Still Life

Description

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.
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 real magic of Still Life is the elevation of the ordinary, the unabashed consecration of human experiences. . . . Sentence after sentence, character by character, Still Life becomes poetry.” —New York Times Book Review

“In a novel as rich and alluring as a glass of Chianti—and there’s a lot of Chianti in this novel—Evelyn, a middle-aged art historian, and Ulysses, a soldier, hunker down in Tuscany near the end of World War II, crossing paths with E.M. Forster and other Italophiles. The legacy of their unexpected friendship highlights Winman’s grand theme: Art is the torch we carry in darkness.” –Oprah Daily

“This sweeping, historical tale brings together an unlikely group of friends – a young English soldier, an aging art historian, a pub owner, a pianist and more – in an epic set against the backdrop of mid-to-late-20th-century Florence.” –USA Today

“In this thoroughly warm, witty, entertaining, and character-driven novel spanning decades, Winman shares bighearted ideas about friendship, love, art, and community….It is hard to envision a reader who won’t be smitten by Winman’s characters and their banter, like old Cressy, who takes his advice from a tree, and Claude, the blue parrot who may be Shakespeare reincarnated. These lives may not be the stuff of legend, but they are still life.” —Booklist (starred review)

“An epic about a family of friends who make the city of Florence their home in the mid-to-late 20th century . . . [The] narrative feels almost breathless at times . . . which makes it feel as if the unknown narrator is relating a long story deep into the night….An unexpected treatise on the many forms love and beauty can take, set against the backdrop of Florence.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Still Life is, ultimately, a celebration of Italy, with loving descriptions of its buildings and countryside, of old women gossiping on stone benches. . . . Light yet satisfying.” —BookPage (starred review)

“Lush. . . Many rich sections about art, relationships and the transcendent beauty of Tuscany. . . Readers will enjoy this paean to the power of love and art.” —Publishers Weekly

“Spanning decades and bringing readers from London to Italy, Still Life is a moving look at love and friendship as well as the power of art.” —Bookbub

“Still Life is a lot of things—a history of Italy in the post-war years, an ode to chosen families, a homage to A Room with a View by E.M. Forster, a reminder of the importance of art and art history—but most of all, it’s just a really good story.” —Hey Alma

“[A] book full of wonder and love and terrific writing. . .The writing in this book is so vivid that you laugh on one page and cry on the next. The characters offer insights that resonate in all of us.” —Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star

“The kind of story that makes your heart full.  I fell so in love with these characters that it felt as if they were my dearest friends, and that’s the best sort of book to fall into.” –Jenny Lawson, author of Broken and Let’s Pretend This Never Happened

“Still Life is simultaneously expansive and intimate, a heady brew of disasters, both natural and manmade, of death and life, of the power of great art and, most especially, the resonance of those loves we carry for a lifetime. A truly spectacular achievement. I’ve never read anything quite like it.” —Karen Joy Fowler, author of We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves
 
“From its opening pages Still Life embodies the full generosity of the human spirit. This vast, ambitious, galloping bear-hug of a book unashamedly celebrates love in all its many forms. Love of art, love of strangers, love of a good glass of Italian wine and a bowl of pasta cooked with enough salt to taste like the sea. Love of stories. Love of love.” —Rachel Joyce, author of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry
 
“The sheer joy in [Winman’s] storytelling is completely infectious. I’ve loved spending time with this unforgettable cast of characters in extraordinary times and places.” —Graham Norton
 
“Still Life is a playful, Maupinesque exploration of the elective family and its possibilities. Four-course nourishment for all Winman fans, it harnesses big-hearted storytelling to a dizzying historical sweep to celebrate love in all the available colors.” —Patrick Gale, author of Take Nothing With You
 
“I loved this extraordinary, astonishing, and exquisite novel. The story of damaged characters restored and repaired by the truth and beauty of Tuscany, as Florence itself is restored and repaired post-war and post-flood, is beautifully told. A joy and a pleasure, my book of the year.” —Liz Nugent, author of Little Cruelties
 
“An utterly beautiful story, so generous, rich, deeply moving, and filled with hope. Sarah Winman is a genius and one of the greatest storytellers of our time.” —Joanna Cannon, author of The Trouble with Goats and Sheep
 
“This book saved my soul during these very strange times. I loved every word, every sentence, every beat. It’s about love and our defining moments, and it is utterly beautiful. The characters and places now live in my own memory—to be cherished forever.” —Favel Parrett, author of Past the Shallows

“Readers will want to prolong the pleasure of Sarah Winman’s beautiful novel Still Life for as long as possible. It is a book to get lost in, the kind of story that bolsters the heart and soul. I loved it.” —Donal Ryan, author of From a Low and Quiet SeaSarah Winman is the author of three previous novels, Tin Man, A Year of Marvelous Ways, and When God Was a Rabbit. She lives in London. 

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 ornithology. Luckily, for Evelyn, the advent of war prevented further pursuit, until Rome that is. Two weeks after the Allies had entered the city, she’d opened the front door of her aunt’s villa on Via Magento only to be confronted by the unexpected. Surprise! said Margaret. You can’t get away from me that easily!

Surprise wasn’t the word that had come to Evelyn’s mind.

Evelyn stood up and stretched her legs. Been sitting too long, she said, brushing crumbs off her linen slacks. She was a striking presence at full height, with intelligent eyes, as quick to the conundrum as they were to the joke. Ten years before, she had committed her graying thatch to blond and had never looked back. She walked over to the signore and in perfect Italian asked for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips and steadied his hand as she leaned toward the flame. Grazie, she whispered, and he pressed the packet firmly into her palm and motioned for her to take it. She thanked him again and moved back to the table.

Stop, said Margaret.

What?

The light on your face. How green your eyes are! Turn a little to me. Stay like that.

Margaret, for God’s sake.

Do it. Don’t move. And Margaret picked up her camera and fiddled with the aperture setting.

Evelyn drew on the cigarette theatrically (click) and blew smoke into the late-afternoon sky (click), noticing the shift of color, the lowering of the sun, a lone swift nervously circling. She moved a curl of hair away from her frown (click).

What’s eating you, dear chum?

Mosquitoes, probably.

I hear a touch of Maud Lin, said Margaret. Thoughts?

What is old, d’you think?

Cabin fever talking, said Margaret. We can’t advance, we can only retreat.

That’s old, said Evelyn.

And German mines, silly!

I just want to get into Florence. Do something. Be useful.

The proprietor came over and cleared their plates from the table. He asked them in Italian if they would like a coffee and grappa and they said, How lovely, and he told them not to go wandering again, and he told them his wife would go up to their room later and close the shutters. Oh, and would they like some figs?

Oh sì, sì. Grazie.

Evelyn watched him depart.

Margaret said, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Robin Metcalfe told me you met Forster.

Who?

Him with a View.

Evelyn smiled. Oh, very good.

The way Robin Metcalfe tells it, you and Forster were best friends.

How ridiculous! I met him across a dining table, if you must know, over dinners of boiled beef, at the ghastly Pensione Simi. We were an impoverished little ship on the banks of the Arno, desperately seeking the real Italy. And yet at the helm was a cockney landlady, bless her soul.

Cockney?

Yes.

Why a cockney?

I don’t know.

I mean, why in Florence?

I never asked.

Now you would, said Margaret.

Now I certainly would, said Evelyn, and she took a cigarette and placed it between her lips.

Probably came over as a nanny, said Margaret.

Yes. Probably, said Evelyn, opening the matchbox.

Or a governess. That’ll be it, said Margaret.

Evelyn struck a match and inhaled.

Did you know he was writing a book? asked Margaret.

Good Lord no. He was a recent scholar, if I remember rightly. Covered in the afterbirth of graduation-shy, awkward, you know the type. Entering the world with no experience at all.

Weren’t we all like that?

Yes, I suppose we were, said Evelyn, and she picked up a fig and pressed her thumbs against the soft, yielding skin. I suppose we were, she repeated quietly.

She tore the fruit in half and glanced down at the erotic sight of its vivid flesh. She blushed and would blame it on the shift to evening light, on the effect of the wine and the grappa and the cigarettes, but in her heart, in the unseen, most guarded part of her, a memory undid her, slowly-very slowly-like a zip.

Strangely charismatic, though, she said, surfacing into the present.

Forster was? said Margaret.

When he was alone, yes. But his mother’s presence suffocated him. Every reprimand was pressure applied to the pillow. Odd relationship. That’s what I remember most. Her with a parasol and smelling salts, and him with a well-thumbed Baedeker and an ill-fitting suit.

Margaret reached for Evelyn’s cigarette.

I remember he’d appear in quiet moments. You wouldn’t hear him, just see him. Tall and lanky in the corner. Or in the drawing room with a notebook. Scribbling away. Simply observing.

Isn’t that how it starts? said Margaret, handing back the cigarette.

What?

A book.

US

Additional information

Dimensions	1.0200 × 5.4800 × 8.1700 in
Imprint	G.P. Putnam's Sons
ISBN-13	09780593330760
ISBN-10	0593330765
Author	Sarah Winman
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC014050
Subjects	gma book club, historical novels, historical fiction books, historical books, books historical fiction, mom gifts, best books, fiction books best sellers, good morning america book club, fiction books, tin man, best book club books, FIC014050, world war 2 historical fiction, good morning america, GMA, A Room With a View, world war 2, book club recommendations, books for women, literary fiction, still life, historical fiction, book club, books for mom, world war ii, WW2, WWII, novels, gifts for mom, book club books, fiction, historical
Format	General Trade