2023: The Year in Reading

The New Yorker’s editors and critics considered hundreds of new releases this year in order to select the Best Books of 2023. The magazine’s writers also came across many other new favorites—classics they resolved to finally tackle, memoirs and biographies they drew on in their writing, an art book that is a beautiful object in its own right, a centuries-old poetry collection, a guide to writing thrillers, and other overlooked gems. Their recommendations are below.


Spurred by the delightful documentary “Turn Every Page,” I decided that 2023 would be the year that I finally began to make my way through Robert Caro’s biography of Lyndon B. Johnson, the sort of book one wants to have read—and thus must, at some point, read. But what a pleasure the reading of it turned out to be! I had been warned about the lengthy description of the grass of the Texas Hill Country that opens “The Path to Power,” the biography’s first volume, as if Caro’s rigorous attention to the history of the landscape that made Johnson’s boyhood might put me off before I got to the good stuff. Actually, it reeled me right in. “To these men the grass was proof that their dreams would come true. In country where grass grew like that, cotton would surely grow tall, and cattle fat—and men rich. In country where grass grew like that, they thought, anything would grow,” Caro writes of Johnson’s forefathers, the white settlers who thought that the unspoiled Hill Country held the key to their fortunes. (Spoiler alert: they were wrong.) What I love here is Caro’s musical grasp of rhythm and repetition, and his use of short, blunt words; this is mythic writing used for the purpose of puncturing myth. His superb grasp of character, too, benefits from a certain mythic understanding of human nature. Caro is a believer in nature and nurture both; he shows us how Johnson was shaped by the place and the people he came from, and how he determined to shape himself in defiance of them, but he doesn’t discount the innate ambition that Johnson seems to have been born with. Count me among the legions rooting for Caro to finish his fifth and final volume.—Alexandra Schwartz


For the past several months, I have been reading to write an essay on marriage. My reading list was determined by friends whom I e-mailed to ask for their favorite “marriage stories”: “a story,” I wrote, “which tells a truth about marriage but—and this is important—does not foreground courtship, adultery, divorce, or death.” Almost everyone who responded observed that this was a surprisingly challenging question. Their answers, when they came, ranged from novels to stories to poems, but it is Phyllis Rose’s “Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages,” first published in 1983, and reissued in 2020, which remains the most companionate book on my list. Marriage, Rose writes, is “a struggle of imaginative dominance,” the smallest unit in which the freedom of fiction—the freedom to dream, to tell stories—is cramped by the unequal distribution of power. The uneasy union of art and politics yields two plots, the plot of the conquering male and the plot of the suffering female, which Rose threads through her investigation of the Dickenses, the Carlyles, the Ruskins, the Mills, and the happiest couple of them all, the unmarried George Eliot and George Henry Lewes. Rose speaks of her couples as one might speak of friends; she is, by turns, inquisitive, tender, skeptical, and animated by the high spirit of gossip, which she wants to redeem as “the beginning of moral inquiry.” Thinking of the friends whom I have gossiped with recently, I wonder if Rose’s two plots have been succeeded by a third: the marriage of the conquering female and the thwarted male, as seen in “Fleishman Is in Trouble,” “Fair Play,” and “Anatomy of a Fall”—all featuring couples who are aware of feminism’s lessons but incapable of inhabiting them peaceably or desirously.—Merve Emre


Symbols fade, but irritation is timeless. And so, while we can only guess at what “ground geckos” or a “brocade zither” meant to the ninth-century poet Li Shangyin—best known for cryptic verses about love—his inspired kvetching about everyday life in Tang-dynasty China feels as current as a text from your wittiest friend. “Derangements of My Contemporaries,” translated with sardonic simplicity by Chloe Garcia Roberts, is his masterpiece of misanthropy, a catalogue of follies, peeves, and misfortunes that doubles as a portrait of a society in decline. The poems take the form of deadpan lists. “Definitely Not Coming” begins with “A courtesan being called at by poor aspiring scholars,” while “Contradictions” invites us to imagine “A gaunt petty official” and “A butcher reciting Buddhist scripture.” The form is such a perfect container for annoyance that it burrows into the unconscious; once, driven to my desk by insomnia, I wrote an inadvertent homage called “Obstructions to Sleep.”

Li, a scholar-official whose ambitions were thwarted, gives vent to frustrations by turns relatable and comically élitist, heaping ridicule on bullies, hypocrites, and poseurs but also “vulgar” common folk who commit such faux pas as “casting divination blocks” or playing the flute while riding an ox. (“Cannot Abide” begins with “A fat man in summer months / Entering the residence of a hateful wife.”) Often, though, snobbish pique yields to a more rueful and ruminative mode, as Li reflects on the waste and futility around him. In the title poem, he sketches a haunting tableau of disordered responses to adversity: “Drunkenly calling on ghosts and spirits . . . Enemies reminiscing / Grown men flying kites.” Behind the scorner and the mourner is a poet who delights in the absurd, observing that “nuns, like weasels, enter the profound,” or that “a capital bureaucrat, like a winter melon, grows in gloom.” His world is long gone, but its petty derangements—and the secret joy of noticing them—are still with us.—Julian Lucas


In 1984, a filmmaker and activist named Ben Caldwell established a community art and media center, in Leimert Park, in South Central Los Angeles, that would become known as KAOS Network. His dream was to create a place for young African Americans to build sustainable, self-reliant systems for producing and distributing their art. In the nineteen-seventies, Caldwell had been part of a community of young Black filmmakers in Los Angeles—a movement, which included Charles Burnett and Julie Dash, later dubbed the L.A. Rebellion—and he hoped to empower the next generation of kids to fashion their own alternatives to traditional media. He opened KAOS Network to all: a group of young rappers who would later become known as Project Blowed; videographers and aspiring journalists; Afrofuturist thinkers and writers; drag-ball performers; and also Yoruba Christian congregations, theatre companies, dancers, and artists. Today, collaborators working out of KAOS Network are making games, augmented reality, even autonomous vehicles. “KAOS Theory: The Afrokosmic Ark of Ben Caldwell,” by Caldwell and Robeson Taj Frazier, a professor at U.S.C., is a spellbinding book documenting the filmmaker’s life and work. Caldwell’s restlessness of spirit is mimicked in the book’s elaborate, frenetic design. It is one of the most beautiful objects I held in my hands this year, a coffee-table book as much as a rigorous monograph, full of archival images, photographs, flyers, and documents telling the story of Caldwell’s life, from his New Mexico childhood, to his military service in Southeast Asia (where he first became seriously interested in photography), to his arrival in Los Angeles, in the seventies, all of it culminating in KAOS Network, and the worlds Caldwell has helped manifest.—Hua Hsu


Claire Keegan’s “Small Things Like These” is a slender novel that can be read in one sitting. Since reading it this summer, I haven’t stopped thinking about the book, both because of Keegan’s luminous prose and because of the crisis of conscience that unspools within its pages. Set in a working-class town in Ireland in 1985, the novel’s protagonist is Bill Furlong, a coal and timber merchant whose customers include a local convent that takes in “girls of low character” and puts them to work in a laundry. Rumors have circulated that the girls in the laundry are cruelly exploited. There is even talk that the convent turns a profit by arranging for wealthy foreigners to adopt the girls’ “illegitimates” (babies born out of wedlock). Furlong is not inclined to believe such talk—he is determined “to keep his head down and stay on the right side of people,” not least to provide for his wife and five daughters, who might wish to attend St. Margaret’s, a school affiliated with the convent, at some point. But a few days before Christmas, he visits the convent to deliver a load of logs and finds a girl locked inside a coal shed. Her fourteen-week-old baby has been taken away from her, she tells him.

As Keegan notes in an afterword, such scenarios were hardly uncommon in Ireland’s Magdalene laundries, where tens of thousands of “fallen women” were forced to labor under squalid conditions and babies died routinely. (The historian Catherine Corless revealed that, in one Mother and Baby Home in County Galway, seven hundred and ninety-six children died.) Furlong’s own mother might well have shared the fate of these women, had a Protestant widow with a large house not agreed to take her in after she gave birth to him, at the age of sixteen. After he discovers the girl in the shed, the drama in Keegan’s book unfolds mainly in Furlong’s mind, as he wrestles with whether to do nothing—the prudent course—or to follow his moral compass and rescue her. I can’t recall a novel that captures this predicament more forcefully, attuned both to the price of silence about a shameful public secret and to the chance encounters that can spark the flicker of conscience and lead a cautious, seemingly risk-averse person to refuse to be complicit in it.—Eyal Press


Earlier this year, I posted a picture on Instagram that I took while rewatching my favorite Bravo reality show, “Vanderpump Rules.” The image was taken from a scene in Season 2, in which Kristen Doute, a restaurant server who had split with her bartender boyfriend, Tom Sandoval, goes over to an apartment they used to share and where he still lives, supposedly to pick up some mail, though her low-cut dress and carefully curled hair tell a different story. Tom, who has moved on with another bartender, reacts frostily, and Kristen is gutted by his uninterest, which the viewers already anticipated. “Kristen coming to pick up her mail all dolled up from an apathetic Sandoval has deep annie ernaux self-abasement vibes,” I wrote in the caption. Yes, like many of my peers, I had been reading Ernaux’s autofiction, and I couldn’t get enough, especially of books like “Getting Lost” and “A Girl’s Story,” which deal with exactly the kind of humiliating lows a woman might fall to when experiencing Kristen-style heartache. And so, when the writer Lucinda Rosenfeld commented on the post, and suggested that I try another novel in a similar vein (“Speaking of deep self-abasement vibes,” she wrote, “have you read Willful Disregard by Lena Andersson?”), I jumped.

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