Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
All in Audiobook
To his credit, Baldacci doesn’t sanitize the war. He allows his characters to bristle at their government, at the Americans and at each other. The book isn’t burdened by a need for patriotic polish, and its refusal to lean into easy sentimentality is refreshing.
It’s a curious novel, blending fiction with recognizable realities, that made me care about a family I would have rather forgotten. So I’m surprised to say I’m glad I picked it up. Not because of the subject matter but because it proves Sittenfeld is one of the most fascinating writers working today.
While the romance at times veers into saccharine territory – declarations of love come frequently, and some gestures, like the grand finale at Wrigley Field, feel cinematic to a fault – it is counterbalanced with an exploration of what it means to forgive, even if forgetting is not an option.
At its core, the novel grapples with the fragility of truth – how it is twisted, feared and contested. Miller offers no easy solutions, but she does provide a playbook: meet people where they are, understand what drives them and push back – sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully.
“Somewhere Beyond the Sea” wants to be a beacon, but it ends up an echo of what made “The House in the Cerulean Sea” so beloved. It wants to offer the inclusive magic Rowling won’t, and for some readers, that alone may be enough. But intent doesn’t equal impact. The message may still shine through, but the journey is far less enchanting than before.
“Blue Sisters” is, in many ways, a Trojan horse of a novel – what seems like a light, fast read is actually a deeply serious and heartfelt story about grief’s enduring grip and the slow, often painful process of rebuilding in its wake.
This novella has solidified my disinterest in Burroughs and, perhaps, in the Beat Generation as a whole. As for the film adaptation, I’ll take a pass – I’ve given this story enough of my time.
Daniel Black’s “Isaac’s Song” is less a sequel to “Don’t Cry for Me” than a companion piece, giving Isaac’s long-awaited perspective on his relationship with his father, Jacob. While “Cry” was a reckoning told through a dying father’s letters, “Song” is a son’s introspective journey through memory, contradiction and generational trauma.
While not without its uneven moments, this is a testament to Jones’ ability to blend personal history with fiction, elevating the struggles of Black children into something literary, urgent and deeply human.
Robin R. Means Coleman and Mark H. Harris lean into their respective expertise – academic and journalist – to explore the evolution of Black representation in horror, organizing their insights around themes, tropes and industry trends that often mirror shifting racial attitudes in America.
Octavia E. Butler’s storytelling is gripping but uneven, blending chilling foresight with a narrative that sometimes felt disjointed. While her vision of America is undeniably powerful, the novel’s fragmented structure and numerous themes occasionally dilute its impact.
Abraham Verghese’s lauded novel effectively blends drama with cultural and historical perspectives but it also sometimes struggles under the weight of its own expansiveness.
Split between two narrators – Mark Wolfe, a self-absorbed technical writer from Pittsburgh, and Lakesha Williams, his diligent and thoughtful work colleague – the story kicks off with a mundane office conflict that feels disconnected from the rest of the novel's ostensible focus: the search for Godwin, a young African soccer prodigy. This odd opening sets the tone for a book that reads like two distinct narratives clumsily stitched together.
For all its flaws, “The Brothers K” offers a reminder of the bonds that hold families together despite their differences. The Chance family, though flawed and frequently at odds, is united by love and loyalty – a timely message about finding the good in one another.
For readers interested in a nuanced look at coming out later in life, particularly in the mid-2000s – a time when acceptance was growing but still fraught with homophobia and fears of ostracism – “The Lie” offers an authentic, if imperfect, reflection.
As usual, Larson’s storytelling brings history to life in vivid detail, a rare skill in nonfiction, but here, the ambitious scope feels unwieldy – even for a pro. The concurrent narratives and numerous characters create a sprawling account, yet “Demon” lacks the cohesion and emotional depth that defined his best works.
Garth Greenwell’s “Small Rain” explores the isolation and unraveling of self that so many of us endured during the first COVID-19 summer. His unnamed protagonist experiences this in a way that’s magnified tenfold, as he is confined to a hospital room with a potentially fatal diagnosis: an aortic dissection. The fact he survived such low odds and remains coherent adds an underlying tension to every encounter. He is suspended in a liminal state, living on what feels like borrowed time.
At first glance, Rebecca McKanna’s “Don’t Forget the Girl” may seem like another mystery thriller critiquing true crime culture – and to an extent, it is – but it stands out with its sharp edges and an unexpectedly poignant queer love story. This adds depth, transforming what could have been a straightforward thriller into something more personal and thought-provoking.
Everything you need to know about “Long Island Compromise” is in the title. It is essentially a 500-page exploration of the ways in which people can be screwed over by each other, a job and the relentless pursuit of money.
With 26 stories in the collection, it's unsurprising that not all of them resonated. I enjoyed about half, while others felt flat, somewhat confusing or a bit derivative of stronger stories in the mix. Still, this anthology serves as an excellent entry point to the world of Indigenous writers who are making waves in literature right now.
