The Night Guest, by Fiona McFarlane: Love. I felt protective over the main character, watching her slow-motion destruction in horror while alternately admiring her autonomy and engagement with the world and feeling embarrassed for her. McFarlane is incredibly skilled (I also loved The Sun Walks Down) and I have two of her other books on hold.

Same As It Ever Was, by Claire Lombardo: While this didn’t quite hit me the same way The Most Fun We Ever Had did (it felt more balanced, and also more, well, fun), I didn’t mind the narrator or other unlikeable characters at all, and I thought it was a great addition to the genre of “complicated and sprawling family novels.” It did read somewhat like two books welded together, though – halfway through I couldn’t imagine what the rest of the plot would be (it felt resolved) yet somehow the reveal, by the time it came, felt predictable.

Burntcoat, by Sarah Hall: I liked the premise more than the book – an artist who creates massive sculptures out of scrap metal and found objects cloisters herself inside of her giant studio/home with a lover during an outbreak of a deadly disease – and I loved the descriptions of her commissions. I could have done with 75% less description of all the sex she had during their quarantine; it got to the point of tedium.

Consent, by Jill Ciment: I haven’t read Ciment’s memoir, which this book interrogates, but there were enough excerpts from it here that I didn’t feel I lacked context. Consent is an examination of Ciment’s marriage to a much older man, which began as an affair when she was a teenager and which she wrote about positively in her mid-life memoir. I found Consent both provocative and generous; it was also unbelievably sad in its depictions of old age and death. I wished it was a longer, more detailed reconstruction of her earlier memoir – I would have read more.

Dengue Boy, by Michael Nieva: When I imagine describing this to someone, I find myself thinking What a romp. Climate destruction, body horror, the threat of destruction by machines and apathy…gross and hilarious and sometimes horrifying.

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(Read in the second half of January and most of February)

Hidden Pictures, by Jason Rekulak: Ugh. I’ve seen some criticism of this book as “well-written but problematic,” but…I also did not find it well-written. It felt very caricatured, random, and young. It also included an incredibly insulting portrayal of a woman who had struggled with infertility (I don’t want to spoil any good books, so I’ll just say that I know from past reading experience that it is possible to write about this – even to the point of having someone kidnap a baby – in a sensitive way. This was not that.)

Listen for the Lie, by Amy Tintera: This also read more like YA to me, and the voice was very cloying, but due to personal circumstances at the time, I didn’t have interest in something more serious.

We Used to Live Here, by Marcus Kliewer: Continuing with horror-lite…it was fine. Effectively creepy.

11/22/63, by Stephen King: I think the only other Stephen King novel I’ve read is the curséd car story Christine, which I picked up while traveling alone in Laos in the days before Kindles when the only sources of new books were hostel common spaces. This was very enjoyable, so it was nice that it was 800+ pages long. I looked forward to sinking into it every night.

Dark Wire, by Joseph Cox: I didn’t know this story – a multi-nation sting operation targeting drug cartels via their supposedly secure phones (which were secretly being not merely tapped but actually run by the FBI and other organizations after they arrested the owner of the phone company). I had a hard time staying engaged with it, but that may have been more a product of my mindset at the time than of the book.

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(Read during the first half of January)

Hum, by Helen Phillips: I would live inside Helen Phillips’ brain if I could. The Need was my favorite book of 2019, and how lovely to start 2025 with Hum. I feel this way even though the book is quite bleak, because every moment Phillips creates – and so often those moments add up to death by a thousand paper cuts – is so precisely accurate to the world today (or at least how I feel about it).

All the Colors of the Dark, by Chris Whitaker: Epic, sweeping – not always plausible, sure, and at times I lost track of all the characters, but overall an extremely satisfying read. It flew by for being 500+ pages.

Hell Gate Bridge, by Barrie Miskin: It was harrowing to read about the symptoms of dissociation and suicidal ideation that Miskin experienced, which were related to but not directly caused by her pregnancy (in the sense that her symptoms likely arose from withdrawal of medication rather than from pregnancy itself). I cannot imagine going through something like that and felt very grateful that zoloft is not contraindicated in pregnancy.

Several People Are Typing, by Calvin Kasulke: A fantastic conceit, and often very funny, but for me it didn’t ultimately move beyond “fantastic conceit” into “fantastic book.” I kept thinking it must be under 20,000 words, but I think it’s more like 35,000 – just felt so slight.

The Devil at His Elbow, by Valerie Bauerlein: I had heard minimally about the Murdaugh murders (trailer on Netflix, etc) but I didn’t know much – good lord, what reprehensible people. Utterly terrifying to read about Alex Murdaugh and the outsize influence he had on every legal and judicial system in his county. Even more terrifying to know that there are others like him who wield even more influence over even more people.

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The Other Valley, by Scott Alexander Howard: Very lovely time-travel narrative that didn’t feel as if it relied too heavily on the conceit, even though the plot wouldn’t have existed without it. I’ve heard comparisons to The Giver and don’t disagree, though I don’t think it reads like YA. The setting felt very specific and complete even though we don’t know what continent we’re on (I kept feeling like we were in France or some kind of French outpost, given some of the language, descriptions of the trees, and characters names) or what time period we’re in. I will say that while the ending made sense to me, some of the initial descriptions of what happens when someone “meets” herself in a different valley felt like they contradicted one another, but it was easy to suspend disbelief in spite of that.

The Achilles Trap, by Steve Coll: A very in-depth look into Saddam Hussein’s rule, the question of whether Iraq had biological/atomic/chemical weapons, and the extreme messiness that can result from shifting international alliances, lack of understanding of what’s motivating someone, and proposing one thing publicly but another secretly. Glad I read it, but it did move very slowly and sometimes suffered from too much detail.

Life As We Knew It, by Susan Beth Pfeffer: When I saw this recommended as strong apocalyptic YA, the author’s name tugged at my brain for a few days before I caved, Googled, and found that I had indeed read several of her (40+!) books from the 70s and 80s! April Upstairs, Darcy Downstairs, Kid Power…one of those authors who wasn’t ever a household name but was incredibly prolific (and, I would bet, did some ghostwriting for popular series). This was…bleak. I’m not sure why it struck me as so much bleaker than any other YA dystopia I’ve read; maybe it felt too realistic (the ensuing events, at least – less so the asteroid knocking the moon closer to Earth). Or maybe I would have loved it when I was an actual YA reader, but the events – outside of the inciting one – felt too plausible.

Poor Things, by Alasdair Gray: While its obvious antecedent is Frankenstein, this struck me as the (patched together, reanimated, etc etc) child of Tristram Shandy and I am Lucy Barton. Tonally, mostly – the earnestness of Lucy Barton with the sharp wit of Shandy. I found it wildly entertaining.

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What Happened to Nina, by Dervla McTiernan: This was extremely hard to put down at night – very propulsive. I thought the style – from the multiple perspectives to the short chapters to the spare prose – served the story well, although I was frustrated by the ending.

Some People Need Killing, by Patricia Evangelista: A must read – I didn’t know enough about Duterte or his regime in the Philipines, and Evangelista both crafts a strong work of journalism AND includes linguistic digressions that I am the exact audience for. Really devastating.

Big Swiss, by Jen Beagin: I was screaming in shock and hilarity half of the time I was reading this. I should note that I don’t read romance or “spicy” books so the sex scenes were A LOT to digest, but how great this was. Unbelievably funny and also sad, with truly unique characters.

Without You, There is No Us, by Suki Kim: I loved this memoir/journalism of a woman who taught English in North Korea for six months by posing as a missionary. The book is a case of great subject matter + great writing, a combination rarer than it should be. It was somewhat jarring to read this and then…

Nuclear War, by Annie Jacobsen: This is nonfiction but explores a hypothetical scenario in which North Korea initiates nuclear war by attacking Washington DC. It was both terrifying and hokey (which, unfortunately, didn’t make it less terrifying), and I probably shouldn’t have read it, but…I’m not good at self care? I kept thinking about Without You, There is No Us as I read.

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From October and part of November.

The Sleepwalkers, by Scarlett Thomas: I was aghast – generally in a positive way, for the book and writing if not the characters – by the events in this novel. Thomas does an impeccable job demonstrating how trapped the narrator feels and how easy it can be to question your own perceptions.

North Woods, by Daniel Mason: I started this, got bored, wasn’t ready to call it more than a conceit/excuse to write in different styles – but after restarting it I found it really took off after the first third or so. I’d like to read it again, actually, now that I know the scope of the whole story (though I might skip the hunting songs and odes this time).

Under the Bridge, by Rebecca Godfrey: I had tried watching this on Hulu, got distracted, decided I would rather read the book (definitely the right decision). I’m still curious about the entire plot-line they added to the show, but not sure I’m curious enough to keep watching. This was a baffling crime (or not, as Godfrey spends the book explaining the circumstances…nope, still baffling) and sad to read about.

Ascension, by Nicholas Binge: Alas, this was a dud on all counts – plotting, writing, dialogue.

The Singularity, by Dino Buzzati: This, on the other hand, is an amazing example of early science fiction dealing with artificial intelligence, deceptively funny and also incredibly modern feeling. The eeriness Buzzati captures is affecting.

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I am VERY behind on these – this set is from the end of August through early October.

Whalefall, by Daniel Kraus: So much of this was ridiculous, and the prose veered very purple, but damn I have to hand it to the author for coming up with this conceit – a modern-day Jonah, basically – and sticking with it in the most comparatively realistic way possible.

The Garden, by Clare Beams: I loved The Illness Lesson and read this with interest but was ultimately not blown away by the plot or ideas. I liked that the main character was prickly, but for a premise with so much potential the story didn’t really pan out.

The God of the Woods, by Liz Moore: Heard many things about this before reading it; I kept trying to figure out if the dual timelines were really necessary, but they also didn’t bother or confuse me, so why question it? The Judyta sections were the most compelling and I thought Moore generally stuck the landing (more so, in my opinion, in the 1970s storyline than the earlier one). I did question a few characters’ motives in framing people…

The Cemetery of Untold Stories, by Julia Alvarez: I expected this to literally be a set of unfinished stories, perhaps held together by some minimal framework (and I was already jealous of this concept), but it was much more developed than that, with the actual cemetery a part of a larger story. None of the “untold stories” felt incomplete or forced together.

I Who Have Never Known Men, by Jacqueline Harpman: This one gave me some existential dread. Very compact and also claustrophobic. I wished more had been explained, even though I know that wasn’t the point.

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What Lies in the Woods, by Kate Alice Marshall: When I picked this up, I didn’t realize the author had written a YA book (How to Disappear Completely) that was not for me at all, and fortunately, this was much stronger. Slightly predictable, but solid enough, though some slightly off-putting depictions of mental illness.

The Devil and Mrs. Davenport, by Paulette Kennedy: In one sense, this felt a bit stock and melodramatic, but those qualities also felt deliberate. I will say that this did a really good job at demonstrating what a nightmare life could be like for women in the 1950s.

The Noonday Demon, by Andrew Solomon: When I read Darkness Visible I was underwhelmed; I enjoyed this much more, though Solomon’s Far From the Tree is more fascinating. I can also understand that when this was published, it would have had far greater impact (in a world in which depression was less frequently written about).

Absolution, by Alice McDermott: The ending left me feeling at odds – surely there’s more? – but in spite of that, this is a gorgeous book. I’m not convinced the structure was the right choice for the story, but I loved the primary plot that took place in Saigon in the 1960s, and the writing is beautiful.

Sociopath, by Patric Gagne: There’s plenty of chatter as to whether this is “real” or if it’s an invented memoir; while it seems likely to me that there’s reconstructed dialogue – triumphant speeches delivered all at once, in perfectly digestible terms – I don’t know that there’s any reason to doubt the author’s experience. I certainly felt as if I had a stronger sense of empathy for personality disorders after reading; I think it’s still true that people are likely to view depression, autism, schizophrenia, OCD, anxiety, etc as illnesses and narcissism/sociopathy/borderline personality as “evil,” or at least “irredeemable” and countering that is a good thing.

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Babel, by R.F. Kuang: I’m a massive linguistics lover and was thoroughly delighted by the wordplay here. Was it didactic at times? Yes, but how could it not be? I didn’t feel it detracted from the story; I don’t think the story was possible without it. I thought the book might fizzle out toward the end, but was pleased that it did not.

Dolls of Our Lives, by Allison Horrocks and Mary Mahoney: Very gimmicky – structured based on the subjects of the six books that accompany each historical American Girl doll, and the voice felt particularly forced. But a fun read in some ways. I never had one of the dolls, but I loved both the catalogs and American Girl magazine. The major hole in the book, for me, was that they discuss AG founder Pleasant Rowland in depth but don’t mention ever attempting to interview her (my assumption is they wanted to but she denied their request).

Moon of the Turning Leaves, by Waubgeshig Rice: I did not think much of Moon of the Turning Leaves yet still felt a compulsion to read this sequel. The writing is better than in the first, but nothing especially compelling.

The Frozen River, by Ariel Lawhon: A beautiful book, immersive and engaging. I really loved this – characters, setting, and plot.

Annie Bot, by Sierra Greer: Very quick and satisfying; I was less interested in the questions about AI and robots and humans and more in the extended allegory of domestic violence (granted it’s a literal story of domestic violence in one sense, but also felt metaphorical).

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Darkness Visible, by William Styron: I think it’s probably unfair to judge a book about depression written in 1990 by the standards of today (but I have The Noonday Demon on hold, so let’s see how it measures up) – but everything Styron mentioned felt very obvious, and the whole thing felt meandering and stream-of-consciousness.

The Summer Book, by Tove Jansson: A lovely, very young-feeling collection of vignettes about a grandmother and granddaughter living on an island off the coast of Finland for multiple summers (there’s a father, too, but he’s less spotlighted). I can imagine that for the right reader at the right time this could become a seminal book (that’s not a compliment laced with condescension, just a compliment). My only quibble was (and this may be due to translation) how often the verb used for the granddaughter’s speaking and/or was “screamed.”

The Appeal, by Janice Hallett: Truly, truly fun. Hilariously specific in many ways, this pastiche of emails, text messages, and court documents examines a scandal (several, really) amid the participants of a local theater troupe in the UK. It’s not trivial – there’s murder – but it felt appealingly (har) campy at times, like Clue.

The Hunter, by Tana French: Tana French never misses for me. I’ve read a fair amount of criticism that bemoans her standalone novels and decries them as “slow” and “boring” – slow I can accept, though I’d go for weighty or ponderous instead, but I was certainly never bored…the character studies, the depictions of the landscape, the subtleties of navigating an isolated place – these are masterful.

A Fire So Wild, by Sarah Ruiz-Grossman: Oh boy…I’ve seen praise from all directions for this and I LOVE the cover. Otherwise, I found it lacking entirely – heavy-handed, preachy, and very young-feeling. Alas.

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