibly difficult and emotionally overwhelming, as this book continually confronted me with realities I hadn’t previously understood in their full depth. But I also think it’s one of the most important books I’ve read in a long time, and I urge people not to shy away from it if they can. It’s heartbreaking, but it also offers a vision of what a different future could look like and makes a powerful case that individuals still have a role to play in building peace, challenging the sense of collective hopelessness that so many of us feel.

I listened to the audiobook, and hearing Aziz narrate alongside Maoz’s brother made the experience even more powerful.

A remarkable, unforgettable book that has strengthened my desire to contribute, however modestly, to peacebuilding.

I’ve been reading the Tommy and Tuppence series from the beginning, so it was lovely to see them again here, now much older. I enjoy following these recurring characters as they age and seeing how their relationship evolves over time.

That said, I didn’t find this one as gripping as the earlier books in the series. There are some genuinely
eerie moments and a satisfying twist at the end, but overall the story dragged more than I’d hoped, and a few plot threads were left unresolved. Tommy and Tuppence also spend much of the novel apart, and for me the books are at their best when they’re solving the mystery together.

I enjoyed it as part of their ongoing story, but if you’re not already invested in the Tommy and Tuppence series, I don’t think this one will grip you. I definitely prefer some of the other books in this series, as well as many of Agatha Christie’s other novels.

Braiding Sweetgrass, for the most part, is an absolutely wonderful book. I read it over a long period of time, and it accompanied me on walks and travels across different countries, making for a beautiful companion in all sorts of natural settings, which felt really fitting given the content.

For a long time while reading Braiding Sweetgrass, I was calling it my new favourite book. I stand by that now when I think about the first half, though I did find that the second half felt less strong in comparison. The first half completely blew me away – the author’s writing is mesmerisingly poetic. The whole book is a very unique blend of science and Indigenous spiritual wisdom, which just made sense to me. I also appreciated learning a lot about the history and culture of Indigenous peoples in North America.

There are so many breathtaking quotes, and the overall messages are so, so important. I love the theme of reciprocity and gratitude for nature, and the emphasis on looking after the natural world. It felt deeply meaningful and extremely lyrical – a beautiful blend of science and story.

I will say that I found the second half became less engaging. It felt like it went on for a while, and became repetitive and slightly disorganised, which meant it didn’t hold the same impact as the beginning – hence why my praise mostly applies to the first half of the book.

Reading N or M? felt like slipping back into familiar company. Having read several Tommy and Tuppence books now, there’s something satisfying about following them as they age.

I realise through reading more of Christie’s work that I’m more drawn to her wartime espionage novels than to her murder mysteries. That’s probably an unusual preference, given how closely she’s associated with the latter, but the espionage motif is very much up my street – and this novel fits that perfectly.

Much of the story unfolds at Sans Souci, a seemingly unremarkable seaside guesthouse, and I loved how vividly Christie brings it to life. She’s an expert at making not only characters but places feel real, and Sans Souci is so clearly imagined that I could picture it with ease. Listening to Christie on road trips, as I often do, only adds to the charm – her books seem to travel particularly well.

This is an absolutely excellent book with an amazing ending, which is really the main feature that stands out. I’d heard in advance that the ending was one that changed the genre, and although knowing this did make it a little more predictable, it was still incredibly clever and satisfying. As always, I love the way Christie writes – particularly her ability to carefully weave in red herrings, which is such a hallmark of her work. This was my first Poirot book, and I really enjoyed his character – he’s brilliantly crafted, and I’m very excited to continue with the series. While I do have a preference for the Tommy and Tuppence books, that’s more about personal taste than anything to do with the quality of Christie’s writing. All in all, it’s a brilliant read.

This is the second Shafak novel I’ve devoured in a short space of time, and it only deepens my conviction that she is an extraordinary writer. What struck me most here is the sheer depth of her research on a wide range of subjects: Victorian England, Mesopotamia, and Yazidi culture, to name a few. You can feel the labour behind every chapter. I love the shifting perspectives of the different characters, and as always, Shafak’s endings are impeccable. The tapestry of themes she interlaces – poverty, identity, love, genocide, sexuality, history, colonialism, mental health, and climate change – feels ambitious yet deeply thought through.

I’d say that this was a harder read for me than her other work. I’m quite sensitive to depictions of human suffering laid out in writing, and there were several moments where I needed to pause for a week or so because the intensity surprised me. Yet, paradoxically, I feel this also speaks to the strength of the novel. In The Island of Missing Trees, I occasionally felt that she held back from fully entering the emotional depths of certain experiences, and here she absolutely does not. It was challenging for me but undeniably powerful. I also noticed echoes of her other work – motifs, character types, tonal overlaps -which felt simultaneously amusing and comforting as well as slightly jarring. Still, I found that the familiarity reinforced the distinctiveness of her style. I learned a great deal through this novel, and I’ll definitely be reading more of her work. There’s a real wow factor here, both intellectually and emotionally.

Wow… The Island of Missing Trees is definitely one of the best books I have ever read. It’s a breathtaking story intertwining themes of love, loss, conflict and war, identity, coming of age, healing, grief, and so much more. There are so many unusual and fascinating aspects of this book that have really stayed with me – from the narration by a fig tree, to the seamless shifts between different time periods (1970s Cyprus, 2000s Cyprus, and 2010s London), to the rich historical details and evocative imagery of Cyprus itself.

It’s intriguing, layered, and deeply touching, though I occasionally sensed that some emotional terrain was only partially explored, and could have benefited from a deeper dive. The ending felt unpredictable yet perfectly aligned with the sentiments I was hoping for. I especially recommend the audiobook – the voices bring the story to life in such a powerful way that you really get absorbed in it.

I feel that there is a growing trend in contemporary literature that combines historical fiction with themes of nature and the ecosystem, and I’m absolutely loving it – I think it’s fantastic. This notion of landscapes holding memory and trauma feels so relevant to both historical conflict and the natural world, and Shafak’s writing captures that beautifully.

Unforgettable, tender, and hauntingly beautiful. I would recommend this book to absolutely anyone, and it’s all I’m going to be talking about for the foreseeable future.

This was a beautiful, comforting read. As someone who already loves walking, it felt nourishing to explore so many different ways to walk and all the benefits attached to them. The tone is both mindful and research-based, with the science presented in a way that’s easy to understand. It’s a very basic but very fun book, and the concept itself is great – I hope to find similar books for other activities. I also enjoyed the short, week-by-week chapters. Despite the risk of over-medicalising something simple and joyful, I felt that the author mostly avoids that trap. Her blend of mindfulness and science keeps the book inviting rather than prescriptive, and it really helped deepen my love for walking! My main criticism would be that I sometimes questioned whether the research cited was interpreted as rigorously as it could have been. A few conclusions felt a bit loose, and I wasn’t always sure whether the evidence described was peer-reviewed or robust.

This book covers the topic of secondary trauma, which the author calls trauma exposure response. It’s an important topic, and I appreciated how she widens the conversation beyond the usual helping professions. Her attention to conservation work, animal welfare, and environmental activism was genuinely illuminating – it’s rare to see these fields acknowledged as sites of exposure to suffering. While I appreciated some of the creative aspects, including the cartoon illustrations, the book doesn’t go in depth. The core ideas are repetitive and it’s easy to skim without absorbing much new insight. There’s nothing wrong with the book per se; it’s simply a starting point rather than a groundbreaking exploration.

Brené Brown’s I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn’t) is a book about shame and its impact, written in a way that doesn’t feel heavy or textbook-like, even though it is grounded in research. I appreciated how she interwove stories, anecdotes, and her own vulnerable experiences, which made the ideas feel relatable and easy to apply to everyday life. The examples she shared are great for helping readers recognise how shame shows up in their own lives. I found her attention to cultural and social influences to be especially important in the conversation about shame.

At the same time, I found the book somewhat underwhelming. While the accessibility of the writing made it a quick and easy read, many of the concepts struck me as quite obvious, and I didn’t experience the sense of inspiration or illumination I often hope for in a book like this. Although it offers a solid introduction to understanding shame, I would recommend it more for beginners than for those already familiar with how shame operates in their own lives. It’s worth noting that this book primarily explores women’s experiences of shame, with a shorter section on men included towards the end (this shouldn’t deter men from reading it, but it does mean the content may feel more directly applicable to women).

Personally, I didn’t find this book especially groundbreaking or particularly well written, and I would look to more advanced or nuanced work for a deeper exploration of the topic.