The Thing in the Snow, by Sean Adams: Truly fun. I’ve been on a spree of seeking out texts and shows that are set in the arctic, or the far north, or the extreme cold (Artic Circle, a Finnish series available on an obscure (to me) offshoot of Amazon Video called Topic, fit my asks perfectly – eery lapland setting, new pernicious disease (I know, I said I have pandemic fatigue – but it wasn’t a true pandemic! it stayed local) – although it dissolved a bit in its second half and also had a truly weird domestic subplot). The Thing in the Snow is a great conceit for…madness? Isolation’s effects? Office politics? Just pretty delightful, even if the ending didn’t do much.

The Boy in the Field, by Margot Livesey: I really enjoyed this – the inciting incident is three adolescent siblings finding a wounded boy (or young man, a bit older than them) in a field on their way home from school, and the rest of the novel examines the ways it affects each of them. It’s not heavy handed at all, but rather an exploration of inner lives and how events both mundane and significant affect people’s lives.

The Dance Tree, by Kiran Millwood Hargrave: I cannot imagine how dreadful it would be to live – in general, but specifically as a woman – in the 16th century. Loved that this was set amidst the dancing plague; some elements felt overly telegraphed, but in general a lovely read about a terrible time.

The Space Between Worlds, by Micaiah Johnson: I don’t read a ton of science fiction (though plenty of speculative fiction) but this seemed like a strong entrant to the category, and it continued to surprise me even when I thought I knew where it was going.

Our Wives Under the Sea, by Julia Armfield: Reading this eerie and gripping novel while the Titan submersible was missing was quite something. The book is a brisk, tightly structured (I’m a sucker for the way it was segmented – based on the ever deepening zones of the ocean) exploration of both the most unknown territory – the bottom of the ocean – and the most domestic – a marriage altered by one partner’s experience.

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The Exiles, by Jane Harper: I was very excited to read another Aaron Falk mystery after finding Harper’s last outing (The Survivors) less interesting than The Dry (which is Falk) and The Lost Man (a standalone)…this was satisfying enough as a mystery but didn’t have the same atmosphere those two created.

The Social Climber, by Amanda Pellegrino: For most of this, I found myself thinking “I could have just…not read this” but I did somewhat begrudgingly appreciate the turns it took. The writing, though – not just the writing, but the editing; there were contradictions within sentences, tenses out of place, continuity errors. Strange.

Survivor Song, by Paul Tremblay: I may be tired of pandemic novels, which is not something I ever thought I’d say. This was a neat book, fun in spite of its topic, and I’m not sure I was able to give it its due because of subject fatigue. It is funny, which is a nice feat.

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver: Loved it. I’ve read a number of Kingsolver books – Poisonwood Bible is excellent, Prodigal Summer and Animal Dreams less substantial – but this is clearly her magnum opus. The language is exhilarating, the setting perfectly drawn.

A Head Full of Ghosts, by Paul Tremblay: Another Tremblay that I admired more than enjoyed; it may be that, as with dating, he’s an author I would wholeheartedly recommend for someone else – objectively good – but who’s not quite for me. Smart and meta – a possession that becomes a reality TV show that becomes the subject of a blog – and effectively creepy, but left me a bit cold.

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Medical Apartheid, by Harriet A. Washington: A highly important book whose subject matter was extremely compelling, but whose writing veered didactic and dissertation-like.

The Writing Retreat, by Julia Bartz: This was…very silly.

Normal Family, by Chrysta Bilton: Totally wild – a story by a prolific sperm donor’s first child, whose relationship with him was a cross between parent-child and donor-child and whose mother seems to have known half of Hollywood and politics in the 1980s.

Don’t Think, Dear, by Alice Robb: I always want to read about ballet, but found myself wishing this was a little less survey-like. At one point it seemed like each chapter might follow a specific former ballet classmate of the author, but it didn’t really adhere to that. I think I would have preferred a more straight-up memoir than this pastiche of memoir and history, but I’m probably in the minority on that.

Brotherless Night, by V. V. Ganeshananthan: This is stunning. Set during the start of the Sri Lankan civil war, it’s nuanced, fascinating, and heartbreaking.

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I’m Glad My Mom Died, by Jennette McCurdy: I’ve never seen iCarly, but of course I’ve been hearing about this memoir for months while having it on hold at the library. I felt so terrible for McCurdy, and the book is completely compelling.

Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis: What a delight – somehow this managed to be both absurdist-silly and deeply profound in its story of an academic transported back in time to the era of the Black Death. There was one plot point that escaped me and that I still haven’t figured out, but the weaving of the modern storyline (in 2054, which has an epidemic of its own break out) and the 1300s journey was excellent and the subtleties of the two primary characters’ beliefs were perfect.

Good for a Girl, by Lauren Fleshman: I think I like reading about running in the way I like reading about people climbing Mount Everest, which may be to say that experiencing both by proxy is the closest I’m going to get (yes, I have run before; it makes my tongue hurt). Seeing the machinations behind NCAA and professional track was enlightening and slightly depressing, but the author provides a path forward.

The Trees, by Percival Everett: WOW. I’d not read any Everett before this; the conceit (which I won’t spoil) was incredible, the dialogue hilarious, and the whole book stunning. As with The Push, I really appreciated how much the title was doing. Although this is a singular work, it did remind me (tonally and in the sense of being, inexplicably, a caper) of Deacon King Kong, and the prose reminded me of Barry Hannah at times. The character names are hilarious except for one predictable groaner (well, set of groaners).

I Remember You, by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir: An Icelandic ghost story. I think some things were lost in translation on the sentence level (lots of words repeated in close succession, even some typos) but overall I enjoyed this. There were a few too many elements that were telegraphed heavily (to the point where I wondered if they would turn out to be intentional fake-outs) and some of the characters’ internal monologues felt off, but I was impressed by the intricacies of the plot, which had quite a few threads.

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Spectacle, by Pamela Newkirk: This story of Ota Benga, a Mbuti “pygmy” man who was captured by a white American man and exhibited (yes, exhibited) for some time at the Bronx Zoo in the 1900s, was extremely sad and well-researched. As important as the story is, and as skillful as the author’s writing, it felt lacking through no fault of its own – only because there was so much history missing/never recorded.

The Push, by Ashley Audrain: I read this in a day or two and found it hard to put down, but the territory (new mother, child who shows signs of sociopathy) felt too well-trodden (it’s impossible not to think of The Bad Seed or We Need to Talk About Kevin) and the ending slightly silly. That said, I admired the way the title functioned on numerous levels.

The End of Drum Time, by Hanna Pyväinen: I loved this – the writing is tremendous and the setting (1850s in the very northernmost part of Scandinavia, where Norway, Sweden, and Finland border one another and the Sami people herd reindeer) was incredibly drawn.

I Have Some Questions For You, by Rebecca Makkai: I’ve seen so many critiques of this (and raves as well) – it does too much, the second person address is cloying, the protagonist is unlikeable – and I have to say none of that made any difference in my enjoyment and fascination with this. Yes, it takes on a number of different current issues, which is part of what I liked about it, and it explores the uncomfortable grey areas of justice and memory. Highly recommend.

Cloud Cuckoo Land, by Anthony Doerr: What an absolutely genius book with an extremely dumb title! The different pieces and protagonists of this novel fit together so perfectly and the themes built so deftly that I can almost forgive the title, but why?? When I first started the book I thought “oh, “cloud cuckoo land” is a reference to a real myth and so the author’s hands were somewhat tied in that sense,” but I actually think it’s a myth of Doerr’s own invention. It also inevitably brings to mind Cloud Atlas, which (despite its many protagonists) is not at all similar. Anyway – I’ll read this again and again; it’s brilliant.

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The Housekeeper and the Professor, by Yoko Ogawa: I was a few pages into this when I realized it wasn’t my first Ogawa novel (I read The Memory Police a few years back). It’s a quiet book, maybe a little mundane for me, but enjoyable in its way.

The Fervor, by Alma Katsu: Much more satisfying than The Deep; maybe not quite the magic of The Hunger. Eerily timely with the weather balloons being shot down over the US, as a major plot point (not a spoiler) involves balloon-like objects falling from the sky.

No One is Talking About This, by Patricia Lockwood: How I loved this. The first half feels like an erudite version of reading a Twitter stream, and the second half takes the title from ironic to sincere. Lockwood’s voice and language are just so good.

The Keep, by Jennifer Egan: Fantastic. I almost got a little ruffled early on when I realized there was a narrative conceit (especially when it seemed like it could go in the direction of “most of this is being written by a NON-WRITER” which always strikes me as a cop-out), but quickly forgave that and fully bought into it (Egan does not, in the end, include any writing inferior to her usual deftness). It’s hard to say too much about the book without giving things away, but it’s a pretty brilliant exploration of being free and being trapped.

Trespasses, by Louise Kennedy: I would say an uncharitable read of the plot is that it’s predictable and a more generous read of the plot (and what I came around to ultimately) is that its events are inevitable. I’m fascinated by this time period in Ireland and I enjoyed this, though it didn’t astound me.

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The Candy House, by Jennifer Egan: Overall, I loved this. The constellation of characters was much more compelling to me than it was in A Visit From the Goon Squad, although the writing was so excellent that I may need to revisit Goon Squad. There were a few chapters whose format felt gimmicky, while others worked as experimentations with form. I’ll read it again, especially because there are so many characters that I know there are more connections to be made.

Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl, by Jeannie Vanasco: This was tough – it’s about rape – but important, impressive, and brave. Difficult to read, but worth doing.

The Deep, by Alma Katsu: Oh how I wanted to love this…I read Katsu’s The Hunger a year or two ago and thought it struck the perfect balance of literary fiction and hints of something supernatural. It’s possible that I was disappointed by The Deep because the sinking of the Titanic is less compelling to me than the journey of the Donner Party, or because I’m more open to intimations of werewolves than I am to plots about possession or ghosts, but I don’t think that was all – the writing just wasn’t as good, especially in the final chapters. Still, I’ll read Katsu’s latest in hopes of chasing the thrill of The Hunger.

Who Gets In and Why, by Jeffrey J. Selingo: Similar to, and slightly less engaging than, another admissions book I read recently (Valedictorians at the Gate). The case studies of three students were the most interesting, and there was some good background about the ways in which colleges advertise themselves to students (and when that began). New to me was some of the info about how huge state schools deal with 50,000+ applications and balance in-state and out-of-state applicants.

Alive, by Piers Paul Read: I recall being ten or eleven and seeing a documentary about the Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes in 1972. I remembered the most “scandalous” element (that they survived by consuming their friends who had died) but hadn’t registered just how long they were trapped in the mountains – more than two months, which seems truly fantastical. By nature, it was hard to keep track of most of the characters – there are so many – but a great work of nonfiction.

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Cabin Fever, by Jonathan Franklin and Michael Smith: I suppose I may get tired of reading about COVID at some point, but I doubt it…this nonfiction book benefits from its focus on a limited set of people in a singular location – the occupants of the Zaandam cruise ship. The authors focus on crew, officers, and passengers; it’s harrowing to see the pressure the crew feels to continue to “perform” for the passengers, and the severity of the situation is a stark reminder of what things were like at the beginning of the pandemic.

Nightcrawling, by Leila Mottley: This was hard to read because I was so gutted for the character. The narration felt slightly uneven, as if it were shifting in and out of the protagonist’s view and a wider one yet always in first person. I only just found out that the author is TWENTY-ONE, which means she wrote this when she was probably still a teenager, and now I’m extremely impressed. I’ll be interested in seeing what she writes next.

A Tale for the Time Being, by Ruth Ozeki: Utterly delightful exploration told through an instantly intriguing premise – a diary washes up on the shore of a small Pacific Northwest island and the writer who finds it and realizes it belonged to a young woman living in Northern Japan just before the tsunami and Fukushima disaster.

The Wave, by Susan Casey: I don’t know if reading about the tsunami subconsciously made me seek out this nonfiction work about waves, but it’s what I read next. The book focuses mostly on surfing, albeit with detours into tsunamis, rogue waves, and wave science, and I wished for a bit more exploration of all things wave-related, even as I marveled at the bravery and recklessness of big-wave surfers.

The Idiot, by Elif Batuman: I reread this in preparation for reading Either/Or, and I managed not to dwell too heavily on how many names and plot points I’d forgotten from what’s been one of my favorite books of the past decade. Everything that I did remember still worked perfectly – I’m sure many, many readers identify with Selin, but I can’t help feeling that her experiences and mine overlap more than most – the dialogue, the sense of confusion, the structure. Everything I didn’t remember was a new joy to rediscover.

Either/Or, by Elif Batuman: Based on the way the parts and chapters are set up (similarly to The Idiot), I am hopeful that Batuman will write a novel for each of Selin’s undergraduate years. I would spend as much time in her mind as she’s able to give. While The Idiot still wins for me as far as resonance with the awkward college experience, this was equally excellent.

Catch and Kill, by Ronan Farrow: Reading this was much like reading Lawrence Wright’s Scientology tome, Going Clear, in that it gave me a crawling paranoia and made me fear for the author. For Wright, though, I feared for retribution from the Church of Scientology, while fear for Ronan Farrow’s safety is a plot point of the book (and, it seems, the danger ended with the jailing of Harvey Weinstein). Incredibly compelling and horrifying.

Valedictorians at the Gate, by Becky Munsterer Sabky: I read this at the recommendation of one of my student’s parents; there’s very little I disagree with in what Sabky says about college admissions (in particular that all of us would be better off if we considered overall fit rather than pure prestige and acknowledged that there are MANY fantastic colleges). It’s always fun to look behind the curtain, and college admissions committees are rarely described in this level of detail.

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Dark Summit, by Nick Heil: I’m always reaching for the high that was reading Into Thin Air for the first time (in Kathmandu), and falling short (OF THE SUMMIT haha?). This was definitely readable and good, but it seems like it’s Krakauer rather than Everest itself – or at least the alchemy between the two – that makes Into Thin Air so hard to compete with. Still, I enjoyed this because it focused on someone I’d already watched on the reality TV show Everest: Beyond the Limit and I had a hazy recollection of what transpired, but not a strong enough one to make the book predictable. I still have no desire to go even to Everest Base Camp.

Social Creature, by Tara Isabella Burton: Holy cow this went grim quickly. I grew a little weary of the characters.

Tell the Wolves I’m Home, by Carol Rifka Brunt: Really lovely and haunting, though I was slightly perplexed by the focus on the protagonist being “in love” with her uncle – it seemed too much was made of it.

Commonwealth, by Ann Patchett: Patchett’s The Wonder made a deep and lasting impression on me, yet I somehow never sought her other titles. (I have a similar lacuna with music in that if I love a song, I love a song, but it almost doesn’t occur to me to then listen to the rest of the artist’s catalog.) Commonwealth is both grand and personal, starting off as a family saga and turning into a discussion of who controls the narratives they’re a part of.

The World Cannot Give, by Tara Isabella Burton: I preferred this to Social Creature – I think Burton so expertly portrays a half-formed adolescent who’s easily convinced by those with stronger opinions (and torn when those stronger forces combat one another).

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Trust, by Hernan Diaz: In the Distance is one of the most sublime books I’ve ever read – also one of the only books I’ve ever read that I would describe as sublime rather than some other merit – so I was both desperate for and wary of his second book. Very similar, actually, to waiting to read Emily St. John Mandel’s The Glass Hotel (perhaps mainly in the wariness about subject matter – finance world – of the subsequent novel. As a digression – why haven’t I read Mandel’s back catalog? And isn’t it great and shouldn’t it be more frequently the case that she was able to write three novels before her “breakout success”?)

I was about to start Trust when, almost exactly 2.5 years to the day since NYC shut down, COVID finally caught me. The first chapter felt incredibly expository, as if a preface to everything else. Where is the dialogue? I wondered. The entire first section continued in that way, and a sense of dread crept in as the pages sludged by. If I weren’t a completionist, I might have given up. And in the end, I’m not sure that the turnabout of the third and fourth parts, which are vastly better than the first two, makes the book worth it. Yes, I saw what he was doing once I read part two, but that didn’t make the experience of reading it more pleasurable. Alas!

The Invisible Kingdom, by Meghan O’Rourke: This is very well written and well researched, but I found myself wishing that it were a more in-depth exploration of the origins and history of autoimmune diseases (which is a tall ask given that there isn’t just one disease or disorder and the origins are so murky). It’s a rare book that benefited perfectly from being nearly complete during the rise of COVID, at least allowing for a glimpse of hope as more research is done into long COVID that could benefit little-understood autoimmune and post-infection syndromes as well.

Invisible Child, by Andrea Elliott: I read Random Family when I had been living in NYC for a year or two and, I think, stayed up overnight finishing it. This will (or already has, I’m sure) be compared, and it’s equally compelling and dismaying. Unlike Random Family, it takes place just a few blocks from where I live, so the stores and streets and parks are all incredibly familiar even as the experiences are so different from mine. Completely devastating. With years-long reportage like this there are always questions of ethics, of purview, of enmeshment, but it’s incredibly written and I’m glad it won the Pulitzer.

The Wonder, by Emma Donaghue: I haven’t read Donaghue’s best-known book, Room, but I heard this was atmospheric and eerie. It was those things and more – it gave me a master class in deploying information/moving plot forward while simultaneously building character with every scene.

Hell’s Half Acre, by Susan Jonusas: A book about some of the first known American serial killers that combines Kansas history (in particular, other atrocities that were ongoing there courtesy of American gov’t) with the story of the murderous family? It sounded like it couldn’t possibly be boring, but it was slightly boring. There are so many different players to keep track of. It’s a tall order to write about something that happened more than 150 years ago that wasn’t documented as much as other historical events were.

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