What We’re Reading 2024

As the year rushes toward its end, everyone at JSTOR Daily is rushing to get through one more book on the “to-be-read” stack. This seems to be the year of memoirs, novels, and biographies. Below you’ll find mini book reports on our favorite books out of the many (very many) we read this year.

Matthew Wills

This year, I finally read Robert Caro’s epic biography The Years of Lyndon Johnson. The four published volumes read like thrillers: they kept me up at night even though I already knew the ending, more or less. This was more, much more. Congressman/Senator/President Lyndon Baines Johnson was a monstrous piece of work who cheated his way to power from his teens on. Funded by the most reactionary of Texas interests, he made them even richer and more powerful as they helped him to great wealth. But he was also the New Dealer who manifestly improved the lives of Texas’s poor. And the man who broke the back of the Southern filibuster that crippled the Senate and by extension the US for nearly a century. He got civil rights legislation passed in 1964 and 1965, putting a shiv into American apartheid—a monumental achievement in a country so long, and still, hobbled by white supremacy. As of this writing, two months past Robert Caro’s 88th birthday, the fifth and concluding volume of this magisterial, utterly necessary biography is still unpublished. I need that fifth volume, which covers LBJ’s knowing descent into the mire of Vietnam and his stunning 1968 retreat from the only thing in life he ever wanted: power.

Rob Crossan

In this most particularly divisive of years I’ve been at least partially reassured that contentious politics that can far eclipse the current miasma were a reality far before my own adult memories began to coalesce. I adored reading Watching The Door: A Memoir 1971–1978 by Kevin Myers this year, a by parts both hilarious and disturbing account of his time working as a journalist in Northern Ireland at the peak of The Troubles in the 1970s. Not only does Myers reveal the true, baffling dimensions of diurnal violence that occurs when neighbor is pitted against neighbor in forensic detail, but he also drills deep, with lacerating honesty, into the fast wit, sepulchral cunning, and frenzied bouts of sex and drinking that come with the territory for a freelance journalist on the front line in that far off decade.

H.M.A. Leow

Taiwanese author Lin Yi-Han’s first and only novel, Fang Si-Chi’s First Love Paradise, was originally published in Chinese in 2017 and released in English just this year, through a translation by Jenna Tang. The book initially caught my attention because of the stark contrast between its strikingly lurid title and its subdued, melancholic cover art. Then, as I read, I was immediately gripped by Lin’s furious, forceful writing, which delivers an unflinching look at the destructive impact of a teacher’s sexual abuse on the eponymous thirteen-year-old girl and her classmate Yi-Ting.

Fang Si-Chi’s First Love Paradise is a slim but thought-provoking text about loneliness, trauma, and how vulnerable members of society can be betrayed by those who were meant to protect them. Lin, who died of suicide soon after the novel was published, drew on her own personal experience of sexual exploitation to paint a horrific portrait of violence against girls and women, and to question the misplaced focus on keeping up appearances in modern Taiwanese society. At the same time, the novel is not simply a memoir or act of social protest. Instead, its vivid, expressive prose also explores how aesthetic beauty can cover stomach-churning abuse, while Lin’s rich literary allusions reveal her sensitivity to language and her critical interest in developing a Taiwanese cultural heritage.

Victoria Spitz

Becky Chambers’s A Psalm for the Wild-Built is a tender, thought-provoking exploration of purpose, connection, and what it means to simply exist. Set on the post-industrial moon of Panga, where humanity lives harmoniously with nature, the novel introduces us to Dex, a wandering tea monk yearning for something they can’t quite name, and Mosscap, a robot on a quest to understand humanity. Together, their journey becomes a deeply philosophical dialogue about life’s big questions—one that feels strikingly relevant in the age of artificial intelligence.

Mosscap’s appearance is particularly resonant as we navigate an era of rapidly advancing AI. Its curiosity and empathy highlight the potential of technology not as a tool for dominance but as a partner in understanding. Unlike the often-dystopian portrayals of AI, Mosscap embodies collaboration and humility, offering a refreshing perspective that invites us to rethink our relationship with technology. As AI systems grow increasingly present in our lives, this novel prompts us to ask: What do we want from them? And perhaps more importantly, what do they reveal about us?

Chambers’s narrative also touches on universal human experiences—burnout, existential doubt, and the search for meaning. Dex’s journey reflects a deep-seated desire for fulfillment that many of us share in a world that often equates purpose with productivity. Through their conversations with Mosscap, the novel gently suggests that perhaps the answer lies not in achieving great things but in embracing the beauty of the everyday and finding joy in the simple act of being.

For readers grappling with the rapid pace of modern life or seeking solace in a moment of uncertainty, A Psalm for the Wild-Built offers a balm. It’s a quiet, compassionate reminder that we are enough, even when we feel we are not. At a time when discussions about the role of technology and our place in an interconnected world are more urgent than ever, this book is not just a comforting read—it’s an essential one.

And the story doesn’t end here. Chambers continues this meditation on life’s purpose in the sequel, A Prayer for the Crown-Shy, which expands on Dex and Mosscap’s journey, deepening their exploration of human and robotic coexistence. Together, these works offer a poignant, hopeful vision of a future where technology and humanity thrive in harmony—a vision that feels more necessary than ever.

This beautifully crafted novella has garnered significant recognition, including winning the 2022 Hugo Award and the RUSA CODES Reading List award. It was also shortlisted for the 2021 Nebula Award and the 2023 Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire. Such accolades underscore Chambers’ talent for creating speculative fiction that resonates deeply with the present moment while imagining a brighter future.

Danny Robb

I started reading Lois McMaster Bujold’s sci-fi series the Vorkosigan Saga this year, on recommendation from a trusted friend. It didn’t disappoint. I started with Shards of Honor, Bujold’s first book, which was published in 1986. Bujold builds a familiar space opera world and fills it with incredibly vivid characters. By the end, they felt very much like real people I had spent time with. Through their perspectives, Bujold explores delicate and often heavy themes, some involving the worst aspects of war and oppressive political regimes. Despite these themes, the book somehow retains a hopeful tone. Some of the things Bujold conveyed will stick with me, especially regarding the qualities of a good leader in difficult circumstances. The internal chronological sequel is Barrayar, which won both the Hugo and Locus Awards in 1992. If you want to dive into the saga—which contains several other award winners—Bujold has her own recommendations regarding reading order.

Liz Tracey

Cold Crematorium by Joszef Debreczeni was published in the US in January 2024, seventy-four years after its initial publication in Hungarian. Translated by Paul Olchváry, the book covers the author’s year in three forced labor camps (each worse than the one before), beginning with the day of deportation to the Auschwitz complex and ending with liberation by the Soviets. Because of the narrow time frame covered, there’s a sense of immediacy that forces readers to inhabit Debreczeni’s work as “now”, so that everything is learned and felt without the relief of memories—or the existence of a guaranteed future. His experience as a journalist is evident: the detailed atrocities, observed, experienced, and reported, make it difficult to conceive of how he could survive what he’s recounting.

While every moment of this book contains the horrors of broken humanity—whether intentionally destroyed by design or by the grinding expiration of empathy through disease, constant hunger, everyday violence, and death so close you sleep in it—the small acts of mercy that are done by and for Debreczeni are notable for both the danger they put the donor and/or the recipient in and their paucity. It’s a brutal book to read, let alone write, let alone live through, but each testimony of a survivor—written, recorded, read, retold—is an opportunity for us to refuse to do what Nazis did to every person imprisoned, murdered, buried unnamed, cremains scattered to the wind or pressed into disks: serve as witness to their life, their abuse, their very name. Jozsef Debreczeni’s work is both testimony and art, a necessary accosting of his readers with a fiery hell whose embers must not be fanned.

Katrina Gulliver

This year I’ve been reading about our relationships with animals—from different perspectives. Tommy Tomlinson’s Dogland managed to be informative and moving—as he explored the world of champion dogs and the culture of dog shows. He follows the travails of winning dogs and their handlers, and shows just what it takes to get a blue ribbon in the ring. The “pedigree” dog is a creation of human passion, and whether it’s a fair thing for us to have done is open to debate. But the array of breeds is here now, and there’s a whole universe of dog aficionados competing, putting everything from Yorkshire terriers to Great Danes in the contest for “Best in Show.”  I’ll never look at the Westminster show in the same way again.

But Tomlinson was there as an observer: Catherine Friend in Sheepish is in amongst it with animals, in her case breeding sheep. She’s so warm and honest, discussing the realities of agriculture, the behaviors of sheep, and how she was changed by the experience. As a knitter I’m always interested to know more about the sources of fleece. And having written for JSTOR about all kinds of animal themes (from badgers to animal export, and pet cemeteries to ostrich breeders), I always look forward to learning more about how we live with other creatures on the planet.

S. N. Johnson-Roehr

I’m in my Egypt Era—or more accurately, my Egyptology Era. As an architectural historian, I’ve always been as interested in the discourse around a building as in the building itself, and this holds true for my Egypt studies as well. This explains in part why I was delighted to receive Women in the Valley of the Kings: The Untold Story of Women Egyptologists in the Gilded Age by Kathleen Sheppard as a gift this summer.

Women in the Valley of the Kings challenges us to rethink our definitions of archaeological labor: who does it, what it looks like, whose contributions matter. “Egyptology seems to be manly men striving to seize the day… They are remembered as conquerors of unknown lands and people, scholars who claim to understand a past that isn’t their own,” Sheppard writes in her prologue. Think: Howard Carter opening the tomb of Tutankhamen or Flinders Petrie and his (in)famously hardscrabble excavation camps. True and fascinating, but most of those narratives bracket a very basic truth: though women were often barred from participating in excavations, they were in fact “the reason that any of the ‘Great Men’ of Egyptology were able to be ‘Great’ at all.” Without the money, organizational skills, teaching, artistic talent, and determination of women, (colonial) excavations would have been non-starters.

Shaping her argument primarily around the biographies and work of eleven female Egyptologists—Amelia Edwards, Marianne Brocklehurst, Maggie Benson, Nettie Gourlay, Emma Andrews, Margaret Alice Murray, Kate Griffith, Emily Paterson, Myrtle Broome, Amice Calverley, and Caroline Ransom Williams—Sheppard shows us where women led and defined the discipline “despite and sometimes because of the obstacles men put in their way.” Amelia Edwards founded what would become the world-leading Egypt Exploration Fund (now Society). Caroline Ransom Williams brought Egypt to the people, organizing and interpreting the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Egyptian collection as well as developing new copying techniques for use in the field. Emma Andrews funded both excavations and museum collections, but more importantly, she documented several excavations in the Valley of the Kings. Without her journals, we’d know even less about those sites, as the primary excavator kept inadequate notes. And Margaret Alice Murray—perhaps my favorite—built on her own excavation experience to create and teach most of the University College London archaeology curriculum, training students to go into the field. Murray also unwrapped a mummy in public in 1908 to support the Manchester Egyptian Association, but you’ll have to read the book for that story—and so many more.

Emily Zarevich

When you’re a mature and more confident writer, it’s easier to look back on all your juvenile attempts at making it in the literary world and laugh, heartily. Helene Hanff (1916–1997), author of 84, Charing Cross Road (1970), does exactly this in her Underfoot in Show Business (originally published in 1962), which was by far the most entertaining book in which I indulged this year. Underfoot in Show Business is a tongue-in-cheek memoir about failing miserably and cheerfully at the same time. In her youth, Hanff’s greatest goal in life was to make it as a playwright in New York City. Despite a promising early start, with a major win in a playwriting contest, Hanff never succeeded in getting any of her original plays on a Broadway stage. Her plays are now lost, but luckily her adventures and misadventures in the theater business are lovingly preserved in this wildly funny account of events. Hanff for years found herself up against eccentric producers, lousy office jobs, laughably unsuitable housing, and staggering creative frustration before finally finding some crumbs of success working as a screenwriter for early television. All the while, she had her partner-in-comedy, her clever and resourceful best friend, Maxine, to support her. She also had her faith in her own talents to prop her up.

If you’re a writer yourself, everything Hanff says about the hustle and the struggle will resonate with you. Writing and getting recognition for it is beyond challenging. It’s a joint endeavor that takes over your life. That doesn’t mean you can’t adopt a positive attitude and (somewhat) enjoy the process, though.

Harmony Faust

Memoir is my favorite genre. My fascination with firsthand accounts began in my teens, shaped by my experiences as the daughter of an addict and alcoholic and sister of someone with bipolar disorder. With a family history marked by mental illness and trauma—and now, as a parent to a neurodivergent son—I’m naturally drawn to memoirs that explore mental health, childhood trauma, and personal healing. These deeply personal stories help me better understand the thoughts and behaviors of those around me, making me a more empathetic advocate, parent, and friend.

This year, my favorite read in this space was What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo, which I experienced as an audiobook. Narrated by the author herself, Foo’s background as a radio producer for This American Life and her work as a writer and editor for outlets like The New York Times and Vox shines through. The production quality of the audiobook added another layer of richness to an already masterfully written memoir.

Foo’s deeply introspective exploration of her life, coupled with rigorous research and the inclusion of other first-person accounts, offers a compelling and insightful look at the little-known diagnosis of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD). What makes this memoir exceptional is the balance it strikes: moments of dark humor, the author’s willingness to challenge her own deeply held beliefs, and an enduring sense of hope for healing beyond unimaginable tragedy. With addictive, podcast-like qualities, What My Bones Know delivers a truly remarkable listening experience.

Noor Anand Chawla

I started Upamanyu Chatterjee’s Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life only because it had been gifted to me and was also shortlisted for the JCB Prize for Literature 2024, an annual award given to the best in Indian fiction writing (it later won the award). I didn’t expect much from it because I find that award-winning books rarely live up to the hype. This one, however, was a pleasant surprise!

Inspired by a true story, the book traces the life of Lorenzo Senesi from Italy. Soon after recovering from a near-fatal accident, he joins a Benedictine monastery in search of his life’s purpose. He later follows a fellow monk halfway across the world to Bangladesh, to help him set up a smaller branch of their monastery in Khulna. This drastic change in the course of his life forces him to examine what religion, family, health, and, most importantly, happiness mean to him. One feels invested in the story owing to its engaging narrative and vividly drawn characters. Lorenzo is likable and relatable despite his unusual choice of profession. The book also provides a glimpse of the frugal life led by monks as well as the complexity of human existence in South Asia’s rural pockets.

Betsy Golden Kellem

I was lucky, earlier this year, to visit the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, MA to see their exhibit Conjuring the Spirit World: Art, Magic, and Mediums. The exhibit explores first- and second-wave spiritualism in the Western world, and I’ve been returning to its lavish catalogue in fits and starts since my visit. On the one hand, I’ve enjoyed the essays expanding on the exhibit’s themes—highlighting the culture of death and mourning, the role of scientific inquiry and skepticism, spirit photography, magical performance, and more. It’s also been a treat to page through the visual and physical embodiments of spiritualism (pun intended)—the clothing, playbills, the Ouija boards, and rabbits in hats that remain from generations of seekers. And to wonder: how was someone like Arthur Conan Doyle so taken by this, to the point of literally believing in fairies?

It’s fascinating to look at the idea that a person’s experience or cultural footing might make them (or whole groups of them) especially susceptible to the suggestion that we can talk to the dead. The historical context points to familiar social pressure points—war, pandemic, a desire for mass-media acclaim. In the end, it’s a fascinating look into questions of truth and authority, technology, art, entertainment, and eschatology.

Victoria Spitz

In James, Percival Everett reimagines Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by granting narrative authority to Jim, the enslaved man who accompanies Huck on his journey. This powerful retelling shifts the focus from Huck’s youthful adventures to Jim’s profound quest for freedom and family, offering a poignant exploration of identity, agency, and survival in a society built on systemic oppression.

Everett’s Jim is not the caricature often associated with Twain’s portrayal but a literate, introspective man whose intellect and strategic thinking shine through. Along with his family, he uses “code-switching” as a survival tool, a deliberate performance of subservience to navigate the violent structures of antebellum society. By giving Jim imagined dialogues with Enlightenment philosophers like Voltaire and Locke, Everett further challenges the dehumanizing perceptions of enslaved individuals and underscores Jim’s intellectual depth.

The novel’s rich historical context resonates profoundly with today’s readers, shedding light on the brutal realities of slavery and offering insights into the enduring impacts of systemic racism. As contemporary conversations about representation, agency, and historical reckoning continue to unfold, James feels more urgent than ever. Its centering of Jim’s voice compels us to reconsider whose stories are told, how they’re framed, and what truths are left in the margins.

Everett’s evocative prose and unflinching narrative invite readers to confront uncomfortable truths about America’s past while empathizing deeply with Jim’s plight. At its heart, James is not just a retelling but a necessary counter-narrative, offering readers a chance to rethink a classic American tale through a lens that centers the marginalized.

It’s no wonder James has garnered significant acclaim, winning the 2024 Kirkus Prize and National Book Award for Fiction, and being named a finalist for the Booker Prize. For readers drawn to literature that challenges, enlightens, and resonates with the current cultural moment, James is essential.

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