Poems About Sculpture (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets Series)

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Most Anticipated: The Great Winter 2025 Preview

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It's cold, it's grey, its bleak—but winter, at the very least, brings with it a glut of anticipation-inducing books. Here you’ll find nearly 100 titles that we’re excited to cozy up with this season. Some we’ve already read in galley form; others we’re simply eager to devour based on their authors, subjects, or blurbs. We'd love for you to find your next great read among them.  The Millions will be taking a hiatus for the next few months, but we hope to see you soon.  —Sophia 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. —Michael 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, Hurston’s final manuscript reimagines Herod, villain of the New Testament Gospel accounts, as a magnanimous and beloved leader of First Century Judea. —Jonathan 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. —John 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. —Sophia 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 Christophe—the man who played a pivotal role in the Haitian Revolution—might help Americans understand why. —Claire 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 writer—whose primary preoccupation was war novels that blend the brutal with the fantastical—to get the NYRB treatment. May it not be the last. —JHM 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. —SMS 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 Award–winning author of Arresting God in Kathmandu, this is Upadhyay’s most ambitious yet. —JF Metamorphosis by Ross Jeffery (Truborn) From the author of I Died Too, But They Haven’t 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. —MJS 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. —SMS Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor (Morrow) African Futurist Okorafor’s 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 character’s speculative posthuman novel, Rusted Robots. Okorafor deftly keeps the alternating chapters and timelines in conversation with one another. —Nathalie 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 world’s original gadfly, culture will be better off for it. —JHM 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 2023’s The Half Known Life, makes a case for the sublimity, and necessity, of silent reflection. —JHM 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. —SMS Good Girl by Aria Aber (Hogarth) Aber, an accomplished poet, turns to prose with a debut novel set in the electric excess of Berlin’s bohemian nightlife scene, where a young German-born Afghan woman finds herself enthralled by an expat American novelist as her country—and, soon, her community—is enflamed by xenophobia. —JHM The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilanovich (Two Dollar Radio) Krilanovich’s 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. —MJS 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. —SMS 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. —MJS 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. —SMS We Do Not Part by Han Kang, tr. E. Yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris (Hogarth) Kang’s Nobel win last year surprised many, but the consistency of her talent certainly shouldn't now. The latest from the author of The Vegetarian—the haunting tale of a Korean woman who sets off to save her injured friend’s pet at her home in Jeju Island during a deadly snowstorm—will likely once again confront the horrors of history with clear eyes and clarion prose. —JHM We Are Dreams in the Eternal Machine by Deni Ellis Béchard (Milkweed) As the conversation around emerging technology skews increasingly to apocalyptic and utopian extremes, Béchard’s 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. —JF 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 memoir’s title from her 2013 solo album. Followers of PNW music scene chronicles like Kathleen Hanna’s Rebel Girl and drummer Steve Moriarty’s Mia Zapata and the Gits will consider Case’s backstory a must-read. —NodB 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. —SMS Blob by Maggie Su (Harper) In Su’s 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. —MJS Sinkhole and Other Inexplicable Voids by Leyna Krow (Penguin) Krow’s 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 Anthropocene’s wilderness. —NodB Black in Blues by Imani Perry (Ecco) The National Book Award winner—and one of today's most important thinkers—returns with a masterful meditation on the color blue and its role in Black history and culture. —SMS 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. —SMS 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. —SMS At Dark, I Become Loathsome by Eric LaRocca (Blackstone) After Ashley Lutin’s wife dies, he takes the grieving process in a peculiar way, posting online, “If you're reading this, you've likely thought that the world would be a better place without you,” and proceeds to offer a strange ritual for those that respond to the line, equally grieving and lost, in need of transcendence. —MJS 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 Dazai’s career, demonstrates his penchant for exploring conformity and society’s often impossible expectations of its members. —MJS Mutual Interest by Olivia Wolfgang-Smith (Bloomsbury) This queer love story set in post–Gilded 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. —SMS 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. —CK 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. —JHM 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. —SMS Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya (Random House) As odes to the "lifesaving power of books" proliferate amid growing literary censorship, Chihaya—a brilliant critic and writer—complicates 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." —SMS 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. —NodB 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 story—from her youth in 1960s Cairo to her experience of the 2011 Tahrir Square protests—a vivid portrait of faith, feminism, and contemporary Egypt emerges. —SMS 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 “an obscure Roman goddess who re-imagines herself as an assassin coming to terms with an emerging performance artist identity in the late-20th century,” seems right up that alley. —JHM 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 connections—between Eraserhead and "The Yellow Wallpaper," Inland Empire and "mixtape aesthetics," Lynch and the work of Cormac McCarthy. Lynch devotees should run, not walk. —SMS There's No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, 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 Céspedes, banned in the fascist Italy of the 1930s, that follows a group of female literature students living together in a Roman boarding house. —JHM Beta Vulgaris by Margie Sarsfield (Norton) Named for the humble beet plant and meaning, in a rough translation from the Latin, "vulgar second," Sarsfield’s surreal debut finds a seasonal harvest worker watching her boyfriend and other colleagues vanish amid “the menacing but enticing siren song of the beets.” —JHM People From Oetimu by Felix Nesi, tr. Lara Norgaard (Archipelago) The center of Nesi’s 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. —JF 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. —CK 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. —SMS Theory & Practice by Michelle De Kretser (Catapult) This lightly autofictional novel—De Krester's best yet, and one of my favorite books of this year—centers 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. —SMS The Lamb by Lucy Rose (Harper) Rose’s 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 “strays,” wining and dining them until they feast upon the bodies. —MJS 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 pandemic—a catastrophe that exposed the nation's disregard, if not outright contempt, for its underclass. —SMS 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. —SMS 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. —SMS Lion by Sonya Walger (NYRB) Walger—an successful actor perhaps best known for her turn as Penny Widmore on Lost—debuts with a remarkably deft autobiographical novel (published by NYRB no less!) about her relationship with her complicated, charismatic Argentinian father. —SMS 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. —SMS Autotheories ed. Alex Brostoff and Vilashini Cooppan (MIT) Theory wonks will love this rigorous and surprisingly playful survey of the genre of autotheory—which straddles autobiography and critical theory—with 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. —CK Crush by Ada Calhoun (Viking) Calhoun—the masterful memoirist behind the excellent Also A Poet—makes her first foray into fiction with a debut novel about marriage, sex, heartbreak, all-consuming desire. —SMS 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. —CK 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. —SMS 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. —SMS Death Takes Me by Cristina Rivera Garza, tr. Sarah Booker and Robin Myers (Hogarth) The Pulitzer winner’s 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. —MJS 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. —MJS Song So Wild and Blue by Paul Lisicky (HarperOne) If it weren’t Joni Mitchell’s 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 Mitchell’s work follows two other inventive books about her life and legacy: Ann Powers's Traveling and Henry Alford's I Dream of Joni. —JHM 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 classic—a book so squarely up my alley I'm somehow embarrassed. —SMS 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. —MJS 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 novel—in this case, about a trans high school teacher befriending one of her students, the only fellow trans woman she’s ever met—but all the more excited for it. —JHM Optional Practical Training by Shubha Sunder (Graywolf) Told as a series of conversations, Sunder’s 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. —JF 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. —SMS The Age of Choice by Sophia Rosenfeld (Princeton UP) At a time when we are awash with options—indeed, drowning in them—Rosenfeld'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. —SMS 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. —SMS 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 2024’s behemoth The Obscene Bird of Night. —JHM Remember This by Anthony Giardina (FSG) On its face, it’s another book about a writer living in Brooklyn. A layer deeper, it’s a book about fathers and daughters, occupations and vocations, ethos and pathos, failure and success. —JHM Ultramarine by Mariette Navarro (Deep Vellum)  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. —MJS 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 Hollywood—and its meaning-making apparatus—as an essential key to understanding Didion's life and work. —SMS Seven Social Movements that Changed America by Linda Gordon (Norton) This book—by a truly renowned historian—about 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. —CK 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 more—from Kate Chopin and Gwendolyn Brooks to Philip Roth and Shakespeare—to forge a new story for her life. —SMS Goddess Complex by Sanjena Sathian (Penguin) Doppelgängers have been done to death, but Sathian's examination of Millennial womanhood—part biting satire, part twisty thriller—breathes new life into the trope while probing the modern realities of procreation, pregnancy, and parenting. —SMS 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 Peters’ beloved latest. The novel even has crossdressing lumberjacks. —JHM On Breathing by Jamieson Webster (Catapult) Webster, a practicing psychoanalyst and a brilliant writer to boot, explores that most basic human function—breathing—to address questions of care and interdependence in an age of catastrophe. —SMS 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. —MJS The Antidote by Karen Russell (Knopf) Russell has quipped that this Dust Bowl story of uncanny happenings in Nebraska is the “drylandia” 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 townspeople’s 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 area’s lethal dust storms. —NodB 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. —SMS 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. —CK 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 Clark’s 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. —NodB 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. —JHM 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 canon—most of them women of color—from Frances Ellen Watkins Harper to Zitkala-Ša. —SMS I'll Love You Forever by Giaae Kwon (Holt) K-pop’s 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. —JHM 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. —MJS 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. —SMS 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. —MJS Guatemalan Rhapsody by Jared Lemus (Ecco) Jemus's debut story collection paint a composite portrait of the people who call Guatemala home—and those who have left it behind—with 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.–based 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. —JHM 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. —SMS 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." —SMS Hey You Assholes by Kyle Seibel (Clash) Seibel’s 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. —MJS 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. —CK 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. —CK Paradise Logic by Sophie Kemp (S&S) The deal announcement describes the ever-punchy writer’s debut novel with an infinitely appealing appellation: “debauched picaresque.” If that’s not enough to draw you in, the truly unhinged cover should be. —JHM [millions_email]

A Year in Reading: 2024

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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 year—an intentionally vague prompt—and 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 “eating a six-pack of paper towels.” (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 Tulathimutte’s 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 Hammad’s 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 YIR—and witnessing the joy it brings contributors and readers alike—has been the highlight of my tenure as editor. I’m profoundly grateful for the generosity of this year’s 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 Millions’ free newsletter to get the week’s entries sent straight to your inbox each Friday. —Sophia 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 Ayşegül Savaş, 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 París, 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, 202120202019201820172016201520142013,  2011201020092008200720062005

What Kind of Angel: On Percy Shelley

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Two hundred years ago this summer, the maddeningly reckless poet Percy Bysshe Shelley rode a double masted sailboat straight into the maw of a storm off the coast of Italy. He drowned, as did the two other men on board when the ship went down 10 miles from shore in the Gulf of La Spezia. This was the definitive end to Percy’s life, but, as often happens in literature, only the beginning of his story. For days after he disappeared, Percy’s family and friends held out hope that perhaps he was alive and convalescing somewhere along the coastline. Eventually, his body washed ashore near the town of Viareggio, dashing all hopes. According to one account, he was only identifiable because of a book of Keats poems in his jacket. Percy had wanted to be buried in Rome, but the manner of his death made this wish difficult to fulfill. Italian law dictated that anything washed ashore by the sea must be burned to prevent the spread of plague. Percy’s body was buried in the sand for weeks until a small group could perform a beachside cremation. The party entrusted to this gruesome duty included Lord Byron, Europe’s most famous poet and one of Percy’s closest friends. Byron later wrote of Percy, “He was the best and least selfish man I knew.” In his 29 years, Percy published a smattering of poems, a play, and a pair of pretty bad novels; gentlefolk and members of the establishment knew him in life more for his godless behavior than the lilting cadence of his lines. From the vantage of the gatekeepers of literature, on the day his ashes were interred in a cemetery in Rome, Percy Bysshe Shelley seemed destined to be forgotten. Lucky for us, they were very wrong. In the decades after his death, Percy gained a literary reputation as “a sweet angel,” beautiful in art if ineffectual in life. This view is a misreading on two fronts, of the nature of angels (who are bearers of havoc) and of the particular man in question. * Percy Shelley was born into a family with a hereditary title that was destined to be his as firstborn son; this, plus the wealth of his paternal grandfather, should have guaranteed him an easy stride through life. But young Percy didn’t make anything easy on himself. He was 18 when he got himself kicked out of Oxford for being an atheist and an anarchist. He was hardly the only unbeliever on campus, but he was the kind that went so far as to write and distribute a hard-to-ignore pamphlet entitled “The Necessity of Atheism.” After Oxford, he married a tavern owner’s daughter and together they traveled to Dublin. Percy wanted to find a printer to distribute a tract that he wrote urging the Irish to agitate for better rights. He paid for the printing of 1,500 copies of a diatribe that urged a nonviolent rebellion (but rebellion nonetheless) against British rule. Distribution of his seditious tract proved a challenge so he tied copies to balloons and tucked them into toy boats and sent them down the Liffey. His words failed to stir Irish hearts, which was perhaps to his advantage as it meant he escaped the rebuke of the crown, and after two months he pulled up stakes and returned to England. As the son of a baronet, Percy had none of the bourgeoisie’s how-will-I-pay-my-bills motivation to curtail his provocative behavior—that is, until his father Sir Timothy cut him off in 1814. His father had put up with all manner of antics but he could no longer look the other way after Percy abandoned his wife and children and ran away to France with 16-year-old Mary Godwin, the daughter of one of Percy’s nonconformist heroes. (Let the record show, this wasn’t the first time that Percy had run away with a 16-year-old, as he’d eloped with his first wife Harriet when she was the same age. He’d been 18 then; he was 22 now—old enough to know better and to realize he was breaking a vow, albeit one he’d never really believed in.) In his letters Percy often sounds quite mystified by Harriet’s sustained shock at his desertion. From Percy’s point of view, the question was not whether he was loyal to a father or a wife or fellow subjects of the crown. He had to follow the starry commands of Love, Justice, Truth. Marriage was a mere human invention, and his allegiance was to a higher power. His love for Mary Godwin was furious, primal, transcendent; he did not, would not resist. None of this was proper behavior then—and, to be fair, it would be considered poor form now. You can make excuses because of his genius—and he was a lyrical genius—but Percy the truthsayer was likely rather hard to bear as a person. In all areas of life, large and small, petty and consequential, profane and sacred, Percy was annoyingly insistent on acting in opposition to what was expected or accepted. He would not adhere to rules if he believed the rules were wrong. He repeatedly elevated ideas over emotions. He saw himself as a conduit for the electricity of the universe. On subjects that mattered he could brook no compromise. Allegedly he was gentle and shy in person, but in correspondence he sounds like someone dangerously convinced of the total redeeming power of his own good intentions. I don’t think he thought himself as a man out of step with the world—he saw the world as out of step with its own ideal self. * Unmarried but inseparable, Percy and Mary lived in open defiance of social propriety for more than a year in London. Percy never divorced Harriet, but he also almost never visited her, barely acknowledged her in writing, and likely rarely thought of her. Before long Mary became pregnant with his child. A girl was born early and lived only long enough to leave them both stricken with grief when she died. Within months, Mary was pregnant again. A boy, this time. She would have four children with Percy over the course of their life together; all but one of them died before Percy did. In addition to his insistence on living with a woman who was not his wife, Percy harbored many scandalous ideals for the time: freethinking, polyamory, women’s suffrage, vegetarianism. He remained politically motivated but he was no longer sending tracts aloft on hot air balloons. Activism was one more thing that he had tried and failed, along with being a novelist. He labored over a long, nameless poem about the dark, relentless forces of creativity, a poem that eventually found publication as “Alastor,” which showed some promise as a poem but failed to strike fire with readers. He was a particular kind of failure: the wow-you-are-so-talented-it-hurts-to-say-no, the oh-this-would-be-great-from-someone-else kind of failed writer. Talent isn’t the sine non qua of success in publishing. Sometime near the start of 1816, Percy became convinced that he was dying of tuberculosis. He is often characterized in Mary’s journals as “unwell” or “very unwell,” “feverish and fatigued” or taking to bed. He had always presented a fragile constitution, but he seemed worse than usual that spring. The decision to flee England with Mary and their baby boy William was in part a gamble to see if fairer climates would reinvigorate his health. It also, rather obviously, got them away from the judging eyes of almost everyone they knew. Once again with Percy, a step forward occurs only in response to some adversity; he cannot go out into the world unless his house has burst into flames, or he has become certain that some pox is upon it. Convinced he was dying, pledged into deep debts, shunned by proper society, and now in foreign exile—not the moment, by most lights, to produce a life altering masterpiece. But that’s what happened in the weeks and months Percy spent abroad. All the adversity of his life to date had led to this. * In Geneva, Percy’s and Mary’s daily routine narrowed to their books, their child, and each other. They even found a partial relief from Mary’s stepsister, Claire Clairmont, who relied on them emotionally and financially. Claire was obsessed with Lord Byron, who was also renting (far more palatial) rooms on the lake, too. She was the one to introduce Percy to Lord Byron, in fact, and therefore deserves at least some of the credit for the deeply consequential friendship that formed between the two poets. All through their stay in Geneva, they wrote—all of them, not just Percy but also Mary, Lord Byron, even Lord Byron’s personal physician. They wrote letters, diary entries, short stories, poems, novel drafts. And Percy wrote his first real masterpiece. “Mont Blanc” is, of all Percy’s poems, the one that best balances tone and topic, concrete images and abstract ideas, universal setting and personal import, and it sticks the landing with beautiful turns of phrase. Straight out of the opening gate the poem thunders with words as forceful in their flow as the Alpine mountain they evoke: The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom— Percy had written lovely lines before, and wrote lovely lines many times over in the years after he wrote “Mont Blanc.” But I am given pause when reading this poem because in addition to sibilance and beauty it also offers a dialogue between views, like separate factions of a single, fascinating mind. In the third section of the poem, Percy offers lyrical awe about the steeps and caverns of Mont Blanc and then with little more than a literal dash he vaults into a new, equally dramatic dialogue about himself and the nature of reality, the truth or untruth of all he sees: Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.—I look on high; Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl’d The veil of life and death? or do I lie In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep Spread far around and inaccessibly Its circles? In the span of a few dozen lines of blank verse, the voice of the poet traverses from “Look at this amazing mountain!” to “Is this mountain even real?” to “Am I real?” and “Are any of us really real?” For the reader, all this fancy footwork can be hard to see at first. It’s even harder to point out as an essayist sampling a few lines. This is because “Mont Blanc” accumulates more than it presents at any moment. I can pick and choose from the stanzas and offer great lines, but the real force is one that you get by ascending from start to finish, like, well, a mountain climber. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there, Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them. Where does it all come from? How did Percy pour out this new work over the course of a few weeks in and around Geneva? Such heady writing is only possible for a person who has developed a practiced ease with abstractions, who sees the real world and the world of forms as interchangeable. For Percy, this deliberative skill took shape over all his adult life, but it advanced in an important, dramatic way during the time he spent that summer in constant dialogue with his new friend, Lord Byron. Byron had a quickening effect on Percy’s imagination. Years before the two men met in person, Percy noted in a journal: “Mary read to me some passages from Lord Byron’s poems. I was not before so clearly aware how much of the colouring our own feelings throw upon the liveliest delineations of other minds; our own perceptions are the world to us.” Now, in Geneva, the pair traded back and forth ideas on galvanism, animal spirits, witchcraft, the cult of Bonaparte, if ghosts are real, alchemy, the divine right of kings, the keep of dreams: Percy and Lord Byron were opposites in temperament but they shared a relentless interest in the fringe of the ordinary world. Each day they talked and talked till late into the night, pickaxing at the hill of human interests. If weather permitted, they spent their days sailing on the lake. Indeed, for a man who could not swim, Percy Shelley spent a remarkable amount of time on boats. During a three week period, Mary notes nine separate times that Shelley (as she calls him in her diary) “goes out on the boat” on Lake Geneva, usually with Lord Byron. Eventually, the poets circumnavigated the lake on a long trip. They spent much of the time rereading Rousseau’s novel Julie. They were morbidly elated by the parallels to art when they almost drowned in a gale in the same waters where Rousseau’s characters had brushes with death. According to Byron’s letters and journals, in the course of the trip, he drafted a new canto for “Childe Harold,” the poem that made him world-famous, and Percy sketched out material that he would later turn into another long poem, “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.” This idyllic Geneven interlude lasted only four months. But it altered Percy’s life, and as a result his poetry and English poetry as a whole. The friendship with Lord Byron would last for years, although it would never thrive as it did this summer, and never elicit this kind of compact, concise mastery (although, to be sure, there were many more great poems to flow from Percy’s pen). Byron, Percy, and Mary spent time together again in Italy a few years later, but much had changed by then. In his letters at the time Percy spoke with far more apprehension about his more famous friend. Percy sometimes made mention of what he saw as Lord Byron’s wasted potential. Byron in his poetry did not engage with grand ideals as Percy did. To be fair, not many people anywhere did or could engage with their ideals like Percy did. Byron mostly wanted to have fun. In the end, after Percy drowned, it was Lord Byron who led the party to cremate his old friend’s body. Although even in that Lord Byron was never quite as dedicated as one might have wished. The funeral pyre on the beach that burned Percy’s body took hours to do its work, likely due to the saturation by seawater, and Byron became more and more agitated as they waited. He was acutely bothered by the spectators who gathered nearby on the beach to watch him. Byron was a celebrity in a very modern sense, and like many modern celebrities, he was agitated by the constant surveillance. Eventually he walked into the sea and swam away, paddling far out to where his valet waited in a boat. The rest of Percy’s small group of friends would finish the job without him. * In a Google contest, Mary Shelley beats Percy Shelley by a country mile: a search query for her right now produces 12 million results; Percy gets around 2.5 million. It wasn’t always this way. For over more than a century, the results were even more lopsided but in the other direction: if there were a steam-powered Google in the Victorian era, its results pages would favor Percy by perhaps 100 to one. But seeing these two as either a winner or a runner-up is to miss the truth of their entangled lives. In the daily journal that she kept while they lodged at Lake Geneva, Mary writes about sharing a story she has written with Percy. It’s a short thing, only a few pages; from our vantage we know it is the first glimmerings of what will eventually become Frankenstein. But she had no idea at the time. Later, she will admit that she might have given up on this strange little idea except for Percy’s reaction: Keep writing, he told her. She continued, writing her own words but with his steady encouragement. Two years later, Frankenstein was published anonymously with a foreword by Percy. As word spread that its author was Percy’s companion, his not-actually-wife-but-she-acts-like-it, a mere girl of 18 (Byron’s words), let’s just say there were skeptics. Percy must have actually written it, some people theorized. That would explain the godlessness behind the book’s central idea: mortal men playing God, making life. Percy’s denials of authorship weren’t very helpful. He had already played peekaboo with the reading public more than once: his 1810 gothic novel St. Irvyne was published anonymously, and that same year he also published a poetry collection that he claimed came from the pen of a woman who attempted to assassinate George III. His and Mary’s decision to keep coy about her authorship of Frankenstein was also in keeping with literary tradition. Daniel DeFoe a century earlier had claimed Moll Flanders and Robinson Crusoe were real figures, and another 100 years before that, Jonathan Swift published the travels of one Lemuel Gulliver as if they were true. In each case, the authors were attempting to give their fictions the respectability of the truth. Were they lying? Sort of. But also sort of no. In this earlier era before photographs, recorded audio, or captured video, you were what you claimed you were; you were what you presented yourself as, unless someone objected; and if someone claimed you were someone different, well, what proof could they have other than their own word or someone else’s? Four years after the publication of Frankenstein’s first edition, Percy’s sailboat went under the waves off the coast of Italy. Mary spent the rest of her life extolling him as a sweet and gentle soul. In a letter written just months after his drowning she casts him in the metaphor that would define him for ages: “an angel whom imprisoned in flesh could not adapt himself to his clay shrine.” Much if not all of the rehabilitation of his image and his poetry is due to her tireless craftwork and her decision to continue to publish posthumous poems and prose from his papers for years. Their life together lasted 2,903 days. Mary would live another 10,435, until 1851. About his writing, she was right to insist that scholars take a closer look. But what about his life, his nature, which she claims was so sensitive, so gentle? Is she to be believed? Taken from the vantage of modernity: Is Percy the man the equal of Percy the writer? Or do the flaws of the latter strike out the contribution of the former? Are these questions even worth asking? To understand Percy, you have to understand this as the context for his life and his art. Percy and Mary made Mary and Percy by fiat: their personas, their literary ghosts only exist because they struggled against all adversity to make them so with their lives and even their deaths. * So, what do we do with Percy? We’ve got his poems, and if you care to read them, you should.; But mostly, he’s forgotten now except as an inside joke. His name comes up mostly in connection with his famous broken sonnet, “Ozymandias.” The poem serves as the title for an episode of one of the greatest TV shows of our time (see Breaking Bad) and as the name of a key character in one of the greatest graphic novels of our time (Watchmen). Ironically, Percy published “Ozymandias” under a pseudonym. Think of it: a poem about how even mighty names lose their power over time is the best remembered poem by a poet who is mostly forgotten and who wrote the poem using a name other than his real name. Even among poets I find that I get some blank looks whenever I bring up his name. Then again, I had almost no interest in Percy Shelley’s life back when I was a 19-year old poet-in-training, too. Everything that I learned about Percy’s life in my survey class on English Poetry could be summed up in five words: He’s the Romantic that drowned. But then at the end of college, I read his play, The Cenci. Believe it or not I really liked it, I wrote in an email to a friend. Around the same time, I read Frankenstein for a class and learned more about Mary Shelley and her life and her doomed beloved. Suddenly, Percy and his poems got more interesting. Or maybe I got a little older, encountered my own adversities in life, and found something relatable in him. He never got more likable. He still struck me as unreasonable, even a bit galling. He was privileged in a way that is grotesque by modern standards. But in his best work he sank a hook into something that still has pull to it. Earlier this year, I visited the Butler library at Columbia University while on a mission to gather material for an essay on Mary Shelley. Alone in a long row of books I found myself confronted with the fact that critical writing about her and her famous novel is dwarfed by analysis devoted to Percy. A complete copy of all 19 volumes of Shelley and His Circle alone takes up significant space. Yet in the world of modern readers the exact opposite is true: it’s all Mary, almost no Percy. I pulled down books and tried to understand once and for all the appeal of the man. I read some of the letters from Percy during their famous stay at Geneva and my first thought was, My God, they were just kids, all of them, no older than I was when I moved to New York City after college. Younger, in Mary’s case. In his lifetime, Percy never had the fame that Lord Byron had, although he was no less good-looking, no less erudite, and far more formally innovative. (And Lord Byron was no moral beacon, either: divorced, famously unfaithful, and suspected of sleeping with his half sister.) Yet Byron was still so swarmed with admirers when he arrived in Geneva that he had to abandon his hotel rooms and rent a house outside of town. Meanwhile, Percy sat in his rooms downhill working on his great poem—perhaps the greatest poem of his era—in uninterrupted obscurity. Why? Why not him? Why not me? Percy’s failures, his fears and his foibles add depth and meaning to his poems, to his otherwise dated lyrical accomplishments. The fact that not too many people really read or cared for his writing while he was alive makes his life all the more compelling to me despite the distance of two centuries, as I am a writer who also sometimes feels like he’s writing into a void, too. There is in Percy’s voice a familiar melancholy, sometimes elusive, sometimes explicit, as when he wrote without self-pity near the end of his life in a short poem: “for I am one / whom men love not.” Laboring alone in a small rented house at the bottom of the hill on Lake Geneva is where I need him. Or in the boat beside the famous Lord Byron, lost in thoughts that almost no one in his lifetime will care about. Gathered around the fire listening to German ghost stories being read aloud. Percy is a great poet whose life might be more useful than his work is now: because there is in everything about him this desire to rise, and not because he likes the sound of his voice but because he longs to tell everyone what he sees from his vantage. The fact of his persistence—no, not just his persistence, his amplification in the face of adversity, it is a reminder that there is no obligation to quit, to give up, to be polite; you do not owe the world acquiescence, or acceptance, or allegiance; you owe it nothing but the singing of the song that you find in your own head. Percy’s life taught me that, teaches me that still now as his lantern fades into the night. Was he disruptive, profoundly flawed as a man, limited by shortcomings both conscious and unconscious? Yes, and probably more. But what kind of angel brings news only of the status quo? What kind of poet speaks only the words you want to hear?