Wherein We Elect Our Favourite Novels of 1933

I missed this thread, but I'd have voted for 'Frost In May' - my favourite novel by anyone.

It's so, so beautifully written. Like, look at this!

As a result of all this, Nanda developed a nice sense of piety. She really did begin to live all day long in the presence of the court of heaven. God the Father and God the Holy Ghost remained awe-inspiring conceptions, Presences who could only be addressed in set words and with one’s mind, as it were, properly gloved and veiled. But to Our Lady and the Holy Child and the saints she spoke as naturally as to her friends. She learnt to smooth a place on her pillow for her Guardian Angel to sit during the night, to promise St Anthony a creed or some pennies for his poor in return for finding her lost property, to jump out of bed at the first beat of the bell to help the Holy Souls in purgatory. She learnt, too, to recognise all round her the signs of heaven on earth. The donkey in the paddock reminded her that all donkeys have crosses on their backs since the day Our Lord rode into Jerusalem; the robin’s breast was red because one of his ancestors had splashed his feathers with the Precious Blood trying to peck away the crown of thorns. The clover and the shamrock were a symbol of the Blessed Trinity, the sunflower was a saint turning always towards God, the speedwell had been white till Our Lady’s blue mantle brushed it as she walked in the fields of Nazareth. When Nanda heard a cock crow, it cried: ‘Christus natus est‘; the cows lowed ‘Ubi? Ubi?‘ and the lambs down at the community farm bleated ‘Be-e-thlehem’.

But it's so smart, too, you really get a sense of the adult Antonia White too, watching with wry amusement the kind of child who cannot help being good