Niall Williams: ‘When I first read Chekhov, I thought: “He’s not so great”’

My earliest reading memory
I am sitting at the kitchen table at home in Dublin. I am home from school. I am in short pants; my legs dangle. The book in front of me is called Step By Step. It has no author. On the amber paper cover, in my mother’s handwriting, is my name. It is my first spelling book. I still have it. It begins with easy ones, No, Go, So, and works through 20 pages to Deck, Dock, Duck. Everything that follows begins here. When you know your spellings, it is a triumphant moment. You have been given a key.

My favourite book growing up
My hunger for books allowed no time for a favourite. I was on to the next one. All of Enid Blyton might be one multi-volumed book in my memory. The Famous Five and The Secret Seven and the Mystery series all passing through my hands in bedtime reading, to be replaced later by westerns, especially those of Louis L’Amour, whose great virtue was the supply would never run out, because he wrote so many.

The book that changed me as a teenager
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Mr Mason had us read it aloud in class, each of 30 teenage boys following the sentences with our finger. The world of that novel was more real to me than the one outside. When Pip fell in love with Estella, I did too.

The book that made me want to be a writer
I could say Dickens again here, for it seems to me that I began to write to rediscover the pleasure I had as a reader. But when I was 21, Christine Breen told me to read Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude and when I emerged from the humid jungle of those pages, head spinning and imagination fevered, I knew that, for better or worse, making fiction was to be my life, and I hoped it would be with her.

The book or author I came back to
Chekhov. When I first read him as a teenager, I thought: “He’s not so great.” At that age I wanted style, brilliance, dazzlement. It took me 40 years to see his people, their profound humanness, and the genius of his story-making.

The book I reread
The Country Girls by Edna O’Brien. I read it first in university when I wanted to know what every famous Irish writer had done. I reread it when I was working on Time of the Child and realised that one of my characters, Ronnie, the doctor’s eldest daughter, who secretly wants to be a writer, was reading it. It is always startling when you find something is so much better than you remembered. I sent my salute to Edna at her extraordinary funeral.

The book I discovered later in life
I could make this plural and say everything by Edith Wharton. But in particular The House of Mirth. It was chosen by the book club that has met at our house for 16 years. During one year we read only “classics”, to see what that amounted to. And there was Edith, waiting.

The book I am currently reading
A Cold Eye: Notes from a Shared Island 1989-2024 by Carlo Gebler, with photographs by David Barker. Drawing on his meticulously kept journals from over 35 years, Carlo gives us one day for each year. In the company of these sharp, affectionate and wise entries you find yourself saying “Yes” often, and “God, I remember that.”