For me, Kamila Shamsie’s Best of Friends was a novel of dualities—friendship and fracture, power and vulnerability, fear and defiance. At its heart is the story of Maryam and Zahra, two Pakistani girls whose bond is shaped by the constraints of girlhood in 1980s Karachi, and tested by the freedoms and compromises of adulthood in London in the late 2010s.

The novel is deeply attuned to the contemporary moment, offering a political commentary that I think feels really urgent. Shamsie interrogates state power, undemocratic systems, and the uneasy relationship between capitalism and justice. Through Zahra’s legal career and Maryam’s corporate influence, she explores how power is wielded and how it is denied. “Power respects power, whether it comes from ballot boxes or bullets” (p. 62), a truth that resonates across the novel’s political and personal landscapes.

One of Shamsie’s most striking themes is the gendered nature of fear. Maryam articulates it as “girlfear,” a condition stitched into the skin, an ever-present hum of vulnerability - “It’s not just fear, it’s girlfear... Boys don’t have it the same way” (p. 127). Women in Best of Friends exist in a constant state of being “watched and watchful” (p. 111), negotiating visibility and invisibility in a way that serves survival rather than choice. The novel doesn’t merely acknowledge these realities - it demands language for them “He terrorised us. He wanted us to know what men can do to women. What’s so hard about having the language for that?” (p. 268).

Class also underpinned the novel’s tensions - both in childhood and adulthood. Throughout, Maryam and Zahra's different approaches to injustice were reflected by their differing social positions, especially those that encompassed them in youth, highlighting the protections and privileges afforded by moving and living within the upper middle and upper classes (and within the remits of dominant political narratives). Their friendship, marked by unwavering loyalty in youth, finds itself tested in adulthood by diverging moral and political perspectives, many of which are entwined with and moulded by their pasts.

Yet Best of Friends is not just a novel about power structures; it is also about the narratives we create to make sense of them. Shamsie’s prose is razor-sharp, her insights piercing. She captures the complexities of female friendship, the weight of political consciousness, and the uneasy interplay between personal ambition and ethical responsibility. Best of Friends is, ultimately, an exploration of what it means to stand with - or against - those we once loved.

I picked up Cécile for two reasons: firstly, because of a past visit to Thale and the Hexentanzplatz, the evocative setting of much of the novel; and secondly, because I loved Effi Briest, my introduction to Fontane (and a novel I hope to revisit). Whilst I ultimately prefer Effi Briest, Cécile remains a subtle yet potent exploration of female constraint in 19th-century Prussian society.

At its heart, Cécile is a novel of contrasts—between the ethereal, naïve, yet self-aware Cécile and the confident, independent artist Rosa. Through these figures, and the men who attempt to define them, Fontane dissects the limitations imposed by societal expectations and the delicate negotiations required of women navigating them. St. Arnaud, Cécile’s husband, is a rather arrogant and misogynistic observer of both Cécile and Rosa, embodying prevailing prejudices -“Women should know little—it’s better for them and their brains”. Whilst Fontane allows these views to be aired, they are counterbalanced by the novel’s broader depiction of women’s restricted agency, suggesting a more progressive undercurrent in his work.

The dialogue-heavy structure of the novel reveals character slowly and masterfully. The rigid codes of ‘polite society’ are peeled away as the story progresses, culminating in a striking denouement as new intelligence from Cécile’s past reshapes Gordon’s understanding of her. Fontane’s psychological insight, coupled with a keen sense of social observation, makes Cécile a novel that rewards close reading. At times, certain passages—particularly those featuring academic discourse—felt difficult to follow, but this seemed intentional, reinforcing the pedantic self-importance of the scholars within the narrative.

Fontane also weaves in subtle social commentary on class, gender, and the politics of Prussian hegemony. His depiction of Cécile as constantly objectified (“pretty privilege” as we might now call it) is deliberate, illustrating how women are shaped by male perception. Rosa, on the other hand, embodies a more modern, emancipated figure—yet even she is written within the confines of male-defined categories. The novel’s brooding atmosphere of fate lingers, underscoring how, for women in the world of 19th-century Prussian society, escape is never entirely possible.

Elegant and quietly subversive, Cécile is a compelling, if sometimes challenging, meditation on gender, power, and perception in 19th-century Germany

As an addendum, and unrelated to the story of Cécile, one random phrase that lingered with me is “apathetic daydreaming”. Reading this book on a bus, I found a moment of recognition: Cécile gazing from a train window, lost in thought, mirrored my own absentminded, escapist staring before I turned to the novel. A perfect encapsulation of those fleeting transient moments of disconnection from time and place.

Publication read: Angel Books, 1995