My 2022 reading list

This year, I “only” read 40 books, short of last year’s 55, though this year I did spend more time reading RPG books (reviewed separately), and I did start a 41st. I finished my two-year reread of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin series, and revisited several other favorites, some of which held up better than others. I continue to log each book to Blurt as I finish it; this is a recap of the year, lightly editing those posts, and grouping books into categories:¹

All books are novels that I read for the first time, unless otherwise noted. Within each category, they’re listed in the order I read them. I liked far more of the books than I was neutral towards, and I actively disliked just one: I either choose books well, or have very low standards. (I edited this post in early 2023, after I decided I wasn’t returning to finish one book that I’d set aside at the end of 2022.)

The pinnacle

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  Hild (Nicola Griffith, 2014, reread): The first part of a fictional biography of the lightly-documented Saint Hilda of Whitby. I love this book, love how it centers girls and women in its well-researched portrayal of seventh-century life. I read this slowly enough that having the ebook was a huge advantage: Whenever a character I’d forgotten showed up again, I could quickly search to remind myself who they were. Griffith has finished the first draft and at least the second round of rewrites of the next part of the story, Menewood. This one belongs on the shelf next to Lavinia and Matrix.

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  Station Eleven (Emily St. John Mandel, 2015): A pre-covid “most people in the world die of a plague” novel. The story starts during a performance of King Lear at the start of the plague, and then follows two people — the actor playing Lear, through the before-times to that point, and a young girl also in the production, through the after-times in a traveling company performing Shakespeare plays. I read Last One at the Party last year, and think this one is so much better it’s almost unfair to compare them. If you can stomach the premise, read this.

Recommended

• Treason’s Harbour (Patrick O’Brian, 1983, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 9. Still in the sweet spot, with the Kim Philby–esque traitor revealed to the reader in the first couple chapters, but not to Maturin (or Aubrey) in the whole book.

• Matrix (Lauren Groff, 2021): This was lovely: an imagining of the life of Marie of Shaftesbury, creating a feminist haven out of a failing abbey in 12th-century England. I got very strong vibes of both Nicola Griffith’s Hild and Ursula K. Le Guin’s Lavinia (though this doesn’t quite rise to Le Guin’s level — which is no failing — and Groff wasn’t trying to write either of those books).

• The Lincoln Highway (Amor Towles, 2021): I loved this, even though the story mostly ended up being “what did Duchess do this time, and how are the rest of them going to clean up after him?” (Wait, he did what?? But — !)

• The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity (David Graeber and David Wengrow, 2021, nonfiction): This was a slow, dense, enjoyable read; the authors attempt to reinterpret prehistoric and historic societies, and (even with a few rhetorical sleights-of-hand) succeeded. I’ll probably look back on this book as perspective-changing.

• The Thirteen Gun Salute (Patrick O’Brian, 1989, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 13. This is one of my favorites in the series, with some of the most memorable scenes, and for once the next book will start more or less where this leaves off. I can’t recommend this as the first to read (that would be H.M.S. Surprise), but it’s a high point to look forward to.

• Spear (Nicola Griffith, 2022): A short, fun novel retelling the story of Percival and the Holy Grail. (It’s just around a quarter the length of Hild!) A lovely digestif of a book.

• Anathem (Neal Stephenson, 2009, reread): Boy do I have complicated feelings about this. On the one hand, the concepts are fascinating and the storytelling is top-notch. On the other, there’s a bunch of pandering to nerds and contempt for non-nerds, especially in the first half of the book, not to mention the casual sexism. (I would be curious to see what the book would have been like in the alternate universe where he wrote it today.) I used to recommend this book without reservations, but now it would be more along the lines of The Lord of the Rings (which would be “read this, but don’t fail to notice that the people with dark skin are bad guys”).

• The Sandman volumes 1–10 (Neil Gaiman et al., 1989–1996, graphic novels, reread): This still basically holds up, which I was a little concerned about. (There’s more reference to rape than I remembered, but at least it doesn’t involve protagonists, and justice of a sort is generally done.) Some of stuff that was profound when I was in my 20s feels a little trite, but overall it still seems to achieve what it’s aiming for.

• The Grief of Stones (Katherine Addison, 2022): A followup to last year’s The Witness for the Dead. I enjoyed this as much as the previous. Addison draws her fundamentally-decent but painfully-introverted protagonist with compassion, through grim events of murders, child pornography (handled as delicately as possible), and a malevolent spirit.

• Duck Season (David McAninch, 2018, nonfiction): About the food and culture of Gascony. I’m slow at reading this kind of book, and I had other things that distracted me, but I loved the writing, and need to try cooking various Gascon dishes.

• Bad Machinery volumes 1–10 (John Allison, 2009–2017, graphic novels, reread): Allison’s follow-up to Scary Go Round, starring (the UK equivalent of) middle school–aged kids introduced towards the end of that run. I like this more than its predecessor; Allison had grown up as a storyteller and artist.

• The Singer’s Gun (Emily St. John Mandel, 2009): I really liked this book; the protagonist started as another spineless, obsessive young man like in Last Night in Montreal, but grew up by the end, and the book’s conclusion was satisfying without tying off all loose ends.

• A Prayer for the Crown-Shy (Becky Chambers, 2022, novella): Monk and Robot, book 2. I made short work of this. I realized, several years ago, that I should be as kind to myself as I try to be to others, something that is very hard for me. This book is, in part, about that.

• City of Blades (Robert Jackson Bennett, 2016): Divine Cities, book 2. City of Stairs was good, but this was more compelling, about war and trauma and regret. (Very strange how I’m finding myself relating to older characters these days.)

• The Lola Quartet (Emily St. John Mandel, 2012): Another book featuring an obsessive, helplessly-passive (up to a certain part of the book) man-child. (To be clear, I enjoyed this, as I have her other books so far, and there’s a clear progression from Last Night in Montreal through The Singer’s Gun to here. It might be interesting to reread Station Eleven at this point, her next book in publication order but the first I read, but I probably won’t.) I almost quit the book early on, as the main character’s particular form of self-destruction made me incredibly anxious, but I managed to power through.

• City of Miracles (Robert Jackson Bennett, 2017): Divine Cities, book 3. In a way, I wish the series hadn’t kept getting better — even though the first book was good, it’s awkward to recommend a book by saying that its sequels are even better. (This one was about regret and repentance and, eventually, making a good decision even if you haven’t always in the past. And aging, as a kind of sub-theme.)

• Children of Time (Adrian Tchaikovsky, 2015): Children of Time, book 1. What if you meant to uplift other primates to sentience, but accidentally got spiders instead? About monomania and resilience, and empathy.

Good

• Middlemarch (George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), 1872): This was long, and there wasn’t quite a plot (or at least not a single one), but I’m glad I stuck it out. (“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”)

• City of Stairs (Robert Jackson Bennett, 2014): Divine Cities, book 1. This fantasy novel had the misfortune of being read immediately after Middlemarch, and nothing from the first part of this book caught my interest. But I eventually got into the right frame of mind, and enjoyed the book more as I made my way through.

• The Far Side of the World (Patrick O’Brian, 1984, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 10. A lot happens here, but still he leaves large gaps that earlier books would have filled in, and the ending is one of his most abrupt yet (though it wouldn’t have told us anything we couldn’t figure out on our own).

• The Reverse of the Medal (Patrick O’Brian, 1986, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 11. We’re in the back half of the series now, and O’Brian clearly wants to introduce new plots and situations, as there’s only so much that can be done with the Royal Navy. Here we have more treachery, a court case, and a thief-taker, leading to a miscarriage of justice and a satisfying climax.

• The Letter of Marque (Patrick O’Brian, 1988, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 12. This one felt more full than some recent ones: more naval action, more intrigue by land, more of Maturin’s laudanum addiction, and an interesting look at how a private letter-of-marque ship differs from a Royal Navy ship.

• The Bright Ages (Matthew Gabriele and David M. Perry, 2021, nonfiction): This book is less a history of Europe and more a support of three arguments: that there was continuity from the end of the western Roman Empire to medieval times; that we shouldn’t use medieval history to drive a modern agenda; and that medieval populations were diverse and mobile. I wish it had been more of a history, but I suppose it would have needed to be ten times longer to offer a brief survey of the period. Fortunately, the book ends with extensive suggestions for further reading, focusing on recent writing and a few primary sources, particularly ones that are more readily available to the non-specialist. (The voice and perspective of this book reminded me a bit of The Dawn of Everything.)

• The Nutmeg of Consolation (Patrick O’Brian, 1991, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 14. Not quite as strong as the previous, but still a worthy continuation. The scenes in the penal colony of New South Wales, later in the book, are restrained but still horrifying.

• Last Exit (Max Gladstone, 2022): Lots of thoughts about the book — reminds me of Stephen King I read ages ago; repetitious and hamfisted observations on the Way the World Is Today; difficult to stay focused on, especially the first half — but in the end it still won me over, and I really enjoyed it.

• Index, A History of the (Dennis Duncan, 2022, nonfiction): Duncan made the topic as lively and entertaining as it could possibly be, though chapter seven did drag a bit.

• Scary Go Round volumes 1–8 (John Allison, 2002–2009, graphic novels, reread): I first read these as they were published online (starting with 2004’s “1840 and All That”); it was very interesting to reread them as a whole work, seeing the progression of Allison’s artistic and storytelling styles and interests.

• The Truelove (Patrick O’Brian, 1992, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 15. The third book of a circumnavigation of the globe. Another well-crafted book, focusing on the relationship among the ship’s officers; most of the naval action is relegated to a montage sequence late in the book.

• The Wine-Dark Sea (Patrick O’Brian, 1993, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 16. The fourth and final book of their circumnavigation. Neither Aubrey nor Maturin has great success in this book; oddly, this felt satisfying enough that even a deus ex machina ending wasn’t a disappointment.

• Last Night in Montreal (Emily St. John Mandel, 2009): I enjoyed it, though I was quite tired of some of the characters by the end of the book. The story had a couple coincidental meetings that were even less plausible than some in Station Eleven — we’ll see if this is a recurring motif in her work.

• The Commodore (Patrick O’Brian, 1995, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 17. Features a grim description of one of the less-awful ships in the Atlantic slavery trade.

• The Yellow Admiral (Patrick O’Brian, 1996, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 18. This was an odd one: A couple chapters involving enclosure and boxing felt like O’Brian had just been reading about them and decided to put them in his own book, and there was a faint repetitious quality throughout. On the other hand, it was gratifying to watch them sail past the Pointe du Raz while on the Brest blockade, and the sweet, faintly melancholy ending would have made a good finish to the series … except that Napoleon just escaped from Elba, and there are still two books remaining.

• The Hundred Days (Patrick O’Brian, 1998, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 19. We’re nearing the end, with a few more odd tics on O’Brian’s part, along with the sudden deaths of two secondary characters who have been in the books since the earliest days — one on-screen, the other off-. I understand why he removed at least one of them (no more new stories to tell), but both were handled in a very flat, nearly-emotionless manner.

• Blue at the Mizzen (Patrick O’Brian, 1999, reread): Aubrey/Maturin series, book 20, The last of the series. Just like in the previous couple books, there were a few oddities that might have been caught by a more vigilant editor. But the story as a whole is sound, and all is forgiven for the ending, which has brought tears to my eyes each time I’ve read it.

• Permutation City (Greg Egan, 2014): Lots of things to like, e.g. digital clones living in a hacky simulation that is more than an order of magnitude slower than the real world. The special relativity section of my brain rebelled against one significant plot point (though I’m not sure I understood it correctly). Very strong Philip K. Dick vibes from the story.

• Blitz (Daniel O’Malley, 2022): Checquy Files, book 3. I didn’t think I was in the mood for the occasional bits of zaniness, but I think they lightened the story enough to keep it from collapsing in self-seriousness. Slow to start but quick to finish.

Okay

• The Mask of Mirrors (M.A. Carrick, 2021): Rook & Rose, book 1. I ended up enjoying this fantasy novel centered around a long con, but several weak points wanted changing: an emotional beat that falls flat, a character with nothing to do, and about one or two hundred extra pages. Maybe a more strict editor would have helped?

Not recommended

• Elric of Melniboné (Mickael Moorcock, originally published 1961–89, this collection published 2022): The Elric Saga, book 1. I started this at the end of the year, but set it aside and am probably not returning to it any time soon. It’s part of a collection of Elric stories in order of fictional chronology, and I think this didn’t do the collection any favors: The first part (“Elric of Melniboné”, which I read decades ago) was pretty good, but I could not get interested in the next (“The Fortress of the Pearl”). In the third (“The Sailor on the Seas of Fate” — a badass title), Moorcock brings together several protagonists from his other stories, and seems to expect that I have read about and care about those protagonists, and then they smash together and become Voltron or something?, and I just had to put it down. I like the idea of Elric, but could not enjoy these stories.

Ire-inducing

• Cugel the Clever (Jack Vance, 1966, reread, previously as The Eyes of the Overworld): Dying Earth, book 2. This picaresque was quite entertaining, despite (or because of) the cruel and antisocial main character, who invariably chooses the most destructive option whenever possible. You know what? I regret that characterization of the book. I was worried going in that its mid-century origins wouldn’t hold up to modern standards, and I was unfortunately correct. This story is a trap: You’re meant to be entertained by the cruel and antisocial main character, and you’re meant to gloss over or laugh off how he sexually coerces one character and sells another into slavery. Fuck that, and fuck this book.

Appendix: stats

“Published recently” means that year or the year before.