The Silver Book Has the Melancholy Confidence of a Literary Novel

There is a particular charm in books that do not seem eager to impress. The Silver Book suggests exactly that sort of confidence, a novel willing to let mood, intelligence, and quiet strangeness do their work without fanfare.

I often trust titles that sound composed rather than flashy. They remind me of people who enter a room without raising their voices and are somehow the ones everyone remembers. Olivia Laing’s book gives that impression before one knows the first detail of its plot.

If it proves as elegant as it sounds, this may be one of those literary works readers carry around not merely because it is good, but because it leaves a certain emotional residue behind.

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