If up to me, Sight by Jessie Greengrass would have won all the big prizes this year. Our narrator is a woman pregnant with second child and excavating curiosity, who recalls her relationship with her own mother and grandmother, and turns her psyche this way and that, trying to understand its make-up. Along the way there are forays into the illuminations of medical history, such as the invention of the X-Ray. Layers of familial nesting dolls pop off as the book develops, intent on getting to something central and essential. It’s hard to read more than a few pages of Greengrass’ exquisite prose style without feeling a shiver; this is the real stuff. I read a lot of excellent books this year, but none quite like Sight. It’s a reminder of why we chase after books as critics or readers: for the few like this.