Does listening to audiobooks count as reading? Here it does. Let’s discuss your favorite reads — or listens.
Jonathan Evison’s “Lawn Boy” attempts to tackle social inequality with humor and heart, but its execution falters. While the book has been challenged for fleeting references to sex and gender identity, these objections feel exaggerated. The real discomfort lies in its critique of systemic barriers that make stability and success elusive for marginalized communities—a critique that some may find hard to swallow.
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.
"Woe" serves as both a touching tribute to a beloved cat and a comforting reminder to those who have lost a four-legged friend that their sorrow is valid and shared.
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.
While the author primarily focuses on the experiences of straight white men, his narratives transcend the typical masculine tropes. With raw emotional honesty, he taps into the inner workings of the male psyche, examining the impact of toxic masculinity, friendship, fatherhood, trauma, loss, identity and nature on the common man.
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.
Ultimately, “Slasher” is an intriguing experiment into metahorror and a homage to 80s slashers (mostly Jason Voorhees) that narrowly misses its mark. If you’re looking for something punchy, gory and unapologetic, I’d suggest Chuck Tingle’s “Bury Your Gays” instead.
Overall, “Cursed Bunny” is a creative, yet uneven collection. While some stories are haunting and memorable, others feel stretched or underdeveloped. Fans of unconventional horror might find it worth the read, but for me, it was hit or miss.
“All the Colors of the Dark” is a sprawling novel that tries to do too much and ends up delivering very little. At best, it's aggressively mediocre, and at worst, it's a contrived and overly familiar story built on tropes.
Ultimately, “Devil House” is less about the crime itself and more about the ethical considerations of how we consume and produce true crime stories. Darnielle asks readers to reconsider the humanity of those at the heart of these crimes – individuals who had lives, families and dreams, but are reduced to sensational headlines or footnotes in someone else’s story.
Despite its length, “IT” stands as one of Stephen King’s most unsettling and complex works, effectively weaving psychological and supernatural horror with real-world brutality. Although King has made a career out of exploring dark and unhinged themes, “IT” pushes those boundaries.
The first half of the book had genuinely good moments, and I'll give the author credit for including a cursed black cat—one of the few charming touches. By the end, however, the story lost all coherence, and I was skimming the last few chapters. All-in-all, “Craven Manor” is simply a gothic misadventure.
While the graphic novel was initially intriguing, it felt a bit lacking in depth, particularly considering its length. I also began to question the necessity of Backderf telling this story. He was only a passing acquaintance of Dahmer, so the armchair psychology and hindsight observations felt a tad inflated.
Named “the greatest American novel you’ve never heard of” by The New Yorker, John Williams’ “Stoner'' certainly earns that distinction with a simple, beautifully woven story about a Midwestern English professor living a remarkably unremarkable life.
Justin Torres’ “Blackouts” is a stylistic exercise that feels more concerned with its own cleverness than with engaging its readers. The novel's experimental structure, essentially a mixed media piece of art that blends past and present, is undeniably ambitious, but it frequently veers into pretentiousness masked as creativity.
José Saramago's “Blindness” is a harrowing exploration of humanity stripped bare. The novel’s premise—a sudden, inexplicable wave of blindness—is a chilling backdrop for a descent into a Hobbesian world of survival and savagery.
This is a classic for a reason. Nothing I say about this novel will diminish its relevance, but I must be honest with myself and others when I say that I didn’t really enjoy it.
