The Culture We Deserve

In Gwendoline Riley’s novels, the sky is skin-close. It’s always raining, has just rained, or will begin to rain soon. Her atmosphere cavorts and settles in the nerves. Her world gathers in silver leaf puddles, rain skipping like jacks, draughty cafes and darkling pubs where the literati sulk. “You realize they don’t have a clue what we are or what we mean,” says one of the wistful misfits in the heart of her new novel, The Palm House, to which his pubmate replies, “But do we want them to know? Maybe not.”