I read twenty-six books in 2018, one more than in the previous year.  So much for my resolution to fit more reading and more books into my life.  Ho hum.  Sixteen of the books were written by men, ten by women.  Seventeen were novels and nine were non-fiction.  Somewhat surprisingly, sixteen of the books were written by authors I’d never read before.  I’m quite proud of that because I had promised myself that I’d root out new and interesting voices.

Two amazing books stand out on the longish shelf of titles read in 2018, both by long-established masters of their craft.  Last Stories by the late William Trevor was simply perfect, a reminder that he had no peer in the dying art of short story telling.  Julian Barnes, still very much with us I’m pleased to say, delivered The Only Story, a wonderful reflection on what and how we remember.  No review of the reading year is complete without calling out two stinkers.  Mario Vargas Llosa, nearing the end of a glittering career that has included a Nobel Prize, should have been ashamed to put his name to something as poor as The Neighborhood, while The Wife Between Us was simply utter trash.

Looking back on those writers I encountered for the first time this year, a few – Andrew Miller, Robert Macfarlane, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – produced memorable and special books.  So, how would I sum up my reading year overall?  A few gems, very few duds, and a small handful of pleasant surprises.