I retreated to Delhi for the end of the year and slept on a decent mattress and could really read for the first time in ages.
O. Douglas, The Setons: A longer post about this currently in my drafts.
N.K. Jemisin, The Obelisk Gate: I think The Obelisk Gate may be better than The Fifth Season, which I already thought was very good. It’s still doing great things with the form its narrative takes, it’s revealing more and more about its world, but most of all the network of alliances and love and betrayal between its characters grows increasingly complex and difficult to parse, and that is wonderful. (My quibbles with the series remain, but if I’m going to read a story about special people with special powers, this is a brilliant example of the form.)
Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo: Talking to friends about holiday reading and our teetering piles of Significant Books a couple of weeks ago I said “I’ll probably just end up reading the new Rick Riordan,” and had to then explain myself. (The explanation is that this is what happens when you’re a series completionist, and this is why series fiction is dangerous to me.) This is the third … sub-series? about Greek gods in Riordan’s larger, interconnected series about various pantheons; so far I’ve restricted myself to the Greek/Roman books, but I can’t be sure I won’t at some point read the others. I thoroughly enjoyed this book but it is rather amusingly earnest, and clearly trying very hard. So, for example, it has to explain the presence of its gay characters by having the protagonist stress that he doesn’t think it’s a big deal and reminding us that the myths have Apollo attracted to both men and women; the phrases “military-industrial complex” and “mansplaining” show up; rather remarkably, towards the end Riordan appears to be suggesting that the roots of modern capitalism can be traced directly back to the Roman empire. I’m intrigued by what the forthcoming books in the series will do with that last idea.
Chris Haughton, Goodnight Everyone: A friend had a baby; I cooed awkwardly (it is a very cute baby) but knew that my real fond-auntie powers lie in the gifting of children’s books. There’s a new Chris Haughton, it has the loveliest endpapers, and is very gentle and soothing with lots of yawning and stretching. (The baby in question also received a copy of Haughton’s Oh No, George, but that was not new to me.)
Mona Awad, Thirteen Ways of Looking At a Fat Girl: I’m underwhelmed by this– I like the structure (series of vignettes, mostly from Elizabeth’s own perspective but bringing in others too), and the general sense of fat as permanently there, and obsessiveness about bodies colouring everything about how one sees the world so that all these characters become unsympathetic, but much of it is just playing to stereotype, and there’s no room for it to go anywhere. And I’d forgotten much of what I’d read once I finished it.
Sarah Moss, The Tidal Zone: I’ll probably be writing more about this in my end of year reading post (which is really a beginning of year post, since it is now next year and I haven’t started it yet) but this really was the book that felt like my experience of this past year, that tied together personal and public tragedy, precariousness, narrative, questions of how to continue to live in the world in 2016.
Gabby Rivera, Juliet Takes a Breath: I started reading this in the summer, stopped for some reason (I was enjoying the book, so I’m not sure what happened there) and then picked it up again a few months later. I’ll come back to it and write about it at length sometime soon, I hope, but I loved the ways in which it thinks about hero-worship (and the uses thereof) and respectability politics and race, particularly in its later sections. Would I have felt a bit preached to if I’d read it when younger? I’m not sure.
Amitav Ghosh, The Great Derangement: It’s frustrating (and probably an indictment of me and the criticism I read) that most of the critical engagement with this book I’ve seen has been of the Does Ghosh Belittle Genre? school, when in fact its thoughts on realism, on empire, on the bourgeois novel are all both more interesting and more fun to quibble with (I mean, he describes Frankenstein as the First SF Novel, and I know you all know to at least be suspicious at this point). I’ll be coming back to it, in large part because it offers a potential frame through which to consider books (both genre and not) that are doing some of the work Ghosh thinks of as necessary.
Shalini Srinivasan, Gangamma’s Gharial: This will merit a longer post at some point in the near future; it’s a story about how a rebellion among a community of weirdly puritanical Yakshas affects the history of a small hillside community over a period of a thousand-and-a-bit years. I wish there’d been a lot more of it, because the yaksha sections still seem incomplete (fair enough, they are immortal) but it’s fun and satisfying, involves a random trip to one of Jupiter’s moons, and I like Srinivasan’s preoccupation with (going by Vanamala and the Cephalopod) literature’s need for stompy, grumpy little girls. Plus, I suspect that Ondu’s perfectly reasonable distrust of masala dosai is one that the author shares, and it is one I share also.