The Green Child by Herbert Read (1935)

Based on a 12th century Suffolk legend about the appearance of two green-skinned children this, Read's only novel, is utterly unique. The three distinct sections of the story are so contrasting that the juxtaposition simply shouldn't work, but somehow it does. Read, a poet, anarchist and proponent of education through art, pens prose that can be serenely beautiful. Indeed, The Green Child is such a singular work, its meaning so slippery - seemingly eternal yet fleeting and trivial at the same time - that it has been quietly meditating in a corner of my mind for a while as its many layers slowly crystalise.

The Sands of Windee by Arthur Upfield (1930)

I didn't expect this crime novel to be as good as it was. A dead body on a sheep station somewhere the other side of Broken Hill. Enter Bony, part-Aboriginal maverick detective, as self-assured as Sherlock Holmes. Yes, it's of its time and Upfield can seem patronising toward Aboriginals, but at other times his unabashed admiration of them shines through. In fact, it's such a good whodunnit, the murder method in The Sands of Windee was borrowed by an acquaintance of Upfield's in a real life murder spree. 

At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O’Brien (1939)

This book is about a man writing a book. And that book is also about a man writing a book. Confused yet? It gets worse, because the characters in the various manuscripts interact with one another and rebel against their respective authors’ plots. Drawing deeply from Irish mythology, At Swim-Two-Birds could be seen as a sort of zenith in high modernism. It’s not an easy read, indeed the language is often ridiculously elaborate, but it is laced with the most wonderful Irish humour. Some of the dialogue is particularly funny. Yes, the rewards for persistence are bountiful here.