Review of 2023 on Goodreads by Various

I surprised myself by not exceeding my previous years’ reading this year.

What was I doing all year? Slacking? Adult coloring books? Knitting? Nascar? What even are those things? Where did last year go? The world speeds up and you slow down. Here I have lapsed into 2nd person because I want you to sympathize with me.

Next year I would like to read more Japanese literature, along with more from the French Giants. Additional classics. International exposure for the untraveling wage slave. I will also continue reading genre fiction. So sue me. My reading taste seems to widen as the years go by instead of to narrow. Is that a good thing? Are rhetorical questions the crutch of an amateur reviewer? Why has literary fiction become a freakish wasteland of sameness?

I went to two writing conferences, met other writers (shockingly), editors and book-minded people. I journaled a lot. Editing has consumed much of my creative time. The fact that I haven’t reviewed many books of late is painfully obvious. There is a chance I will get back into reviewing at some point. I just don’t know when that might be. It could be anytime between now and eternity. Will I finally finish the absurdly large books on my Currently Reading list? The TBR pile has become swoll. It is so thicc I am rather intimidated. That Read pile is flexing, nearing the 5k mark, which I must surpass in mere weeks.

I played a smattering of video games, ping-ponged and slept through too many films this year. We can all agree that Tears of the Kingdom was a delightful distraction from real life, which has seemed all too realistic and strikingly post-apocalyptic recently.

My home library has nearly reached psychotic critical capacity. The rows upon rows upon stacks upon stacks have become uncountable, like sections of compressed shale. Tsundoku. The atmosphere is so densely literate. Windowsills should not be used as shelves. Neither the blades of ceiling fans.

But enough blathering. Here is a list of the most egregiously good books I read this year.

Perfume – Suskind – A decadent, flavorful novel about a murderer. So slimy and satisfyingly redolent of murderous obsession that I wanted to tear the book to shreds and rub the bits and pieces all over myself.
On the Marble Cliffs – Junger – A subdued but devastating novel about big topics. An imaginary place that felt more real than any real location in literature I could think of. If Lawrence Durrell is a strong gust, this is an invigorating breeze. I wish to dwell in the softness of this novel, which conceals a remarkable quality of diamond-hard exaction.
Gormanghast – Peake – If only more fantasy novels were written like this.
Titus Alone – Peake – Peake astounds with the timelessness of his imagination. Images abound. A book that engages the five senses. A handbook on stylistic description.
The King in the Golden Mask – Schwob – A mysterious and scintillating book. Worth rereading. Tales reminiscent of Calvino. Bizarre and creepily fascinating.
Devils in Daylight – Tanizaki – a classic novella by the head honcho of Japanese literature. An unconventional mystery with an innovative approach.
The Pilgrim’s Progress – Bunyan – An immortal work of the imagination and a soul-drenched journey comprised of polished, otherworldly prose.
Island of the Doomed – Dagerman – Again with the weird, dream-like melange of subtext and vibrant, face-melting descriptions.
Whale – Myeong-Kwan – the supremacy of storytelling. An absorbing account of eccentric characters. Unpredictable, sui generis, quirkily unputdownable.
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell – Clarke – If only more fantasy novels were written like this. Historical viewpoints allow satire to refract nakedly the wounds and ulcers of the human soul. Finally a thousand pager that is possibly unpretentious.

I furthermore discovered a lot of books I will not read. Life abrades the soul. It can either polish it or score it. Certain books only dissolve precious time. Yearning for social contact, I spurn the internet, the boob tube, which term appears more obscene as years pass. The ubiquity of commercials. The permanence of urban traffic. The absence of nutrition. The menacing ambiance of public spaces. The human race has its teeth on edge. Unnerved by the silky flow of time, we read to deplete the vulnerabilities we inherit and digest the internal crags of monotone despair.

Some days, I wish I could read until my eyes bleed. To hasten the consumption I employ continual rapid eye movement and the exterior world zips by on fast forward too many frames per second, stretching living beings into fourth-dimensional serpents of interlocked images.