A Year in Reading: Silvia Killingsworth
There were two kinds of readers this year: people who dove into pandemic fiction, and people who said, “Uhh, things are bad enough, no thanks.” I am in the former camp and I devoured Emily St. John Mandel‘s Station Eleven. I already owned a copy because I am nothing if not an ambitious book collector.
The rest of my fiction list from this year is pretty erratic: , by , a copy of by , purchased on my Kindle after reading the famous in , was a lot more local. I was worried at first it would be too sexy for me, but what I loved was how unsexily domestic it got. (That’s me: unsexily domestic.)
