Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter

This is,in one sense, an odd beast: a magic realist novel, that most South American of genres, yet utterly, utterly English, indeed utterly, utterly London despite being set mainly in czarist Russia, a novel born within the sound of Bow Bells that tastes like jellied eels, guvnor. Dumf dumf dumf, he said, wondering who will get the pop culture reference.

It is also, of course, utterly exquisite, whether in concept, in character, in prose, in everything. This is an utter believable, realistic 1899, whether in London, in a St Ptersburg circus, in a Siberian winter made very real. There is philosophy, there is a humane feminism which, as feminism usually tends to be, is extraordinary kind and unforgiving to those of us, the weaker sex, with y chromosomes.

The magic does not overshadow the realism, but it is there. There is metaphor, of course: Fevvers, the aerialist whose story we follow (although generally through the eyes of Walse; her interiority remains a mystery) was born, with wings, yet she was also born into a society where women are unable to spread their wings- metaporically or, in Fevvers' case, also metaphorically. A bird in a gilded cagre, indeed. Yet the circus is a magical place too, on more levels than the literal.

This is a novel of tragedy, hope, unexpected redemption, tigers, and more, but ultimately of love and unexpected happiness. It's bonkers, it's brilliant,it's gleefully erudite, it's full of heart.