Best books of 2021

One of the reasons I love this week of the year (aside from its appeal in requiring no work or effort and instead encouraging a week of rest and pleasure) is that friends, celebrities, writers and bloggers all talk about their favourite reads during this mutual journey around the sun.

Of course these lists are subjective, which broadens their appeal to me. Dissenters of the ‘favourite books’ discussion will have you believe that it punishes certain authors, or becomes an echo chamber of the popular reads, or that the lack of objectivity and proper literary criticism is what makes it a futile exercise. And, as you might have anticipated from the title of this post, I would disagree. Whilst there is an argument to be made for how we talk about books we didn’t like, in my mind, talking about the books we liked and why, is a way of connecting at a time which continues to be uncertain, unprecedented, and oft uninspiring.

In truth, the appeal of this topic is almost pure voyeurism. Every time my best friend and I enter a bookstore, we bee-line directly to the two or three sections we predominantly make our selections, holding up titles we discuss and evaluate together (”discuss” might be dignifying it a bit — it’s often a series of grunts or coos depending on whether the author has any favour with us). Our favourite reads more or less reflect us and our experiences. I’m honestly most thrilled when a friends reads a title I loved only to tell me that they despised it or couldn’t get into it. I am suddenly desperate to know why. I very much revelled in a book club disliking my pick for that month’s discussion, being drawn by the comments of those who loved it (like I had), and intrigued by those who didn’t — there was so much space for discussion and coming together. It wasn’t a plain of one’s own opinion, but a varied topography of identities enmeshed with critiques.

On that note, in no particular order, a list of 10 books I read this year and loved:

She Said by Jodi Kantor & Megan Twohey (Bloomsbury, 2019)

This was the very first book I read in 2021 which started my year of reading on an excellent note. She Said follows the reporting of the personal accounts of sexual harassment by Harvey Weinstein which propelled the #MeToo movement and brought a reckoning across industries. The journey to breaking the news was fraught with legal complications, confronting emotions and histories of abuse, and with justice long delayed. I was hooked and could not put the book down.

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett (Dialogue Books, 2020)

I had seen this book everywhere but hadn’t ventured to pick it up until it was a book club read in early 2021. The book is masterfully written, layered with broader themes of race, class and history meeting at the intersection with familial secrets and how we construct identities in a story that truly takes you everywhere.

The Cost of Living by Deborah Levy (Penguin, 2019)

I read Levy back-to-back — it was a mood. Canvassing ideas of freedom in relationships, career or art, through memoir, Levy deconstructs our perception of reality against the perceptions of others. I’m astounded by how much punch Levy can pack into such a short book.

Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino (Fourth Estate, 2019)

Cultural criticism for millennials. Trick Mirror is an assortment of essays guided by Tolentino’s self-reflexiveness to engage with modern life in all its wonders and fallacies. I’ve seen some critique that the essays are more a retelling of an event, but I’d counter that when it comes from a different person, that is not a retelling but a fresh perspective, and Tolentino’s is crisp and raw.

One Hundred Years of Dirt by Rick Morton (Melbourne University Press, 2018)

A brutally honest memoir confronting family anguish, personal struggle and the relationship between one’s history and the cultural history of Australia. Despite some of the darker themes, Morton is unfailing in his ability to find humour and lightness, and pointedly critiques what one might see as flaws in perspective, as being reflective of political neglect and dismissal. Possibly Australia’s answer to Hillbilly Elegy.

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo (Simon & Schuster, 2021)

Literally “tell me your country is enveloped in cycles of misogyny and discrimination without telling me your country is enveloped in cycles of misogyny and discrimination”. Cho tells a story of a woman who is truly all women, the features of her life are backed by statistics concerning the plight of women in South Korea. Through this sharp cultural critique, Cho reveals that policies without a colossal shift in public attitudes will never undo the expectations individually held and unconsciously perpetrated by men and women alike, who are just trying to get by. Absolutely a must-read.

Second Place by Rachel Cusk (Faber & Faber, 2021)

It took me half the book to make sense of what I was reading (not that it was gibberish, but that I was so used to finding meaning readily available in Cusk). The characters were so expertly crafted, that perceived flaws are more unanswered questions of identity that reach boiling point. The second half had me devouring the book in hours.

Summer by Ali Smith (Hamish Hamilton, 2020)

The final instalment of the seasonal quartet and my favourite of the series. Quintessentially contemporary without often being explicit, readers might mistake the narrative as the core of the piece, when really it is the instances of lightness, happiness and relationships which shine through against a backdrop of darker times.

Beautiful World, Where Are You by Sally Rooney (Faber & Faber, 2021)

Look, it isn’t Normal People, and the characters were wholly unlikeable in my opinion. But it felt like a mirror was held up to myself and my friendships and our deal in life, with all its prickly parts. Rooney is a master at reminding readers that life isn’t so rosy, and our stories need not sell us fantasies (and also the no matter how much we analyse actions with theory, marxist or otherwise, sometimes we just have to let it be).

Emotional Female by Yumiko Kadota (Viking, 2021)

An incredible memoir which digs deep, exposes everything from personal incidents to the whole mess of the medical system in Australia. This was an easy read (which I find is the case for me whenever the setting is familiar) but hard to put down.

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