It’s customary this time of year for ink-stained wretches like myself to participate in a ritual called the year-end book list. I edit one over at CRB, and this year I also contributed to another one in the Federalist. You can take a look at those to find some of the books that most stuck with me from this year.
It’s a lovely tradition, sharing notes from a year’s life in letters. It’s also treacherous, because of course the point is that you haven’t read at least some of the books that your friends and favorite authors have. Which means that lists beget more lists: as in the miracle of the loaves and the fishes, everyone lays out their little offering of titles and comes away with far more than they brought (or indeed bargained for).
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