One Boat tells the story of an English woman, Teresa, and her short holiday to an unnamed Greek town by the sea. A getaway from her life as a corporate copyright solicitor, she intends to use her time to reflect and ponder on the meaning of life after the death of her mother and the collapse of her relationship. During her stay she meets different locals throughout the town and builds up friendships with all of them.

Nine years later, she returns to the same Greek town, now after the death of her father, with the view to recreate this rejuvenative experience, to reflect on her complex grief, and to write, not a novel (she scoffs at being called a writer), but a journal, for the sole purpose of maintaining a poetic record of her thoughts and experiences.

This Greek town is lovely, and the description of the setting is my most positive reflection regarding this novel. Buckley depicts the heat and the languidness and the freedom of a Mediterranean holiday perfectly. The flaneur-like wandering through the town, discovering its secret nooks, cafes, peaks, museums, and people—it’s a lovely tribute to the restorative power of rest, and the book would make a perfect holiday read in warmer climates.

Another positive reflection was the novel's chronology. Due to the nine-year gap in time between visits, Buckley plays around with chronology, shifting back and forth between the town and townsfolk who were versus the town and townsfolk now. The change is what you would mostly expect, though things have become less a ‘hidden oasis’ and more of a tourist trap, and old friends who were once filled with the vivacity of youth have now grown more rugged and hardened, the town still remains, the people, moored to the soil, remain, and Teresa visits them both, summoning her latent memories, as memory is so related to place and people, so the novel posits.

The inventive quality of the novel is this ever present notebook where Teresa supplements or replaces her ‘recalled’ narration of an event with the ‘further recalled’ journalling of the event in italics. A random example I’ve picked out: “A museum had been built inside the castle since I was last there. I applied myself to every exhibit and caption — **wringing every last drop**, I wrote in the evening.” The **italicised** passage is the written recollection—and through this combination with the regular past-tense narration we experience the event from both Teresa’s immediate and reflective perspective.

When I saw this happen for the first time at the beginning of the novel I anticipated the novel showing how the actual recollection of an event can be skewed by it’s poetical representation and, perhaps, how in the act of recalling something in a poetic fashion, one can hide themselves from the actualities of life. Unfortunately, I felt nothing but unrealised potential here. Instead, Buckley seemed content with using this experimental form for the sole purpose to write pretty passages that would not normally pass from the narrator’s thoughts at the time. During several parts of the technique drops off entirely or resurfaces only to add one minor phrase per page. For me, the novelty of it wore off very quickly.

Regarding the prose, I am not the first person to draw parallels to Rachel Cusk’s ‘Outline’, not just because both novels feature English women travelling to Greece to sort out their lives, but also because the highly character-based soliloquy-driven narrative in which mini-stories are extracted from side characters, coupled with an intentional withholding of information regarding the narrator, is very Outline-like. Unlike Cusk, however, characters in One Boat are not writers, artists and poets, but regular everymen, who say as much as they can in the limited vocabulary they have.

Many times, this amounts to saying nothing, and I never felt interested in any of the characters or what they represented. Xanthe, the young waitress turned owner and mother, was a complete non-entity. Niko, the diving instructor lover, is likewise. Petros, the mechanic turned poet, is given the most space in the novel, but mostly uses it to go into long dialogues on animal and plant consciousness, and, later, a long diatribe on ecology. Not that these topics aren’t important or interesting, it just felt like the characters had nothing new to say.

That ‘nothing new to say’ extends, in my opinion, to the novel itself. ‘Platitudinous’ is a word that Teresa mentions herself, reflecting upon some of the thoughts she has summiting one of the mountains. She then comes to a later realisation that language cannot truly describe the experience of true understanding, which is something felt primally, instinctively, in the presence of the sublime. That this revelation is then ironically transmitted through words (in the form of the novel) completely dilutes the overall message. In my opinion, a writer’s goal should be to translate this sublime feeling into an innate philosophical understanding, but what Buckley offers is merely a description of this process being elicited. Many of Teresa’s epiphanies were just words. There was no sense of catharsis through the text itself.

Various other philosophical topics were broached superficially: free will, consciousness, revenge, the breakdown of marriage, art, fascism, but it feels like the novel was too short to give any of these topics justice, and other novels have succeeded here already. It felt like the rough draft or skeleton of a novel, rather than a fully fleshed out work, compositionally.

Despite going in with high expectations and good intentions, I was therefore sadly disappointed with this novel.

There is a question that these cliched passages were cliche intentionally. The ending seems to justify a more experimental read of the novel, and Teresa’s scattered notes could be the mere inklings of something grander, a more fleshed out piece of work. But what would be the point of that? It would be an excellent shield to all criticism of any work, that it is all like this on purpose.

But even if this was the case, I have no interest in unravelling the mystery, say what I would have with a Borges or a Nabokov. There’s no sense of play with the puzzle—the pieces themselves are not fun to grasp with. The experimental nature of the novel is merely like the jigsaw puzzle that reveals nothing but a white square.

I loved this book A LOT.

I read it a month ago and cannot stop thinking about it, but this book will not be for everyone.
Readers who do not like two different time frames and jumping between the two should not attempt this book.

I am still trying to gather my thoughts to write a coherent, thoughtful response, which does justice to the writing and st0ry, but wanted to pop something on here as the archive date approaches. I loved the setting (Pylos), the character journey, her interior life, and the epic, Homeric style.
When I write my blog post, I will leave a link to the review at the bottom of this page.

Spoiler alert - it will be a RAVE review. I have now put several of Buckley's backlist on order at work. I'm very keen to read more.

This was a nice and thought provoking read. I really enjoyed it and I think about it a lot even after reading it. Thanks to Netgalley, the publisher and the author for giving me an eARC in exchange for an honest review.

I love The Fitzcaraldo editions And I feel this title suits being in the collection. I have no strong opinions on this book I found it ok. I liked the greek setting and finding out more about the characters that live there and their past. There was some ideas on grief and life. I did wish there was a bit more going to keep my attention at times but I liked the writing style and appreciate the language used in this book. I think it is still worth it and was a fast read!

Thank you to Jonathan Buckley, Fitzcarraldo, and NetGalley for the e-arc in exchange for an honest review.

The premise intrigued me and Fitzcarraldo Editions never let me down. Unfortunately the writing style of One Boat didn’t appeal to me and I had to dnf. I think this book is definitely one for analysis, rather than enjoyment.

'One Boat' is a reflective piece that considers memory, free will, authenticity, and the performance of identity.

After the death of her mother, Teresa, goes in search of a Greek oasis, a place that will set the stage for self-discovery, grieving, and quietude. 9 years later, after the death of her father, she returns. The book seamlessly weaves between the two époques, blurring our conceptions of space, time, and chronology. Teresa's blunt self-awareness is able to root the reader in something more formed, however, which helps push the book onwards, rather than dwelling in pockets of loose philosophising.

A lover of sun, warmth, and the self-reflection Southern European countries so often bring, I found that this little novel really captured the essence of a small town ecosystem, built on the pillars of slow change, eccentric figures, and an ancient past. Political rumblings crept in at times, but were often left underdeveloped (intentionally it seems). The characters are quietly engaging, and Teresa's desire to not force meaning out of things (despite her verbal precociousness) was actually really refreshing from a narrator.

The framing at the end spoiled it slightly for me - I had been quite content with the slow build that had occurred throughout the text, and the "it was all a dream" effect of the now biography writer Teresa seemed to force a bit of a question mark over the whole text. The reader can be trusted to already treat Teresa's narrative with caution - her rewriting of events, melting pot of recollections and memories - the framing seemed to put a label on something that had already declared itself through much subtler means.

Jonathan Buckley is clearly a versatile writer – a writer and editorial director at Rough Guides, a BBC National Short Story award winner (following immediately after Lionel Shriver) and a writer of relatively unknown novels which seem commonly to lead to those who review them to comment that they are surprised that the author is not better known (as I did when I read his quietly thoughtful and beautifully crafted 10th novel “The Great Concert of the Night” – a French arthouse cinema infused tale of remembering and restoration).

I then read his 12th novel “Tell” a book around making stories of other people’s lives – the winner of the second (2022) edition of The Novel Prize, a biennial award for a book-length work of literary fiction written in English run by Fitzcarraldo (UK), Giramondo (Australia) and New Directions (in US) who all published the book – my reading of it prompted by its shortlisting for the 2024 Goldsmith Prize for innovative fiction which “breaks the mould” despite a blurb by Ian Sansom (repeated on this book) which talks, accurately, of Buckley as an overlooked author “in the great European tradition ….. working in odd and antique modes”

This is his 13th novel – and due to be published by Fitzcarraldo later in 2025.

The ostensible set up is that the first party narrator – Teresa (and as an aside I was not entirely convinced by this male author writing a female first party narrator and it took me some time to work out the narrator was female), a driven in-house corporate lawyer for a music publisher (having previously worked for a book publisher) – daughter of two mathematicians her driven and distant mother particularly brilliant – has returned to a small town on the Greek coast which she discovered nine years ago after a search for the perfect town (“a place that was quiet, but not somnolent” and with a small hotel she could stay and a small square where she could spend the day observing and writing).

Nine years ago, her visit was to grieve and process her thoughts following the death of her mother and this visit follows the death of her father – and in many ways she tries to retrace many of the relationships she developed and the actions that she took and the narrative switches frequently and non-linearly between the two visits often making use of her written notes from her first visit to refresh her memories. In some cases, the narrative also switches across memorable and portentously described days or trips spent with her parents or ex-husband. It is easy however to follow where we are at any time.

In particular she interacts with Niko (a diving instructor and lover on the first visit, but married on the second), Xanthe (a waitress turned café proprietor who acts more as an observer and commentor on the town) and Petros (originally from the UK but long time naturalised – a car mechanic who nine years ago has a sideline in bizarre animal philosophy and in the second visit in rubbish poetry) – and she also remembers a detailed story told to her by another temporary UK visitor to the Island - John.

I have to say I had heavy vibes of two Goldsmith stalwarts – twice shortlisted and author of the 2024 Goldsmith Prize lecture Deborah Levy (with the Mediterranean setting and even an early jellyfish appearance) and three times previously shortlisted and 2024 winner Rachel Cusk (with Teresa spending so long listening to John’s story). But the novel is well short of either Levy’s sense of mood and imagery and of Cusk’s clever use of annihilated perspective.

And to be honest I found much of the novel very old fashioned with writing shading on the rather pretentious although I think deliberately affected. So for example we are told “I too was suboptimally passionate, in the final analysis. This was never said explicitly, but the hints were unambiguous. I was a few degrees warmer than my mother–that was the implication. Omne animal post coitum triste est–but even more so, for Tom, as time passed.” and later of her first tryst with Niko “There can be no description of what occurred. Representation of the gymnastics would be ridiculous; of the sensations, impossible. Some adjectives could be deployed: ‘wonderful’ would be one. My language fails.”

There are also far too many dreams – as implausibly detailed (even if the narrator writes her dreams in her ever-present notebook) as only dreams in novels ever are – and as uninteresting as other people’s dreams always are.

And later when it suddenly becomes obvious how John and Petros’s stories intersect (although much less obvious how this really helps the novel) I must admit to mentally preparing my take down review.

But then a last element of the novel left me a little more ambiguous. Talking to what seems to be her agent or editor who is reviewing the notes she made (much of which seems to be what we are reading) he discussed many of the elements that most frustrated me in the novel and suggests some modifications (including the “excavation … of the dream stuff …….. dreams are like the contents of a kitchen bin: the rubbish might tell us about the person who created it but not a great deal, and certainly not anything crucial”) – and we are back to the meta-layers of storytelling that seem to characterise Buckley’s work and my criticisms were a little stilled.

But her editor also discussed a book of his own – Category One – about a professional cyclist who dopes but not to win the Dauphiné (his local race and dream when an amateur) but to become a top level domestique known for this (drug-enhanced) ability to suffer.

And to be honest – as a big cycling fan – for all Buckley’s talent I wish I had read that instead.

In "One Boat," Jonathan Buckley explores the roles we play as we process grief and how we concoct narratives around that grief. How do we choose which versions of our lives to offer up to others so that we accommodate for the pain and sadness that we endure? Through the character of Teresa, we see a woman who struggles to piece together her past life as a daughter, wife, writer, lover, and tourist. As she once again returns to a Greek island, she reconciles her past memories of the island with the way she wants to write these experiences.

Buckley's "One Boat" makes us question how we use our past pain to experience and react to current events. Do we continue to live in that pain or do we try to live in the present? Is it even possible to live in the present when you're suffering from so much grief? Obviously, a woman who can travel to Greece on a holiday has an advantage that others would not have, but grief does not care about such advantages. We all lose loved ones. We all will get older and replay moments in the past.

I can see how this elliptical novel may not be for everyone, but I found it engrossing and thought provoking. It made me think about how I have processed losing three family members, and how those losses have impacted how I interacted with the world. A definite recommendation.

This is the second of the author's books I've read. It elicits similar feelings in me - I really want to read it and complete it while not enjoying the experience. It's like encountering someone very odd-looking in a bad way, and struggling to take your eyes off them.

The book is told from the perspective of a woman in her late 40s of early 50s, in the first person. The narrator travels to Greece, having been there once before, 9 years earlier. The story is multilayered - the narrator is an author (in the book's universe) trying to tell a story that is made up of a mixture of events that occurred to her in various periods of time, centering around a specific event 9 years prior to the story's main plot line. While we discover what the main event, as it were, is, we also learn more about the woman and her own personal history. It's not always clear what timeline is being discussed at that particular moment, and it's not always clear whether the story is "real" or imagined, for the purposes of the book the narrator is preparing to write.

Overall, I really wanted to read it and the urge to read it persisted during the experience. However, I found the characters flatish, the story uninspired, and the structure more confusing than necessary.

Overall, I'd suggest to skip, unless you're a diehard fan of the author, or want to sound sophisticated among a paticular set of acquaintances.

My thanks to Netgalley and the publisher for providing me with an early copy of this book in return for an honest review.

I'd been circling Jonathan Buckley's writing for some time (as you do), before reading his last book, Tell, which I didn't really get on with. I found One Boat rather more engaging and impressive. Like all good books, it's in part a subtle and insightful discussion of the process of writing itself, but also a powerful exploration of issues like death, love, and belonging. Its plot centres on the return of Teresa, its narrator, to a small Greek coastal town, nine years after her previous visit, which followed her mother's death. This second visit follows the death of her father. Events from both visits are described and characters recur in a way that blurs without confusing the reader (not as simple as it sounds) and while little is resolved in the narrative, there's nothing at all dissatisfying in that. Although a short novel, it is wide-ranging and thought-provoking - "A long life and a short life are the same, because the present is the only life we have - the same for everyone' (a key theme of the book). At other times it is subtly comic, as in Teresa's refusal to include a description of sex: "Some adjectives could be deployed: 'wonderful' would be one. My language fails' (another theme). There's also lots of imagery of theatre and role-playing, as characters try, and fail, to understand each other and their lives. It ends with an invocation to move forward, which somehow goes to the hear of the book's intention and its power. Another great book published by Fitzcarraldo.

Teresa has lost her father and John is trying to get over the death of his nephew. Both are in turmoil and both are on a beautiful Greek island doing the best they can to recover and move on.

This is a wonderful read. It is beautifully written and I loved reading about how the characters reveal their inner most secrets and how they use each other to rebuild and move on from tragedy and sadness.

Highly recommended