My go-to comfort books are The Callahan Chronicles by Spider Robinson. Like slipping on an old pair of slippers.
Being at something of a loose end, am reviving this thread after some ten days of last activity thereon – as with another in Cafe Society: I was away from home and basically Net-less, when the threads were going strong.
Department of – as quoted above from Miss Mapp – “quaint people in English villages even without anybody getting murdered” (though in my below-submitted, a person or two – granted, some way in the past – does get murdered): I’ll submit something – recently rediscovered by me – which delighted me when I first came upon it, and has delighted me on recent re-reading. By an author who came along a few decades later than E.F. Benson: John Moore (1907 – 1967). The books concerned: his trilogy, generally reckoned fact-based (at least as per the geography) fiction – three short novels, published in close succession 1946 – 1948: * Portrait of Elmbury, Brensham Village, The Blue Field *. The novels tell of life from – roughly – shortly before World War 1 to shortly after World War 2, in the corner of the West / South midlands of England where the author was born and lived most of his life, and deeply loved. “Elmbury” in the first volume, is unmistakably the small town of Tewkesbury, the author’s birthplace: otherwise, the villages of which he writes are a synthesis of the real-life villages in that neighbourhood.
The whole picture given of the time and place, is overall approving and benign; although one feels that an imagined counterpart author, born and brought up in Tewkesbury, but a political radical / social justice warrior whether on the far left, or right, wing – could have taken the same material, and presented the area at that time and place as hell on earth, populated by either vile humans / demons, or victims. For better or worse, Moore doesn’t do so – dons rather rose-tinted glasses – he tells of ugly and filthy small-urban in Tewkesbury – and rural outside it – slums, and their poor and low-life inhabitants; but such low-life bods come across in his writing as, mostly, jolly and benign rogues who would steal and cheat (unless – maybe – they personally liked you), but would not physically harm a fellow-human, except perhaps in the throes of angered extreme intoxication. Likewise, concerning higher up the social spectrum: corruption and shady dealings by local government are told of, but viewed with a rather affectionate eye – and with mention of plenty of local folk, high and low, ready to identify and expose and curb such goings-on.
With a background of idyllic rural scenes, of farming (on the whole, he loves and approves of the farmers of his acquaintance), and copious wildlife – which latter was harvested by whoever had the initiative to do so, but was plentiful for all. In the latter decades of Moore’s not-very-long life (he died of cancer, aged 60) – post-the described books – he became highly concerned about the perceivedly destructive industrial-farming practices which came on the scene big-time and ever-intensifying in the UK, from very shortly after World War 2, onward; and he campaigned energetically against the excesses of this turn of things.
As said: Moore’s “Brensham Trilogy” as above, won’t be to everyone’s taste; but folk something like me, might well find it cheering and upbeat and cozy (and often very funny), and filled with a cast of mostly likeable and entertaining characters.
Madeleine L’Engle is known for writing some of the most popular children’s scifi books ever published, but she also wrote the lovely, gentle The Twenty-Four Days Before Christmas, which even as an adult is still one of my favorite Christmas stories.
I’ve been hankering for a nice, cozy read – preferably while sitting by a crackling fire and drinking hot cocoa. All these books sound great; I’m especially interested in “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-hour Bookstore”.
Came by to say this. Unbeatable cozy reading.
“The Wind in the Willows” is also nearly perfect; sometimes I just reread the Rescue at Badger’s House and Mole’s House at Christmastime chapters for maximum coziness.
For some reason, I find G.K. Chesterton’s “The Man Who was Thursday” immensely cozy.
Christopher Morley’s “Parnassus on Wheels” and “The Haunted Bookshop.” Also his collected essays about wandering around Philadelphia and New York on foot. I think they’re collectively called the “Three Hours for Lunch Club.”
Lord Dunsany’s “Travel Tales of Joseph Jorkens,” and the four Jorkens collections which follow. The epitome of the “old farts in British mens’ clubs who drink large whiskey and tell outlandish tales” genre.
Cookbooks in general, particularly things like Jane & Michael Stern’s “Square Meals” and Lois Wyse’s “Just Like Grandma Used to Make.” And John Thorne’s books about food, which include lovely anecdotes about a father making mac n’ cheese for his young daughter, a horny Greek merchant marine showing a young woman how to make stifado (onion stew flavored with a small amount of meat), and why Anarchists like meatballs.
The coziest book I’ve read recently is A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles. I loved it.