The Trespasser, by Tana French: I love that Tana French’s books are all set within the same world and threaded together via the main and supporting characters. You can generally read most of them without being spoiled about the rest, with the exception of In the Woods and The Likeness (which is still my favorite).
Oryx and Crake (reread), by Margaret Atwood: One could technically categorize 70% of this list as “post-apocalyptic,” leaving out only the police procedural, the WWII epic, and Elizabeth Strout. I reread this because it had been about 10 years and I wanted to read the other two in the trilogy.
The Flame Alphabet, by Ben Marcus: Language! I like the conceit of this, but I couldn’t help but compare it to The Word Exchange, which is probably my favorite in the sub-sub-genre of linguistic-end-of-the-world novels.
The Year of the Flood, by Margaret Atwood
MaddAddam, by Margaret Atwood: The other day someone said to me, “Is it strange that everything Margaret Atwood wrote…” and I finished with “…is coming true?” The wording wasn’t “Isn’t it strange that…” but rather a genuine question–is it weird that she’s so prescient, or does that just make perfect sense? Is it prescient, or just observant?
All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr: Lovely, lovely, and there’s often nothing more welcome than a giant book pieced into tiny sections. Unless you want to take it on the subway, but it’s a better evening-book.
Gathering Blue, by Lois Lowry: This and the other two Lowry books (all of which I read on my Kindle in Morocco!) are sequels to The Giver. I’ve never been disappointed when rereading a childhood favorite, but when you read a phenomenal children’s book or YA novel as an adult–sometimes it turns out just as you want it to, and other times it seems like you’ve missed the window of time that would not only have led you to love the book then, but would have allowed you to love it forever. In this case, I experienced the former, probably helped by the fact that, of course, I read The Giver fifty times growing up. The characters and their universe already lived in my brain.
Messenger, by Lois Lowry
My Name is Lucy Barton, by Elizabeth Strout: This is not nearly as famous (or I just missed it?) as Olive Kittredge, but I found it pretty transcendent. I didn’t start sobbing on the subway (well, it would have been on a mountain or a camel, not the subway) like I did when I read Olive Kittredge, though.
Son, by Lois Lowry
