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Most Anticipated: The Great Winter 2025 Preview
It's cold, it's grey, its bleakâbut winter, at the very least, brings with it a glut of anticipation-inducing books. Here youâll find nearly 100 titles that weâre excited to cozy up with this season. Some weâve already read in galley form; others weâre simply eager to devour based on their authors, subjects, or blurbs. We'd love for you to find your next great read among them.Â
The Millions will be taking a hiatus for the next few months, but we hope to see you soon.Â
âSophia Stewart, editor
January
The Legend of Kumai by Shirato Sanpei, tr. Richard Rubinger (Drawn & Quarterly)
The epic 10-volume series, a touchstone of longform storytelling in manga now published in English for the first time, follows outsider Kamui in 17th-century Japan as he fights his way up from peasantry to the prized role of ninja. âMichael J. Seidlinger
The Life of Herod the Great by Zora Neale Hurston (Amistad)
In the years before her death in 1960, Hurston was at work on what she envisioned as a continuation of her 1939 novel, Moses, Man of the Mountain. Incomplete, nearly lost to fire, and now published for the first time alongside scholarship from editor Deborah G. Plant, Hurstonâs final manuscript reimagines Herod, villain of the New Testament Gospel accounts, as a magnanimous and beloved leader of First Century Judea. âJonathan Frey
Mood Machine by Liz Pelly (Atria)
When you eagerly posted your Spotify Wrapped last year, did you notice how much of what you listened to tended to sound... the same? Have you seen all those links to Bandcamp pages your musician friends keep desperately posting in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, you might give them money for their art? If so, this book is for you. âJohn H. Maher
My Country, Africa by Andrée Blouin (Verso)
African revolutionary Blouin recounts a radical life steeped in activism in this vital autobiography, from her beginnings in a colonial orphanage to her essential role in the continent's midcentury struggles for decolonization. âSophia M. Stewart
The First and Last King of Haiti by Marlene L. Daut (Knopf)
Donald Trump repeatedly directs extraordinary animus towards Haiti and Haitians. This biography of Henry Christopheâthe man who played a pivotal role in the Haitian Revolutionâmight help Americans understand why. âClaire Kirch
The Bewitched Bourgeois by Dino Buzzati, tr. Lawrence Venuti (NYRB)
This is the second story collection, and fifth book, by the absurdist-leaning midcentury Italian writerâwhose primary preoccupation was war novels that blend the brutal with the fantasticalâto get the NYRB treatment. May it not be the last. âJHM
Y2K by Colette Shade (Dey Street)
The recent Y2K revival mostly makes me feel old, but Shade's essay collection deftly illuminates how we got here, connecting the era's social and political upheavals to today. âSMS
Darkmotherland by Samrat Upadhyay (Penguin)
In a vast dystopian reimagining of Nepal, Upadhyay braids narratives of resistance (political, personal) and identity (individual, societal) against a backdrop of natural disaster and state violence. The first book in nearly a decade from the Whiting Awardâwinning author of Arresting God in Kathmandu, this is Upadhyayâs most ambitious yet. âJF
Metamorphosis by Ross Jeffery (Truborn)
From the author of I Died Too, But They Havenât Buried Me Yet, a woman leads a double life as she loses her grip on reality by choice, wearing a mask that reflects her inner demons, as she descends into a hell designed to reveal the innermost depths of her grief-stricken psyche. âMJS
The Containment by Michelle Adams (FSG)
Legal scholar Adams charts the failure of desegregation in the American North through the story of the struggle to integrate suburban schools in Detroit, which remained almost completely segregated nearly two decades after Brown v. Board. âSMS
Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor (Morrow)
African Futurist Okoraforâs book-within-a-book offers interchangeable cover images, one for the story of a disabled, Black visionary in a near-present day and the other for the lead characterâs speculative posthuman novel, Rusted Robots. Okorafor deftly keeps the alternating chapters and timelines in conversation with one another. âNathalie op de Beeck
Open Socrates by Agnes Callard (Norton)
Practically everything Agnes Callard says or writes ushers in a capital-D Discourse. (Remember that profile?) If she can do the same with a study of the philosophical worldâs original gadfly, culture will be better off for it. âJHM
Aflame by Pico Iyer (Riverhead)
Presumably he finds time to eat and sleep in there somewhere, but it certainly appears as if Iyer does nothing but travel and write. His latest, following 2023âs The Half Known Life, makes a case for the sublimity, and necessity, of silent reflection. âJHM
The In-Between Bookstore by Edward Underhill (Avon)
A local bookstore becomes a literal portal to the past for a trans man who returns to his hometown in search of a fresh start in Underhill's tender debut. âSMS
Good Girl by Aria Aber (Hogarth)
Aber, an accomplished poet, turns to prose with a debut novel set in the electric excess of Berlinâs bohemian nightlife scene, where a young German-born Afghan woman finds herself enthralled by an expat American novelist as her countryâand, soon, her communityâis enflamed by xenophobia. âJHM
The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilanovich (Two Dollar Radio)
Krilanovichâs 2010 cult classic, about a runaway teen with drug-fueled ESP who searches for her missing sister across surreal highways while being chased by a killer named Dactyl, gets a much-deserved reissue. âMJS
Mona Acts Out by Mischa Berlinski (Liveright)
In the latest novel from the National Book Award finalist, a 50-something actress reevaluates her life and career when #MeToo allegations roil the off-off-Broadway Shakespearean company that has cast her in the role of Cleopatra. âSMS
Something Rotten by Andrew Lipstein (FSG)
A burnt-out couple leave New York City for what they hope will be a blissful summer in Denmark when their vacation derails after a close friend is diagnosed with a rare illness and their marriage is tested by toxic influences. âMJS
The Sun Won't Come Out Tomorrow by Kristen Martin (Bold Type)
Martin's debut is a cultural history of orphanhood in America, from the 1800s to today, interweaving personal narrative and archival research to upend the traditional "orphan narrative," from Oliver Twist to Annie. âSMS
We Do Not Part by Han Kang, tr. E. Yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris (Hogarth)
Kangâs Nobel win last year surprised many, but the consistency of her talent certainly shouldn't now. The latest from the author of The Vegetarianâthe haunting tale of a Korean woman who sets off to save her injured friendâs pet at her home in Jeju Island during a deadly snowstormâwill likely once again confront the horrors of history with clear eyes and clarion prose. âJHM
We Are Dreams in the Eternal Machine by Deni Ellis BĂ©chard (Milkweed)
As the conversation around emerging technology skews increasingly to apocalyptic and utopian extremes, BĂ©chardâs latest novel adopts the heterodox-to-everyone approach of embracing complexity. Here, a cadre of characters is isolated by a rogue but benevolent AI into controlled environments engineered to achieve their individual flourishing. The AI may have taken over, but it only wants to best for us. âJF
The Harder I Fight the More I Love You by Neko Case (Grand Central)
Singer-songwriter Case, a country- and folk-inflected indie rocker and sometime vocalist for the New Pornographers, takes her memoirâs title from her 2013 solo album. Followers of PNW music scene chronicles like Kathleen Hannaâs Rebel Girl and drummer Steve Moriartyâs Mia Zapata and the Gits will consider Caseâs backstory a must-read. âNodB
The Loves of My Life by Edmund White (Bloomsbury)
The 85-year-old White recounts six decades of love and sex in this candid and erotic memoir, crafting a landmark work of queer history in the process. Seminal indeed. âSMS
Blob by Maggie Su (Harper)
In Suâs hilarious debut, Vi Liu is a college dropout working a job she hates, nothing really working out in her life, when she stumbles across a sentient blob that she begins to transform as her ideal, perfect man that just might resemble actor Ryan Gosling. âMJS
Sinkhole and Other Inexplicable Voids by Leyna Krow (Penguin)
Krowâs debut novel, Fire Season, traced the combustible destinies of three Northwest tricksters in the aftermath of an 1889 wildfire. In her second collection of short fiction, Krow amplifies surreal elements as she tells stories of ordinary lives. Her characters grapple with deadly viruses, climate change, and disasters of the Anthropoceneâs wilderness. âNodB
Black in Blues by Imani Perry (Ecco)
The National Book Award winnerâand one of today's most important thinkersâreturns with a masterful meditation on the color blue and its role in Black history and culture. âSMS
Too Soon by Betty Shamieh (Avid)
The timely debut novel by Shamieh, a playwright, follows three generations of Palestinian American women as they navigate war, migration, motherhood, and creative ambition. âSMS
How to Talk About Love by Plato, tr. Armand D'Angour (Princeton UP)
With modern romance on its last legs, D'Angour revisits Plato's Symposium, mining the philosopher's masterwork for timeless, indispensable insights into love, sex, and attraction. âSMS
At Dark, I Become Loathsome by Eric LaRocca (Blackstone)
After Ashley Lutinâs wife dies, he takes the grieving process in a peculiar way, posting online, âIf you're reading this, you've likely thought that the world would be a better place without you,â and proceeds to offer a strange ritual for those that respond to the line, equally grieving and lost, in need of transcendence. âMJS
February
No One Knows by Osamu Dazai, tr. Ralph McCarthy (New Directions)
A selection of stories translated in English for the first time, from across Dazaiâs career, demonstrates his penchant for exploring conformity and societyâs often impossible expectations of its members. âMJS
Mutual Interest by Olivia Wolfgang-Smith (Bloomsbury)
This queer love story set in postâGilded Age New York, from the author of Glassworks (and one of my favorite Millions essays to date), explores on sex, power, and capitalism through the lives of three queer misfits. âSMS
Pure, Innocent Fun by Ira Madison III (Random House)
This podcaster and pop culture critic spoke to indie booksellers at a fall trade show I attended, regaling us with key cultural moments in the 1990s that shaped his youth in Milwaukee and being Black and gay. If the book is as clever and witty as Madison is, it's going to be a winner. âCK
Gliff by Ali Smith (Pantheon)
The Scottish author has been on the scene since 1997 but is best known today for a seasonal quartet from the late twenty-teens that began in 2016 with Autumn and ended in 2020 with Summer. Here, she takes the genre turn, setting two children and a horse loose in an authoritarian near future. âJHM
Land of Mirrors by Maria Medem, tr. Aleshia Jensen and Daniela Ortiz (D&Q)
This hypnotic graphic novel from one of Spain's most celebrated illustrators follows Antonia, the sole inhabitant of a deserted town, on a color-drenched quest to preserve the dying flower that gives her purpose. âSMS
Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya (Random House)
As odes to the "lifesaving power of books" proliferate amid growing literary censorship, Chihayaâa brilliant critic and writerâcomplicates this platitude in her revelatory memoir about living through books and the power of reading to, in the words of blurber Namwali Serpell, "wreck and redeem our lives." âSMS
Reading the Waves by Lidia Yuknavitch (Riverhead)
Yuknavitch continues the personal story she began in her 2011 memoir, The Chronology of Water. More than a decade after that book, and nearly undone by a history of trauma and the death of her daughter, Yuknavitch revisits the solace she finds in swimming (she was once an Olympic hopeful) and in her literary community. âNodB
The Dissenters by Youssef Rakha (Graywolf)
A son reevaluates the life of his Egyptian mother after her death in Rakha's novel. Recounting her sprawling life storyâfrom her youth in 1960s Cairo to her experience of the 2011 Tahrir Square protestsâa vivid portrait of faith, feminism, and contemporary Egypt emerges. âSMS
Tetra Nova by Sophia Terazawa (Deep Vellum)
Deep Vellum has a particularly keen eye for fiction in translation that borders on the unclassifiable. This debut from a poet the press has published twice, billed as the story of âan obscure Roman goddess who re-imagines herself as an assassin coming to terms with an emerging performance artist identity in the late-20th century,â seems right up that alley. âJHM
David Lynch's American Dreamscape by Mike Miley (Bloomsbury)
Miley puts David Lynch's films in conversation with literature and music, forging thrilling and unexpected connectionsâbetween Eraserhead and "The Yellow Wallpaper," Inland Empire and "mixtape aesthetics," Lynch and the work of Cormac McCarthy. Lynch devotees should run, not walk. âSMS
There's No Turning Back by Alba de CĂ©spedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (Washington Square)
Goldstein is an indomitable translator. Without her, how would you read Ferrante? Here, she takes her pen to a work by the great Cuban-Italian writer de CĂ©spedes, banned in the fascist Italy of the 1930s, that follows a group of female literature students living together in a Roman boarding house. âJHM
Beta Vulgaris by Margie Sarsfield (Norton)
Named for the humble beet plant and meaning, in a rough translation from the Latin, "vulgar second," Sarsfieldâs surreal debut finds a seasonal harvest worker watching her boyfriend and other colleagues vanish amid âthe menacing but enticing siren song of the beets.â âJHM
People From Oetimu by Felix Nesi, tr. Lara Norgaard (Archipelago)
The center of Nesiâs wide-ranging debut novel is a police station on the border between East and West Timor, where a group of men have gathered to watch the final of the 1998 World Cup while a political insurgency stirs without. Nesi, in English translation here for the first time, circles this moment broadly, reaching back to the various colonialist projects that have shaped Timor and the lives of his characters. âJF
Brother Brontë by Fernando A. Flores (MCD)
This surreal tale, set in a 2038 dystopian Texas is a celebration of resistance to authoritarianism, a mash-up of Olivia Butler, Ray Bradbury, and John Steinbeck. âCK
Alligator Tears by Edgar Gomez (Crown)
The High-Risk Homosexual author returns with a comic memoir-in-essays about fighting for survival in the Sunshine State, exploring his struggle with poverty through the lens of his queer, Latinx identity. âSMS
Theory & Practice by Michelle De Kretser (Catapult)
This lightly autofictional novelâDe Krester's best yet, and one of my favorite books of this yearâcenters on a grad student's intellectual awakening, messy romantic entanglements, and fraught relationship with her mother as she minds the gap between studying feminist theory and living a feminist life. âSMS
The Lamb by Lucy Rose (Harper)
Roseâs cautionary and caustic folk tale is about a mother and daughter who live alone in the forest, quiet and tranquil except for the visitors the mother brings home, whom she calls âstrays,â wining and dining them until they feast upon the bodies. âMJS
Disposable by Sarah Jones (Avid)
Jones, a senior writer for New York magazine, gives a voice to America's most vulnerable citizens, who were deeply and disproportionately harmed by the pandemicâa catastrophe that exposed the nation's disregard, if not outright contempt, for its underclass. âSMS
No Fault by Haley Mlotek (Viking)
Written in the aftermath of the author's divorce from the man she had been with for 12 years, this "Memoir of Romance and Divorce," per its subtitle, is a wise and distinctly modern accounting of the end of a marriage, and what it means on a personal, social, and literary level. âSMS
Enemy Feminisms by Sophie Lewis (Haymarket)
Lewis, one of the most interesting and provocative scholars working today, looks at certain malignant strains of feminism that have done more harm than good in her latest book. In the process, she probes the complexities of gender equality and offers an alternative vision of a feminist future. âSMS
Lion by Sonya Walger (NYRB)
Walgerâan successful actor perhaps best known for her turn as Penny Widmore on Lostâdebuts with a remarkably deft autobiographical novel (published by NYRB no less!) about her relationship with her complicated, charismatic Argentinian father. âSMS
The Voices of Adriana by Elvira Navarro, tr. Christina MacSweeney (Two Lines)
A Spanish writer and philosophy scholar grieves her mother and cares for her sick father in Navarro's innovative, metafictional novel. âSMS
Autotheories ed. Alex Brostoff and Vilashini Cooppan (MIT)
Theory wonks will love this rigorous and surprisingly playful survey of the genre of autotheoryâwhich straddles autobiography and critical theoryâwith contributions from Judith Butler, Jamieson Webster, and more.
Fagin the Thief by Allison Epstein (Doubleday)
I enjoy retellings of classic novels by writers who turn the spotlight on interesting minor characters. This is an excursion into the world of Charles Dickens, told from the perspective iconic thief from Oliver Twist. âCK
Crush by Ada Calhoun (Viking)
Calhounâthe masterful memoirist behind the excellent Also A Poetâmakes her first foray into fiction with a debut novel about marriage, sex, heartbreak, all-consuming desire. âSMS
Show Don't Tell by Curtis Sittenfeld (Random House)
Sittenfeld's observations in her writing are always clever, and this second collection of short fiction includes a tale about the main character in Prep, who visits her boarding school decades later for an alumni reunion. âCK
Right-Wing Woman by Andrea Dworkin (Picador)
One in a trio of Dworkin titles being reissued by Picador, this 1983 meditation on women and American conservatism strikes a troublingly resonant chord in the shadow of the recent election, which saw 45% of women vote for Trump. âSMS
The Talent by Daniel D'Addario (Scout)
If your favorite season is awards, the debut novel from D'Addario, chief correspondent at Variety, weaves an awards-season yarn centering on five stars competing for the Best Actress statue at the Oscars. If you know who Paloma Diamond is, you'll love this. âSMS
Death Takes Me by Cristina Rivera Garza, tr. Sarah Booker and Robin Myers (Hogarth)
The Pulitzer winnerâs latest is about an eponymously named professor who discovers the body of a mutilated man with a bizarre poem left with the body, becoming entwined in the subsequent investigation as more bodies are found. âMJS
The Strange Case of Jane O. by Karen Thompson Walker (Random House)
Jane goes missing after a sudden a debilitating and dreadful wave of symptoms that include hallucinations, amnesia, and premonitions, calling into question the foundations of her life and reality, motherhood and buried trauma. âMJS
Song So Wild and Blue by Paul Lisicky (HarperOne)
If it werenât Joni Mitchellâs world with all of us just living in it, one might be tempted to say the octagenarian master songstress is having a moment: this memoir of falling for the blue beauty of Mitchellâs work follows two other inventive books about her life and legacy: Ann Powers's Traveling and Henry Alford's I Dream of Joni. âJHM
Mornings Without Mii by Mayumi Inaba, tr. Ginny Tapley (FSG)
A woman writer meditates on solitude, art, and independence alongside her beloved cat in Inaba's modern classicâa book so squarely up my alley I'm somehow embarrassed. âSMS
True Failure by Alex Higley (Coffee House)
When Ben loses his job, he decides to pretend to go to work while instead auditioning for Big Shot, a popular reality TV show that he believes might be a launchpad for his future successes. âMJS
March
Woodworking by Emily St. James (Crooked Reads)
Those of us who have been reading St. James since the A.V. Club days may be surprised to see this marvelous critic's first novelâin this case, about a trans high school teacher befriending one of her students, the only fellow trans woman sheâs ever metâbut all the more excited for it. âJHM
Optional Practical Training by Shubha Sunder (Graywolf)
Told as a series of conversations, Sunderâs debut novel follows its recently graduated Indian protagonist in 2006 Cambridge, Mass., as she sees out her student visa teaching in a private high school and contriving to find her way between worlds that cannot seem to comprehend her. Quietly subversive, this is an immigration narrative to undermine the various reductionist immigration narratives of our moment. âJF
Love, Queenie by Mayukh Sen (Norton)
Merle Oberon, one of Hollywood's first South Asian movie stars, gets her due in this engrossing biography, which masterfully explores Oberon's painful upbringing, complicated racial identity, and much more. âSMS
The Age of Choice by Sophia Rosenfeld (Princeton UP)
At a time when we are awash with optionsâindeed, drowning in themâRosenfeld's analysis of how our modingn idea of "freedom" became bound up in the idea of personal choice feels especially timely, touching on everything from politics to romance. âSMS
Sucker Punch by Scaachi Koul (St. Martin's)
One of the internet's funniest writers follows up One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter with a sharp and candid collection of essays that sees her life go into a tailspin during the pandemic, forcing her to reevaluate her beliefs about love, marriage, and what's really worth fighting for. âSMS
The Mysterious Disappearance of the Marquise of Loria by José Donoso, tr. Megan McDowell (New Directions)
The ever-excellent McDowell translates yet another work by the influential Chilean author for New Directions, proving once again that Donoso had a knack for titles: this one follows up 2024âs behemoth The Obscene Bird of Night. âJHM
Remember This by Anthony Giardina (FSG)
On its face, itâs another book about a writer living in Brooklyn. A layer deeper, itâs a book about fathers and daughters, occupations and vocations, ethos and pathos, failure and success. âJHM
Ultramarine by Mariette Navarro (Deep Vellum)Â
In this metaphysical and lyrical tale, a captain known for sticking to protocol begins losing control not only of her crew and ship but also her own mind. âMJS
We Tell Ourselves Stories by Alissa Wilkinson (Liveright)
Amid a spate of new books about Joan Didion published since her death in 2021, this entry by Wilkinson (one of my favorite critics working today) stands out for its approach, which centers Hollywoodâand its meaning-making apparatusâas an essential key to understanding Didion's life and work. âSMS
Seven Social Movements that Changed America by Linda Gordon (Norton)
This bookâby a truly renowned historianâabout the power that ordinary citizens can wield when they organize to make their community a better place for all could not come at a better time. âCK
Mothers and Other Fictional Characters by Nicole Graev Lipson (Chronicle Prism)
Lipson reconsiders the narratives of womanhood that constrain our lives and imaginations, mining the canon for alternative visions of desire, motherhood, and moreâfrom Kate Chopin and Gwendolyn Brooks to Philip Roth and Shakespeareâto forge a new story for her life. âSMS
Goddess Complex by Sanjena Sathian (Penguin)
DoppelgĂ€ngers have been done to death, but Sathian's examination of Millennial womanhoodâpart biting satire, part twisty thrillerâbreathes new life into the trope while probing the modern realities of procreation, pregnancy, and parenting. âSMS
Stag Dance by Torrey Peters (Random House)
The author of Detransition, Baby offers four tales for the price of one: a novel and three stories that promise to put gender in the crosshairs with as sharp a style and swagger as Petersâ beloved latest. The novel even has crossdressing lumberjacks. âJHM
On Breathing by Jamieson Webster (Catapult)
Webster, a practicing psychoanalyst and a brilliant writer to boot, explores that most basic human functionâbreathingâto address questions of care and interdependence in an age of catastrophe. âSMS
Unusual Fragments: Japanese Stories (Two Lines)
The stories of Unusual Fragments, including work by Yoshida Tomoko, Nobuko Takai, and other seldom translated writers from the same ranks as Abe and Dazai, comb through themes like alienation and loneliness, from a storm chaser entering the eye of a storm to a medical student observing a body as it is contorted into increasingly violent positions. âMJS
The Antidote by Karen Russell (Knopf)
Russell has quipped that this Dust Bowl story of uncanny happenings in Nebraska is the âdrylandiaâ to her 2011 Florida novel, Swamplandia! In this suspenseful account, a woman working as a so-called prairie witch serves as a storage vault for her townspeopleâs most troubled memories of migration and Indigenous genocide. With a murderer on the loose, a corrupt sheriff handling the investigation, and a Black New Deal photographer passing through to document Americana, the witch loses her memory and supernatural events parallel the areaâs lethal dust storms. âNodB
On the Clock by Claire Baglin, tr. Jordan Stump (New Directions)
Baglin's bildungsroman, translated from the French, probes the indignities of poverty and service work from the vantage point of its 20-year-old narrator, who works at a fast-food joint and recalls memories of her working-class upbringing. âSMS
Motherdom by Alex Bollen (Verso)
Parenting is difficult enough without dealing with myths of what it means to be a good mother. I who often felt like a failure as a mother appreciate Bollen's focus on a more realistic approach to parenting. âCK
The Magic Books by Anne Lawrence-Mathers (Yale UP)
For that friend who wants to concoct the alchemical elixir of life, or the person who cannot quit Susanna Clarkâs Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Lawrence-Mathers collects 20 illuminated medieval manuscripts devoted to magical enterprise. Her compendium includes European volumes on astronomy, magical training, and the imagined intersection between science and the supernatural. âNodB
Theft by Abdulrazak Gurnah (Riverhead)
The first novel by the Tanzanian-British Nobel laureate since his surprise win in 2021 is a story of class, seismic cultural change, and three young people in a small Tanzania town, caught up in both as their lives dramatically intertwine. âJHM
Twelve Stories by American Women, ed. Arielle Zibrak (Penguin Classics)
Zibrak, author of a delicious volume on guilty pleasures (and a great essay here at The Millions), curates a dozen short stories by women writers who have long been left out of American literary canonâmost of them women of colorâfrom Frances Ellen Watkins Harper to Zitkala-Ć a. âSMS
I'll Love You Forever by Giaae Kwon (Holt)
K-popâs sky-high place in the fandom landscape made a serious critical assessment inevitable. This one blends cultural criticism with memoir, using major artists and their careers as a lens through which to view the contemporary Korean sociocultural landscape writ large. âJHM
The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones (Saga)
Jones, the acclaimed author of The Only Good Indians and the Indian Lake Trilogy, offers a unique tale of historical horror, a revenge tale about a vampire descending upon the Blackfeet reservation and the manifold of carnage in their midst. âMJS
True Mistakes by Lena Moses-Schmitt (University of Arkansas Press)
Full disclosure: Lena is my friend. But part of why I wanted to be her friend in the first place is because she is a brilliant poet. Selected by Patricia Smith as a finalist for the Miller Williams Poetry Prize, and blurbed by the great Heather Christle and Elisa Gabbert, this debut collection seeks to turn "mistakes" into sites of possibility. âSMS
Perfection by Vicenzo Latronico, tr. Sophie Hughes (NYRB)
Anna and Tom are expats living in Berlin enjoying their freedom as digital nomads, cultivating their passion for capturing perfect images, but after both friends and time itself moves on, their own pocket of creative freedom turns boredom, their life trajectories cast in doubt. âMJS
Guatemalan Rhapsody by Jared Lemus (Ecco)
Jemus's debut story collection paint a composite portrait of the people who call Guatemala homeâand those who have left it behindâwith a cast of characters that includes a medicine man, a custodian at an underfunded college, wannabe tattoo artists, four orphaned brothers, and many more.
Pacific Circuit by Alexis Madrigal (MCD)
The Oakland, Calif.âbased contributing writer for the Atlantic digs deep into the recent history of a city long under-appreciated and under-served that has undergone head-turning changes throughout the rise of Silicon Valley. âJHM
Barbara by Joni Murphy (Astra)
Described as "Oppenheimer by way of Lucia Berlin," Murphy's character study follows the titular starlet as she navigates the twinned convulsions of Hollywood and history in the Atomic Age.
Sister Sinner by Claire Hoffman (FSG)
This biography of the fascinating Aimee Semple McPherson, America's most famous evangelist, takes religion, fame, and power as its subjects alongside McPherson, whose life was suffused with mystery and scandal. âSMS
Trauma Plot by Jamie Hood (Pantheon)
In this bold and layered memoir, Hood confronts three decades of sexual violence and searches for truth among the wreckage. Kate Zambreno calls Trauma Plot the work of "an American Annie Ernaux." âSMS
Hey You Assholes by Kyle Seibel (Clash)
Seibelâs debut story collection ranges widely from the down-and-out to the downright bizarre as he examines with heart and empathy the strife and struggle of his characters. âMJS
James Baldwin by Magdalena J. Zaborowska (Yale UP)
Zaborowska examines Baldwin's unpublished papers and his material legacy (e.g. his home in France) to probe about the great writer's life and work, as well as the emergence of the "Black queer humanism" that Baldwin espoused. âCK
Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett (Riverhead)
Arnett is always brilliant and this novel about the relationship between Cherry, a professional clown, and her magician mentor, "Margot the Magnificent," provides a fascinating glimpse of the unconventional lives of performance artists. âCK
Paradise Logic by Sophie Kemp (S&S)
The deal announcement describes the ever-punchy writerâs debut novel with an infinitely appealing appellation: âdebauched picaresque.â If thatâs not enough to draw you in, the truly unhinged cover should be. âJHM
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A Year in Reading: 2024
Welcome to the 20th (!) installment of The Millions' annual Year in Reading series, which gathers together some of today's most exciting writers and thinkers to share the books that shaped their year. YIR is not a collection of yearend best-of lists; think of it, perhaps, as an assemblage of annotated bibliographies. We've invited contributors to reflect on the books they read this yearâan intentionally vague promptâand encouraged them to approach the assignment however they choose.
In writing about our reading lives, as YIR contributors are asked to do, we inevitably write about our personal lives, our inner lives. This year, a number of contributors read their way through profound grief and serious illness, through new parenthood and cross-country moves. Some found escape in frothy romances, mooring in works of theology, comfort in ancient epic poetry. More than one turned to the wisdom of Ursula K. Le Guin. Many describe a book finding them just when they needed it.
Interpretations of the assignment were wonderfully varied. One contributor, a music critic, considered the musical analogs to the books she read, while another mapped her reads from this year onto constellations. Most people's reading was guided purely by pleasure, or else a desire to better understand events unfolding in their lives or larger the world. Yet others centered their reading around a certain sense of duty: this year one contributor committed to finishing the six Philip Roth novels he had yet to read, an undertaking that he likens to âeating a six-pack of paper towels.â (Lucky for us, he included in his essay his final ranking of Roth's oeuvre.)
The books that populate these essays range widely, though the most commonly noted title this year was Tony Tulathimutteâs story collection Rejection. The work of newly minted National Book Award winner Percival Everett, particularly his acclaimed novel James, was also widely read and written about. And as the genocide of Palestinians in Gaza enters its second year, many contributors sought out Isabella Hammadâs searing, clear-eyed essay Recognizing the Stranger.
Like so many endeavors in our chronically under-resourced literary community, Year in Reading is a labor of love. The Millions is a one-person editorial operation (with an invaluable assist from SEO maven Dani Fishman), and producing YIRâand witnessing the joy it brings contributors and readers alikeâhas been the highlight of my tenure as editor. Iâm profoundly grateful for the generosity of this yearâs contributors, whose names and entries will be revealed below over the next three weeks, concluding on Wednesday, December 18. Be sure to subscribe to The Millionsâ free newsletter to get the weekâs entries sent straight to your inbox each Friday.
âSophia Stewart, editor
Becca Rothfeld, author of All Things Are Too Small
Carvell Wallace, author of Another Word for Love
Charlotte Shane, author of An Honest Woman
Brianna Di Monda, writer and editor
Nell Irvin Painter, author of I Just Keep Talking
Carrie Courogen, author of Miss May Does Not Exist
AyĆegĂŒl SavaĆ, author of The Anthropologists
Zachary Issenberg, writer
Tony Tulathimutte, author of Rejection
Ann Powers, author of Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell
Lidia Yuknavitch, author of Reading the Waves
Nicholas Russell, writer and critic
Daniel Saldaña ParĂs, author of Planes Flying Over a Monster
Lili Anolik, author of Didion and Babitz
Deborah Ghim, editor
Emily Witt, author of Health and Safety
Nathan Thrall, author of A Day in the Life of Abed Salama
Lena Moses-Schmitt, author of True Mistakes
Jeremy Gordon, author of See Friendship
John Lee Clark, author of Touch the Future
Ellen Wayland-Smith, author of The Science of Last Things
Edwin Frank, publisher and author of Stranger Than Fiction
Sophia Stewart, editor of The Millions
A Year in Reading Archives: 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013,  2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005
Thatâs What Language Can Do: The Millions Interviews PĂĄdraig Ă Tuama
âFaith shelters some,â PĂĄdraig Ă Tuama writes, âand it shadows others.â
We are luckyâthose of us who are believers, and those of us who are notâwhen our theologians are poets. Ă Tuama makes me think about belief, God, and language in such a jarring, revelatory way. Afterward, I donât want to return to my tired assumptions.
I felt invited into In the Shelter not because it was about a life quite like mineâalthough we both come from the Catholic traditionâbut through Ă Tuamaâs syntax; how his sentences move from past reflection to present encounter. I often think of good books as journeys, and all of the kinesthetic, profluent metaphors and feelings that go along with such movement, and In the Shelter feels like it moves.
PĂĄdraig Ă Tuama is a poet, theologian, and host of Poetry Unbound with On Being Studios, where he is the Theologian in Residence. From 2014 to 2019, Ă Tuama was the leader of the Corrymeela Community, Irelandâs oldest peace and reconciliation organization. His poetry collections include Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community, Sorry for Your Troubles and Readings from the Books of Exile. He is the author of In the Shelter: Finding a Home in the World, and, along with Glenn Jordan, Borders & Belonging.
We spoke about language as exploration, the necessity of questioning, and how we seek sanctuary in this world.
The Millions: Early in the book, you write of being in the monastic community at TaizĂ©, France, during Lent in 1998. Each morning began with reflections in English, French, German, or Spanish, and a monk âwould ask, moving casually from language to language, which tongues he should use in order to be understood by everyone.â Then, on Holy Thursday, he reads from the Gospel of John, and others in the group read it in Dutch and Norwegian. Thereâs this swirl of language as a glorious but also frayed route toward belief throughout your book, and you include moments of Irish as well in the text. Where does language carry or compel you? Does language bring you closer to faith, to God, or to somewhere else?
PĂĄdraig Ă Tuama: When I was a child, my mother wasnât very well. So, from September 1978 (I was two, soon to be three) I spent a few hours a day with a woman known only to me as Bean an TĂ. This lasted for two years. She was from Baile an FheirtĂ©araigh, an Irish speaking village in West Kerry and was up in Cork city living with her niece. My dad told me later that heâd heard her try to speak in English once, but she was utterly confused. She had some vocabulary, but no sense of the English language. So, for two years I was surrounded by her Irish, fluent as the salt in the sea. I remember she had a gravelly voice. I remember she wore lots of navy. I remember that I had a plastic cupâwas it yellow or red?âfrom which to drink milk halfway through the day. It was a kindergarten of sorts, there were other children there too. I thought she was two hundred years old. She gave me language. Bean an TĂ means Woman of the House, a term meaning landlady perhaps. I was affronted when I heard another woman being called Bean an TĂ years later, thinking that I knew the one and only. She was from the Ă Bric family, a well known clan in the Dingle peninsula.
All of this goes to say that the question of language, or, to be more accurate, languages has been a part of my life as long as my life has been my life. I loved speaking in Irish and English, once I realized that I could speak them both already. My older sister Ăine started learning French at school so I begged her to teach me anything she could. When my mother had a small accident involving two German motorbikers, they were invited (read: forced) to our house for dinner. I sat next to them admiring their sleek jawlines, begging them to teach me anything in German. My auntie Mary is deaf, so I asked her for a sheet of paper with the alphabet for Irish Sign on it.
You get the drift.
I donât know if language is a pathway to God. But I know itâs a pathway. For me, learning that Jesus of Nazareth didnât say âbe quietâ to the waves in the gospel of Mark, but rather said âbe muzzledâ fills me with wonder. I am not particularly interested in what it meansâbecause that implies it definitely means something, or, even worse, definitely means one thingâbut Iâm transfixed by what this implies. It implies so much: the sea like a rabid dog, growling, gazing, muzzled temporarily, saliva and ferocity all crowding the experience. Itâs the kind of language that makes literature literature. It doesnât have to mean one thing in order to mean anything. It is like a mouthpiece at the edge of the universe telling its own story to itself.
Language compels me towards more exploration. Sometimes I feel like language is a tool for exploring the underground, the layers of rock underneath the assumptions and messages that are being communicated. When I was 20 and a man who was trying to cure me of being gay told me that my problem was language, I was accidentally landed into an experience of confidence. He claimed to be an authority in religion and psychology, so Iâa good Catholic, always submissive to authorityâtook him at his word. But when I asked him what his obsession with teaching me how to objectify women was, he became angry and told me my problem was language. And suddenly I was more shiny than Iâd ever been before. I saw through his trickery. He was a man making up language for the mouth of God, and he was pisspoor at it. I left and never went back.
Thatâs what language can do, when language is doing its work: it can spur extraordinary action.
Pisspoorâlook at that delicious alliteration. P.P. Two little explosive sounds right next to each other. I needed those sounds to describe the explosion of life that happened in me after I realized that language could be part of being more alive. I know Iâm not describing anything like a pathway to beliefâbecause mostly, Iâve been affected by an awful kind of religion, so Iâve needed language to lead me away from it, not towards it. Godâs own anarchy, giving humanity the faculty by which God created the world. We can create too. And destroy. Language can be a terror, as we know well.
I know. Iâm still not answering. Look at all this language. Once a man I know was telling a group of people how tired he was of fighting for his rights when his rights were being denied by those who said they spoke for God. He was in a room of a retreat at Corrymeela, a reconciliation community I was leading at the time. A woman sitting next to him said. âItâs okay to rest, others will do the standing for you.â Something about the quality of her words meant he heard them. He cried. The seventh day. It was evening. It was morning.
TM: Thereâs a real strand of Ignatian spirituality in this book. While in a course of Ignatian spiritual direction in Australia, you learned the vision of the world that transformed Saint Ignatius of Loyola: âThe Glory of God is found in a human being fully alive.â You also ponder the humanity of Jesus: âWe can ask about when he fell, or when he cried, or when he had nightmares. But we must also ask when he learned truth, or courage, or integrity. When did he learn the human art of apology? How did he live with his own body, the move from boy to man, the richness of a life lived in tension?â What has the corporeal sense of Jesus meant to you? Do you think that people fully reckon with hisâand maybe ourâflesh and blood?
PĂT: Years ago, when I was definitely more religious, I was teaching a class about the Stations of the Cross. It was a class of adults. I had been doing a daily practice of the Stations of the Cross myself for five years by that stage. Iâve always found the three-fold falling of Jesus to be very affecting. I had some images of Jesus that I was using as we were considering the walk of torture for a man about to be executed.
All of this was in a room in Australia. I was the only Catholic, and I was, in a certain sense, trying to prove to the Evangelicals in the room that Catholics, too, can be Christians. I have all kinds of problems with everything that was happening.
Anyway, after the third âJesus Falls to the Groundâ Station, I asked the people in the room what theyâd say to Jesus. A woman named Julie said sheâd ask him if it was worth it. Julie had lots of piercings and tattoos and half her head was shaved. The hair she had was dyed pink and green. She wore Doc Marten boots, and lots of leather. She was magnificent. Her own self. I hear she went to do a degree in law and worked in public defense of young people whoâd been criminalized by a law system bent on marginalizing the already marginalized. She was somewhat of a scandal in this class because she would regularly say she wasnât a Christian, even though she was on devotional course meant only for Christians. I admired her so much. There was something about the disposition of her question that moved me deeply. I think it was the first time Iâd ever heard someone pose a question aboutâor, even more audaciously, toâJesus without expecting they knew the answer. I want what she has, I remember thinking, which was: more distance from religion in order to be able to see a little more clearly.
I have never seen her sinceâthis was 20 years agoâbut I think about her regularly. She gave me what others resented her for having: distance and non-predatory curiosity. She was able to ask a question of Jesus of Nazareth without having formulated what she thought his answer should be. In the freedom she held in herself, her Jesus was also freer. I could imagine him saying No, itâs not. Get me out of here in response to her.
So whatever my relationship to the complicated question of Jesusâs identity is (and I wrote complicated essays about the hypostatic union in my degree), I always want the curiosity of the brilliant Julie. Iâm not interested in being part of a gang who are so desperate to prove we love Jesus that we donât take him seriously. I donât know if I love him. I certainly respect him. I have many questions. I imagine heâd have been exhausting as a friend. I imagine he must have had some kind of energy in him that drew people to him with a heavy appeal. Iâve got a few friends like that. I am drawn to them. I come away depleted sometimes.
Who taught him to read? Was he interested in spelling? Did he skip formalities for the spirit of things? What did he say about Herod when nobody was writing down? Why did he tell the story of the desert with a devil in it? Wasnât it just himself? When he said Why have you forsaken me, was that the end of his belief? It seems to me that when he posted three friends to keep watch as he prayed that he was leaving room for escape. Who is the escaping Jesus? What would he say?
To take Jesus of Nazareth seriously is to take ourselves seriously, I think. And consequently, to treat Jesus like some kind of perfect boy god is to deny the complexity of the secular everyday today. Iâve still got questions. I think I always will.
TM: You talk about studying redaction criticism during your theology schooling: âthe skill of discovering how the texts that we now accept as a literary whole may be the product of decades of editing, with changes, additions, and extractions having happened.â Iâm curious: do you find the action of memoir as a form of redaction criticism? What does it mean for you to revisit the stories of your life?
PĂT: A few years ago, I was in a Swatch Watch shop in New York City. I needed a new strap. The people were very friendly in there and after Iâd gotten a new strap, the man working there said, âDo you want to come to a Swatch party on Thursday night?â This was not what I was expecting him to say. âWhat happens at a Swatch party?â I asked. âOh all kinds of people come and they share their Swatch Story,â he said.
Swatch Story. Jesus. I could almost hear the voice of the branding consultant who came up with this inanity. People had sat in a room wondering how to build their corporate reach, and some overpaid person came up with the idea that the Swatch Story was a way to make people buy more shit.
I didnât go. Although, I wonder what would have happened if I had. I hope that at that party there were small corners of people talking about what really mattered in their lives. I hope people made friends that night. I hope there are groupings of people who, when someone asks them, "How did you all meet?" answer, "Oh, at some party one Thursday night." They forget that it was for a brand of watch. They made human in a place where money was the imagination.
Story is everywhere these days as a commodity. And thatâs a betrayal of the brilliance of story. Story, if it means anything, is always changing. Story should never be convenient, or pretty, or nice. Stories should have the capacity for changeâor, at least, the people who tell them should. If Iâm telling the same old story at 60 that I am at 45 then I think Iâll have failed. Iâm uninterested in being outraged because sometimes stories of outrage are being told by people who are profiting from my outrage while dodging accountability.
Stories are extraordinarily entertaining, but can leave corpses in their wake. Who is made a hero of a story? Who the scapegoat? How can a new point of view be told? How can a story be told anew? How can powers be re-examined? How can I be suspicious of the neat in a neatly told story? Who is the teller? Is it me? Am I over-identifying with the me in memoir? How can I make plural where commodity insists on single? I need to be made exile and made new. Stories have borders, too. And walls. And guns to keep certain people out. So I need all redaction, all historical criticism, all literary theories, and queering and turning upside down. Life is not a story, but storiesâmaybeâcan help us live a life. So theyâd better be good enough.
TM: You intersperse poems in this book, and one in particular, âStaring Match,â really paused me: âI stare at the icon, / the sacrament, and / the sacred story.â I think staring is a form of the ecstatic momentâour eyes locked somewhere, lost and drifting. What causes you to stare, to hold yourself to the point where you canât look away?
PĂT: Iâm intrigued that youâve found such ecstasy in that poem. And Iâm moved, too. That you found this in the poem speaks to me that the poem is doing its work; in that the words made space for you to put yourself into them. Were we sharing a pot of tea (Assam, made with leaves, stewed for seven minutes, proper boiling water. Microwave? Get behind me, Satan.) Iâd want to ask you more about the poem, because you are participating in the making of the book, in the sense that youâre engaging with a conversation that Iâm only an eavesdropper to.
All of that goes to say that if ever anyone ever says to me âI liked your book,â I always ask, âWhy?" Not because Iâm interested in checking out whether theyâve read it or not, but because they always say something interesting in answer to the why. Usually I realize the book is just a prompt for them to have a conversation with themselves.
Iâd gotten completely stuck halfway through writing In the Shelter. It wasnât that I didnât have a plan, as much as I wasnât sure what the point of writing something new was. I was reading Adam Phillipsâs book In Writing, where he says that most things are written in order to be forgotten; but what happens in the experience of reading is what is meant to be remembered. It changed everything for me. I went back to writing.
Staring, for me, in the context of that poem, was actually an accusation. Iâd been schooled in the art of the devoted gaze, the gaze of love, the gaze of adoration. I needed something more like the fuck-you-glare towards an icon. If an icon is a window into God, then I had something to say. So much of In the Shelter is a landscape of anger; as well as a landscape of slowly stripping away denial about the violence of religion. Looking at the placid face of Jesus in an icon, I was angry, and in staring at him (through him, to him, with him) I was able to hear parts of my own life that had questions. I didnât think he was cowed by my anger. I get the impression that if he was listening, heâd have been glad for it. It was my hidden-and-stowed-away questions that required me to get to the stage of exploding towards the very source of the very source. It was such a relief. Like many, Iâd found myself caught in a cycle of leaving a suitcase of questions, objections, fantasies and furies at the doorway of the halls of prayer. Learning to bring a few of those items into chapels helped me take whatever it is that religion does more seriously.
The last word in that poem is "hungry." Hunger, in Irish, is Gorta, a word we use for a bodyâs hunger, but also a word we use to imply the Great FamineâAn Gorta MĂłrâa famine that was not a potato famine, but was, like most famines, influenced heavily by the political machinations of the day. While perhaps two million Irish people starved to death from the years 1845 to 1847, the British landlords (grabbed lands, I hope you didnât need me to say that) were making money by supplying over half the corn and half the cattle to Britain. Hungry people were filling ships with foodstuffs theyâd farmed but would never be nourished from. People who couldnât pay the rent to live on the land that had been stolen from them were being evicted. Kindly neighbors who brought in evicted neighbors were subject to a new law that made such hospitality a crime. All of this being watched over by people who said they had God in mind. Jesus Christ. He deserves everything he can get.
TM: You wrote of living overseas, and sharing an occasional meal with people who were lesbian, gay, or bisexual, and âhaunted and loved by God,â but who âhad found the welcome of the church to be more airy than substantial.â You receive a call that the local priest wants to come to the house and join the dinner, but the caller says the priest âis keen to be seen to respond.â You focus on that language, and consider a few paradoxes. The priest came, brought some wine, and you spent time together. You remain friends. But you let him know that his presence there was fraught, and that what you needed to see âwas less his kind words around the privacy of a table and more his public words in the halls of the powerful. Show us your change, please, I asked.â I canât help but think of your recent erasure poem in response to the Vatican Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faithâs statement on the blessing of same-sex unions. Do you feel, as you write in the book, that âfaith shelters some, and it shadows othersâ?
PĂT: God almighty, that priest. He was a lovely man. Heâs still a priest, and one of the good ones. But the level of entitlement he had to send a message to meâvia a secretaryâthat heâd heard I had a gathering of LGBT people in my house and he wanted to join, in order to be observed to be doing the right thing⊠that left me speechless. Of course he couldnât come. I wouldnât even tell him the night of the week, and I was aghast at how heâd found out. But he came alone to talk about the message.
There was so little consideration of the safety of the people around that table. Many of them would have feared being fired by himâor, at least, his machineryâhad the story of their sexuality become known to him. Was the priest gay? Well, perhaps. But in this instance, unfortunately, who cares? There was a roomful of people seeking sanctuary around a table hoping that a Thursday evening in a kitchen in West Belfast could give enough courage to survive till the next month. His presence there would have been a little echo of empire.
It was a demonstration of the chasm between intention and impact. He would have said that he intended no harm, he intended no worry or threat. But actually his intentions werenât really of any interest or consequence. His presence there, his self-invited presence, would have had an impact far beyond any intention heâd have used to butter over whatever awkwardness heâd have felt. Iâve grown suspicious of my own intentions, too. Itâs all well and good for me to say I mean well. But Iâve been alive long enough to know that when I say I mean well, that thatâs only sometimes true, and even when it is true, it can still wreak havoc.
Anyway, like I said. He was a lovely guy, but the luxury of his imagined innocence was a luxury he alone could luxuriate in. I stay in touch, I do. I text him, too. Iâm always happy to hear from him, and support him if I can, or ask him for his help if he can give it. Heâs not some boogie monster. But he needed to wise up about the impact of his association on a room of people at risk of unemployment.
So of course the establishment of religion works for some and not for others. For some it is important to find a pathway out, knowing that your imagination and safety and creativity might find life outside the borders of religion. Others find religion a salve, and I believe them. Some people say that such violences of religion are evidence of establishment, not Jesus. But I donât accept that at all. Jesus said many things that, today, would not be considered acceptable. Sheep and Goats and Jews and Dogs and Belief and Gehenna and Pharisees and Divorce and Eunuchs and Devils, oh my. I would love to talk to him. But heâs not an innocent in the corner with angels dancing round his head. Thereâs blood on his hands, and not just his own. Thereâs blood on mine, too. Not just my own either.
That recent statementâor Responsumâfrom the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was such a strange pronouncement. It was ostensibly aimed towards LGBT people. But any Catholic LGBT person already knew that any space for our unions to receive blessing was unlikely to come from the top. In reality I think that the true target of that document were allies of LGBT people within the structures of the church. It was a shot across the bow of a Cathedral. You next.
Such a use of language from such a platform was a complete failure of language, and authority. So I wanted to mine for something of curiosity within a text that was utterly predictable in its aggression.
Groups of belongingâwhether thatâs a country, a religion, a gender, an ethnicity, or a clubâhave a long history of violent bordermaking. Some groups are easy to join and impossible to leave. Others deny anything outside them exists. Some are almost impossible to join, butâll kick you out if you sneeze the wrong question. What is the quality of fluid belonging, is something thatâs at the heart of my interest. I donât need toâor, my god, want toâbelong to all the groups. Every group has membership requirements, etc. Thatâs probably okay, or at least, it could be. But itâs the quality of entry and departure that interests me. And the quality of the stories told about those who left too; and those who wanted to leave but didnât for fear of repercussions; and those who needed to; and those who stayed, too; and all of us in the in-between.
Weâre back at story. I know. How neat.
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