George Abraham and Noor Hindi, eds., Heaven Looks Like Us: Palestinian Poetry. Some poets in this new to me, some I’d read in their own collections. I think one of the benefits of a collection like this is that it’s much harder for an uncareful reader to think “I guess I don’t like Palestinian poetry” because there’s so much variety of it, even the stuff that’s focused on Being Palestinian as opposed to all the other things Palestinian poets write poems about.
Lloyd Alexander, Westmark, The Kestrel, and The Beggar Queen. Rereads. Ha. “Rereads.” Probably the most reread books of my life after the first decade. I was just thinking that maybe this would be the reread when I got nothing new out of them except continued enjoyment and then I came upon the passage that made me cry about living in Minnesota in early 2026, thanks, Lloyd. (Seriously though thanks, sometimes we need the catharsis.)
Rebecca Boyd, Exploring Ireland’s Viking-Age Towns: Houses and Homes. Glad that a friend talked about this, because it does exactly the sort of thing I like where it talks about where the interior walls went in a typical building changing over time and what that meant socially and where people stored their hazelnuts and that. Material culture for the win.
Andre M. Carrington, ed., The Black Fantastic: 20 Afrofuturist Stories. A book club read, and I feel like reaction was not unified but more unified than a lot of the other books we’ve discussed–a lot more closer to “we all think this is a very good story,” “nobody likes this story but we all respect it,” etc. Still a lot that’s worth discussing here.
Christopher de Hamel, The Manuscripts Club: The People Behind a Thousand Years of Medieval Manuscripts. Lavishly illustrated and focused on the people who have been focused on the manuscripts. If you’re a person who thinks of yourself as having friends and kindred souls across spacetime, de Hamel is with you, and here is a book about some of his and the (increasingly old) books they loved.
Peter Dickinson, King and Joker. Reread. One of the most coming of age coming of age stories I have ever read in my life, wrapped in a tidy murder mystery, with Dickinson getting to do an alternate history of a type that is often neglected, the fairly minor change type. I still do like this for its complicated relationships that are allowed to stay complicated.
Amal El-Mohtar, Seasons of Glass and Iron. Discussed elsewhere.
Susan Griffin, A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War. Creative nonfiction about the effects of violence at every scale, sweeping where I would have liked it to be specific, readable but not really what I was looking for.
Rokeya Hussain, Sultana’s Dream and Padmarag. Mostly historically interesting rather than fun reads for me: this is the work of a very early 20th century Indian feminist writer who used the structure of a dream to talk about the future–popular at the turn of the last millennium, from what I can tell. It was very much a “nuh uh we don’t suck, you suck” vision in places, but one can understand that in context. And now I know.
Ange Mlinko, Venice: Poems. Literal and figurative Venice, waters and references. I liked this in a mellow sort of way, even though they aren’t all mellow poems.
Jared Poon, City of Others. I’m not sure what’s getting us so many good Singaporean authors available in the US in the last decade or so, but I’m for it, I’m absolutely for it. This is in the “weird magical things handled by a specialist in a modern city” subgenre, which I like depending on the skill of the author and the interest of the magical things, and this has both skill and interest.
Anthony Price, The Labyrinth Makers. Reread. Several of the other spy things I had recently revisited from the mid-late twentieth were, frankly, stupid, and I was a bit worried that this, which I remembered as non-stupid, would also be stupid. It was not. Whew. It was clearly a spy novel written both by and about a white British man in 1970, but with less of the attendant gender stuff and a lot less of the attendant race stuff than one might fear in that context. There are several more in this series, which I will also be revisiting as I get around to it, I think. One of the virtues of this series is that I remember them varying considerably; we’ll see if and where that also ends up being one of its drawbacks.
T.K. Rex, The Wildcraft Drones. Discussed elsewhere.
John Sayles, Crucible. This is exactly what I wanted out of a John Sayles novel. I’m pretty sure he didn’t write it just for me, but he could have. (This was also true of A Moment in the Sun and Yellow Earth.) This one is centered on Detroit in the Great Depression, with tentacles as far north as the UP and as far south as Brazil. It has Sayles’s use of multiple perspectives that are genuinely different to make for a richer story of its placetimes and their people. Love it. I did notice that his rather too frequent habit of italicizing the single syllable of a word that would make the sentence sound like it would if David Strathairn was saying it, but you know, we all have our quirks.
Cat Sebastian, Star Shipped. I had enjoyed the others of Sebastian’s things I’d read, two mysteries and an historical novel, all with a m/m love story in them, so I thought, hey, maybe I will like a genuine romance by this author, maybe we have found the place where my taste and genre romance overlaps. Answer: not quite. I read the whole thing, and it was fine, it’s a nice book with nice people in it, but all the questions I had for the narrative were not the ones it was interested in answering. I can easily imagine describing a book the same way–“two actors who have been on the same science fiction TV series for years fall in love and have to navigate their personal, professional, and public selves”–and having it be focused on the questions that interest me…and that would not be this novel, which was largely interested in their relationship. Which is exactly what its genre claims it will do, and the people who are looking for that will likely find it very satisfying. Ah well, it’s good to explore these things to find out.
Una L. Silberrad, Success. Kindle. I spent a lot of my college years and just beyond thinking and talking about the way that the image and self-image of physics and chemistry changed after each of the two World Wars, but it’s still fascinating to stumble upon something like this, a pre-Great War book that lionizes its engineer hero to a degree that’s been impossible since my grandparents came of age, that seems to take as its thesis that brilliant engineers gotta brilliant engineer, that assumes as obvious that of course a British engineer has the right to sell his weapon plans to France and Germany…in a novel that came out in 1912…. I continue to enjoy the places Silberrad actively rejected some of the standard romance plots that don’t fit her characters. This is a book that also has places where I’m not sure whether she’s actually neutral on there being background Jewish characters, but there’s room for that reading, so I went with it. (Narrative: so lots of this guy’s friends were Jewish; me: same, buddy, same; narrative: now on to the plot that has nothing to do with his pals; me: sure, okay.)
Rebecca Solnit, The Beginning Comes After the End: Notes on a World of Change. Another essay collection, about building the new in a time of turmoil, not one of her more outstanding books but still worth a read.
Anthony Trollope, Phineas Finn (The Irish Member). Kindle. Is it Trollope’s fault? the thing where people want to tell the stories of the emotional and professional lives of politicians without being, you know, political? Because I hate that thing, and here’s a bunch of it–quite a large bunch–he is no more committed to brevity here than he ever was. The ending only makes sense structurally: you can see that’s what he’s working towards, but not because he’s making anything make it satisfying, just because that’s what this shape of thing is going to do and by God it does it. The thing is, it’s Trollope, so this is not his least satisfying book, not by a long shot, because he manages not to make Finn a cartoon Irishman, thank God, except that it makes me say, okay, look, you could see some of the trouble of being a shunned ethnic minority in this context? yes? and yet when it came to Jewish people in your other books? yes? no, apparently no? But also it is not nearly one of the most satisfying Trollope books, because the tropes don’t play well with the actual characters he’s written. I see that there’s a sequel, so I looked up a synopsis, and I think he saw that he’d done the same thing, but it doesn’t make me want to read the sequel really, because I will get even angrier at the treatment of at least two characters as tools of the titular character’s arc, I think.
Olivia Waite, Nobody’s Baby. A novella with an unusual shape of mystery enabled specifically by the science fiction setting, which is much more satisfying to me than having science fiction upholstery and mystery engine. There were a few bits that were more mannered than I’d like, but I’d just been reading Trollope and may have gotten oversensitized.
Lesley Wheeler, Mycocosmic. Poems both metaphorically and literally about fungi, definitely right up my alley and I bet right up the alley of several other people around here too.
Darcie Wilde, The Matter of the Secret Bride. Another of the Rosalind Thorne mysteries–one of the two my library didn’t have, so I read it a bit out of order. It’s the kind of mystery series where that doesn’t matter greatly, and the places where it touches on actual history were entertaining as hoped.
Yoojin Grace Wuertz, Everything Belongs to Us. I felt like the ending of this book did not really come together at all. The things Wuertz was trying to do with class at the beginning just fell apart, and especially how they tied in with the title mostly fell apart, and the bit where people actually overcame their obstacles to reach their goals mostly happened off the page between the last proper chapter and the epilogue. I hate to spoiler something like this, but I know that infant death and particularly infant death for plot convenience are very, very bad things for some of my friends to encounter unawares, so I’m going to say right out: there is a baby who is on the page for a large chunk of the novel and whose presence is not convenient, and then he just dies off the page and no one has to have any emotional reaction to it. Which is too bad, because the beginning was very promising, and we don’t get a lot of novels in English about Seoul in the late 1970s. Endings are hard, I’ll tell you that for free.