The Irish author on the allure of Elizabeth Jane Howard, the brilliance of Bernardine Evaristo – and why she won’t be revisiting Philip Roth
My earliest reading memory
Aged about six, in bed, consumed by my first Enid Blyton, The Twins at St Clare’s, my dad at the door telling me to turn off the light and go to sleep. I tried to carry on reading in the dark because leaving that fictional world and reconnecting with the real one was too much of a wrench. Without a doubt, reading was my first addiction.
The book that changed me as a teenager
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. His 1933 memoir of living with the destitute activated my social conscience at the age of 15. Even now, I often think about one particular story: a man who, after his fiancee was crushed by a bus, went on a bender. Shaky from the aftermath, when he resumed his job in construction, he fell 40ft, destroying his foot. Crippled, he could no longer work and was entitled to nothing – no workplace insurance, no disability benefit.
