january reading recap 📚

as seen on my shelf #6

What happened, in other words, in the world of adults, in the heads of very reasonable people, in their bodies loaded with knowledge? What reduced them to the most untrustworthy animals, worse than reptiles?
― Elena Ferrante, The Lying Life of Adults

I have scarcely met a serious reader who didn’t harbor some sliver of superstition concerning their first few reads of the year. There seems to be this feeling, however unjustified, that for January, a good reading month portends a great reading year, and a poor reading month might as well doom you to a literary purgatory of mid-tales and DNFs. As my policy on superstitions has long been to engage with them to the extent that they favor me, I think it’s safe to say I’m going to have a great year.

Sometime last week, I fed ChatGPT a list of books I planned to read this month and asked it to suggest a reading order based on themes, mood, and book length. It did a pretty shit job, and I’ll be ignoring the suggestion, but it got me thinking about what makes a good reading month.

There were periods last year when I swore off certain genres—romcoms, non-literary thrillers, fantasy, books about depressed millennial women—only to pick up one of these books at the right time and find that it was exactly what I wanted to read. For me, the best reading months are those with a great balance of five-star books offset with one or two easy-to-digest palette cleansers of different genres. For every two books that require my absolute focus, I want a book whose narrative completely washes over me, zero friction between me and the pages.

I had that sensation while simultaneously reading Colored Television and In Cold Blood, one published last year, the other nearly six decades ago. Reading both, I flipped between different worlds, each with its own rules and conventions. And although Capote’s book was a clear favorite, the accessibility and familiar vagaries of Colored Television was always a welcome respite from the harrowing pages of my other read. Thus, my perfect reading month in a nutshell: complements and contradictions, drawing out the magic of each book, reminding me of the parallel realities that exist all around me.

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BOOKS I READ IN JANUARY

Home by Marilynne Robinson

My first read of January 2024 was Fourth Wing. You might have heard of it. Contrary to popular belief, I do love a good YA romantasy plot—it’s the commitment that deters me. I remember reading the entire book in one sitting, going to bed by 3 a.m., and knowing I would go no further with the series. I’m one to quit while I’m ahead. Marilynne Robinson’s Home was a completely different affair. This slow, contemplative novel follows a middle-aged woman and her older brother, the family’s prodigal son, as they return home to care for their dying father. Only a few chapters in, I realized I would love it even more than the Pulitzer-winning Gilead, the first book in the series—and that is high praise. Home is a moving and healing book about families, family secrets, and the passing of the generations, about love and death and faith. It felt to me like I was reading about real people, with real history and real souls. This author, I knew, must have lived a rich and grounded life. Best way to start the year.

Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe

As I mentioned in my December reading recap, I’m determined to read at least one nonfiction book a month. Being unabashedly partial to Irish fiction, I’ve read quite a few books set during The Troubles, but Milkman—one of my top reads last year—was the one that made me decide to learn more about that period in Irish history. And so, I picked up Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland. The book opens with a kidnapping. In December 1972, Jean McConville, a thirty-eight-year-old mother of ten, was dragged from her Belfast home by masked intruders, her children clinging to her legs. They never saw her again. And although everyone knew it was the IRA, a climate of fear, secrecy, and paranoia meant that no one spoke about it. Jean McConville’s kidnapping and subsequent disappearance is only the starting point of a harrowing tale of a society wrecked by a brutal guerrilla war. Despite being a 500-page nonfiction book, this was as fast-paced and gripping as any first-rate thriller. Somehow, the author managed to craft a simple—and dare I say, entertaining—narrative without sacrificing detail and accuracy. A near damn perfect book.

The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares

A fugitive seeking refuge on a mysterious, abandoned island discovers a group of seemingly unaware visitors who repeat the same actions daily. As he observes them, he falls in love with a woman named Faustine but realizes that she doesn’t seem to care or react to anything he does or says. In fact, none of the guests do. Does the problem lie with him or with the mysterious guests? Honestly, there’s not much I can say about this book without spoiling it. The plotting and pacing are so delicate, so finely crafted, its unfurling is a delight to experience. If you enjoyed Lost or The Turn of the Screw, or if you want a book that’ll send you down a rabbit hole of speculation and wonderment, this one’s for you.

Rejection by Tony Tulathimutte

Rejection is an interconnected short story collection about losers. And these are not the kinds of losers you want to root for; these are losers you wouldn’t mind seeing suffer a bit more—because underneath all that loser shit, they are pretty shitty people. Is this a good book? Was it a delight to read? Never have those two questions had so little to do with the other. Rejection was an effective book—it set out to do something, to explore the underrated sorrows of rejection and loneliness, and it achieved just that. Unfortunately, such absolute success meant that the book itself was so difficult to read. It inspired such little grace, so much disgust, that I too felt like a villain as I watched these characters’ lives go from bad to worse. Rejection is an awful book, and that is its own perfection.

The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

"Ten days after the war ended, my sister drove a car off the bridge." It is with these words we are introduced to the Chase sisters. Iris, older, is the narrator of our story, and it is from her perspective that we experience Canada in the 30s, and then the 40s, and through her that we come to know Laura—younger, unknowable, tragic, Laura. As Iris narrates her own story, she also reveals excerpts from Laura's posthumously published novel, a fantastical tale about a forbidden love affair set in a strange world. The novel weaves together themes of love, betrayal, and power, culminating in a shocking revelation about the connection between the two stories. There is something so deeply romantic about stories set between the two Great Wars. They drip of opulence, and possibility, and with equal measure, foreboding. The women in these stories—rich or poor, beautiful or homely—are unfailingly tragic figures, tethered to societies wherein they have no agency. Through rebellion, or through conformity, they often meet an early death. And if not physically, then in some other way. The death of dreams, the death of longing, and ultimately, the death of self. Let this go down as the book that put me onto Margaret Atwood!

NW Zadie Smith

Set in northwest London, Zadie Smith’s tragicomic novel follows four locals—Leah, Natalie, Felix, and Nathan—as they try to make adult lives outside of Caldwell, the council estate of their childhood. There’s not much else I can tell you because I DNFed this with such expedience. I believe in Zadie, so I will act like this book never happened.

Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro

Rita has died, found hanging from the church bell tower. Ruled a suicide, the case is quickly closed. But Rita’s mother, Elena, her body overtaken by Parkinson’s, is determined to find out what really happened to Rita. Through this thriller-esque novel, Argentina’s Claudia Piñeiro deftly tackles several interconnected themes at once—disability and caregiving, bodily autonomy and authoritarianism, secrets and hypocrisy. The story unfolds in one day as we follow Elena across the city—her days carefully planned out in concert with her medication, her movements painful and stilted, her choices limited. What I felt, listening in to Elena’s inner monologue as she bargains with her body and the city, was a new kind of empathy for what it means to be ill, and what it must be like to care for someone so ill.

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

In preparation for Chimamanda’s new book, I decided to reread this one for the umpteenth time. In Americanah, We follow a young Nigerian couple, Ifemelu and Obinze, as they depart military-ruled Nigeria for the West—Ifemelu to America, and Obinze, after several failed attempts to join her, to London as an undocumented immigrant. Set between Lagos, America, and London, Americanah is a story after my own heart. I’ve read this book many times—first as a teenager in Lagos, plotting my own escape, then as a junior in a liberal arts American college, and now, in an altogether different immigrant situation. I’m thankful to Chimamanda for writing a book that felt more real to me than any other piece of literature I’ve encountered, and for writing about race, class, love, immigration, and loss in a way that felt completely true.

Book Lovers by Emily Henry

She has been redeemed! Emily Henry has been redeemed! Seriously though, People We Meet On Vacation did nothing for me, but my second Emily Henry was the perfect cheesy palette cleanser after reading some intense books. I don’t have much else to say; she understood the assignment, and for that I am grateful.

Cold Nights of Childhood by Tezla Ozlu

I picked up this book because someone told me it read like Girl, Interrupted, but Turkish. I should have inquired into what that meant. Our narrator is a young woman recounting her childhood growing up in a rapidly changing Turkey, where the atmosphere is nationalist, patriarchal, and technocratic. In search of freedom, love, and happiness, she escapes to Berlin, but, overcome by depression on her return, she is sent to a psychiatric clinic for five years, where she experiences inhumane treatment, including SA and electroshock therapy. We know our main character is unwell, perhaps an unreliable narrator—but this novella does not read that way. Her voice is sharp, poetic, and wistful. She sees, feels, and desires with an urgency incomparable to her surroundings. I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much about the details of this book. Stream-of-consciousness narratives can be difficult for me to get through, and I struggled with this one despite it being only about a hundred pages. Martha, who I read this with, had a much better time of it. Check out her in-depth review.

The Lying Life of Adults by Elena Ferrante

No one writes girlhood like Elena Ferrante. No one. The Lying Life of Adults is about an upper-class teenage girl coming to terms with the contradictory, often deceitful nature of the people around her—her family, their friends, her friends, and most importantly, herself. I loved this book for the same reasons I loved the Neapolitan Quartet—the characters are complex, often morally questionable, and weave in and out of relationships with each other. Their motivations are opaque and ever-shifting, and alliances are tenuous at best. The teenage girls in Ferrante’s novels are as vicious as they are delicate. They are quick to betray and quick to reconcile. The love they feel, especially for each other, is laced with envy and ill intent. My teenage years were the worst, and there’s something about reading Ferrante’s stories that mirrors the viciousness and fear that defined that period of my life. What Ferrante shall I read next?

Colored Television by Danzy Senna

Jane, a middle-aged biracial woman living in Los Angeles, has high hopes that her life is about to turn around. It all comes crashing down when the book she’s been working on for nearly a decade—the centuries-spanning epic her husband refers to as her “mulatto War and Peace”—is swiftly rejected by her editor. In search of a plan B, Jane turns to Hollywood after meeting with a hot young producer with aspirations to create “diverse content” for a streaming network. Together, they decide to create “the greatest biracial comedy to ever hit the small screen,” and then everything goes to shit. I messaged

Tembe Denton-Hurst

about this book. I wanted to know if she understood what the author was trying to say here and felt only relief when Tembe said, “I have zero clue.” Now, don’t get me wrong. In a way, I really enjoyed this book—in the way that being in the head of someone you’d find annoying, if mildly amusing, can at times be enjoyable. Still, I didn’t get what the author was trying to say.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Another nonfiction read. Look at me go! I read a lot of thrillers and listen to a lot of true crime, but I haven’t really dabbled in reading true crime. When I picked up this book, it was because I had just watched Feud: Truman Capote vs. The Swans and was intrigued by the author. At the time, I’m not sure if I realized this was a pioneering true crime book. In Cold Blood tells the story of the murdered members of the Clutter family and the two men who killed them. Capote spent years with the killers after their conviction and before their execution, and details from the book are largely from their perspective. The middle—the chase—was the best part of the book. We already knew the who, but the how, and most importantly, the why, was what kept the narrative moving forward. I also read this book with

Martha

and we spent a bit of time going back and forth about the ethics of the book. What was Capote trying to achieve with a narrative that was clearly so sympathetic towards the killers? What was his motive for writing this book in the first place? I couldn’t confidently answer these questions, but between Say Nothing and this, I might have unlocked a new genre to explore.

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NEW ON MY SHELF: BOOKS BOUGHT AND GIFTED

• Confessions by Catherine Airey

• Table For One by Emma Gannon (Pub. Apr)

• What a Time to Be Alive by Jenny Mustard (Pub. Apr)

• Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Pub. March)

• The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt

• Blue Light Hours by Bruna Dantas Lobato

• Neighbors and Other Stories by Diane Oliver

• The Stranger by Albert Camus

• A Room With A View by E.M Forster

• Enter Ghost by Isabella Hammad

• Sweet Days of Discipline by Fleur Jaeggy

• One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

• Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood

• Self Help by Lorrie Moore

• Dogs of Summer by Andrea Abreu López

• The Hero of This Book by Elizabeth McCracken

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WHAT YOU READ THIS MONTH

I’m starting something new! Each month, I’ll be asking some of my favorite readers to share a book they read that month—one they loved or one they hated—and tell me all about it. Readers are welcome to be featured. Just reply to one of my emails with a selfie and a paragraph.

I’ll be back with my bookish conversations with

Pandora Sykes

in two weeks, where we’ll be discussing The Coin by Yasmin Zaher. Thank you

Hannah Connolly

for inspiring the Whatsapp Transcripts. It’s been real!

Chinelo read Please Report Your Bug Here by Josh Riedel

This is a novel for our generation, or at least it is supposed to be. Set in San Francisco, the main character is an employee at a dating app that is more sinister than it appears. Once someone matches with their top match, they get transported to an alternate location for a few moments before returning disoriented. I have no doubt the author knows the ins and outs of the tech corporate workplace. Riedel happened to be the first employee of Instagram, long before it was acquired by Meta. He has the “corporate” accent down pat. But something is missing here. The book is harder sci-fi than it lets on, and I don’t think Riedel quite has the mechanics to handle writing a book with physics-bending portals. Perhaps Riedel should’ve just written a regular workplace novel.

Brendon Holder

read Willful Disregard by Lena Andersson

There are times when you reflect on a novel and warmly embrace memories of its characters. The recollection of the things that they’ve said and the situations they’ve found themselves in comfort you with a gentle familiarity. There are other times when you get a whiff of a book that you’ve once read and cringe. You try but cannot rid yourself of the protagonist’s decisions. Every bad decision they’ve made is a poor reflection on you, an unwanted serving of secondhand embarrassment, an ugly stain. Such is the case for Ester Nilsson, the main character in Swedish author Lena Andersson’s Wilful Disregard.

Ester is a bright, observant writer who, throughout the novel, develops a sort of situationship-imaginationship hybrid (trust me, embarrassing to all parties involved) with an artist named Hugo Rusk. Through much of the novel, you are wedged snuggly in Ester’s interior, how she notices, (mis)reads, and acts on Hugo’s decisions and nondecisions. She’s obsessed with him and yet, through Andersson’s careful plotting, you are never quite convinced if the tryst is one-sided, implicating you in the protagonist’s madness. I hated the glimpses of myself I saw myself in Ester. I know I’m not alone because everyone I have spoken to about this book has said the same. The way Ester searched for clues in Hugo’s body language, how she spiraled about (fabricated?) competing love interest. The way she ‘cancelled her plans just in case he called.’

Wilful Disregard is a damning novel for anyone who has had a debilitating crush because of how transparent Ester’s possessiveness is to everyone but herself. How she intellectualizes herself into grief and despair. This story practically gifts you an insecure attachment style for the duration of the read. It’s a book for the group chat and one that will have you meekly asking your bestie by the end, ‘Hey, I wasn’t as bad as her, right?’ If they are truly your friend, they won’t answer that question.

Martha

read Afterlight by Jaap Robben

Afterlight tells the story of Frieda and the trauma she experienced for being pregnant, in a very Catholic environment, out of wedlock. Afterlight strikes a tone of both an indictment about how inhumanely these women were treated in the 1960s The Netherlands and a compassionate tale about the varied scope of motherhood. There is a lot of grief in this story, but a lot of hope too. Robben beautifully moves between the two, articulating how a life is so heavily characterised by both emotions. Afterlight is just such a good story - the characterisation, narrative and climax of the plot were all spectacular. Two weeks after finishing, I am still lost for words on how to describe it. Full review here!

Karren Lovejoy

read The Hour of The Star by Clarice Lispector

I was really excited for this one, especially because I was two Clarice Lispector books deep into my January and devouring every bit of her words. However, this one left me a bit wanting. I could’ve done without all the theatrics. This is a story about a poor girl, told from the perspective of a stalker-ish narrator. The narrator switches back and forth between the story of the girl and his own life. I would’ve liked to just read about the poor girl; I thought the narrator was annoying, and his doom and gloom didn’t work for me. However, the story about the girl is very complex and tragic—you’re not sure if you want to be her or pity her. I can’t say I fully hated it.

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What did you read last month? What did you love and what did you hate? Let me know in the comments XO.