Weave by Deirdre Sullivan & Oein DeBhairduin, illustrated by Yingge Xu (Skein Press, €14.95)

True to the book’s commitment to celebrating the beauty of small things, Weave, the second of Skein Press’ Solstice Stories, is an exquisitely produced compact book. A co-creation of writers Deirdre Sullivan, Oein DeBhairduin and artist Yingge Xu, “Weave” is a celebration of storytelling, folklore and artwork, inspired by the eight festivals in the wheel of the year. Weave explores our position in the tapestry of life — our interconnectedness and interdependence with the earth, and those who occupy it. It investigates where and how we fit between indigenous and contemporary worlds, alongside the rituals and stories we practice to help us better understand this space. Xu’s accompanying artwork imbues the book with a sense of peace that countervails the creeping fear and peeking hope emerging in the texts. — Brigid O’Dea

The Liar by Martin A Hansen, translated by Paul Larkin (NYRB Classics, £13.99)

Johannes Lye (check that surname) is a teacher and parish clerk on the tiny ice-locked Sand Island, off the Danish coast. Through his diary, he relays episodes of island life across four days. Sometimes the jottings have a sour, dyspeptic flavour; often they are lyrical, wry and downright sarcastic. Consequently, you cannot help but stick with Lye, with his strange magnetic voice; much like the islanders. Donegal man Paul Larkin provides a fine translation so that the narrative never fades or stalls (“turkey-snouted assistant”, “copper-glowing ale faces”). Lye, “a man in his chosen place”, seems to both despise and wallow in his existence; his conflict is also his resolution. Described as one of the great midcentury novels of malaise, The Liar is one for admirers of Camus’s The Fall. — NJ McGarrigle

Call and Response by Gothataone Moeng (Oneworld, £16.99)

There is much dying and much living in these mouth-wateringly sensory, satisfyingly complex stories, set in rural and urban Botswana. Some are long enough to touch the hem of a novella but all still feel fragmentary, carrying a sense of revelation. In Botalaote a girl is tipping into womanhood, discovering sex for the first time, while being repulsed by the bodily ravages of her death-bound aunt. In Small Wonders a young widow reaches the end of a year of mourning, contemplating the clothes she has worn like a uniform of dissociation. In Bodies, an older woman has pain “like an inconsolable child”, as her friends have deserted the city where she remains alone. Not the glance or sharp epiphany in these stories but the long kiss, with the heart as totem, questions in their wake. — Ruth McKee