2022 was a very mixed year on the reading front. That was especially the case with fiction and that’s somewhat surprising because I read newly-published books by some of my favorite authors, including Ian McEwan and Julian Barnes. Only Tess Hadley’s Free Love stood out from that crop as being especially strong. Several others were mediocre or downright dull. Among the new voices (new to me), Damon Galgut’s The Promise was exciting and groundbreaking. As for the rest, very little was memorable.

In non-fiction books I chose more wisely. The trilogy of memoirs by Tove Ditlevsen was outstanding, as were Celia Paul’s Letters to Gwen John and the second volume of Robert Crawford’s biography of T.S. Eliot. I am starting to wonder whether this marks a significant and permanent shift in my reading habits as I get older or whether I am selecting new fiction with insufficient care. Time will tell.

Unlike previous years I start 2023 without a tall pile of books I urgently want to read. The final volume of Chips Channon’s diaries is a treat I know I will enjoy, but as for the rest I’ll just wait to see where my interests (and serendipity) take me.