Bluets by Maggie Nelson (January)
Ploughshares (January Bonus Round!)
The Honjin Murders by Seishi Yokomizo (February)
Cleopatra by Stacy Schiff (March)
She Comes First by Ian Kerner (March Bonus Round!)
The Membranes by Chi Ta-Wei (April)
Black Margins by Sa'Adat Hasan Manto (April Bonus Round!)
The Tea Dragon Society by Kay O'Neill (April Bonus Round!)
The Bee Sting by Paul Murray (May)
Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard (May Bonus Round!)See also:
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2017
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2018
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2019
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2020
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2021
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2022
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2024
- (At Least) 12 Books in 12 Months - 2025
"Admit that you have stood in front of a little pile of powdered ultramarine pigment in a glass cup at a museum and felt a stinging desire. But to do what? Liberate it? Purchase it? Ingest it? ... You might want to reach out and disturb the pile of pigment, for example, first staining your fingers with it, then staining the world. You might want to dilute it and swim in it, you might want to rouge your nipples with it, you might want to paint a virgin's robe with it. But still you wouldn't be accessing the blue of it. Not exactly." (page 3)
This was the second piece of Maggie Nelson's I've read (the first was The Argonauts in November 2021, which I loved). It is really just a book about the author's love of the color blue, and related reflections, which I enjoyed!
"Imagine, for example, someone who fucks like a whore. Someone who seems good at it, professional. Someone you can still see fucking you, in the mirror, always in the mirror, crazy fucking about three feet away, in an apartment lit by blue light, never lit by daylight, this person is always fucking you from behind in blue light and you both always seem good at it, dedicated and lost unto it, as if there is no other activity on God's given earth your bodies know how to do except fuck and be fucked like this, in this dim blue light, in this mirror. What do you call someone who fucks this way?" (page 18)
"'We mainly suppose the experiential quality to be an intrinsic quality of the physical object'--this is the so-called systematic illusion of color." (page 20)
"I could drink every single drop of alcohol in my house, which includes the rest of this beer and a bottle of Maker's Mark. I could let myself be fucked mercilessly by many strangers at once, as in my first sexual fantasy: I am sent halfway across the world in a cardboard box with a lot of postage on it. The journey is long and rough and invariably involves much jostling by camels. When I arrive, a tribe of men opens the box under a hot desert sun, and out spills my small body. They are all eager to touch it." (page 53-54)
"I remember, in the eighties, when crack first hit the scene, hearing all kinds of horror stories about how if you smoked it even once, the memory of its unbelievable high would live on in your system forever, and you would thus never again be able to be content without it. I have no idea if this is true, but I will admit that it scared me off the drug." (page 81)
"This man had one tattoo, a navy blue snake, which I liked to watch against the white of his wrist when the rest of his hand had disappeared inside me. He got this tattoo to commemorate the night that all of his snakes died, a winter night in Connecticut when it was so cold and the heat shut off, so he put as many lights as possible against the snakes' cage to try to keep them warm. Then we fell asleep and the heat came back on and the snakes overheated and died." (page 83)
"'As a rule we find pleasure much less pleasurable, pain much more painful than we expected.' You don't believe him [Schopenhauer, a philosopher]? He offers this quick test: 'ompare the feelings of an animal engaged in eating another with those of the animal being eaten.'" (page 87)
Exclusively fiction. Edited by Victor Lavalle.
My favorites were: The Drift by Jac Jemc; Terrierman by Zara Karschay; and The Joke by Joanna Pearson.
Quick murder mystery novel I picked up at Books and Books on a whim. A fun-enough casual read, but nothing to write home about.
Borrowed this book from Abbey Ladwig-Conway at my office, who is really into ancient Egypt (it's her Roman Empire, if you will). The book is a biography of Cleopatra, but in turn also ends up being a bit of a survey of the Ptolemaic Empire from around 100 BC to about 30 BC, and the Roman Empire under Ceasar and then Antony (and Octavian).
The front cover is beautiful.
It was not my favorite piece of nonfiction I've ever read, I must say. But I do feel like I learned a lot about that era of history and that geographic region. One of my main gripes with the book was that the writing style was often pretty hard to follow, and a lot of sentences could have just been written more plainly to communicate the same idea more simply. I think it was written the way it was to come across as beautiful and enchanting prose, but it really just got in the way of understanding the factual content.
I read this book during a difficult time in my work life. Cleopatra's triumphs were motivating. Along those lines, this quote was relatable:
"The art of speaking," it was later said, "depends on much effort, continual study, varied kinds of exercise, long experience, profound wisdom, and unfailing strategic sense." (It was elsewhere noted that this grueling course of study lends itself equally to the court, the stage, or the ravings of a lunatic.)
The book is about redefining the legacy of Cleopatra away from conniving seductress towards astute regional leader. Sure, I'm sold. But everybody can agree that Cleopatra--her lifestyle and empire--was absolutely opulent and elegant and wealthy. That has been interesting to read about as I start to get settled in Miami, which is also a city that prioritizes expensive luxuries and excess. I'm still ambivalent about my relationship to luxury.
The book speaks about the city of Alexandria. The city seems like it was great--metropolitan, historical, filled with culture and depth. I'm sad it no longer exists, I would love to live in a city like the one described in the book.
Mid.
Short Taiwanese speculative fiction about gender, mommy issues, skin care, and consciousness. More sci-fi than I would typically choose for myself. But I read it for a book club with some of my favorite people.
The notes section at the end was fascinating, especially the discussion on punk culture in Taiwan.
Had such a lovely day discussing everything under the sun in the park (including decarcerating disability and the ethics of child-rearing). Was able to pop over to a JVP meeting at the same park right afterwards, which was a really cool moment of feeling like I really belong to the community in Miami.
Aanand Shah (one of the three in my life) traded this book with me for a copy of Bankrolling Empire by Sudev Sheth (see April 2025). Black Margins is a collection of short stories by a classic desi writer. They were interesting and dark.
My favs were The Black Shalwar; For Freedom's Sake; Saha'e; Toba Tek Singh; Ismat Chughtai; Black Margins.
A very dark (and fair) shoutout to the Jain community in one of the short passages from the eponymous Black Margins:
"When the mohalla was raided, some members of the minority community were murdered. The survivors fled. However, one couple took refuge in the basement of their house.
The husband and wife spent two entire days and nights expecting marauders to barge in any second. No one came.
Two more days passed. Their fear of death lessened. Their need for food and water became more pressing.
Four more days passed. By then the couple no longer cared whether they lived or died. They came out of their hideout.
In a feeble voice, the husband tried to attract people's attention, 'We've come to surrender, please kill us.'
His interlocutors were thinking, 'Killing is a sin in our religion.'
They were all Jains.
They consulted among themselves and then handed the couple over to the people of another mohalla for 'appropriate action.'"
Cute palate cleanser graphic novel I read for a book club I've been enjoying in Miami! Tag yourself, I'm the ginger-tea dragon.
Gifted to me by Shayan. A lot of build up for an ending that was interesting but not mind-blowing. I liked that more or less all of the plot threads did ultimately resolve, so it did feel well-crafted in that sense.
I initially felt similarly underwhelmed by Anna Karenina when I read it in January 2017, but the scope of Anna Karenina grew on me more over time. Respectfully, Paul Murray is no Leo Tolstoy, and I don't know if The Bee Sting will grow on me the same way. Nevertheless, it was an entertaining novel that I didn't mind reading.
"If Cass didn't have any money, which was most nights, they would go to Clarke's, or Coady's, or Devine's, and find a group of boys they didn't know who'd buy them drinks. This was Elaine's idea: to Cass it sounded like one of the madcap schemes she'd dreamed up when they'd first become friends, like trying to get free eyeliner by telling the woman in the chemist they were models. Unlike those plans, however, it was incredibly successful. All they had to do was sit at the bar and the boys would appear. Though they were probably not so much boys as men. They were rangy types in Ralph Lauren shirts and pointy boots, they were square-headed farmers up for the mart, they were sales resps, fitters, electrical engineers. They istalled extractor fans or sold digital storage solutions. They had been to Australia and Alaska. They had car keys, and business cards, wedding rings and pictures of babies on their phones."
Cass never knew quite what to say to these men, but in a different way to not knowing what to say to Rowan, because in these conversations, she realized, it didn't actually matter what you said. Talking was only a kind of distraction or diversion while something else went on under the surface. She couldn't figure out if she and Elaine were supposed to be fooled by it, like if the men thought they were innocently chirruping away in apparently harmless conversation while unwittingly falling under the men's sway, or whether they were acknowledged to be in on it too, like th men knew it was fake, and this was all a strange game, simultaneously boring and exhilarating.
Elaine was good at it -- at pretending not to be aware of this ulterior activity. SHe would tell the boys/men they were receptionists from the Sports Centre, or trainee journalists for the local paper, or occupational therapists from the next town over, blithely prattling on while the men stared at her like dogs at a steak. Likewise, when the men bought drinks she would pretend to think they were just being generous. And they were generous. You'd ask for a beer, they'd get a vodka chaser too, you'd ask for a vodka, they'd come back with a double. Before you knew it you were shitfaced and you hadn't spent a cent.
If it was Thursday or Friday one of the Ralph Lauren shirt-wearing men might pay for the girls into Paparazzi's, where they would dance with Elaine in the same expectant, desultory way they'd listen to her story about beign occupational therapists. It was hilarious to watch -- these men with their biceps and their neck tattoos, jiving awkwardly to Wake Me Up Before You Go-go. Cass knew Elaine had no intention of kissing them; she knew too that Elaine could keep dancing for hours. They thought they were closing in on a goal, but there was no goal; she just wanted to see how long they would stick it." (page 64)
"She had never seen Daddy like this Usually any man came within ten feet of her Daddy would be rolilng up his sleeves ready to put the frighteners on him BUt it was like he thought Frank was there for him not her He never stopped to wonder why the brilliant athlete the miraculous young sportsman beloved of the whole town should be there hanging on his every word and buying him pints That was Frank's gift That's what she learned about him He'd talk to anyone A duke or a derelict And when he did he made them think they were the only ones in the world A gift yes A curse too because all of those peopel thought they had a claim on him But she didn't know that yet and listening to the two of them she would have begun to think that it was in fact Daddy Frank had come over to talk to only that every so often he'd steal a a glance at her and there would be a shock ran though her and he'd smile and she'd smile and she knew" (page 212)
"Not difficult to be this new man: he could never have imagined, growing up, how easy it would be. .Oh, the details were hard, of course. Running a business was hard. Raising a family was hard. He got so tired when the kids were small that sometimes he'd fall asleep on his feet. Yet sleepwalking was possible now as it had never seemed before. The world was made with this kind of life in mind, he came to realize. The world was a machine designed to sustain and perpetuate this kind of life -- adult life, normal life. It wasn't like college, when every moment bristled with pathways, alternatives, strangers and confusion. Everything was linear, everything made sense, the future appeaered before him like a railway track, moment by moment, day by day, carrying him onwards without his needing to do a thing.
What surprised him was how happy it made him. Dancing to Shakira with Cass and her Barbies. Balancing rocks on a log with her, laughing when the pile fell over. Sitting in the showroom, having 'picnics' together in the new Passat, the new Jetta, reading My Little Pony books from the library, eating Oreos, watching the town pass by outside. He did not sleepwalk through these moments. Every pleasure civilization had to offer suddenly seemed a paltry thing, compared to this --sitting in a stationary car with his daughter, going nowhere. THen PJ was born, and his happiness only grew. Where was it even coming from? Some aquifer within him, invisible till now, that the children had found a way to tap into. Reading Spot again, reading That's Not My Dinosaur. In the woods now there were two squirrels ranged against the hunter, one red, one grey." (page 446)
"And so we learn to cover ourselves up, with products, labels, masks of one kind or another. Clothes, goods, sports teams, belief systems, politics, nationalism -- things from outside that we use to represent who we are. I'm the guy who's a Marxist, I'm the guy with the fancy watch, I'm the guy from this place not that. When you look at me, that's what I want you to see. Still different to you, but in an understandable, categorizable way.
Back when I was a student here, twenty years ago, I was a master at this kind of cover-up. You wouldn't have guessed that from talking to me. I was out, which was not so common at that point. People thought I was brave, and in a way that was quite true. This was a time when gay men, or men who looked gay or were suspected of being gay, regularly got beaten up. Nevertheless, my bravery was built on a foundation of fear. Because what really scared me wasn't that poeple would see I was gay. It was that they would see I was me. Even if they hated me as a gay man -- or a Trinity type, or a Protestant, or whatever it might be -- theat was far, far better than that they should see the real me, who I believed was repulsive, shameful, unlovable. So my sexuality became a tool I used to distract away attention from myself." (page 508).
"Does marriage have a sell by date like everything else
That's what she said Not that long ago but before all this You were all in Bojangles together GIrls listen to me she said If you had the chance to go back in time knowing what you know now Would you do it again Leaving the kids out of it would any woman in their right mind marry her husband again?
Well that had you all stumped Even Una Dwan who'd usually offer some sort of retrospective
It was Roisin who spoke up in the end You remember it how you were surprised THe one who was having so much fun since Martin left her Swingle Having a ball Still it was she who said now: But you can't go back in time
How's that Geraldine said
You can't go back in time she said Isn't that the whole point of it Marriage I mean That's why you do it Because you can't go back You can only go forward So you're making a vow you'll go forward together Stay together even though you'll change get sick get old That's the vow" (page 623)
Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett (which I had so much fun reading in the original French in April 2018) meets Hamlet by Shakespeare (which I thought was just okay when I read it in October 2024). The NPC nature and casual suicidism of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern really mirrors the same in Vladimir and Estragon from En Attendant Godot. The Tragedians, and their absurd appearances (like out of the barrels on the ship at the end of the play), mirror Pozzo and Lucky.
I've read one other play by Tom Stoppard, Leopoldstadt (which I had a medium time reading in January 2024), and honestly this play felt so different and unrelated.
I thought the play was fine, but I don't think I fully understood the hype. Maybe it would be more fun to see it performed for me to get more out of it (it seems like it has a lot of opportunities for physical comedy).