Naming my favorite book of the year is a lot like naming your favorite child (or in my case, my favorite pet). I enjoyed a vast majority of the 200+ books I finished this year, but one does stand out, Victor LaValle's novel Big Machine. Why was Big Machine my favorite book of the year? Much has to do with timing. Early spring brought many books my way, but none interested me past the first 50 pages or so (my deadline for finishing or closing the book for good). I probably gave up on 15 books in a row, several of which I had held high hopes for, before I picked up Big Machine. Elegantly written and suffused with equal parts pathos and humor, the novel captivated me at once. LaValle's skills for drawing believable characters and capturing the essence of their conversations on the page drew me into one of the finest works of speculative fiction I have ever read. Once I finished the book, I sought out the rest of LaValle's books and made time to read them. For me, that is the ultimate tribute I can give a book, that it impressed me so much to explore the author's work further (especially with my crowded reading schedule). Victor LaValle restored my faith in literary fiction. More from A Year in Reading
The end of another year (and decade) offers many amusements and diversions, chief among them the inevitable, retrospective lists. We made our own attempt in September, with our Best of the Millennium (So Far) series, which proved to be an instructive and contentious exercise. Among the chief arguments leveled against such "best of" lists is the way they posit an illusory pinnacle of achievement and quality. By means of a grand consensus, the list smooths over natural and exciting variations in individual taste. But true discoveries are often made not by finding out what everybody liked, but by getting from one trusted fellow reader a recommendation that strikes a nerve or piques an interest. It's also true that the reader who reflects on a year will find a thread of reading experiences to parallel the real-life ones...and particularly sublime moments alone (even in a crowd, alone) when a book has taken the reader out of her world and into its own. This experience transcends the cold qualitative accounting that names one book better than another. And so amid all the lists (even our own), to round out the year, we offer a new installment of our annual "Year in Reading" series - an anti-list, as it were. Acknowledging that few readers, if any, read exclusively newly published books, we've asked our regular contributors and distinguished guests to name, from all the books they read this year, the one(s) that meant the most to them, regardless of publication date. Grouped together, these considerations, squibs, and essays will be a chronicle of reading and good books from every era. We hope you find in them seeds that will help your year in reading in 2010 be a fruitful one. As we have in prior years, the names of our 2009 "Year in Reading" contributors will be unveiled one at a time throughout the month as we post their contributions. You can bookmark this post and follow the series from here, or load up the main page for more new Year in Reading posts appearing at the top every day, or you can subscribe to our RSS feed and follow along in your favorite feed reader. Hari Kunzru, author of My Revolutions Julie Klam, author of Please Excuse My Daughter Phillip Lopate, author of Notes on Sontag Stephen Dodson, coauthor of Uglier Than a Monkey's Armpit, proprietor of Languagehat. Mark Sarvas, author of Harry, Revised, proprietor of The Elegant Variation. Diane Williams, author of It Was Like My Trying to Have a Tender-Hearted Nature, editor of NOON Jonathan Lethem, author of Chronic City David Gutowski, proprietor of Largehearted Boy Jesse Ball, author of The Way Through Doors Deb Olin Unferth, author of Vacation Edan Lepucki of The Millions Michelle Huneven, author of Blame Joshua Ferris, author of Then We Came to the End William H. Gass, author of The Tunnel Reif Larsen, author of The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet Victor LaValle, author of Big Machine Dana Goodyear, author of Honey & Junk, New Yorker staff writer Rosecrans Baldwin, founding editor of The Morning News and author of You Lost Me There Nick Flynn, author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City David Shields, author of Reality Hunger Stephen Elliott, editor of The Rumpus and author of The Adderall Diaries Brady Udall, author of The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint Rick Moody, author of The Black Veil Kate Christensen, author of The Great Man Marco Roth, a founding editor of N+1 Maud Newton, proprietor of maudnewton.com Patrick Brown of The Millions Hamilton Leithauser of The Walkmen Scott Esposito editor of The Quarterly Conversation and of Conversational Reading Ben Fountain, author of Brief Encounters with Che Guevara Joe Meno, author of The Great Perhaps Elizabeth Kostova, author of The Historian Emily St. John Mandel, author of Last Night In Montreal Jennifer Egan, author of The Invisible Circus Rivka Galchen, author of Atmospheric Disturbances Samantha Peale, author of The American Painter Emma Dial Lan Samantha Chang, author of Inheritance David L. Ulin, book editor of the Los Angeles Times Jerome Charyn, author of The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson Jon Raymond, author of The Half-Life Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, author of Ms. Hempel Chronicles Ken Chen, author of Juvenilia Mark Haskell Smith, author of Moist Brad Watson, author of Last Days of the Dog-Men John Williams, editor of The Second Pass Carolyn Kellogg, of Jacket Copy and www.carolynkellogg.com Anne K. Yoder, of The Millions Tim W. Brown, author of American Renaissance Traver Kauffman, of Rake’s Progress Jeff Martin, author of My Dog Ate My Nobel Prize Ed Park, author of Personal Days Cristina Henríquez, author of The World in Half Garth Risk Hallberg, author of A Field Guide to the North American Family: An Illustrated Novella, contributor to The Millions Motoyuki Shibata, author of American Narcissus Robert Lopez, author of Kamby Bolongo Mean River Masatsugu Ono, author of Graves Buried in Water Roland Kelts, author of Japanamerica Dan Kois, author of Facing Future Michael Fusco, of Michael Fusco Design Don't miss: A Year in Reading 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 | Support The Millions
I originally thought I wouldn't write about the Publishers Weekly Top 10 Books of 2009, a list that quickly became infamous not for who's on it, but who isn't. Namely: women. I noticed the absence immediately, but I was more puzzled than troubled. Come on, PW, have you not read Nothing Right by Antonya Nelson? This year, readers and critics have gone gaga for lady authors, from Hillary Mantel to Jayne Anne Phillips, and so it was strange that none would be included on the list. It didn't seem like these editors would have to consciously choose a woman--it would just happen, like breathing. Perhaps I'm naive, or I just like lady authors too much. I was happy to see Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon and Big Machine by Victor LaValle included, two novels I liked a lot and have championed here on The Millions. But, I also felt sad for these two wonderful writers: would they want to be associated with this list? Chaon and LaValle certainly deserve our attention, but the kind of attention they got from PW, I fear, is a reminder that they use the men's room. See, that's what's happened: the maleness of the list is all people can talk about. A cynical part of me wonders if Publishers Weekly went with these picks precisely because of the outrage they were sure would follow. Nothing increases visibility--and web traffic--like outrage. Lizzie Skurnick's take on the list is compelling and worth a read; she writes about the topic with both perspicacity and good humor, and she (rightfully, I think) suggests that the term "ambitious"-- as it's defined by critics and prize judges--is questionable, partially because it is gendered. Like Skurnick, I also don't find the list of notable books by women on the Women in Literature and Literary Arts (WILLA) website all that helpful, either. The wiki nature of the list means that the only requirement to get on this list is that you don't use the men's room. You see, women write good books, and they also write very bad ones. One's gender, like one's ethnicity, isn't a sign of your literary merit or lack thereof. And anyway, ladies don't really need this list. We're doing pretty well for ourselves. After all, women read more than men, and women writers sell more books than male writers. And we do win prizes. Don't forget that this year's Nobel prize winner for literature was female, and that Elizabeth Strout won the Pultizer. In 2004, all of the National Book Award nominees for fiction were female. I remember my annoyance at how much gender was discussed that year. "What about the books themselves?" I kept crying. But, look at me now, lamenting that only sausages got invited to the Top 10 Publishers Weekly party. My double standard, I suppose, comes from the fact that there's a long and undeniable history of women not getting critical recognition for their writing. I read nearly equal numbers of male and female writers (I keep a record. Seriously.) but I've met numerous male readers (many of them booksellers), who rarely, if ever, read books by women. This argument also extends to work by writers of color. Books by white men are considered universal, while books by women, or people of color, aren't. A male author wins a prize because he deserves it. A Latina woman wins a literary prize because, well... there was pressure... it was time. That's a dangerous and unfair line of reasoning, for it undercuts the talent and accomplishment of these writers. Edward P. Jones won the Pulitzer for The Known World, not because he's a black dude, but because he wrote an exceptional, brilliant novel. Yes, by giving Jones the prize, the Pulitzer committee championed and validated a narrative about African-Americans, by an African-American, and that is significant. But the writer's race was not the reason he won the prize. Which brings me to why I'm writing about this when I figured I wouldn't. Last week, the National Book Award winners were announced, and all of them were white men. You might expect me to be upset by this, but I wasn't. A few people I follow on Twitter were, however, and on her blog, author Tayari Jones wrote a genuine and heartfelt reaction to the awards (she attended the ceremony): "I will admit that I don't know what to make of it. I know how it felt to be a woman writer of color that evening. I had a number of weirdly marginalizing personal encounters that evening. I arrived in high spirits and left feeling a bit deflated." This reaction makes a lot of sense to me, and I respect it. But it also must be acknowledged that the judging process was fair--or as fair as can be (Jones does acknowledge this in her post). The judges for each genre--fiction, nonfiction, poetry and young people's literature--don't talk to one another. That is, if the fiction judges choose a white male writer to win, they don't know that the nonfiction judges have as well. Furthermore, the list of nominated books was varied and interesting, and the judges were diverse. (Quite frankly, I'd read anything deemed the best by fiction committee Jennifer Egan, Junot Díaz, Charles Johnson, Lydia Millet and Alan Cheuse.) So I'm all right with the results this year, as discomfiting as they might have been, coming on the heels of that terrible PW list. (And, perhaps it's worth reiterating: do we even need the prizes? Do we need to "put a ring on it" so to speak?) I'm most weary of lamenting this year's National Book Award winners because it sets up an expectation for next year's winners to be chosen on the basis of something other than literary merit. And if a woman and/or person of color wins the award, the last thing I want to hear is, "Oh, the judges felt pressure," or, "It was time..." That kind of discourse is insidious. In a dream world, the winners and best-of lists would always be diverse and surprising, and equality would just happen because people read widely, without any ingrained, problematic notions of what's universal or ambitious or important. Now, the question is: how can we make that a reality?
Tonight at the Pacific Standard Fiction Series in Brooklyn, Victor LaValle, author of Big Machine (which, according to Edan boasts "one of the best voices to come out of literature in the last…oh, ever, probably"), will be reading with Robert Lopez, author of Kamby Bolongo Mean River. As usual, I'll be hosting; it would be great to see you there. For more information, see Time Out New York.
Much of Everything Matters! by Ron Currie Jr. is narrated by an all-knowing entity who speaks in the royal we, and tells our hero, Junior Thibodeau, all sorts of pertinent information: for instance, that his father prefers not to talk and that the world will be obliterated by a comet in 36 years. What does one do when born with the knowledge of the apocalypse? This premise might sound absurd, and I guess it is--but it's also aesthetically fascinating. The narrator is not only introducing this world to us, he is introducing it to Junior. The usual reader-character roles have been flipped: instead of me feeling like Junior, Junior feels like me. And then it flips back, and I'm with Junior, in his world, in his emotional landscape. It's a real pleasure to watch Currie braid this omniscience with Junior's much narrower (and human) perspective, and for the action of the novel to absorb its all-knowing voice in the interest of narrative drive. Structurally, the book ends twice, as if our author were testing out narrative possibilities, the roads not taken, and including them in a single novel. How does one choice, one action, affect the next? This is a fun question, and the reader gets to discover the answer(s) along with Junior. Big Machine by Victor LaValle is a very different book, but it's got that same risk-taking playfulness. It's smart, it's really funny, and the world I was pulled into, like Currie's, was fascinating and weird. The African-American narrator, Ricky Rice, is a former heroin addict with a harrowing past who is called to Vermont to become a "paranormal investigator," as the book jacket calls it--this is a difficult novel to explain! Ricky Rice is probably one of the best voices to come out of literature in the last...oh, ever, probably. He compares a very small man to a bunion, and says stuff like, "Taking heroin is like sinking into a tapioca hammock." I loved him. Unlike Currie's novel, Big Machine is fairly straightforward, first-person storytelling, although the risks LaValle takes are no less big. His are on the level of plot and tone, for he balances the supernatural, the mourning of family members, race relations, and religion with equal dexterity. If Big Machine goes off the rails somewhat by the end, and if its horror-novel roots take over a bit too much for my taste, I forgive it, because, like Everything Matters!, it's ballsy. Both Currie and LaValle aren't afraid to dispense with the everyday rules of the universe, and they still manage to hold onto lyricism and authentic characterization. Both of these books were wild and weird, but they also were heartbreaking. They don't fall into the clever-trap. These two novels represent a real freewheeling lust for the original in contemporary fiction. I'm excited to be a writer, working in their wake.