The numbers have my number. They’re out for me, I swear, like a posse hot on the trail. No, not my low reading numbers (35 books) for 2025, but the faThe numbers have my number. They’re out for me, I swear, like a posse hot on the trail. No, not my low reading numbers (35 books) for 2025, but the fact that I’ve been hanging around this joint since 2008 and penned (with a keyboard, which is a neat trick) my first Year in Review in 2016, when some poster or other invented it and it became another year-end task.
So hell with the numbers. I’ll just randomly look at my Year in Books and stream my consciousness (it babbles, as brooks are required to do by law… oh, wait, laws don’t matter any more in the US of A, so never mind that).
The two most memorable books are the two biggest boppers –- Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce and Mann’s Magic Mountain. Did I fall in love with either suitor? I did not, but I found moments of joy in each.
I don’t read a lot of biographies, which is why I force myself to the water occasionally, but sometimes I’m quite taken with them, as I was a few years back reading Laura Dassow Wall’s bio of Thoreau. I came out of that 666-pager liking HDT all the more. I can’t say as much of Jimmy Joyce. I think, the way he treated friends and family at times, he would have been annoying beyond reason. But then, I’ve never warmed much to towering egos like that, and though I respect his magnum opus, Ulysses, I’m not a huge fan of it. The book made me appreciate his vast imagination, mostly, and his important role among the Lost Generation of the 2os (I like to find them through books, you see).
And The Magic Mountain. Good ole Hans. Trapped by his escape, the cure becoming the sickness. Metaphorically, it spoke to me, though there were minor characters on that mountain that I wouldn’t wish James Joyce on (or vice versa). I had to race through chapters that featured the most inane arguments on esoteric matters between these rubes. Thus did my highbrow prejudice wield its ugly head anew (even if Mann was making fun of them). But still, was I glad I climbed that mountain, and did I find things to love on it like the chapter where Hans gets lost in the snow? Happily, I can say: Guilty as charged!
Another fairly large voyage was John Cheever’s Journals. I love reading letters and journals of writers because they usually talk books and craft (ha-ha, I’m popular). Here, though, there were some outstanding descriptions of Connecticut and New Hampshire (he being a New England boy like me), almost like he was using his journal as practice for his stories and novels. Mostly, though, the Journals were diary-like as JC struggled with his bisexuality, a definite no-no in his time. In that sense, readers feel like Father Confessor, hoping to bring the guy sanity. Unfortunately, his Father Confessor turned out to be America’s drug of choice, booze. Alcohol was his undoing.
Other classics I read or returned to include Frankenstein (better than expected), Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (technical merit wonderful, entertainment value less so), Oedipus the King (for teaching purposes), and a reread of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast during a particularly restless period where I was suffering from reader’s block.
A pleasant discovery was Bachelder and Habel’s Dayswork, about two literary types (husband and wife) getting through the pandemic by writing and talking about Melville, the enigma within a conundrum from Pittsfield by way of New Bedford (another New England boy). It led me back to the first 150 pp. of Moby-Dick, which I didn’t mark as a “read” because I was just having fun reading the opening salvos of that more-humorous-than-you-think book. Like Huck Finn, the first half is the best half, probably because Ahab and his towering ego (again with the egos!) didn’t enter, forecastle left, and muck matters up until later).
OK, on to some scattershot comments: My return to teaching led me to two letters I never had to deal with an olden times: “A” and “I.” This, in turn, led me to John Warner’s two books, Why They Can’t Write and More Than Words. JW and I are of common minds regarding the inescapable technology: it’s robbing our youth of their educations. You become a critical thinker the hard way, not the generative AI way. When cheating is THAT easy, it’s hard to resist. It’s also like getting in shape by watching exercise videos on YouTube. Good luck with that! Add to all that the fact that AI raises everyone's electric bills, damages the environment, and is the love child of America's 1% and you have all you need to know. Resist, people. Resist and avoid at all costs.
David Szalay’s Flesh. The verdict is split, not only among GR readers, but among THIS reader’s instincts. It really Jekyll and Hyd (past tense of "Hyde") my reading judgment. I liked the terse style OK, but the protagonist, a big lummox who always gets the lady, flummoxed me. What is it women see in this type of guy? The answer is fleshly, for sure, but it’s not a very rewarding read, if you like change and development in your characters. OK, uh-uh, sure.
It was a hung jury on Saljev Balle’s On the Calculation of Volume. To its credit, it grew on me as I read it, but I kept getting Groundhog Day rip-off vibes and the logic was missing (not that one needs logic in this type of book). Her work also reminded me, in its way, of Jon Fosse’s, only the repetition was less with the words and more with the day the day the day. Kudos for riding a one-trick pony and trying to make it unique, though.
I scratched my history itch by reading Hampton Sides’ The Wide Wide Sea. Wait. Is the theme of this reading year TOWERING EGOS? Mayhaps, my friends. This is all about the undoing of Capt. James Cook, whose charisma took him as far as his faithful ship did. Until charisma set foot on the shores of hubris, that is. Great fun to read. And may hubris hunt down a few political egos on the loose in our day and age as well.
Speaking of my political itch (I’ve broken out in rashes since my radical days in the 60s and 70s, but never so bad as this year), I took care of that via Robert Reich’s Coming Up Short. Maybe he did, ambition-wise, and maybe he has regrets like all of us, but I loved his book and kept looking up whether I should be saying “Hear, hear!” or “Here, here!” as I read his thoughts on where we went wrong and where we're going wrong and (importantly) what we COULD be doing right.
Poetry. Lots of poetry. You learn to write it by reading it. Looking over all the titles, I’d say the most enjoyable was Richard Siken’s I Do Know Some Things. It’s horribly named, but it’s all prose poems, a dark horse in Poetry World. And I like dark horses. I like to feed and water them, brush them, take them out for a trot three times a day. And yes, I learned a thing or two about that oxymoronic oddity, the prose poem. And this was written after the poet had a stroke, making it all the more impressive.
And so another year ends. The future ones kinda scare me, but at least there are books for refuge. Meaning: I’ll be holed up in their shelters come 2026. Hope to see you there, too! Just check your towering ego at the door, if you're saddled with one....more
A few years back, I read and enjoyed Baxter's book Burning Down the House. Pity I forgot him until reading another writer's recommendation of WonderlaA few years back, I read and enjoyed Baxter's book Burning Down the House. Pity I forgot him until reading another writer's recommendation of Wonderlands. I enjoyed this as much or more.
These essays are an equal treat for writers and readers, as Baxter's essays tackle the subject of what makes stories/novels/poems work. Often, it appears obvious, but sometimes it's surprising. And, having many years ago written a YA novel that would ultimately go unpublished, I could relate to his ironic note that beginning writers struggle with plot and often write "plotless" books where characters drift among beautiful descriptions. The irony? Beginning (and young) writers, when it comes to their own reading choices, LOVE plot. Two words, by way of example: "Harry" and "Potter."
One essay tackles "the request" (or demand) moment. Your fiction is off to the races if you include one because it puts immediate pressure on characters and an immediate flame under plot. Something MUST be done, or else. Or else... what? Hmn. Suspense will bring the answers. Eventually.
Another essay, using Job as Exhibit A, discusses how "stories start when things begin to go wrong." Well, hell. Most everything you can think of went wrong for poor old Job. As a writer, your protagonist should have it so bad. And as a reader, the book in your hand should, too, because it creates intense interest.
What about things that have disappeared (or are in the process of disappearing)? Some writing gurus say you should not include them if they are dated goods, but Baxter thinks differently. Dated goods can anchor your character and appeal to some readers, too, who also dream about "the good old days when..."
"Captain Happen: Notes on Narrative Urgency" is probably the most obvious "for writers" essay. A chain of cause-and-effect moments MUST occur, most often triggered by desire and fear, all of it leading to conflict and readers who flip pages (gladly).
Baxter also touts the "one-way gate." Once a character does something, there's no turning back. Turns out, no turning back is GREAT for plot. No do-overs. No whoops-I'm-sorries. It just won't cut it because this gate that slammed shut behind you is LOCKED. I think of Indiana Jones movies. Rocks, gates, trap doors, plummets into pits, falls off cliffs. There's no going back (but the narrative hurtles forward).
Refreshingly, Baxter even goes to bat for "lush" writing. Over-the-top stuff. Long, luxurious sentences. They have their place, he argues. The same goes for Wonderlands, home of the Surreal. Don't always get caught up in the "write what you know" or the "show, don't tell" platitudes that feed the cult of realism. If it's lush and/or surreal but COMPELLING, your readers will gladly follow without complaining about the toll charge on that suspension bridge of disbelief.
As a reader, I learned I have to stop complaining about coincidences writers depend on. Hell with it, if it's both fun and entertaining and plot-sustaining. Enjoy the ride.
And so, yes, I own this book and will likely revisit certain essays. He leavens it all with an interlude that includes a memoirish essay about his own history as a writer and novelist, but it's all for the cause. Well done, Chaz. Well done. Captain Keep Make It Happening, will you?...more
Not sure why I read books like this. Because some day I want to work on a novel, I guess. You know. More than just a one-trick (poetry) pony. Plenty oNot sure why I read books like this. Because some day I want to work on a novel, I guess. You know. More than just a one-trick (poetry) pony. Plenty of poets have taken the plunge, after all.
As McCracken teaches (surprise!) writing at the Iowa Writer's Workshop and the U of Texas Austin, there are some insights from that angle. I guess I like best the format. Each "paragraph" is numbered and they total 280 (in 188 pp.). It made the book more inviting and easier to navigate.
Concrete advice on writing? It's here, though she doesn't lay it on with a trowel and if you're looking for a more specific playbook, you'd best look elsewhere. Quirky? I'd say, with plenty of opinion, humorous touches, admissions that all advice can equally be seen as b.s. (because everyone taking it is different, so of course results will vary).
Fun to read. Light. Didn't move me to start Chapter the First or anything, so not a charismatic wunderbuch. But still, when you read books like this, who cares?...more
This was one of The New York Times "Top 10 Books of the Year." Wow.
I'll give it this -- it's unusual. Set in WWI in France in the heat of battle, it'This was one of The New York Times "Top 10 Books of the Year." Wow.
I'll give it this -- it's unusual. Set in WWI in France in the heat of battle, it's filled with a bit too realistic images of death and carnage. Kraus almost luxuriates in descriptions of the many ways bodies can be cut, smashed, torn, ripped, disemboweled, blown up. As a reader, you almost become inured to the imagery.
The anti-hero, Bagger, resembles Billy Pilgrim in that he's one cynical dude. Only he happens to be the son of a bishop, so there's that dichotomy to remember.
One conceit in the book is the endless sentence. Look at me, Ma, no hands! So Kraus can say he wrote a one-sentence novel but, whatever. The reader just comma-splice pauses periods on whichever commas he wishes.
Depressing, but the angel angle finally gains traction in the last 50 pp. And you get rewarded with a twist. And you see how clever that title really is.
So, yeah. Enjoyed it begrudgingly. Hardly Chrismas season fare, but all's fair in war and literature, right?...more
Charles Wright may still be alive, but his poetry reads a bit like an artifact. With so much modern poetry devoted to identity, identity, identity, WrCharles Wright may still be alive, but his poetry reads a bit like an artifact. With so much modern poetry devoted to identity, identity, identity, Wright still writes about nature. But it's more than that. Time, too. And mortality, the Muse of old that never gets old.
I suppose you could call this outdated. On the other hand, if you've been reading everyone's navel-lint poetry, you might call it refreshing. That's on you.
I'll share one below as long as you appreciate that GR cannot handle a poem's indentations of lines, and if there's one thing Wright likes, it's indentations of lines. Oh, well. Take in the words alone, then, and know that any line NOT starting with a capital letter was indented in the original.
Matins
Sunlight like Vaseline in the trees, smear and shine, smear and shine. Ten days of rain and now the echoing forth of blank and blue Through the evergreens. Deer stand on their hind legs in the bright meadow grasses. The sound of the lilac upsurge rings bells for the bees. Cloud puffs, like mortar rounds from the afterlife, pockmark the sky. Time, in its crystal goblet, laps and recedes, laps and recedes.
If we were the Rapture's child, if we Were the Manichean boy, If we were the Bodhisattva baby, today would be a good day To let the light in, or send it out. We're not, however. We're Nature's nobodies, and we'd do well To put on the wu wei slippers and find a hard spot To sit on, sinking like nothing through the timed tides of ourselves.
NOTE: wu wei in Taoism and Zen Buddhism, unmotivated action; in Chinese, literally "nondoing."...more
As is true of any "Best of," you know from the start that the title is a misnomer. It certainly is NOT the "best poetry of 2025" unless, of course, yoAs is true of any "Best of," you know from the start that the title is a misnomer. It certainly is NOT the "best poetry of 2025" unless, of course, your name is Terence Winch and you happen to be the guest editor. Thus, a better title: "Terence Winch's Best Poems of 2025." No more, no less.
As for me (name not in the title), I found some poems amusing, some pretty good, some pretty lame, and some entirely skippable. You get some usual suspect's, too, who have as much a "Best (and Most Bankable) Name" as they do a "Best Poem": Billy Collins, Denise Duhamel, Robert Hass, Bob Hicok, Danusha Laméris, Sharon Olds, Michael Ondaatje, and Kevin Young being examples.
What does it say about the state of poetry in 2025. Probably the same it said about the state of poetry for the past 50 years: "not" and "much." It is what it is -- a terribly subjective genre bound to cater to or annoy personal poetic prejudices.
Example poem by Fatima Jafar:
In the End of the Beginning of Our Lives
we ate all of our hours together. In shimmering heat I slept on a mattress, a record scratching like bad teeth in the back. From blue paper, I cut out the shapes of letters, cut out stars, full stops, stuck them above my bed to signal anything. Teenage bones belling against light, silent as a hunched palm. We knew everything then: sunsets, sunrises, the charred chalk of winter mornings by the sea. After class, we stirred pots of green tea and watched movies, whirling the worst parts of ourselves into false lives. School was old, its checkered pages and faint ink of bored ideas. Black shoes devotedly filthy against Monday morning, ready for the pink work of our daily mythologies. In the forest of years, we hunted for beauty, dug out of the dirt an older cousin’s tub of eyeliner, liquid glitter, a tube of graying gloss. Taught ourselves, in bramble and in thorn, the slow art of decoration. In mirrors, the easiest part of girlhood stood waiting, as brief and delible as a new flower, begging, begging again, to be plucked.
Originally appeared in The Kenyon Review's Spring 2024 issue...more
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