Back when I used my LiveJournal, I used to post, at the end of the year, a list of all the books I'd read (for pleasure, and for the first time) over the course of the year, with brief summaries/reviews. This, I feel, is a tradition that should translate very well to the form and content of this blog, so, without further ado:
Beloved, Toni Morrison (275 pp.). Oh wow. Haunting, beautiful, moving. I read it almost exactly I year ago so I can't recall much more details, but definitely an outstanding book I could see myself re-reading (not something I do with that many books).
Bastard Out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison (309 pp.). So hard to read (especially that one climactic scene, which anyone who has read the book will remember with horror and a vague sense of nausea, I'm sure) but so incredibly exciting and relatable and well-written.
Lord of Chaos, A Crown of Swords, The Path of Daggers, Winter's Heart, and Crossroads of Twilight, Robert Jordan (986, 856, 672, 766, and 823 pp., respectively). Those who used to read my old reading lists on LJ will recognize that these are books six through ten of an epic fantasy series (The Wheel of Time) that I started reading in 2008 at the recommendation of a friend. There are three more out that are already published, and a final, fourteenth one planned for release early in 2012. I honestly don't remember much of the first three I read this year, but I know that these middle books feel a bit like the lackluster middle seasons of that great TV show you've loved forever: it's been fabulous before, you have faith that it will be fabulous again, you still love the characters, and, most importantly, you've been with it so long, you just want to see what happens in the end (Season 9 of "Friends," anyone?).
Insecure at Last, Eve Ensler (200 pp.). Borrowed from a friend, this book was fascinating. Eve Ensler is, of course, the playwright responsible for "The Vagina Monologues," and this book dealt with some of the women's issues Eve is best known for, as well as exploring our culture's deep aversion to insecurity or discomfort. Wonderful read.
The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold (372 pp.). Another loan from a friend (I have pretty awesome friends, don't I?), this was very well done. Once you get past the rather graphic depiction in the first few chapters of the sexual assault and murder of a young girl, the novel becomes a painful, moving account of a family trying to move on. Very well-executed; not an easy or fun book, obviously (the plot makes that difficult) but a worthwhile, enjoyable read.
The Lost Continent, Bill Bryson (350 pp.). I love Bill Bryson. Very, very much. The man is hilarious, insightful, and so appreciative (and therefore communicative) of all the small details surrounding him. He is, of course, best known for his travel books, of which this was one, as he traveled across much of America experiencing small towns. He almost lost my adoration when he declared that he finds the redwood, my state tree and also my favorite tree, to be "an ugly tree," but I decided to forgive him, as, after all, he comes from Iowa ("someone had to," he says).
The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison (160 pp.). Not quite as engaging as Beloved, but moving and mysterious and beautiful and gut-wrenching.
Brave New World, Aldous Huxley (257 pp.). Although they're often lumped together, this book struck me as different and much more frightening than 1984. Orwell's dystopia is a world created by a controlling government and the population that doesn't fight it, but Huxley's is much more a world created by its mindless, apathetic (quite literally unfeeling) populace itself. The fact that this world comes from the inside out, from a populace so invested in wanting to avoid pain at all costs, something that sounds all to familiar, made it that much more frightening.
The Gun Seller, Hugh Laurie (340 pp.). Yes, a book by the guy who plays House. This was hilarious and engaging and a delightful send-up of spy novels. The plot got a little bit confusing for me around the middle or so (how many times can someone be a double/triple/quadruple agent before he himself forgets who he's really working for? [I felt the same way about Snape, btw]), but it didn't detract from being a rollicking good read. I recommend it as a vacation book, or for anyone who wants to read something that will make you feel like you're on vacation.
Troilus and Criseyde, Geoffrey Chaucer (427 pp.). Yeah, that's right. I'm that medievalist who got so bored of reading popular novels in the year between college and grad school that she read Chaucer for fun. You wanna make something of it?
Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, Gregory Maguire (368 pp.). Gregory Maguire, like Bill Bryson and a few others, is an author I would probably follow to the end of the earth. Luckily, he's never lead me over the edge, and this book too - with a provocative, Dutch retelling of the Cinderella story - was a joy to read.
Paradise, Toni Morrison (318 pp.). More confusing than the other two Morrison books I read this year, slightly less provocative, more plot-driven, not quite as engaging, but definitely pleasurable.
An Acceptable Risk, Robin Cook (404 pp.). Back in May, I drove my then-roommate to a gig in San Jose, performing interviews in the lobby of a hotel. Like a lot of lobbies, this one had books in it left behind by previous visitors, and I picked this one up when I saw that it was a medical thriller involving the Salem Witch Trials. It turned out to be an engaging, but not particularly brilliant book dealing with a specific wheat mold responsible for the plagued girls in the 17th century, and some bizarrely cannibalistic scientists in the 20th. Good summer read.
Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy (408 pp.). Let me begin by saying that Thomas Hardy is one of my favorite authors ever. That being said, I probably was less horrified and traumatized by this book than others might be, just because I'm familiar with Hardy and sort of knew what to expect. As depressing as the book is, it's so fantastically rich with emotion and physical detail that the heart-break it causes is definitely bittersweet.
Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis (251 pp.). My dad bought this for me to read while we were camping, and I loved it. The portrayal of life as a history lecturer at a "red-brick university" in mid-century England was hilarious and not too far removed from the world of humanities academia here and now.
Heart of the Matter, Emily Giffin (368 pp.). I went to visit my grandparents this summer, and this was in my grandmother's stack of books to read. I was putting off reading my heavy Victorian novel (see below) so I picked it up. It was an over-the-top soap opera of a book, but it must have had some merit, otherwise I would have stopped reading it. Can't seem to remember what that merit was, though.
Daniel Deronda, George Eliot (883 pp.). If I could marry a Victorian novel, it would probably be this one. Brooding, thoughtful, magnanimous hero? Check. Flawed, but human slightly-less-significant-heroine? Check. Exploration of a culture never usually talked about in this time period (the Jews)? Check. Love, love, love.
Bloodhound, Tamora Pierce (534 pp.). I think there's only one book of Tammy's that I haven't read since I started reading her books when I was eleven, and that was because it was a spin-off for a character I wasn't that interested in. She may still be writing for an age demographic that I left behind about a decade ago (OMGWTFBBQ how am I so old?!) but her strong, funny female leads always make me smile.
Finding Oz, Evan I Schwartz (315 pp.). This was a fantastic biography of L. Frank Baum, the man behind the book that inspired my favorite movie of all time. Schwartz did a fantastic job of suggesting (rather than imposing, as some others have done) links between Baum's life and his writing, and I learned a great deal about the man and his family (for instance, his mother-in-law was one of the most well-known, radical feminists/suffragettes of the time).
Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens (796 pp.). Again, so much love. Love love love love love. Funny, sweet, all in all one of the most pleasurable books I read all year (and probably the most famous and well-written of them!).
The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins (374, 391, 390 pp.). After Harry Potter wrapped a few years ago, there was an empty slot in the world for really well-written, engaging, frightening, not-at-all-dumbed-down science fiction/fantasy for young adults. And then these books came along to fill that slot. Brava, Suzanne Collins, and brava, Katniss Everdeen.
Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury (179 pp.). I know - how had I never read this before? I'm not sure, but somehow I hadn't, so I did this year, and I'm glad. I found the second half to be somewhat disjointed from the first, but Bradbury (whose Martian Chronicles I re-read and re-fell in love with while camping with my dad this summer) didn't let me down.
A Wizard of Mars, Diane Duane (550 pp.). Like Tamora Pierce, I've been reading Diane Duane's books for just over a decade now (though Duane is less prolific). Again, I'm outside of the target age range, but I still love Nita and Kit and Dairine and I still love the way Duane has crafted magic as a form of quantum physics, as her teenage wizards deal with things like entropy and the maintenance of energy.
The Mermaid Chair, Sue Monk Kidd (368 pp.). This was the first book I read on my new Kindle (thanks Dad!), based on the recommendation of a friend. I enjoyed it and found it to be well-written, but not as delightful or engaging as The Secret Life of Bees, Kidd's debut novel.
The Wizard Heir, Cinda Williams Chima (480 pp.). I'd heard this young adult novel (part of a trilogy) was a fun fantasy read. I mistakenly started with the second instead of the first book of the series, and whether because of that mistake or just because of the way it's written, I found it totally uncompelling.
I Am Number Four, Pittacus Lore (448 pp.). This young adult science fiction, however, the last book I finished this year, was utterly compelling and engaging. I might even go see the movie starring my beloved Dianna Agron, and I'll probably read the sequel when it comes out.
(So, 32 books and 14,620 pages. Damned good year for reading, I'd say.)
Then, of course, there is the story of The Book I Stopped Reading. This was a big deal for me when it happened last week, because I almost never hate a book so much I don't finish it. But this book, First Stringers by Gerald Weinberg, which I got for free (thank goodness) off of LibraryThing's Early Reviewer list, was so poorly written and edited that I decided watching paint dry, streaming seven episodes in a row of "Veronica Mars," and moving on to a better book (just started Everything Is Illuminated) was a much better use of my time.
I hope you're all (if there are any of you, that is) enjoying the end of this turbulent year and ringing in the new one in flawless style. Bring it on, 2011!