Genre Fiction
![Sarah Winman - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_sarah_winman.jpg)
Still Life
A Good Morning America Book Club Pick
A captivating, bighearted, richly tapestried story of people brought together by love, war, art, flood, and the ghost of E. M. Forster, by the celebrated author of Tin Man.
Tuscany, 1944: As Allied troops advance and bombs sink villages, a young English soldier, Ulysses Temper, finds himself in the wine cellar of a deserted villa. There, he has a chance encounter with Evelyn Skinner, a middle-aged art historian intent on salvaging paintings from the ruins. In each other, Ulysses and Evelyn find a kindred spirit amidst the rubble of war-torn Italy, and paint a course of events that will shape Ulysses's life for the next four decades.
Returning home to London, Ulysses reimmerses himself in his crew at The Stoat and Parot-a motley mix of pub crawlers and eccentrics-all the while carrying with him his Italian evocations. So, when an unexpected inheritance brings him back to where it all began, Ulysses knows better than to tempt fate: he must return to the Tuscan hills.
With beautiful prose, extraordinary tenderness, and bursts of humor and light, Still Life is a sweeping portrait of unforgettable individuals who come together to make a family, and a deeply drawn celebration of beauty and love in all its forms.
A captivating, bighearted, richly tapestried story of people brought together by love, war, art, flood, and the ghost of E. M. Forster, by the celebrated author of Tin Man.
Tuscany, 1944: As Allied troops advance and bombs sink villages, a young English soldier, Ulysses Temper, finds himself in the wine cellar of a deserted villa. There, he has a chance encounter with Evelyn Skinner, a middle-aged art historian intent on salvaging paintings from the ruins. In each other, Ulysses and Evelyn find a kindred spirit amidst the rubble of war-torn Italy, and paint a course of events that will shape Ulysses's life for the next four decades.
Returning home to London, Ulysses reimmerses himself in his crew at The Stoat and Parot-a motley mix of pub crawlers and eccentrics-all the while carrying with him his Italian evocations. So, when an unexpected inheritance brings him back to where it all began, Ulysses knows better than to tempt fate: he must return to the Tuscan hills.
With beautiful prose, extraordinary tenderness, and bursts of humor and light, Still Life is a sweeping portrait of unforgettable individuals who come together to make a family, and a deeply drawn celebration of beauty and love in all its forms.
Editorial Reviews
Winner of the InWords Literary Award
A Good Morning America Book Club Pick
A Veranda Magazine Book Club Pick
A Parade Best Book of the Year
One of:
The Millions's Most Anticipated Books of 2021
Bookbub's The Best Historical Fiction to Read This Fall
Parade's 25 Books We've Loved Reading This Fall
Parade's Best Book of the Year
Veranda's 25 Best New Books for Fall 2021
Lit Hub's Best Books of the Week November
"A tonic for wanderlust and a cure for loneliness. It's that rare, affectionate novel that makes one feel grateful to have been carried along. Unfurling with no more hurry than a Saturday night among old friends, the story celebrates the myriad ways love is expressed and families are formed….Endlessly charming...The novel never feels anything less than captivating because Winman creates such a flawless illusion of spontaneity, an atmosphere capable of sustaining these characters' macabre wit, comedy of manners and poignant longing." -The Washington Post
"The incredible storytelling, lovable characters, and sweeping settings make this novel an absolute delight, proving that serious fiction does not have to be only dark and depressing."-Real Simple
"[A] winsome, large-hearted novel . . . [Still Life] pulses from the page." -Entertainment Weekly
"A World War II novel that feels fresh is a rare commodity. . . . Constant literary surprises abound."-Entertainment Weekly
"Sarah Winman's sweeping Still Life is a parade of small stories, intimate connections and complex characters whose lives illuminate the tedium and cataclysms of the 20th century. . . . The rea...
A Good Morning America Book Club Pick
A Veranda Magazine Book Club Pick
A Parade Best Book of the Year
One of:
The Millions's Most Anticipated Books of 2021
Bookbub's The Best Historical Fiction to Read This Fall
Parade's 25 Books We've Loved Reading This Fall
Parade's Best Book of the Year
Veranda's 25 Best New Books for Fall 2021
Lit Hub's Best Books of the Week November
"A tonic for wanderlust and a cure for loneliness. It's that rare, affectionate novel that makes one feel grateful to have been carried along. Unfurling with no more hurry than a Saturday night among old friends, the story celebrates the myriad ways love is expressed and families are formed….Endlessly charming...The novel never feels anything less than captivating because Winman creates such a flawless illusion of spontaneity, an atmosphere capable of sustaining these characters' macabre wit, comedy of manners and poignant longing." -The Washington Post
"The incredible storytelling, lovable characters, and sweeping settings make this novel an absolute delight, proving that serious fiction does not have to be only dark and depressing."-Real Simple
"[A] winsome, large-hearted novel . . . [Still Life] pulses from the page." -Entertainment Weekly
"A World War II novel that feels fresh is a rare commodity. . . . Constant literary surprises abound."-Entertainment Weekly
"Sarah Winman's sweeping Still Life is a parade of small stories, intimate connections and complex characters whose lives illuminate the tedium and cataclysms of the 20th century. . . . The rea...
Readers Top Reviews
Lilly Marlènesuza
Quite a feat of literature and intent in the era of twitter. Take your time with this book, savor the poetry and its zest of life. Enjoy in small doses, like a precious tea.
Belinda ReiserLil
Best book I’ve read in a while. Different, beautifully written and wonderful characters.
CSBelinda ReiserL
’Once is enough. We just need to know what the heart’s capable of, Evelyn. And do you know what it’s capable of? I do. Grace and fury.’ An ode to art, to a time and place, and a shared ’belief that a combination of intellect and beauty can make the world a better place.’ ’It’s what we’ve always done. Left a mark on a cave or on a page. Showing who we are, sharing our view of the world, the life we’re made to bear. Our turmoil is revealed in those painted faces--sometimes tenderly, sometimes grotesquely, but art becomes a mirror. All the symbolism and the paradox, ours to interpret. That’s how it becomes part of us. And as counterpoint to our suffering, we have beauty. We like beauty, don’t we? Something good on the eye cheers us. Does something to us on a cellular level, makes us feel alive and enriched. Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgment. Captures forever that which is fleeting. A meager stain in the corridors of history, that’s all we are. A little mark of scuff. One hundred and fifty years ago Napoleon breathed the same air as we do now. The battalion of time marches on. Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote.’ Set mostly in Florence, this is a story of family. Not your typical Father/Mother with 2.5 kids kind of family, this is a family made up of friends acquired along the way who have come to live in Florence in the mid 20th century, when the bombs were still falling, which adds to the desire to live life fully while they still can, and appreciate what beauty there is left in life with an intensity as the world seems to be crumbling around them. A love story, if a somewhat atypical one. A story of friendship, of family, both the ones we are born into and the ones that we create from the people we meet as we travel through life. It is the story of war, the destruction to the land, and the destruction to the people whose lives are affected, and the friendships that were born of the time. A love story to a place and time, and to love, in all its many forms. At 464 pages, this is not a quick or light read, but it is one that will now live inside me, as all the best stories do.
Sue BlaneyCSBelin
Best book I have read all year. Delightful characters; beautifully written; gorgeous imagery; so full of love. I laughed and I cried… and I savored it all the way through.
ECSue BlaneyCSBel
I read this novel on the recommendation of a friend who works in a bookshop. I took it on my trip to Italy - most of the novel takes place in Florence- and it proved to be the perfect choice. It’s an engrossing read, beautifully written and peopled with well drawn characters that, with all their complexities, you’d want to know. It’s one of the few times I’ve finished a novel and wanted to stay in that world. If you share my taste of reading writers such as Kate Atkinson, Tessa Hadley, Zadie Smith, and Elizabeth Strout, you won’t be disappointed. Absolutely loved it.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Man as the Measure of All Things
1944
Somewhere in the Tuscan hills, two English spinsters, Evelyn Skinner and a Margaret someone, were eating a late lunch on the terrace of a modest albergo. It was the second of August. A beautiful summer's day, if only you could forget there was a war on. One sat in shade, the other in light, due to the angle of the sun and the vine-strewn trellis overhead. They were served a reduced menu but celebrated the Allied advance with large glasses of Chianti. Overhead, a low-flying bomber cast them momentarily in shadow. They picked up their binoculars and studied the markings. Ours, they said, and waved.
This rabbit's delicious, said Evelyn, and she caught the eye of the proprietor, who was smoking by the doorway. She said, Coniglio buonissimo, signore!
The signore put his cigarette in his mouth and raised his arm-part salute, part wave, one couldn't be sure.
Do you think he's a Fascist? said Margaret quietly.
No, I don't think so, said Evelyn. Although Italians are quite indecisive politically. Always have been.
I heard they're shooting them now, the Fascists.
Everyone's shooting everyone, said Evelyn.
A shell screamed to their right and exploded on a distant hill, uprooting a cluster of small cypress trees.
One of theirs, said Margaret, and she held on to the table to protect her camera and wineglass from the shock waves.
I heard they found the Botticelli, said Evelyn.
Which one? said Margaret.
Primavera.
Oh, thank God, said Margaret.
And Giotto's Madonna from the Uffizi. Rubens's Nymphs and Satyrs and one more-Evelyn thought hard-ah, yes, she said. Supper at Emmaus.
The Pontormo! Any news about his Deposition?
No, not yet, said Evelyn, pulling a small bone from her mouth.
In the distance, the sky suddenly flared with artillery fire. Evelyn looked up and said, I never thought I'd see this again at my age.
Aren't we the same age?
No. Older.
You are?
Yes. Eight years. Approaching sixty-four.
Are you really?
Yes, she said, and poured out more wine. I pity the swallows, though, she added.
They're swifts, said Margaret.
Are you sure?
Yes, said Margaret. The squealers are swifts, and she sat back and made an awful sound that was nothing like a swift.
Swift, said Margaret, emphasizing her point. The swallow is, of course, the Florentine bird, she said. It's a Passeriform, a perching bird, but the swift is not. Because of its legs. Weak feet, long wingspan. It belongs to the order of Apodiformes. Apodiformes meaning "footless" in Greek. The house martin, however, is a Passeriform.
Dear God, thought Evelyn. Will this not end?
Swallows, continued Margaret, have a forked tail and a red head. And about an eight-year life expectancy.
That's depressing. Not even double digits. Do you think swallow years are like dog years? said Evelyn.
No, I don't think so. Never heard as much. Swifts are dark brown but appear blackish in flight. There they are again! screamed Margaret. Over there!
Where?
There! You have to keep up, they're very nippy. They do everything on the wing!
Suddenly, out from the clouds, two falcons swooped in and ripped a swift violently in half.
Margaret gasped.
Did everything on the wing, said Evelyn as she watched the falcons disappear behind the trees. This is a lovely drop of Classico, she said. Have I said that already?
You have actually, said Margaret tersely.
Oh. Well, I'm saying it again. A year of occupation has not diminished the quality. And she caught the proprietor's eye and pointed to her glass. Buonissimo, signore!
The signore took the cigarette out of his mouth, smiled and again raised his arm.
Evelyn sat back and placed her napkin on the table. The two women had known one another for seven years. They'd been lovers briefly in the beginning, after which desire had given way to a shared interest in the Tuscan proto-Renaissance-a satisfactory turn of events for Evelyn, less so for Margaret someone. She'd thrown herself into ornit...
1944
Somewhere in the Tuscan hills, two English spinsters, Evelyn Skinner and a Margaret someone, were eating a late lunch on the terrace of a modest albergo. It was the second of August. A beautiful summer's day, if only you could forget there was a war on. One sat in shade, the other in light, due to the angle of the sun and the vine-strewn trellis overhead. They were served a reduced menu but celebrated the Allied advance with large glasses of Chianti. Overhead, a low-flying bomber cast them momentarily in shadow. They picked up their binoculars and studied the markings. Ours, they said, and waved.
This rabbit's delicious, said Evelyn, and she caught the eye of the proprietor, who was smoking by the doorway. She said, Coniglio buonissimo, signore!
The signore put his cigarette in his mouth and raised his arm-part salute, part wave, one couldn't be sure.
Do you think he's a Fascist? said Margaret quietly.
No, I don't think so, said Evelyn. Although Italians are quite indecisive politically. Always have been.
I heard they're shooting them now, the Fascists.
Everyone's shooting everyone, said Evelyn.
A shell screamed to their right and exploded on a distant hill, uprooting a cluster of small cypress trees.
One of theirs, said Margaret, and she held on to the table to protect her camera and wineglass from the shock waves.
I heard they found the Botticelli, said Evelyn.
Which one? said Margaret.
Primavera.
Oh, thank God, said Margaret.
And Giotto's Madonna from the Uffizi. Rubens's Nymphs and Satyrs and one more-Evelyn thought hard-ah, yes, she said. Supper at Emmaus.
The Pontormo! Any news about his Deposition?
No, not yet, said Evelyn, pulling a small bone from her mouth.
In the distance, the sky suddenly flared with artillery fire. Evelyn looked up and said, I never thought I'd see this again at my age.
Aren't we the same age?
No. Older.
You are?
Yes. Eight years. Approaching sixty-four.
Are you really?
Yes, she said, and poured out more wine. I pity the swallows, though, she added.
They're swifts, said Margaret.
Are you sure?
Yes, said Margaret. The squealers are swifts, and she sat back and made an awful sound that was nothing like a swift.
Swift, said Margaret, emphasizing her point. The swallow is, of course, the Florentine bird, she said. It's a Passeriform, a perching bird, but the swift is not. Because of its legs. Weak feet, long wingspan. It belongs to the order of Apodiformes. Apodiformes meaning "footless" in Greek. The house martin, however, is a Passeriform.
Dear God, thought Evelyn. Will this not end?
Swallows, continued Margaret, have a forked tail and a red head. And about an eight-year life expectancy.
That's depressing. Not even double digits. Do you think swallow years are like dog years? said Evelyn.
No, I don't think so. Never heard as much. Swifts are dark brown but appear blackish in flight. There they are again! screamed Margaret. Over there!
Where?
There! You have to keep up, they're very nippy. They do everything on the wing!
Suddenly, out from the clouds, two falcons swooped in and ripped a swift violently in half.
Margaret gasped.
Did everything on the wing, said Evelyn as she watched the falcons disappear behind the trees. This is a lovely drop of Classico, she said. Have I said that already?
You have actually, said Margaret tersely.
Oh. Well, I'm saying it again. A year of occupation has not diminished the quality. And she caught the proprietor's eye and pointed to her glass. Buonissimo, signore!
The signore took the cigarette out of his mouth, smiled and again raised his arm.
Evelyn sat back and placed her napkin on the table. The two women had known one another for seven years. They'd been lovers briefly in the beginning, after which desire had given way to a shared interest in the Tuscan proto-Renaissance-a satisfactory turn of events for Evelyn, less so for Margaret someone. She'd thrown herself into ornit...
