An Updated Canon: 72 Books Every Man Should Read

My girlfriend read Rejection before me, and for days she gasped, laughed and issued apoplectic riffs on “He’s crazy for this.” Tulathimutte is the head of a renowned Brooklyn writing workshop, and the author of “The Feminist,” a viral short story about a woke, “narrow-shouldered” man’s descent into incel-coded madness. That’s in here, in all its glory, and so are a half-dozen others. Tulathimutte specializes in character studies of the extremely-online set. His protagonists spend a lot of time alone in their disgusting apartments, scrolling through dating apps, writing subreddit essays and binging The Office with rolls of cold bologna. The magic of his writing is not the 2020s satire — stretched well beyond the logical extreme — but his ability to make character arcs appear as riveting plots. Not in a million years would you want to meet any of these people. But it’s oddly impossible to stop spending time with them. — TG

For the first third of Fresán’s Melvill, the high concept of this novel seems clear: this is a book about the relationship between Herman Melville and his ambitious-but-ill-fated father Allan Melvill, all written in a way that pays homage to one of American letters’ most memorable voices. Then things take a turn into the delirious and pulpy when a character who might be a vampire shows up. It all concludes with a deeply moving moment of father-son understanding that would make even the most stoic Transcendentalist cry. — TC

For a novel focusing on themes like censorship, freedom of speech and government regimes, consider Our Missing Hearts. The story follows a young Chinese American boy named Bird who is trying to make sense of the disappearance of his mother amid growing authoritarian rule. Books are being destroyed, and citizens must now adhere to PACT, the Preserving American Culture and Traditions Act, which mostly targets Chinese people doing anything seen as “un-American.” Even though it’s considered a dystopian novel, these themes are especially relevant right now. — JS

Martyr! follows a recovering addict and poet as he wrestles with grief and mortality in the wake of his mother’s senseless death and his father’s quiet, unremarkable passing. Haunted by loss and desperate to give his own life — and death — significance, he seeks guidance from a terminally ill artist who is ultimately not who she claims to be. At some point, we all find ourselves grappling with why we’re here and how we’ll be remembered. Here, Akbar confronts the subject head on. — LR

Nominally a political thriller about a North Vietnamese double agent riding out the last days of the war in America, the triumph of Nguyen’s debut novel lies not only in a riveting and twisting spy drama, but in an uncanny ability to transcend the social classifiers the American public has been weaned on for centuries. Depressing, darkly humorous and brimming with moral uncertainty, The Sympathizer’s meta-commentary on identity and patriotism in the dying days of American imperialism earned Nguyen a Pulitzer Prize (and an HBO adaptation). — PS

I first fell in love with Geraldine Brooks after reading Horse, and I’m currently on my fourth of her novels. People of the Book was inspired by the true story of the Sarajevo Haggadah, an ancient Jewish manuscript that miraculously survived through the centuries. Through the lives of several characters, who play crucial roles in the book’s improbable journey through time, Brooks creates a rich, multi-layered narrative. The result is deeply resonant. — LR

Set in 1970s Chicago, Crossroads is a slow-burning, deeply introspective portrait of the Hildebrandt family, whose patriarch is the pastor at the local church. As the family teeters between unraveling and reconciling, each member grapples with their faith and identity. Though the characters are all uniquely insufferable, their emotional depth and complexity make them endearing, too. At its core, Crossroads is an exploration of belief, morality and human frailty. It feels both timely and timeless.  — LR

Early Work is part of a grand literary tradition of insightful and provocative novels that concern themselves with, mostly, nothing. The story follows Peter, an overly educated and demographically resourced (if not completely listless and ethically compromised) “writer” as he engages in an unnecessary and extended act of passionate adultery. Intelligent and smarmy, the book reads like a semantic rendering of an Ivy Leaguer with a trust fund and time to kill. While it may be wrapped up in a deluge of privilege, the real substance of Martin’s debut lies in its ability to deftly capture the apathy of modern life. Ironically, the unaccompanied Peter provides the perfect canvas for a complex portrait of the underachieving psyche. Not your typical coming-of-age novel (aging out, maybe) but one of the most cutting and relatable reckonings with success, age and purpose I’ve had the pleasure of reading. — PS

There are some novels that draw you in with ecstatic prose or finely-crafted plots, and then there are those books where great characters are the main draw. That’s certainly the case for Luiselli’s second novel, which tells the story of the unpredictable adventures of an auctioneer nicknamed Highway. “I’m the best auctioneer in the world, but no one knows it because I’m a discreet sort of man,” he observes early in the book. If you think that combination of modesty and boasting is a little dizzying, just wait — the glorious contradictions keep on coming. Is there a literary version of the hangout movie? This might be it. — TC

It’s a rite of passage for every young woman to pick up Plath’s most iconic work and have it completely eviscerate her entire being; by not doing the same, men are missing out. The novel follows the beautiful and extremely talented Esther, who is undergoing an extreme mental-health crisis, and Plath takes readers into the harrowing corners of Esther’s mind. Beyond a commentary on depression, suicide and the human psyche, however, The Bell Jar is a deeply haunting feminist account, one that explores conflicting views about sex and the societal pressures women endure. — LM

This story is told through the eyes of three different characters, all directly or indirectly involved in a terrorist attack on a train in India. At the center is Jivan, a young, impoverished Muslim girl wrongfully accused of carrying out the attack. In A Burning, Majumdar looks at the complexities of justice, identity and the human condition, revealing both what divides us and what binds us. It’s an emotionally-charged journey that builds to a devastating conclusion. — LR

I love books with sharp-witted kids who cuss like sailors. That being said, there’s usually a dark reason that a young hero is so acutely aware of the world. In Dalton’s sparkling 2019 debut, there are several: Eli Bell’s father is long gone, his mother is in prison, his stepdad deals heroin and his brother hasn’t said a word in years. Oh, and his best friend is a geriatric murderer. (Allegedly!) How does Eli cope? With humor, imagination and a simple, gut-wrenching dream: he wants to live on a cul-de-sac. The Australian story shows a side of the country few are familiar with at the peak of Dalton’s own coming-of-age years, in the early ‘80s. It’s a lyrical novel that sways and swells like a poem, regularly elevating the ordinary and the shitty. Yet it manages to hurtle towards familiar waypoints, with an ending worthy of an old-school blockbuster: boy makes mistakes, boy falls in love, boy does everything he can to save the day. — TG

The vital coming-of-age story you probably missed upon its debut in 2017. Set in Dublin in the 1980s, 16-year-old Sonny, who finds himself adrift in his working-class life as young men often do, meets Vera, a woman old enough to be his mother who lives in a wealthy part of town. The furtive age-gap love affair is made more intense thanks to the second-person perspective, which Geary employs to thrilling effect. — AL

Inspired by true events, The Nickel Boys tells the story of Elwood Curtis, a young Black teenager unjustly sent to a reform school in 1960s Tallahassee. Beneath the institution’s facade of discipline lies a brutal history of abuse and corruption, enabled by the very authorities meant to protect its wards. Though dark, the novel is a testament to the power of hope and friendship in the face of injustice. With a gut punch of an ending you definitely won’t see coming, it’s a story that stays with you long after you’ve finished. — LR

Demon Copperhead takes direct inspiration from David Copperfield, and won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in the process. The story is about Demon, a young boy raised in poverty in southern Appalachia. We see his experiences growing up facing a plethora of challenges that come with his living situation; an inspired and captivating reimagining of Charles Dickens’s classic. — JS

If you’re weary of dragons, give Hartsuyker’s dragon ships a try. She has more reason to write a Viking epic than most — her lineage winds back to Harald Fairhair, the first king of Norway, who appears in The Half-Drowned King — and she lives up to that storied ancestry by enlivening the historical record with a soul-stirring myth of her own making. The king of the title is not Harald, but his warrior Ragnvald, who must face trials that recall Shakespear’s best: betrayal, destiny, allegiance to family and king. But it’s his sister Svanhild, who has an unbreakable will and dreams of her own, who adds the fuel that makes this saga an essential trilogy.  — AL

Look up online reviews of Stay True and you’ll read that it’s a novel about grief or the Asian American experience, but these are both terribly reductive takes. Instead, I’d say it’s a story about being a good friend and the joys of a life surrounded by good friends, as well as bearing witness to their lives. Hsu is subtle in his power to remind you what it feels like to be young, self-indulgent and trying to make sense of the world. He does so delicately yet precisely, through a myriad of seemingly meaningless moments in dorm rooms and long drives, as he recalls discovering new bands and shuffling awkwardly around new acquaintances who could become friends. — ZDL

Julia Child is a beautiful writer, and the way she describes food and the appeal of France is unmatched. When she first set foot in the country with her husband Paul, she didn’t speak French and didn’t know a thing about food. And yet, the way she describes her first lunch — a simple but decadent sole meunière at La Couronne in Rouen, Normandy — that hooked her on French food for life will transport you. Child’s stories of navigating the Paris markets are inspirational and mouthwatering — they might even inspire the cooking-averse to dust off their pots and pans. Her journey of attending culinary school and writing Mastering the Art of French Cooking are huge themes, but it’s the little things that keep you turning the pages. I’ve become a better entertainer after reading about her dinner parties. — AG

It’s tempting to say Finnegan’s Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir is about one man’s obsession with surfing, its subtitle being “A Surfing Life” and its contents split between the far-flung corners of the world where he caught waves (Maui in 1971, chapter four; Madeira from 1994 to 2003, chapter nine). What the longtime New Yorker staff writer presents, to my mind, is an extraordinary tale of a restless soul where no adventure is too unfathomable, no detail of life is too insignificant to appreciate and every movement of the ocean is as singular as a glance. — AL

Any number of Murakami works could have made it onto this list — Norwegian Wood and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle routinely pop up in comparable lists — but your best entry point is the Japanese writer’s memoir-cum-training-log. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running isn’t so much a guidebook to life, or running for that matter, so much as it is an exercise in truly embracing the age-old mantra of “the destination is the journey.” In his slightly meandering way, Murakami’s chronicles of his life through the lens of movement offer much to chew on…perhaps while on an easy 18-miler? — PS

The greatest real-life adventure story you’ve never read, written by a woman who was just 19 years old when she won the Mongol Derby. Not familiar with the event? That’s what makes this memoir even more thrilling. In a day when once-unthinkable feats, like climbing Everest, seem commonplace, this 600-mile equestrian endurance race — inspired by Genghis Khan’s horse messenger route — is enthralling because it is Herculean in scope yet little-known on the global stage. While the exploit is usually more interesting than the actual writing in these sorts of memoirs, Prior-Palmer is an endlessly surprising narrator. She is reckless and indefatigable, callous and captivating as she battles on horseback against fellow competitors and herself through the unforgiving Mongolian steppe. By being unafraid to lay bare all her faults, she is the sort of trailblazer worth remembering and re-reading. — AL

The Pulitzer Prize-winning author recounts a Long Island childhood where he was raised by his single mom, her extended family and a collection of working-class characters who populate Publicans, the corner bar. There’s more here — college adventures, the author’s early stint at The New York Times, failed romances — but it’s the community and “family” Moehringer finds in the bar that truly resonate in this poetic coming-of-age story. (Side note: This book is why I romanticize neighborhood bars and it was also my inspiration for becoming a booze writer.) Just don’t watch the movie. — KM

Sheffield’s memoir assigns each of its 15 chapters a specific mix tape, kicking off with an image of the handwritten tracklist lovingly scrawled on the back of a cassette tape. (Remember those?) Through revisiting each tape, the Rolling Stone contributing editor walks us through how he met and fell in love with his wife Renée, as well as how he used music to cope with his grief after she unexpectedly died of a pulmonary embolism five years into their marriage. It’s a master class in writing intelligently and poignantly about pop culture and the way it seeps into our daily lives. — BS

Easy Beauty opens with Jones at a bar, listening to two male friends debate whether a life like hers, as a disabled woman, is justifiable in the modern world. What follows is an unflinching, deeply personal exploration of what it means to move through a world that is, in every sense, not designed for you. She challenges our assumptions about beauty, worth and embodiment with brutal honesty. It’s essential reading for anyone living in a body, whether it conforms to societal expectations or not. — LR

Man’s best friend? Poetry. Dog Songs may be Oliver’s best work — it’s certainly one of her most accessible, words for the masses. (It’s also one of her saddest collections, which I welcome.) Mercifully and mercilessly short, Dog Songs dresses down the mythos of the genre, plainly recounting, often in a dozen lines or so, the little pleasures and sorrows that come with and from canine companions. Anyone with a pet should be able to appreciate the tenderness it evokes; anyone with a heart will surely appreciate poems like “Untitled” or “For I Will Consider My Dog Percy.” — PS

Before you get to the section of this collection of poetry titled “Notes Passed to My Brother on the Occasion of His Funeral,” you’ll understand the way that death haunts this book. Dickman is wrestling with lineages both familial and aesthetic here, and the result gives these poems a jarring melancholy. Dickman also has a knack for a great turn of phrase, as when he describes one man as “like an Appalachian Prince / Henry with his banjo / and whiskey.” — TC

Ritvo was first diagnosed with Ewing’s sarcoma at the age of 16; he was 25 when he died. The poet’s illness adds to the gravity of reading this collection, but he also captures something more general in this work: the sense of inhabiting a body as it changes, not always for the better. “All this time, I thought my shedding / would expose a core, / I thought I would at least know myself,” he wrote in the title poem. The overall effect is of a never-ending quest to better understand oneself, even if that process is never complete. — TC

Smith is a brilliant poet who faces the racism, homophobia and oppression of today head-on. Don’t Call Us Dead is a powerful collection tackling police brutality, gay rights, HIV, identity and sexuality. Their words have the power to induce awe, forcing you to sit with the voices of those hurting at the hands of these injustices. Case in point, the book opens with a poem about the perspectives of Black men in an afterlife together after being killed by police. It’s impossible to look away, making it a read that everyone, no matter who you are or how you identify, must read. — JS

Much like its author, whose bibliography to date includes poetry, fiction and memoir, this collection of poems covers a lot of ground — emotionally, thematically and pop-culturally. Jones chronicles everything from the denial of tragic events to a young robot’s coming of age here. Throughout the collection, the concept of the end of the world recurs in different ways, lending this book an urgency even as it invites the reader to consider new interpretations of the world. — TC

“How difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice wheeled at another?” On the surface, Rankine’s award-winning tapestry of poetry, essays and images probing the state of American racism and the Black experience in the midst of it feels of its time (she writes about the killing of Trayvon Martin, in 2012, and when in that same year Caroline Wozniacki stuffed her shirt and pants to impersonate Serena Williams). But open yourself up to her vital perspective, which she eases you in through the use of the second person, and what amounts to a book-length poem feels like it could have been published in 2025. — AL

Like Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake, mentioned elsewhere on this list, Bergvall’s Drift channels an archaic form of language to suggest an older, more violent world. There’s a long history of poets who have written about sea voyages into the unknown, and Bergvall evokes the journeys of bygone centuries throughout this book. She also finds resonant parallels between those fateful trips and the risk migrants face in taking to the water in search of a better life. — TC

I still remember the time and place: November 2018, Alberta Rose Theatre, for a taping of Live Wire during the Portland Book Festival. That’s the first time I heard Myles read poetry. Except “read” doesn’t feel quite right. They more accurately unleashed poems in that dim theater that hit the audience like sunlight from a window thrown open. Their singular delivery — equal parts urgent and unaffected — comes across when reading, too (though what fun is poetry if you don’t speak it out loud?). This anthology of work from 1975 to 2014 is the best entry point for this legend of the counterculture (who was friends with Ginsberg), but once you devour it make sure to pick up the more recent Evolution, which features “Acceptance Speech,” a piece I haven’t been able to shake since I heard it that fall in Portland.  — AL

Should we still be rewatching Woody Allen films? Pablo Picasso emotionally abused his young female muses; does he get a pass because he brought “Guernica” into the world? Then there’s Hemingway and his novels — what do we do with those? These are some of the questions that Dederer grapples with as an avid film junkie and cultural critic. Can we separate art from its creators? (Women are also brought into the mix, from Sylvia Plath to Laura Ingalls Wilder.) And ultimately, what do we do with the art of bad people? – ZDL

Climate change is the defining issue of our time, the crisis that affects every aspect of your life, no matter how many people try to deny it. You could be one of those holding a blindfold tight over your eyes, or you could, on the other end of the spectrum, be the one lying in a fetal position while Netflix plays on a loop. I recommend the other route: digest this Pulitzer Prize winner from New Yorker writer Elizabeth Kolbert, which takes the global phenomenon of human-caused ecological breakdown and distills it into fascinating stories of the Panamanian golden frog, the great auk, the Sumatran rhino. It’s already been in print for 11 years, so don’t wait another minute to pick it up. — AL

For those interested in nonfiction that tackles foundational but heretofore unearthed stories that define this country, The Warmth of Other Suns is essential reading. Wilkerson recounts a crucial period in American history: the migration of six million Black people, many descendants of slaves, between World War I and 1970, trekking to the North and West from the South. The story is told through three people on their harrowing journeys, following their migration paths as they conquer perilous conditions. It’s a masterpiece, drawing readers closer to a dark but courageous period in our history. — JS

It feels reductive to say They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us is a collection of essays about music and pop culture, because each of those essays touches on something much, much deeper: Race. Faith. The American dream. Abdurraqib effortlessly connects the dots between a Bruce Springsteen concert and the killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, and reflects on why Chance the Rapper’s eternal optimism was exactly what we needed in 2016. If this introductory quote from Eve L. Ewing speaks to you, pick this up: “Race is music is love is America is death is rebirth is brotherhood is growing up is a mother is music is music is music is music.” — BS

The subtitle of this book — “Notes of a Sportswriter’s Son” — gives a sense of the territory Sullivan is heading into here. In looking back at his relationship with his father, Sullivan decides to reckon with both the way writing about sports has changed since his father’s heyday and detail his own interactions with horses, on tracks and elsewhere. It’s a portrait of two lives etched with compassion, along with a host of memorable stories and reflections on family, journalism and history. — TC

Solnit’s collection of feminist essays will surely seem initially off-putting to the men who have happily embraced the misogynistic manosphere — the titular piece in this book, originally published online in 2008, is the inspiration for the term “mainsplaining” — but anyone capable of empathy will be deeply affected by her mix of blunt-force facts (“there is a reported rape every 6.2 minutes, and one in five women will be raped in her lifetime [in the U.S.]”) and friendly yearning for a better world (“Feminism sought and seeks to change the whole human world; many men are on board with the project, but how it benefits men, and in what ways the status quo damages men as well, could bear far more thought.”). But to do so, they first have to take out their earbuds and actually read. — AL

A 571-page history of the Attica prison uprising admittedly seems like a daunting read. Yet, this Pulitzer Prize winner is really a staggering page-turner disguised as a tome for academics only. I came into this book with a basic outline of the events in September 1971, when prisoners took over the New York correctional facility and law enforcement, at the order of the state, ended the occupation by killing prisoners and hostages alike; I closed the book with my outlook on America forever changed. — AL

In a 2020 interview with The New York Times, Macfarlane described his ideal place to read: “In a tent, by torchlight, at the end of a long day in the mountains, with another to follow tomorrow.” It should come as no surprise, then, that he writes staggeringly well about landscapes and the act of making one’s way across them. There isn’t a bad book in his bibliography, but Underland — which reckons with subterranean spaces and geological time — is a particular highlight. — TC

Sometimes one great book can lead you to another. When I interviewed Zito Madu about the genesis of The Minotaur at Calle Lanza, he took the time to recommend another memorable book about Venice. Watermark is an evocatively-written book in which Brodsky reflects on the city of Venice and its history, all the while musing on art and life. (Plus, a surprise appearance by Susan Sontag.) For all that Brodsky can write beautifully about the city, he can also be blunt about its less appealing qualities: “Anyhow, I would never come here in summer, not even at gunpoint. I take heat very poorly; the unmitigated emissions of hydrocarbons and armpits still worse.” — TC

There’s a reason writers like Geoff Dyer and Christopher Hitchens — both of whom have written introductions for editions of this book — swear by West. Black Lamb and Grey Falcon is her masterpiece: a travelogue through what was then Yugoslavia on the eve of WWII. West’s book provides memorable insights into the cultures she encountered on her journey, but what sticks with you is the sense of passing through a place that was about to be changed forever. — TC

It’s almost comic how many things delight Gay, an essayist and poet. Nicknames, airplane rituals, fireflies, “cuplicking.” The Book of Delights, his resulting collection of essays, chronologizes all of these daily fancies in an effort to find joy in the everyday. In doing so, the book offers a framework for doing the same in one’s own life. — PS

Even as a diehard East Coaster, I can’t deny my incredible fascination with the American West. Think about it: People risked everything to travel 2,000 miles across incredibly rough terrain, plagued by disease and violence, to start anew — whether they were seeking religious freedom or a life of wide-open spaces. And I can’t thank Rinker Buck enough for being so damn curious about the Oregon Trail that he decided to do it — in 2011. He had two wagons custom-made, bought mules to pull them, and brought his brother Nick and dog Olive Oyl along for the ride. Yes, there was an assist here and there when things turned dire, but these guys slept in horse corrals, cooked over fires and braved insane weather conditions, just like the old days. Not only is it an extremely interesting look into this slice of American history, but it’s laugh-out-loud funny and a heartwarming story of a family journey. — AG

Omnivorous sci-fi readers might recognize Ishiguro as the twisted mind behind Never Let Me Go, but while the core query of existence remains the same, Klara and the Sun poses a different kind of take on love and being. The novel follows the titular Klara, a humanoid “Artificial Friend” tasked with being a companion to a chronically ill preteen. Simultaneously forthcoming and delicate about the perils of a not-so-distant future where technology and classism have become indelibly linked, Ishiguro ponders again, more clearly than ever, the question he’s been grappling with for the past 20 years: What makes us human? — PS

I want to be friends with Kari James. She listens to punk and metal, hangs out in dive bars and reads a lot of horror (Stephen King is a favorite). One day when she’s drinking at her usual hangout, the White Horse, she starts seeing things — spooky things. We soon discover that these disturbing visions are tied to a bracelet that belonged to her mother, given to Kari by her cousin Debby. As she tries to get to the bottom of why her mother actually disappeared, she uncovers truths about her family history that are difficult to digest but, in tandem, allow her to put some unseen demons to rest. — AG

A surreal tale of an environmental apocalypse with a mysterious origin, VanderMeer’s novel is both dreamlike and disturbing, full of odd creatures and an impending sense of planetary doom. Part one of the larger Southern Reach trilogy, the series centers around a tumultuous scientific excursion to Area X, a closed-off piece of land that distorts nature and threatens to envelop the world. You could call it an environmental call to arms, a nightmarish fever dream or, at times, a stinging look at government bureaucracy. — KM

I’m a sucker for end-of-the-world stories, and Cronin’s epic trilogy (led off by The Passage and continued in The Twelve and The City of Mirrors) is a grand post-apocalyptic tome mixed with a hint of fairy tale. Ostensibly about vampires (well, “virals”), this series takes place over decades — by book three, it’s centuries — and hops back and forth from society’s collapse through its final battle, all while keeping the focus on a little protagonist named Amy. (Also, and I should say this about almost any book I recommend on this list, you can’t judge this book from its mediocre TV adaptation, which lacked the author’s grand vision, attention to detail and any form of character development.) — KM

Robin is a Chinese boy attending Oxford’s Royal Institute of Translation, also called Babel, at a time when Britain is dead set on colonization. He’s partly responsible for creating the fuel powering the city, and that’s keeping the country tyrannical and imperialistic. Like 1984’s Winston, Robin is not oblivious to what’s wrong. He joins the Hermes Society — comparable to the Brotherhood — an oppositional organization with plans to disrupt and dismantle these efforts. Ultimately, Robin and Winston are both characters who face great forces of government control and live through history actively being lost in translation, and they’re both in search of relief and resistance. — JS

What if teenage girls all over the world suddenly had the “power” to inflict intense physical pain via electric shocks? Alderman’s electrifying (sorry) sci-fi tale, told from multiple perspectives, explores the global end of patriarchy but also asks plenty of tough questions, including, interestingly, how any group in power may start to exploit their position.  — KM

Even if you’re not a fast reader, you will blow through Dark Matter. Yes, it’s a sci-fi thriller about quantum mechanics and parallel universes, but it also poses a question we’ve all asked ourselves: How would my life be different if I’d taken a turn at that one particular moment? There’s a reason why they adapted the book into an Apple TV+ series (much of which was also written by Crouch). But do yourself a favor and read the book because the way that he builds these multiple worlds is absolutely captivating. — AG

Frankenstein and Her Body and Other Parties don’t look alike on the surface, the latter being a collection of short speculative fiction stories about human women, with a twist. There’s a woman whose head is attached to her neck by a bow, women whose bodies are going missing in a dress shop, a woman dealing with paranormal consequences after bariatric surgery. The common theme here? Bodies. Through different lenses, both of these novels explore what it means to exist in a body and the societal pressures that come with it. The existence of Frankenstein’s monster in a modern society was always doomed and gravely unlikely. Her Body and Other Parties evokes a similar experience of dread, especially today: It’s a book that demonstrates how the bodies of women never truly belonged to them. — JS

Clarke has mentioned that Jorge Luis Borges serves as an inspiration for her work, which makes total sense: Piranesi is the story of a man living in a labyrinthian house with endless rooms and floors filled with swarming seas and skies with clouds — only a few are actually habitable. A man called The Other lives there too and asks Piranesi to share research he does on the house with him, but over time, Piranesi begins to face truths that make him question everything he thought he knew. Using elements of fantasy and magical realism, Clarke tells a story about isolation, loyalty and the nature of reality — whether that be in tangible worlds, relationships or our own identities. — JS

I was certain I wouldn’t enjoy Orbital — space isn’t my thing — but by the end, I was in tears. Set over the course of a single day and 16 orbits around Earth, it’s ultimately a love letter to our planet, one that left me overwhelmed with a profound (and unexpected) sense of gratitude. “We matter greatly and not at all,” Harvey writes. “To reach some pinnacle of human achievement only to discover that your achievements are next to nothing, and that to understand this is the greatest achievement of any life, which itself is nothing, and also much more than everything. Some metal separates us from the void; death is so close. Life is everywhere, everywhere.” I think about that passage all the time. — LR

Like The Road, Station Eleven takes place in a similar post-apocalyptic landscape. An illness called the Georgia flu sweeps across the world — sound familiar? — in a deadly, disastrous pandemic that kills those infected in a matter of days. Human civilization is essentially wiped from existence with only a small number of survivors. Station Eleven follows the perspectives of several of these survivors across North America, and along the way, we learn how each has coped with such tremendous loss, how the characters are connected — from before, during and after — and the lengths they are willing to go to survive. — JS

A time-travel book for people who hate time-travel books, Version Control is more of a story about grief and fate. We’re never quite sure what a Causality Violation Device is or how it works, but Palmer smartly places the physics and nerd stuff to the side and centers his near-future story around the guilt-ridden, recovering alcoholic wife of the time-machine scientist. Is she an unreliable narrator, or is something wrong related to her spouse’s invention? The reveals here are slow but rewarding, while the characters switch from philosophical to absurd (a bit Pynchon-y), particularly when commenting on a not-so-distant world that’s slowly turning into a fascist tech dystopia. — KM