The year in books

Well. I suspect due to various personal upheavals this year, good (a lot more writing assigned and pitches picked up than last year, on top of my regular 3-day-a-week non-writing job in Etobicoke) and bad (having to move out from the rent-stabilized apartment where I lived for 9 years was a proper life kerfuffle), I read less this year, down to 2.333 books a month from the 4-a-month average.

OTOH, the newly added time and stress constraints made me choose wiser each one, which resulted in some consistently good reads across months.

Here’s all the books I’ve read this year, with favourites in bold.

Lee Smolin: Time Reborn. Dr. Smolin is a theoretical physicist at UoT and Waterloo’s Perimeter and this book gave my brain an extreme kind of exercise in scientific and philosophical thinking that it’s rarely asked to do. I didn’t grasp everything, and that’s just par for the course even though Smolin manages to write about the most perplexing questions before the human mind in an accessible, general public way.

Anne Garreta: Not One Day. An editor from BookForum got in touch to ask if I’d like to review this new translation of Garreta’s book, and after looking up the author (whom, shamefully, I hadn’t heard of before) it took me zero split seconds to jump at the opportunity. I am now an ardent fan of AG, the rare woman among the Oulipo gang. Read my review here [PDF, because it’s behind the paywall on Bookforum dot com].

Sam Byers: Idiopathy. Haven’t encountered this much knowledge about what happens within a couple since Iris Murdoch. SB is also on Twitter and excellent at it.

George F*cking Saunders: Lincoln in the F*cking Bardo – a masterpiece. If you deem it sentimental, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Or you haven’t yet encountered death from a closer distance.

Katie Kitamura: A Separation. Lots of good readers went gaga for this one, but meh.

Rachel Cusk: Arlington Park
Rachel Cusk: Transit
It became clear to me that I have to read everything this woman has ever written. Arlington Park, one of her “pre-fame” books, shot up past Transit and is now, together with Outline, in my Pantheon.

Edouard Louis: The End of Eddy. What a pile of self-important, over-publicized poverty porn dreck this was. Was supposed to review it for said BookForum, but wrote an angry, hatchet-y, impatient review that the editor wanted me to re-do, in a calmer tone of voice and with more textual examples. I said no.

Gwendolyn Riley: First Love. A gem.

Amy Parnes & Jonathan Allen: Shattered: Inside Hillary Clinton’s Doomed Campaign. The very first book to come out about That Thing, and I had to have it. Nothing extremely new in it to anybody who religiously followed the US media at that time, but it was a good overview and the sundry off-the-record interviews with staffers resulted in some new insights. Not sure if I’m buying the “this was the most factional and divided campaign it could be”, but the authors provide plenty of evidence that there have always been too many cooks around the Clintons’ pot (which they cultivated themselves) and that while WJC could cut through his to form a unified, persuasive political vision, HRC couldn’t cut through hers. I also read

What Happened by HRC this year. I liked it. I was moved, and the Sisterhood chapter is on point. There’s some light bs occasionally, but it doesn’t mar the overall impression. I also closed the book thinking, I should call my loved ones much more frequently; Chelsea called her late grandma more frequently than I did my own late mother. And how many political memoirs will make you want to call your mother more?

Dorthe Nors: So Much for That Winter. I wanted to love this, but alas.

Roland Barthes: Mourning Diary. He wrote it after his mother passed. You’re beginning to notice some recurring themes in my reading materials, don’t you.

Delphine de Vigan: Based on a True Story. This won the Goncourt in France recently, and riding that wave of recognition got a swift English translation. The narrator who’s also an author meets a woman at a party, who quickly becomes her best friend and insinuates herself into every aspect of author’s life. She also subtly starts manipulating her fiction writing – and by the end of the book you don’t quite know if the woman really wrecked her life or if she was a character written by the author. One of those Who exactly is deceiving me now? read.

Mathias Enard: Compass. A Viennese musicologist goes to bed and can’t sleep; instead he’s pondering his life and his recent terminal diagnosis. Lots of music, lots of East meets West business, and a particularly effective argument against Edward Said’s concept of ‘orientalism’ — from the mouth of a female character. Meditative, erudite and unruly. Didn’t love it on the whole, but loved so many of its moments.

Katie Roiphe: The Violet Hour. Authors in extremis. Brilliant through and through – even though most of the authors are not those that I would have looked at (all somewhere on the traditional masculinity and alcohol abuse spectrum).

Sally Rooney: Conversations with Friends. I wanted to love this too.

Margaret Drabble: The Dark Flood Rises. A very unusual Drabble, in that the best conveyed, most complex characters are male. Gave me two nights’ worth of flooding nightmares. Didn’t love it, but loved finding again that recognizable Drabble voice so unique to her. We’re lucky she’s still writing and publishing.

Penelope Lively: Dancing Fish and Ammonites. A cultural and personal memoir about reaching old age. Where do we go, what do we do, if we live still must?

Paula Fox: Desperate Characters. Americans don’t do (ie know how to handle, how to write about, how to be conscious of) class, either on film/TV or in novels. But this novel is among those few exceptions.

The New York Stories of Elizabeth Hardwick is also among those exceptions.

Nick Mount: Arrival. A fun and thoroughly researched look into the making of the CanLit. Essential.

Sybille Bedford: A Compass Error. A lesbian triangle novel published in 1968 in Britain? Narrated by a sharp, erudite coming-of-age heroine? Set in a Highsmith-Ripley-sque version of Europe? I’ll take that extra large and to go, SVP.

Kazuo Ishiguro: The Unconsoled. A claustrophobic, oneiric, Kafkaesque, incomprehensible world with classical music at its centre.

Brian Moore: The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. It works, it works just fine as a novel, well written and lively; I’m just not sure if the woman at its centre deserves what the author puts her through. It’s a bit much, the humiliation. Give her SOMETHING, shurly?

Alex Good: Revolutions: Essays on Contemporary Canadian Fiction. Oooh this is naughty and incisive.

Gonçalo Manuel Tavares: Joseph Walser’s Machine. Formally inventive, and I’m glad I discovered GMT thanks to the author interview in the French Philosophie magazine. However, in Joseph, women either don’t exist or appear in order to hinder the proceedings and to be discarded by the Important Ideas pushing the text forward.

Stuart Jeffries: Grand Hotel Abyss. A bit overlong, could have used a trim or five, but otherwise an informative, fair and occasionally even witty collective biography of the main thinkers of the Frankfurt School, Adorno, Marcuse, Horkheimer, Fromm, Habermas and its straying predecessor Benjamin.

Jon McGregor: Even the Dogs. This Wood essay made me aware of McGregor, and this novel did not disappoint.

Have a pleasant rest of holidays, dear readers – and thank you for reading.

 

Advertisements

9 thoughts on “The year in books

  1. Late in the last century, Katie Roiphe wrote the most intellectually lazy bourgeois sexist crock of shite article it’s ever been my pleasure to read in the New York Times Magazine. Is it to be hoped that somewhere along the line she grew up and acquired a grip, or is she still sticking to her safe topic (men)?

    /spew

  2. I think she had her ups and downs, I remember vaguely. Been meaning to get to her book about “Bloomsbury marriage” but was never in a rush to, bc I half-read somewhere that her politics can get Ann Coulter-ish. This book, tho…. Nothing to object to, except the lack of women (there’s Sontag, but it’s not enough).

    1. Oh, that could be fun, if one were in a particular mood (not the one I was in last night), and had popped enough popcorn, and moved all the breakables out of book-flinging range.

      Meantime I’m happy to take your word on this one that it actually has some merit. I’d say the lack of women would be an issue worth looking into, but in her case it probably isn’t.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.