PopMatters Picks: Best of Books 2007

Picks in: NON-FICTION | FICTION

On reflection, book-wise, 2007 is going to be a hard one to put into easily digested perspective. Although it was the year that Oprah helped turbo-charge Cormac McCarthy’s masterpiece The Road into mainstream immortality, the book had actually been released the previous fall.

As for other books of note, there were no real popular/critical breakouts whose success would ring down through the years. There was also, with James Frey rapidly receding into the distance and HarperCollins having already kicked Judith Regan to the curb, a disturbing paucity of controversies for the blogs to carp about. So what are we left with? A lot of lousy books, a number of good ones, and a very small number of great ones, which (sad to say) fit no real model.

The drop-off from great to mediocre was sharpest when it came to fiction in 2007. There were a refreshing number of foreign authors like the late Roberto Bolaño (The Savage Detectives) finally getting their due with new English translations. And we saw a few audacious debuts (Steven Hall, for one) that should auger well for the future. J.R.R. Tolkien came back from the beyond with a surprise new novel that continued to plow the fertile fields of his pre-Lord of the Rings mythos.

Pros like Ian McEwan and Denis Johnson dashed off problematic but masterful works of fiction that will stand the test of time, for a few years, at least. And people like Michael Chabon and Junot Diaz showed, with dynamically thrilling books like The Yiddish Policeman’s Union and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, that they have more verve and imagination than any 20 novelists picked from the English-language ranks at random.

But after that, the year’s fictional output slides depressingly quickly from great to merely okay. Books like Adam Rapp’s The Year of Endless Sorrows, a fine enough novel, then get elevated in one’s estimation for the simple fact that it was good enough to be memorable at the end of the year. To put it in sporting terms: if their division hadn’t been so weak, a few of the novels mentioned below wouldn’t have made it to the playoffs.

One of the anomalies here is Brian Aldiss’ Harm, a classically unnerving piece of thoughtful sci-fi for the post-Patriot Act age that shows us, in no uncertain times, how our civilization will essentially end, by means of our own devising. A fine best-of choice for any year, it reminds us that worse things always loom around the corner, should good people fail to act.

Somehow, when put up against the apocalypse, everything else just seems to pale into insignificance. Whether we like it or not, that rule applies with just as much iron-clad power in the world of books as it does in the realm of the blockbuster film. So it was that a couple of the better non-fiction titles that hit the stacks in 2007 had to do with topics that, explicitly or not, dealt in some form with the end of Western civilization as we know it.

Sure, there could have been better books out there this year than the nightmare conjuring of Naomi Klein’s The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, but when faced with her overpoweringly convincing rendering of a modern world in which many democracies are a natural disaster or two away from being overtaken by ravening corporations, does it really matter?

A few months before Klein decided to do her best to keep us up at nights (who’s at the door? Free-market economists from the Milton Friedman school?), Alan Weisman took a much more benign approach to the end of everything in The World Without Us, simply conjecturing in what manner the natural order of things would reassert itself if the human race were to simply disappear, say, tomorrow.

How long would it take for vines to overgrow the cities? Would our dogs survive? Troubling in its own right, because one can’t read his descriptions of emptied suburbs and dead highways without wondering what could make them that way, this book is, for the most part, a classic piece of scientific conjecture with no real goal in mind but to play out the string of “What if”.

Not that such apocalyptic worries overrode everything else that was published in 2007. After all, one of the year’s most bracing non-fiction books, Christopher Hitchens’ God is Not Great (horrible title, by the way), had nothing to do with the end of the world. Hitchens couldn’t be bothered to worry about such things, as he was too busy conjuring up abstruse literary constructs for assaulting the reason (or lack thereof) of the religious fundamentalists he has aligned himself against.

Years from now, Hitchens’ book could well be looked upon as the knockout punch of the modern American anti-religious backlash. Not that our countrymen are deserting churches in droves, but after Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris softened up the enemy’s fortifications with their crisp reasonings, Hitchens came in with his own brand of high-toned populist aggression and took the field. The battle wasn’t won but it was fought, and in a country where “atheist” is a word often spoken in the same tone of voice as “child molester” or “PBS watcher”, God is Not Great may be seen by future anti-religious forces as something of a turning point.

Up against the aforementioned hefty tomes, one could almost find oneself wishing for the books of the last couple years: Where were Woodward, Ricks, Chandrasekaran, Hersh, the Bush-bashers, and chroniclers of war gone bad? Well, they were around, but those stories had already been told, and new rocks had to be looked under.

Such rocks overturned, what was found were books like Tim Weiner’s Legacy of Ashes, a history of the Central Intelligence Agency that manages to be both broad-reaching and frustratingly incomplete. Broad-reaching, due to the author’s desire to create a one-stop history of when and how the CIA went wrong and failed to ever quite accomplish its mission; frustratingly incomplete because such a task would be impossible to pull all into a single book without skimping over quite a few of the agency’s more important debacles (so many to choose from …).

It stood tall, however, as one of the year’s only heavy-duty policy books to seriously address one of the bedrock elements of the US national security apparatus, and it was the only such book to make any sort of dent on the national psyche. Granted, it wasn’t much of a dent compared to the dumptruck-sized ones left by The Secret and The Deathly Hallows, but it’s still nice to know that our countrymen can still at least occasionally crack a book of this kind.

In America, at least, the publishing cycle always leaves room for a number of memoirs detailing the authors’ astoundingly heartbreaking family histories, rife with abuse, addiction, neglect, tear-inducing loyalty, and barrels of stark weirdness; and even in the aftermath of James Frey and the betrayal its citizens were all supposed to have felt, 2007 was no exception.

From Edwidge Danticat’s harrowing memoir of immigrant loneliness and familial tragedy, Brother I’m Dying, to Steve Geng’s Thick as Thieves (a deeply felt account of a grifter’s life in the shadows of his brilliant sister New Yorker writer Veronica Geng), there was no end of closely-felt heartache.

Sure, one could also find any number of lighter takes on dysfunction, such as onetime Daily Show correspondent Stacey Grenrock Woods’ I, California, an epic of awful parenting and pinball-bouncing rootlessness that at least is not so soaked in that all-too-familiar brand of self-loathing ’90s irony that it doesn’t register a frightening emotional pulse. In this case it might be a familial apocalypse, but the world is ending all the same. Here’s to the books of 2008, should we live to see it.

A couple of the better non-fiction titles that hit the stacks in 2007 had to do with topics that, explicitly or not, dealt in some form with the end of Western civilization as we know it.

The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism , by Naomi Klein (Metropolitan)

Whether it’s New Orleans, Sri Lanka, Chile, or Iraq, there is money to be made by companies specializing in the fiendish mutation that agitprop hellraiser Naomi Klein terms “disaster capitalism.” The ideologies may change, but the implements of the shock (“elimination of the public sphere, total liberation for corporations, and skeletal social spending”) don’t ever seem to change, nor does the ever-yawning gulf between the wealthy few and the poor and powerless many. Klein convincingly argues in this crushingly pessimistic but magisterial work that the future could well be a “cruel and ruthlessly divided” place where “money and race buy survival”. Chris Barsanti

Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA , by Tim Weiner (Random House)

Abandon any respect one might have had for the Central Intelligence Agency at the first page. Deep down, most of us probably know that the Central Intelligence Agency can’t be nearly as cool as our popular media would have us believe. But still, the picture presented in Legacy of Ashes, Tim Weiner’s exhaustive general history of the CIA, is nevertheless a crushing disappointment. Just because it was obvious to most people that the agency wasn’t full of suave and brilliant superspies—MIT mind in a GQ body—doesn’t make it any easier to realize that it is an expensive, cumbersome, out-dated, dangerous, and deeply dysfunctional organization that we’re likely better off without. Chris Barsanti

Power, Faith, and Fantasy: America in the Middle East: 1776 to the Present , by Michael B. Oren (W.W. Norton)

Americans love the Middle East, until they hate it. Michael B. Oren’s tragicomic history of our country’s involvement in the Fertile Crescent would be funny if it weren’t, well, you know. Oren states pretty early on that he wants to provide one single all-encompassing survey of the ties between America and the Middle East. To that end, he has absolutely succeeded, and not just because he uses about 800 pages to work through those skirmishes (ideological, mercantile and military), but because he’s done so with nary an ideological axe to grind. Given the amount of ideological baggage being hurled about by the main participants in this history—and especially the brittle kind of idealism that is continually disenchanted by the region’s harsh realities—that feat is even more impressive. Chris Barsanti

Kafka, by R. Crumb (Fantagraphics)

One of the greatest graphic art wits of our time vividly renders the life of one of the 20th century’s greatest novelists with a sort of sardonic majesty; one great misanthrope beholds another. Chris Barsanti

Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time, by Rob Sheffield (Three Rivers)

Sheffield does a great job of explaining the peculiar obsession some people have with music, and what he calls the “human need” to share it with others. In his case, this mostly means sharing with the opposite sex. Renee takes center stage, but Sheffield spends ample pages discussing the intersection of music and women in general in his life, beginning with the lessons he learned when DJing his first school dance (the most important: “Girls enjoy music they can dance to, music with strong vocals and catchy melodies. Boys, on the other hand, enjoy music they can improve by making up filthy new lyrics”). Ben Rubenstein

The World Without Us, by Alan Weisman (Thomas Dunne)

Who hasn’t gazed around them, now and then, and fantisized the sudden demise of the entire human race? Whether impelled by a very foul mood—or the simple, apocolyptic speculation that forges every myth, fantasy, and society-binding religion—virtually every artistic expression has tangled with this concept, and we all know it at a primal level. Ironically, although Weisman will scare you enough to cause loss of sleep, at times, the overwhelming message is hope. One leaves this book with a greater appreciation for the preciousness of this world, and a deep desire to, in one’s own little way, leave the Earth in a little bit better shape, before one leaves it for good. Give this to the budding environmentalist, and the one who could use a bit of a nudge in that direction. Karen Zarker

God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything, by Christopher Hitchens (Twelve)

A fire-breathing polemicist in the grand tradition, the Hitch has spleen to spare and wastes none of it here when going after the godly. Although this tends to work better in his shorter works of journalism than in book-form, it’s still refreshing to witness the freewheeling energy with which he lashes about him. He’s the rare old white male who doesn’t utilize the mantle of political incorrectness merely as a shield for racism or sexism; this is a book that’s dying to offend those who are easily offended, partly for having been mollycoddled for so long. Hitchens also wins points by not coming at his subject with the aloof self-regard of some of the recent band of atheist populists (he makes a point of mocking the arrogant wishes of some atheists to be referred to instead as “brights”). That said, there’s something in this rambling text that could have used the starch rigor of a Sam Harris, whose End of Faith is as good an argument for religion-as-evil as one could ever ask for. Chris Barsanti

Buda’s Wagon: A Brief History of the Car Bomb, by Mike Davis (Verso)

The doomsayer of City of Quartz and Ecology of Fear moves beyond urban studies to examine in concise but learned detail the evolution of the car bomb into the paradigm-shifting, nation-toppling superweapon that it may well prove to be: the atomic warhead of the 21st century. Chris Barsanti

Brother, I’m Dying, by Edwidge Danticat (Knopf)

While Edwidge Danticat was making a life for her young self in New York, her father’s brother, a much loved pastor, remains in a rapidly crumbling Haiti, not realizing it’s time to leave until it may be too late; an emotional and well-nigh incomparable family history. Chris Barsanti

Thick as Thieves: A Brother, a Sister–a True Story of Two Turbulent Lives, by Steve Geng (Henry Holt)

Another memoir in a year thick with them, Steve Geng’s account of his life as career thief and unrepentant dope fiend is given extra depth by the description of his troubled relationship with his sister, Victoria Geng, the brilliant, troubled New Yorker writer. Chris Barsanti

Picks in: NON-FICTION | FICTION

PopMatters Picks: Best of Books 2007 – Fiction

Image from The Raw Shark Texts cover

Picks in: NON-FICTION | FICTION

Children of Húrin, by J.R.R. Tolkien (Houghton Mifflin)

While people the world over have for decades thrilled to the head-spinning sagas of The Lord of the Rings and the chummy adventure of The Hobbit, it always took a more, well, dedicated fan to appreciate the appeal of Tolkien’s stories set in his fantasy world prior to those blockbusters. Frodo and Sam’s harrowing march into the bowels of Mount Doom and the churning battles before the walls of Minis Tirith made for an audience-pleasing epic along the lines of The Illiad. But precursor First Age works like The Silmarillion were a different thing entirely as they spanned thousands of years and encompassed hundreds of characters from a distantly god-like narrative perspective; they were more imaginary history than fiction, Herodotus or Gibbon to the trilogy’s Homer.

Possibly the year’s most welcome delivery to bookstores — particularly in coming years after Tolkien completists had given up hope of wishing for anything new — Children of Húrin falls mostly into the second category of pre-Rings material. Unlike most of the volumes of Unfinished Tales marginalia collected over the years by Tolkien’s tireless son and literary flame-bearer Christopher over the years, however, this is a full-fledged novel in its own right. Set in Beleriand, the same tear-soaked vale of tragedy as The Silmarillion, the book tells the wandering tale of Húrin Turambar and his doomed son Túrin, who manages in his many flights and fights, to destroy (by ill luck or intemperate behavior) most everything good that he comes across. Other, grander events (battles and such) are hinted at, but the scope is limited, the tone simpler and less scholarly than other First Age material — possibly benefiting from Christopher’s editing of his father’s notes. This is a book that wears its tragic mantle well, a rare thing in an age accustomed to tragedy in its day-to-day life but less so in its literature. Chris Barsanti

Forgive Me, by Amanda Eyre Ward (Random House)

In her third novel, talent-to-watch Amanda Eyre Ward does that trick which still somehow manages to elude so many modern fiction writers: How to take an absolutely revolting character and make him/her still of interest to readers who normally would be impelled to simply hurl the book across the room? In Forgive Me, that protagonist causing consternation is Nadine, a fly-by-night journalist in her mid-30s who can’t quite focus on anything beyond the next hot story. Continually jetting off for international trouble spots, Nadine is thoroughly unwilling to recognize just how utterly, and ultimately rather despicably, addicted she is to other peoples’ misery. It doesn’t help that she’s also the kind of person who will harp on about troubles in faraway lands while remaining utterly blind to those existing right before her nose. After a troubled recovery in her home town of Nantucket (she got in over her head in Mexico, not surprisingly), Nadine heads off to South Africa, where she had once spent some time, to cover the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings on apartheid atrocities, and confronts some ugly truths about herself. Ward’s plotting may not always be the best, this is a start-and-stop kind of book, but her sharp evocation of Nadine — newsgatherer as self-absorbed vampire — is one that’s hard to forget, and should give most journalists nightmares. Nikki Tranter

Ghostwalk, by Rebecca Stott (Spiegel and Grau)

Rebecca Stott’s smartly written debut novel mixes a contemporary murder mystery with historical fiction and doomed romance. Any of these elements could drive Ghostwalk over the top, but the meticulous observations of Stott’s narrator allow the plot to unfold slowly. Lydia is an editor who’s recently ended a long affair with Cameron, a research scientist. After his mother is murdered, he asks Lydia to ghostwrite the conclusion to his mother’s historical novel about Sir Isaac Newton. Soon, the 17th century becomes entangled with the present, and danger hangs in the air. Stott’s prose is strong, her characters fully realized, and her research into Newton’s shadowy collegiate life during the plague years is fascinating. Ghostwalk is rich, accomplished, and very satisfying.

Michael Keefe

Harm by Brian Aldiss (Del Rey)

The terrifying societal ramifications of the last few years of war have thoroughly infiltrated our culture, but mostly via television and films from 24 to Children of Men. Though it hasn’t entirely fallen down on the watch, literature has been slower to catch up to the new realities; as usual, it’s left to science fiction to blaze the trail. British vet Brian Aldiss (whose sad story “Supertoys Last All Summer” was adapted loosely into the film A.I.) concocted this heartbreaker of a metaphorical near-classic that’s bifurcated between two stories: one from the mind of a man colonizing an alien planet who’s haunted by thoughts of torture, and the other a British Muslim in the near future who’s rendered to a brutal prison after his writings become suspect. The occasionally surreal plot matters less than the mood and subtext, which just pulsate with the black chill of incipient authoritarianism, and all its soul-wounding implications. Aldiss’ gift is not for simple worst-case-scenario imaginings, but rather an ability to recreate plausible future worlds out of the stuff of everyday life, putting him in the hallowed company of Orwell and Bradbury, to say the least. Chris Barsanti

The Headmaster’s Dilemma, by Louis Auchincloss (Houghton Mifflin)

The grand old master of the lives and loves of East Coast elites shows he’s hardly irrelevant yet with this bracing, sharp little novel. Louis Auchincloss has been working a similar socioeconomic seam for decades — in fact, The Headmaster’s Dilemma bears some resemblance to a 1964 novel of his, The Rector of Justin — but he still finds plenty of fresh material to explore here. Set in the mid-’70s at an elite boarding school (is there any other kind?), the novel digs into a scandalous accusation about a possible affair between two male students and how it unravels the progressive new headmaster’s well-crafted plans for modernization. Although it will surprise no one that the clean veneer of the Northeast upper-crust often conceals a frighteningly predatory ugliness, it’s rarely been rendered with such knowing veracity as here. Nikki Tranter

How to Talk to a Widower, by Jonathan Tropper (Dell)

The author of the funny and poignant The Book of Joe returns with his fourth novel, How to Talk to a Widower. Since magazine columnist Doug Parker’s wife died in a plane crash one year ago, he’s been caught in the whirlpool of his grief. The bigger world, though, is trying to pull him back out. Doug’s teen stepson is getting into trouble at school, and his little sister is getting married soon. Meanwhile, his other sister is trying to set him up with every woman in town. What ensues is equal parts hilarity and despair — often, both at once. As always, Jonathan Tropper cares deeply for his characters, warts and all, and writes very sweetly about the fragile yet resilient world they inhabit. Michael Keefe

In the Country of Men, by Hisham Matar (Dial Press)

In his stunning debut, Hisham Matar illustrates the brutality of Moammar Gaddafi’s 1969 coup through the eyes of nine-year-old Suleiman. With deceptive simplicity, Matar contrasts the harshness of political reality with the tenderness of domestic life, succeeding in creating both a deeply powerful historical novel and a moving account of shattered childhood. That this is Matar’s first novel makes it all the more remarkable, but In the Country of Men shows more than just promise. Matar arrives on the literary scene fully formed, and his first effort is a mature, assured accomplishment that’s as good as anything published in 2007. Nav Purewal

Kockroach, by Tyler Knox (HarperCollins)

We all know Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, the story of a man who wakes up as a cockroach. In Tyler Knox’s brilliant debut, we are taken on a journey through New York City in the ’50s and ’60s as we follow Kockroach, the insect who woke up one day and discovered, much to his horror, that he’d become a man. His survival instincts, however, remain fiercely roach-like. Gradually, a small-time hood transforms Kockroach into Jerry Blatta, a ruthless and powerful crime boss. In Knox’s hands, a potentially despicable character becomes an unforgettable anti-hero. It’s a good thing no one else thought of this switcharoo on Kafka earlier. Tyler Knox’s Kockroach is pitch-perfect. Michael Keefe

No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July (Simon and Schuster)

From the multi-talented woman behind the sweet and quirky indie film, You and Me and Everyone We Know, comes Miranda July’s weirdly wonderful short story collection, No One Belongs Here More Than You. In these often humorous slices of lives oddly lived, people struggle against their circumstances and their own self-doubts. In one, a young woman gives swimming lessons without water. In another, the secretary for a man with a fake career takes a sewing class with her boss’s wife. Although tinged with sadness, July’s tales are always filled with hope, her characters believing they will find courage, truth, or love. Michael Keefe

(Not That You Asked): Rants, Exploits and Obsessions, by Steve Almond (Random House)

From Steve Almond, author of Candyfreak, comes a second helping of chewy memoir wrapped in a coating of mouth-watering topics that include sexy heavy metal chicks, hot tub masturbation, and lobster pad thai. Along with smut and gluttony, (Not That You Asked) offers politics and pop culture, too. The majority of Almond’s exploits involve hilariously humiliating dating experiences, his rants are aimed at smarmy right wingers like Condoleezza Rice and Sean Hannity, and the author’s obsessions — which include the Oakland A’s and Kurt Vonnegut — are varied and interesting. The book’s strongest selling point, though, isn’t its subject matter but its writer. You’ll feel like you’ve gotten to know the smart and likeable Steve Almond by reading about what makes him tick (and ticked off). (Not That You Asked) is entertaining, enlightening, and even inspiring. Any book that can accomplish all of that is well worth your while.

Michael Keefe

On Chesil Beach, by Ian McEwan (Random House)

A wedding night in a hotel room on a gloomy English beach in the 1960s, bride and groom wholly lacking in experience, and a messy, thoroughly embarrassing experience to be gotten through with British pluck and reticence. Ian McEwan’s knack for queasy realism and social satire has rarely been put to better use. Chris Barsanti

Percy Gloom, by Cathy Malkasian (Fantagraphics)

There’s something for a lot of different people in Cathy Malkasian’s fantastic debut graphic novel, Percy Gloom. There’s the brown-hued and loopy fantastical artwork that calls to mind Dr. Seuss’ 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, a paranoid system of societal oversight that borrows more than a little from the loonier wings of the Kafka oeuvre, and even a few songs in the pseudo-Radiohead vibe that one can sing along with (check out the website). It’s a story about a sad-faced little runt who just wants a job, preferably one with the Safely-Now company, whose raison d’être is putting safety labels on any object that one could possibly harm oneself with. There’s plenty of Dadaistic goofiness here (there’s singing and talking goats, Percy gets pelted with muffins, etc.) but also some smart satire about the dangers of a society overly obsessed with safety. Cautionary tales weren’t meant to be this funny…or wonderfully weird. Nikki Tranter

The Raw Shark Texts, by Steven Hall (Canongate)

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into your mind, along comes Steven Hall’s brilliant debut novel, The Raw Shark Texts. Combining cyberpunk, lad lit, and a psychological thriller, this is the ultimate tale of identity theft. When Eric Sanderson thrashes into consciousness at the novel’s beginning, he has no memories of who he is. As he begins to relearn his past, the creature catches his scent once more. Soon, Eric is running for his life, searching desperately for the one man who can help him defeat the beast that swims the oceans of his mind. Wonderfully imaginative, intelligent, fast-paced, sweet, sad, and scary, you will devour The Raw Shark Texts (or it will devour you). Michael Keefe

The Reluctant Fundamentalist, by Mohsin Hamid (Harcourt)

Mohsin Hamid’s sophomore effort is that rare accomplishment: a novel very much of the present that succeeds not merely as a political tract or zeitgeist snapshot, but as an elegant, engaging work of art on its own terms. The story of a Pakistani immigrant’s experiences in New York before and after the September 11 attacks, The Reluctant Fundamentalist resists the obvious and shallow turns that lesser novels would embrace. Yes, this is the best of the 9/11 novels, but in its terse second-person narration there are shades of Camus and in its examination of American privilege and class mobility, there’s more than a little F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is a searing, provocative novel — slight in length but not in substance — that cements Hamid’s place in the upper echelon of South Asian writers working in English. Nav Purewal

Slam, by Nick Hornby (Penguin)

It’s fitting that Nick Hornby, who so often writes about men acting like boys, should pen a young adult novel about a teenage boy who has to grow up too soon. Fifteen-year-old Sam is the only child of a divorced mum. An obsessive skateboarder, his life takes a drastic turn when he gets his new girlfriend, Alicia, pregnant. Much to the chagrin of her tawny parents, Alicia decides to keep the child. Sam, meanwhile, turns to his poster of skateboarding legend Tony Hawk for advice, relying on memorized passages from his autobiography for the worldly wisdom he so badly needs. The highly capable Hornby finds humor and sweetness in every situation, and his characters in Slam are his most full-blooded since About a Boy. Despite the young adult classification, grown-ups will love this novel, too. Michael Keefe

The Steep Approach to Garbadale, by Iain Banks (MacAdam Cage)

In between popping out more baroque, jokey space operas (Feersum Endjinn, Use of Weapons being two good examples), Iain Banks returns to the real world with books only marginally simpler and more based in reality. Like with his fantastic satire The Business, Banks’ newest novel, The Steep Approach to Garbadale, finds a protagonist ensconced inside a fantastically powerful and wide-ranging private enterprise of the kind that fares far better inside novels than in the modern-day business climate. For decades, the Wopuld family has made its fortune off the proceeds from the fantastically successful board game, Empire!, which sounds like some addictive mixture of Diplomacy and Axis & Allies. On the eve of their selling out to the evil American Spraint Corporation, prodigal Wopuld son Alban is dug up out of his purposefully shabby council-state existence, hosed off, dragged to the grand Scottish estate and given the business by family members who want to sell and make themselves a mint. Although Banks ultimately vents one too many tiresome rants — his satiric lashings against the cartoonish Americans would have some sting if they weren’t so obvious and misplaced — for the most part this is a shrewdly observed and wincingly funny comedy of manners from an author who knows that behind every great wealth lies a great crime, but also that greater crimes can always be avoided in the future. Chris Barsanti

The Year of Endless Sorrows by Adam Rapp (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)

Anybody who saw playwright and young adult novelist Adam Rapp’s excellent play Red Light Winter, whether at its original run at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theater or the surprisingly success transfer to Off-Broadway, will know what to expect when picking up his first novel for adults, The Year of Endless Sorrows — everyone else will just be pleasantly surprised. It’s the early-1990s in the East Village and an aspiring writer (without a name, perhaps as a nod to the common nature of his predicament) fresh in from the heartland is losing it. Between his loony roommates and the lousy office gig, not to mention a terrifying city that’s in the last gasps of its thrilling-but-dangerous years, he seems ready to come apart at the seams within a few dozen pages. Although there’s nothing necessarily special about the setting, Rapp’s writing has a fresh zing to it that manages to somehow make this seemingly tired plot (naïve writer lost and looking for love in the big city) come alive, in a downbeat, vintage slacker kind of way. Chris Barsanti

Picks in: NON-FICTION | FICTION