Last week, I tweeted a list of all the books I read in 2020, which made me realize I have more to say about reading this year than would fit in a tweet, or even a thread.
Good thing I have a newsletter.
In 2021, I’m hoping to broaden the scope of this space—to write more overall and sometimes less about sports. So in the spirit of “sometimes less about sports,” let’s talk books, kind of.
When I was a kid, my dad used to take me and my brother to Library Ltd., a huge independent bookstore not far from our house in suburban St. Louis. Its children’s section was a castle that rose up out of the second floor of the store. Somehow I can’t find any pictures of it online, but to my six-year-old eyes, it was wildly realistic and totally absurd: walls made of faux stone, turrets, funhouse mirrors that reflected back too-wide and too-tall versions of every kid who passed. There was even a moat full of little orange fish and pennies, hundreds of shiny wishes in the middle of this perfect bookstore.
We went to Library Ltd. once or twice a month, any weekend my dad wasn’t working, and we were subject to one rule: We could have as many books as we wanted, as long as we’d finished everything from the last trip. We were the luckiest kids in the world.
In the late ‘90s, Borders bought Library Ltd. It promised to keep the store open, then closed it. The building was razed, and an office for a health insurer rose out of the hole. I wondered where the fish went.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a sucker for place. It’s my favorite thing to write: a description of a field or a house or sidewalk. People’s stories are fine. Places’ stories are better. There’s nothing I’d rather write about than a crumbling stretch of pavement, a stadium left empty for a decade, distorted shadows, the squeak and thud of a door slamming shut. So it makes sense that I’ve never been able to shake Library Ltd., the best place in my book-buying existence. And it makes sense that I love books for everywhere they’ve taken me—imagined and real and in-between.
But when I think back on the reading I did in 2020, place feels different than I’d have imagined it would. In a year where the places I went were severely restricted, I don’t remember taking any extra joy in the way books let me travel. I remember less about the places my books took me and more about the places I took my books.
None of them were very exciting. But I love place for its mundanity: cracks, ants, flat tires, rust, emptiness. I must’ve looked around more this year. I guess I was grateful whenever I had something new to look at. And when I started compiling the list I tweeted last week, my mind didn’t travel to the college in “The Secret History” or the desert in “Valentine.” I didn’t think about Iraq or Brazil or North Dakota. I remembered the places I happened to read and the places I went for the express purpose of reading. I remembered carrying books in my bag, under my arm, in the basket of my bike. I felt my fingers getting cold around them, my hands feeling sticky against pages, my back leaned up against a tree.
Here’s most of what I read, and where I remember reading—or buying, or hearing about—some of it, in a year that didn’t have nearly enough where.
A Little Life (Hanya Yanagihara) is a basement bar with bad cell service, a recommendation from a guy I just met, an online order while sipping beer from a can.
Catch and Kill (Ronan Farrow)
The Library Book (Susan Orlean)
Disappearing Earth (Julia Phillips)
Nothing to See Here (Kevin Wilson)
Evicted (Matthew Desmond)
Beartown (Fredrik Backman)
The Dearly Beloved (Cara Wall) is a bedroom in New Orleans, an open window, a bandage on my right index finger, a lingering worry that I might’ve caught coronavirus while getting stitches the night before.
The Secret History (Donna Tartt)
Conversations with Friends (Sally Rooney) is a blanket in the backyard, a swimsuit in March, caipirinhas at noon, my brain feeling fuzzy at the edges.
Nine Lives (Dan Baum) is a willow in Audubon Park, a scar on my finger, a curtain of leaves, bells chiming, an afternoon gone in a blink.
Know My Name (Chanel Miller) is the front stoop of my family’s house in New Orleans, the eerily empty street beyond, a bike messenger pulling away, thank you, a brown bag, a dark kitchen.
The Underground Railroad (Colson Whitehead)
Slouching Towards Bethlehem (Joan Didion)
Such a Fun Age (Kiley Reid)
Valentine (Elizabeth Wetmore)
Homegoing (Yaa Gyasi) is my bed in Chicago, settling in after a move, a cold spring day, wishing this May would feel more the May in my imagination.
The Great Believers (Rebecca Makkai)
Nobody Will Tell You This But Me (Bess Kalb) is my patio, a back alley off of Ashland Ave., breeze that stinks of pizza, squinting, sunblock smudged on the title page.
The Last Shot (Darcy Frey)
How to Be an Antiracist (Ibram X. Kendi)
The Vanishing Half (Brit Bennett)
Columbine (Dave Cullen)
The Good Soldiers (David Finkel) is my step-grandma’s small funeral, the dark cool of my parents’ basement, a walk to the post office, a tan envelope to mail it back to the guy I borrowed it from.
Long Bright River (Liz Moore)
Trust Exercise (Susan Choi)
Stealing Home (Eric Nusbaum)
Writers & Lovers (Lily King) is a beer on a bench at a quiet intersection in my neighborhood, mask up, mask down for a sip, mask up again.
Thank You for Your Service (David Finkel)
There There (Tommy Orange) is picking something to read off of a low shelf that’s divided into neat cubes, remembering to leave the book jacket in its place.
Girl, Woman, Other (Bernadette Evaristo)
The Hate U Give (Angie Thomas)
Say Nothing (Patrick Radden Keefe)
I Feel Bad About My Neck (Nora Ephron)
A Burning (Megha Majumdar)
The Night Watchman (Louise Erdrich)
Born a Crime (Trevor Noah)
We Were the Lucky Ones (Georgia Hunter)
Transcendent Kingdom (Yaa Gyasi)
Buzz Saw (Jesse Dougherty)
Memorial Drive (Natasha Trethewey) is a couch in Washington D.C., an air conditioning vent above my head, dusk at 8 p.m., cold legs on worn leather.
King of the World (David Remnick) is my boyfriend’s bookshelf, 8 a.m. sun, waiting to walk to the coffeeshop, sitting on the floor, rough carpet, tying shoes, surprise that this book about boxing is what I can’t put down.
The Mothers (Brit Bennett)
The Warmth of Other Suns (Isabel Wilkerson) is a tote bag of books in the backseat of my car, a grocery bag stuffed with alcohol—so heavy, it’s double-bagged.
Americanah (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie)
Rust (Eliese Colette Goldbach)
Leave the World Behind (Rumaan Alam) is a breakfast sandwich, a too-full cup, cold brew streaked down the front, thank god we take the book jackets off when we read.
The View from Flyover Country (Sarah Kendzior)
The Tender Bar (J.R. Moehringer)
How Much of These Hills Is Gold (C. Pam Zhang) is my back against a tree in Logan Circle in D.C., November sun, a dead squirrel, wondering when that frisbee will knock someone in the head.
Exciting Times (Naoise Dolan)
The Cold Millions (Jess Walter)
I Wrote This Book Because I Love You (Tim Kreider) and Daddy (Emma Cline) and The Secret Lives of Church Ladies (Deesha Philyaw) are one weekend in December, whiskey, dark afternoons, Chinese food, wishing I had more days to read before the end of 2020.
Memorial (Bryan Washington)
Fifty Words for Rain is a too-big blanket on the too-small couch in my dad’s study, my feet on a throw pillow by my mom’s head, never quite feeling comfortable.