A “landmark” novel written collaboratively by Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal storytellers, fusing pre-colonial Yolngu oral history with western novelistic storytelling, has won the $80,000 Prime Minister’s Literary award for fiction.

A Piece of Red Cloth, written by novelist Leonie Norrington, Merrkiyawuy Ganambarr-Stubbs and Yolngu knowledge holders Djawundil Maymuru and Djawa Burarrwanga, is set in a coastal north-east Arnhem Land community in the 1600s, when Makassan fishers, from what we now know as Indonesia, would trade with the Yolngu people during the wet season.

The novel traces a dramatic shift in this previously peaceful cultural exchange to a time when Dutch colonisers took control of the Makassar and the traders began using alcohol and opium to access to girls and young women.

Central to the novel is a Yolngu elder trying to protect her granddaughter from this new threat, one that Ganambarr-Stubbs has described as “a true history” that has been “sung and told orally from generations to generations”.

Speaking ahead of the ceremony held in Canberra on Thursday night, Norrington, who lived in the Barunga community in Arnhem Land, told Guardian Australia that the recognition of a pre-colonial Australian story by a prestigious award was particularly meaningful for her and Ganambarr-Stubbs.

“[It’s] important for us that this story has been taken seriously – that the foundation story of Australia is no longer Captain Cook,” Norrington said. “It’s about the people who were here before Captain Cook, and winning the prime minister’s award means that’s being acknowledged.”

The prize judges praised the novel as a “landmark achievement in fiction”, that was “setting a high benchmark for collaboration between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal writers”.

“It is a profound work of remembrance and re-imagination, fusing oral history, novelistic technique and deep cultural knowledge,” the judges said.

Knowledge holder Djawundil Maymuru, who was crucial in the relaying of oral histories the book was based upon, died in 2025. The co-author spent much of her life working to bring Yolngu culture and history into the mainstream, Norrington said: “She would be absolutely thrilled that our story is getting this acknowledgment. We are all very proud.”

Also on Thursday, the nonfiction prize was awarded to investigative journalist Kate Wild for The Red House – her book about the death of Kumanjayi Walker, who was shot by Northern Territory police officer Zachary Rolfe in 2019. The judges described Wild’s book as “an utterly singular work, offering something nuanced, compassionate and new to a critical and ongoing national conversation.”

Zana Fraillon was awarded the prize for children’s literature for Song of a Thousand Seas, a “vivid, briny verse novel … written with depth, heart and care”, the judges said, about an octopus named Houdini who lives in an aquarium and misses the sea.

The Australian history prize was awarded to environmental historian Rohan Howitt for his first book, The Southern Frontier, which charts Australia’s possessive and enduring relationship with Antarctica.

Ender Başkan won the poetry prize for his debut collection Two Hundred Million Musketeers, depicting the intensity of life as a parent to young children.

The young adult literature prize was presented to Pip Harry for Drift, a coming-of-age story that navigates change, friendship loss and anxiety disorder in an “inventive and original” novel.

The Prime Minister’s Literary awards are the richest in the country, with a tax-free prize pool of $600,000.

Each category offers up to $100,000 in prize money: $80,000 tax-free for the winner and $5,000 for up to four shortlisted entries.

Almost 14% of Ireland is bog: vast swathes of moss-carpeted land, below which layers of ancient history have been compounded into mulch-black turf. Captivated by their otherworldly beauty, Seamus Heaney wrote some of his finest poetry about bogs – and the bodies discovered, perfectly preserved, in their eerie depths.

Sheila Armstrong’s exquisite second novel, The Red Mouth, also centres around two bog discoveries: the “monstrous, bog-black antler” of a great Irish elk, and the mutilated body of a girl who comes to be known as Belroe Woman. From here we follow the intersecting lives of those haunted, both literally and figuratively, by these excavations and the uncanny landscape that yielded them.

There is Patch, a recently returned émigré nursing a bone-aching loneliness, which is tempered only by the rescue dog that leads him to the antler in the earth. And there is Maeve, a socially anxious scientist sent to conduct environmental assessments of the bog, only to find there a “seeping dread, the dull acceptance of death”. Decades previously, Tomás, a turf-cutter, is trying to support his young family even as the march of progress threatens his way of life. He meets Professor Liam Fleming, an archaeologist whose relentless obsession with Belroe Woman comes to define his career, while the women around him – his estranged partner, his troubled young daughters – fall apart.

Armstrong’s acclaimed debut novel, 2023’s Falling Animals, also began with two discoveries – first a dead seal, then a dead man on a beach in County Sligo – before expanding outwards, each of its 18 chapters told from a different point of view. In The Red Mouth, we keep circling the same characters over time: troubled young daughters become troubled adults; Belroe Woman becomes a museum exhibit and a symbol of an Irish history that may or may not exist; bog becomes managed wilderness becomes national park.

Time is a preoccupation for the characters too. Tomás, for example, muses on the word “development”, since “surely the development has already taken place, over hundreds of thousands of years, the press and formation of the blanket of peat across a rock singing to itself in the middle of the Atlantic”. And yet, Tomás also finds himself returning to Fleming’s mantra that “there are no experts in this, only us, only now”. This tension between the ancient past and one’s immediate present sits at the heart of today’s climate conversations – and indeed, much of today’s climate fiction. How can we foster an appreciation for deep geological time while also recognising the particular urgency of our current, catastrophic moment?

In the hands of another novelist such concerns could become abstract or heavy-handed, but the remarkable strength of Armstrong’s writing ensures this is never the case. Out on the bog we find “quiet green matrices of sphagnum” and “grown-over sods arranged in uneven mounds that mimic the droppings of some great beast”; above is the “twisting sherbet sky” and “the buttery August light”. The prose throughout is peppered with scientific terms, ancient folklore and snippets of the Irish language.

This vivid lyricism calls to mind other Irish writers such as Paul Lynch or Sara Baume (Patch and his dog, in particular, echo Baume’s gorgeous debut Spill Simmer Falter Wither). Looking farther afield, the reading experience resembles that of Samantha Harvey’s Booker-winning Orbital, where another handful of individual lives and private concerns are set against a vast and sublime beauty – only this time we are not up in the heavens, but down in the dirt. Just as with Harvey’s novel, some readers of The Red Mouth might bemoan the lack of dialogue or explicit plot. There are no big epiphanies: time unfolds in quiet increments; new losses are accrued; mysteries are set up only to remain unanswered. However, as Brigit, one of Fleming’s daughters, comes to realise, such is life: “things happen, one after the other, and there is no smooth parabolic curve that can connect all the checkpoints … uncertainty is the only certainty”. In Armstrong’s meditative and profound novel, such uncertainty, so exquisitely rendered, is more than enough to sustain us to the end.

Dementia, war, migration and loneliness are among the themes of the six novels selected for this year’s Miles Franklin award, Australia’s most esteemed literary prize, worth $60,000.

Announced on Wednesday, the 2026 shortlist includes four first-time nominees, two of whom are debut novelists: Brisbane-based Steve MinOn for First Name Second Name and Tasmania-based Konrad Muller for My Heart At Evening.

Second novels from Omar Musa (Fierceland) and Sean Wilson (You Must Remember This) are also in contention for the award, as are Randa Abdel-Fattah’s Discipline and Josephine Rowe’s Little World.

This year’s judging panel said the shortlist showed that Australian novels can “grapple with the most vexing and profound questions of our time”.

“Grand and intimate, these novels sing the Australian experience into new shapes,” the judges said.

Abdel-Fattah’s Discipline, which won the people’s choice award at the 2026 Victorian Premier’s literary awards, was described as “both a taut political thriller and a humane meditation on the way that Australia must continue to find ways of working through agonising conflicts”.

The Palestinian Australian author was disinvited from Adelaide writers festival earlier this year, leading to the event being boycotted by hundreds of writers and subsequently cancelled. In April, Abdel-Fattah cut ties with publisher University of Queensland Press, joining at least 16 other authors who ended their contracts or vowed not to work with the publisher again after it cancelled its publication of Jazz Money’s Bila, A River Cycle over comments by the book’s illustrator.

MinOn’s First Name Second Name follows a dead protagonist as he encounters four generations of family estrangements to recover his lost identity. Judges called it “complex and timely” for its questions about “who gets to be a settler and who remains a migrant in Australia”.

Judges said Josephine Rowe’s “slender novel” Little World, partially set in the Kimberley region of Western Australia and covering themes of desire, loss, loneliness and faith, was “beautifully compressed”.

Omar Musa’s Fierceland was called “ambitious” for its story of two siblings grappling with the burden of inheritance and legacy. “Fierceland is a psychologically layered and storied reckoning with the world we have inherited,” they said.

My Heart At Evening, Konrad Muller’s mystery set in 1832 Tasmania, is a “complex novel”, remarked the judges, which “reveals the power of literature to centre the discomfort of this settler colony’s past and present”.

Sean Wilson’s You Must Remember This, which is narrated in first-person by a woman who is steadily losing her memory, “shows us that dementia is a process still fully situated in the tissue of significance,” said the judges, “without romanticising its real losses.”

Each shortlisted author receives $5,000 from the Copyright Agency’s Cultural Fund.

Last year’s winner was Siang Lu for his sprawling, ambitious novel Ghost Cities.

The Miles Franklin literary award will be announced on 5 August.

The 2026 Miles Franklin shortlist

• Discipline by Randa Abdel-Fattah (University of Queensland Press)

• First Name Second Name by Steve MinOn (University of Queensland Press)

• My Heart At Evening by Konrad Muller (Evercreech Editions)

• Fierceland by Omar Musa (Penguin Random House Australia)

• Little World by Josephine Rowe (Black Inc)

• You Must Remember This by Sean Wilson (Affirm Press)

On the morning of 4 June, when I heard the news of Marjane Satrapi’s death, I was stunned. I simply could not believe it. Although I had met her only a handful of times in person – despite having lived in Paris for 16 years and having contributed to her book Woman, Life, Freedom – I felt a deep connection to her work and legacy.

Our collaboration on that book took place mostly through email correspondence, but I always held her in the highest regard. I admired her intelligence, her extraordinary sense of humour and, above all, her remarkable gift for visual storytelling.

What she achieved through drawings that appeared simple was, in reality, extraordinarily difficult. The black-and-white spaces of her pages, the economy of her lines, the apparent simplicity of her compositions – it all served to convey profoundly human emotions with a clarity that few artists ever attain. As a cartoonist myself, I know how difficult it is to reach that level of expressive precision while making it look effortless.

Marjane opened the door not only for me, but for many Iranian comic book artists, such as Parsua Bashi, Mansoureh Kamari, Majid Bita and Shaghayegh Moazzami, among others. More broadly, she opened a path for artists from smaller and less visible countries across the world of comics – artists who had personal stories to tell but whose voices were often overlooked. With Persepolis, she gave western publishers the confidence to invest in our work. Many of us owe a part of our careers to the space she created.

Once I had absorbed the news of her death, my thoughts turned to Chicken With Plums, my favourite among her books. I remembered its protagonist, Nasser Ali Khan, whose beloved instrument is broken and who decides to remain in bed until death comes for him. In his final days, he even refuses his favourite dish, chicken with plums. Looking back now, the character feels almost like an extension of the author’s own sensitive spirit, perhaps even an unconscious premonition.

I find myself thinking of Marjane, of her final days, and of whatever instrument may have been broken within her. And each time I do, my eyes fill with tears.

The existential therapist Emmy van Deurzen moved to the UK inspired by RD Laing, the Scottish anti-psychiatrist who said insanity is a “perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world”. It was 1977 and Van Deurzen, who is Dutch and had studied philosophy and psychology in France, found work with the Arbours Association in London, a therapeutic community based on Laing’s ideas, in which people in crisis, psychiatrists and therapists lived together as equals. It was a rude awakening.

Arbours aimed to create space for people to “explore their madness”. “Now that was a very interesting idea,” Van Duerzen says, “but in practice it meant that people self-medicated, with alcohol and pot, and it was not a happy situation.” The residents were often very depressed or psychotic, and it was common to be woken up at night because someone was seeing things or had become suicidal. Van Deurzen came to believe that anti-psychiatry had “lost courage”: it had proposed a different way of thinking about madness, but having released people from asylums and taken them off neuroleptic drugs, it was “kind of leaving them to it”. “And this is what I realised wasn’t good enough,” she says. When people are experiencing a mental health crisis, they need help to make sense of what has happened to them, and to find their way to healing. “From that moment on I just knew: nobody’s doing this. I’m going to have to do it myself,” she says.

With a colleague, she established an existential therapy centre at Arbours, the first of its kind in this country. Existential therapy is “a philosophical approach to therapy and how to live your life in a better way,” Van Deurzen explains, “it is about working with life, rather than just with the psyche”. Although not a household name, Van Deurzen is hugely influential in her field and popularised this form of psychotherapy in the UK. Many of the 350-odd existential therapists accredited by the UK Council for Psychotherapy will have trained at one of the schools she established, and all of them will be familiar with her writing and textbooks.

Van Deurzen became aware of other thinkers who were adopting a similar approach to psychotherapy, including Rollo May and Irvin Yalom in the US. Over the past five decades, existential therapy has grown into a loose, international movement. In 2015, Van Deurzen organised the first ever international congress for existential therapy in London, which was attended by almost 700 people from all over the world.

You could trace the movement’s origins to psychiatrists Ludwig Binswanger and Medard Boss in Switzerland who, in the 1930s, tried to apply Martin Heidegger’s philosophical ideas to understanding mental illness with an existentialist therapy that focused on the patient’s immediate, lived experience rather than just subconscious drives. But Van Deurzen takes a broader view of its intellectual heritage, which she says stretches back to the Athenian philosophers and early Hindu, Buddhist and Taoist thinkers. “Human beings have always had conversations about what’s going wrong in their lives, what it means to be alive, how they can live a better life, how they can become a better person, and how they can make more of this very short time we have to be in this world,” she says.

In her new book, Beginning to Live, the first she has written for a general readership, she draws on the work of many philosophers – not only the canonical existentialists, such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Søren Kierkegaard and Simone de Beauvoir – and demonstrates a knack for distilling complex ideas into something easy to grasp and practical. All over the world, and throughout history, writers have grappled with the same existential questions. “It’s a rich heritage we don’t use enough,” she says.

She is interested in how we can cultivate meaning, courage and freedom despite or because of the suffering life throws at us, a process that begins with how we approach life, how we cultivate our inner worlds. She quotes the psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl, who recognised that the one freedom that cannot be taken from us is the freedom “to choose one’s attitude in any given circumstances”, and also the poet Rumi, who wrote: “If you put on shoes that are too tight and walk out across an empty plain, you will not feel the freedom of the place unless you take off your shoes.” Often, Van Deurzen believes, these too-tight shoes are of our own making.

We are speaking over video call. I can see her home office in the background with its dark, tightly packed bookshelves, a glass case of mounted butterflies and a painting of an idyllic woodland path. Van Deurzen is 74 years old and looks as one might imagine a therapist to look – or perhaps a school art teacher or modern-day druid – with a mop of white, candy-floss curls and jewel-coloured clothing. In photographs she sometimes wears a big flower crown. She has barely spoken her native tongue since she left the Netherlands in 1970 and her accent is now hard to place, revealing itself mostly in a slight shifting of vowels so that “come” sounds like its Dutch equivalent, kom.

Her early years, growing up in The Hague, were probably her hardest, she says. To live in postwar Holland was a “very dark, dour experience”. Many people she knew were depressed and still traumatised by the Nazi occupation. Money was tight. Her parents had endured the famine of 1944-45. Her father, an antiques expert, had joined the resistance and almost died after spending a winter hiding in an unheated loft and catching pneumonia. At night, she heard her neighbour screaming as he relived his torture in a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

“I struggled with wanting to be a part of life, really, looking at how terrible it all was,” she recalls. At 15, Van Deurzen fell wildly in love with a 20-year-old Frenchman she met on a camping holiday in Portugal. For two years he wrote letters to her daily, and they met when they could. Then he ghosted her. She was devastated and spiralled into depression. She tried to kill herself twice. After the second attempt, she told her father, who took her to the school rector. The rector enlisted her help to find out why so many students were struggling emotionally: two pupils had died in the previous year – one in a traffic accident while on LSD, and another as a result of suicide. Van Deurzen found a renewed sense of purpose, and ultimately a vocation. “It is the event that seems like a catastrophe that saves you,” she writes in her book.

At 18, she left for the University of Montpellier Paul Valéry, where she studied philosophy and began training as a psychoanalyst. There she met her first husband, Jean-Pierre, a young psychiatrist, whom she married in 1972. The couple found work at St Alban, a pioneering psychiatric hospital, and later moved to other French hospitals that were experimenting with innovative, less coercive forms of mental health care. Van Deurzen worked as a psychoanalyst and began to develop her “philosophical method” of talking with patients.

She started structuring each conversation like a Socratic dialogue, asking open-ended questions and challenging a person’s assumptions. “Instead of standing in judgment or making decisions about what was wrong with the person, I was allowing this philosophical exploration to take place,” she says. Van Deurzen also studied for a master’s in clinical psychology.

Soon after she moved to the UK, she and Jean-Pierre split up. Van Deurzen opened her first private practice in 1978. She says that being a woman in a male-dominated field was “part of my struggle and part of my privilege”. “I was going to do things my way, because I felt it was about time to have a more female approach, and felt quite free to come up with my own. Because, really, there weren’t very many female existential philosophers,” she says. De Beauvoir, Hannah Arendt and Lou Andreas-Salomé are inspirations.

Nowadays Van Deurzen heads up Dilemma Consultancy, which offers low-cost existential therapy in London, as well as two training centres: the Existential Academy and the New School of Psychotherapy and Counselling, with her third husband, the psychiatrist Digby Tantam. She still treats people with psychosis (as part of a wider care team), but most of her clients are experiencing other forms of distress or feel stuck in life. She says she has come to believe that depression “is really a form of oppression”.

“From the moment I started working in the field, I started getting the feeling that when I sat with a depressed person it always felt like, you know, they bend over, it’s like there is a burden on them, it is like there is no room for them and they haven’t got the energy to make room either. And I started to think: they’re oppressed. And then I began to realise that there are many different ways for people to be oppressed, and sometimes we oppress ourselves,” she says.

Therapy often seems a mysterious process: how and why should it help people feel better? Van Deurzen says when she talks to people, she tries to meet them at their greatest point of pain, because “where it hurts, they want relief, even if they have given up”. She asks about what is hurting, and the ways in which they feel they have been thwarted. “Because the pain is usually the result of feeling that the world has knocked you down or has stopped you in your tracks or has not recognised you, or has excluded you from the family or from another group. So there’s a very concrete and real pain about where they are in the world. And that situation can be discussed, it can be opened up to their understanding, where they are no longer a victim of it,” she says.

Anti-psychiatrists are often very critical of antidepressants and other mental health drugs, but Van Deurzen says that it is not her place to tell people what medication they should or shouldn’t take. She says it is easier to undergo existential therapy “if you’re not too drugged”, because some medications – especially those used to treat psychosis – affect a person’s cognition. But she also understands why people seek medical relief from their suffering. “We know that many people who have been depressed have felt that they were helped by taking antidepressants. And just the fact they could take something that would change their mental state, which it does do, was helpful to them, because it gave them some pause, some time to start thinking about things in a different way,” she says.

In her book, Van Deurzen writes about helping people rediscover their existential courage in the face of life’s struggles and uncertainty. Has she found existential courage? “Oh, very much so! Yes, goodness me. It’s been a long journey for me. I’m an old lady!” she says. She describes the feeling as a “lightening of the heart”. “I experience it more as: oh yes, I can see what is happening. We can do this. We can rise to this. We can make ourselves lighter,” she says.

A few days after our interview, I have therapy with Van Deurzen. She had offered me a few sessions so that I could better understand what existential therapy is, and because of tight deadlines we arranged one double session that would be 100 minutes long. I was very curious – the existential approach appealed to me, as a former philosophy undergraduate – and nervous, having never had therapy before. What followed was entirely unexpected and is hard to write about – not only because it was intensely personal, but because a reader might expect a journalist to maintain a healthy degree of scepticism and distance from their subject, and I lost that distance.

It sounds too corny – too convenient – to be true, but my conversation with Van Deurzen was one of the most profound and potentially life-altering encounters I’ve had. I am not depressed, in fact I am happier and more fulfilled than I have ever been, but I have lived most of my life expecting catastrophe around every corner, and I had assumed this was an unsolvable problem – how is anyone to hold their nerve when they know that nothing good can ever last? Van Deurzen did not mention philosophy in our session, but she had a warm, inquiring manner and she challenged me, invited me to view some of the defining events in my life in a different light. At the end, I was exhausted and had cried so much I could barely see, but I also felt less fearful, more optimistic. This optimism has persisted. I can see a new way out of my mental doom loops; it seems possible I may, with time and effort, learn a different relationship to risk and uncertainty. I relistened to my interview the day after therapy and when Van Deurzen describes courage as “a lightening of the heart” I thought: “That’s it! That’s how this feels!”

Will existential therapy change my life? Maybe. As a millennial, I grew up at a time when many people believed therapy was only for people with serious issues. Thankfully, the stigma surrounding mental illness is lifting and most people see the value of psychological exploration. Schools place much greater emphasis on fostering emotional awareness and intelligence: “That is real progress in the world,” Van Deurzen says, though she would like things to move further. “If [children] end up feeling ‘oh, I’m sad all the time’ or ‘I have an anger problem’, that is not good enough. They need to also understand why they’re feeling that, what is it they are responding to, and to recognise that sometimes it is because something isn’t just, or it isn’t right. That’s a much more critical and difficult conversation to have. But you know, kids love that,” she says. “Human beings are natural philosophers … they have a natural drive towards liberation.”

Even now, Van Deurzen swims against the cultural tides. She is wary of modern therapy speak, the impulse to diagnose others with narcissism or dismiss them as toxic. “You create an atmosphere that is anti-therapeutic; an atmosphere of fear and terror about human existence. So I do think we need a counter-cultural movement to reclaim our freedom in that respect and to say: ‘Well, we’re actually a lot more robust than we think.’” She says the role of a therapist in this environment is to talk to someone about their uncertainty over who they can trust, or the pain they have experienced, and to explore how they might regain their courage. “These are the small philosophical discussions that people desperately want to be having because they want to understand how to live, instead of living their lives thinking: ‘Oh, red flag here. Red flag, there,’” she says.

How does Van Deurzen understand the UK’s mental health crisis? NHS England figures suggest that more than one in five adults have a common psychiatric condition, and one in eight are taking medication for mental illness. “There is no discourse that allows you to understand what is happening to you in any other way than by thinking there’s something wrong with me,” she says. She believes that “we have focused so much on materialistic pursuits and scientific pursuits, but we’ve lost track of the human spirit … people do not know where to turn to figure things out”.

Van Deurzen remembers that in the 1950s and 60s debates about philosophical issues were often broadcast on TV, but philosophy has retreated from public conversation, and in many countries, religiosity has also declined. “With the disappearance of the structures of religion we have thrown the baby out with the bath water, the baby being an awareness of your emotional, mental and spiritual wellbeing, and how you might live your life in such a way that it feels meaningful and coherent and makes sense to you, and that you know how to be a good person.” She sometimes gives her clients reading lists, and often recommends Rollo May’s writing, as well as Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving and Paul Tillich’s The Courage to Be.

Does she believe, then, that society is hungry for more therapeutic wisdom? “You said the taboo word!” Van Deurzen exclaims, throwing up her arms with excitement. A therapist is not supposed to speak of wisdom because it undermines the ideal of equality between the analyst and the analysand, who should be puzzling over problems together. “I’ve thought about it a lot: do I claim to have wisdom? And I thought it’s better to aim for wisdom and to be aware that wisdom is something dynamic and in motion,” she says.

But Van Deurzen has “no compunction” over asserting that society needs a heavy dose of the w-word. “We need to bring wisdom back into the world,” she says. “And that is what the existential movement is for. It’s bringing wisdom back into the world, thoughtful ways of living your life, and understanding how to be in a community, and how to create a civilisation that has a future – for goodness’ sake! – and that is going somewhere instead of destroying itself.”

Beginning to Live: The Art of Existential Freedom be Emmy van Deurzen is published by Allen Lane on 14 May. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.

Intervals is an exceptional book, for which every deserved superlative seems cliched, in part because the language of illness, death and bereavement often feels too hollowed out by use to accommodate the magnitude of those experiences. Frequently repeated words may gain a carapace that resists our scrutiny: take “dignity”, for example, which Marianne Brooker regards with “mild suspicion” as “too clean-cut and classed”, with “none of the chaos that makes us human”.

Brooker’s mother, Jane, had experienced a certain amount of chaos throughout her life – a violent relationship with Marianne’s father, whom she quickly left, serial and often precarious employment in numerous sectors, constant financial insecurity – and had met each situation with a ferocious and transformative energy. When she was diagnosed with primary progressive multiple sclerosis in 2009, she was characteristically resolute and relentlessly generative; when her teeth fell out, she learned to make her own dentures, and as she became unsteadier, she duct-taped her feet to her tricycle so that she could still ride around the Devon countryside. She gave tarot readings by phone in order to be able to work from home, putting up with the cut taken by the third-party app she used in return for the sense of vocation and service the contact with her regular callers gave her. “Sick and poor,” writes Brooker, “she made a workshop of herself.”

Determined to face her illness on her own terms, Jane Brooker was unwilling to cede her dying and her death to outside forces – not simply the disease itself, but the gathering onslaughts of austerity and the accompanying horror of diminishing benefits, increasingly sketchy care services and disability work assessments. In 2019, a decade after her diagnosis, she decided that the time had come to die. She was 49 and her daughter was 26.

A seasoned campaigner for the rights of disabled people and the dying, she knew that an assisted death at home – she had neither the desire nor the funds to travel to Switzerland – was not an option without risking prosecution and imprisonment for the daughter who had promised to support her. But there was another way it could be achieved legally and without secrecy; she could simply stop eating and drinking, instruct the medical professionals that she wanted no life-saving treatment, and still receive the palliative care that would make her death as peaceful and painless as possible.

At the heart of Intervals is her daughter’s account of the period that followed, written with such clarity and precision that the reader simultaneously feels that they can see into the small sitting room, crowded with handmade decorations and filled with the songs of Leonard Cohen, and that the process is utterly beyond their imagination. Marianne Brooker’s internal wranglings are as we might expect them to be: constant worry over whether she is doing the right thing; savage moments of hope that her mother might succumb to water, sweets, jelly, anything to keep her alive; a desperate, guilty yearning for it all to be over; a sense that the pair have retreated into a half-imaginary mirror world of their own creation. This, as Brooker writes, is what it is to be with someone as they are dying, to feel the prospect of their end crashing into the brutal fact that your empathy has its limits because you will continue to live.

It is also an attempt to memorialise – with all the inevitable complexities that entails – a personal loss within the larger context of how lives are valued. It is evident that different scales are used according to wealth, class, race and circumstance; how, then, is it possible to talk about choice? What does a living will mean when both living and the capacity to exercise your will are made so difficult? Amid the furious broadsides against specific policies and agencies – the Department for Work and Pensions, Brooker writes, “is the last of the witch-hunters”, although one might more pessimistically call it the latest – a plea for “a more expansive ethics of end-of-life care” emerges, and indeed a care that would not simply relate to people when they were in need, or nearing death.

It would require a huge shift in the way we understand ourselves as interdependent, as valuable beyond our individual, measurable outputs and assets; about the way we appreciate care as reciprocal, as granting us a way not only to provide comfort and to alleviate distress, but also to appreciate fully our humanity. This angry, loving, sorrowing and profound book is a magnificent starting point for that radical imaginative act.