Huzzah! Nine's Favorite 2025 Reads

10. The Calligrapher’s Daughter by Eugenia Kim (2009)

A rather unconventional entry with <700 ratings on Storygraph. I picked it up at random at a local bookstore as it was one of the few books in English they had and didn’t expect much from it, since the only books that make it to their shelves are either classics, NYT bestsellers that make you say “who the hell is reading this” or nothingburger novels that just so happen to comply with ridiculous Russian censorship guidelines. But this one was a pleasant surprise!

This story spans several decades and follows a Korean girl named Najin from her childhood in Japan-occupied Korea to the end of World War 2. She’s a willful but responsible daughter of a renowned calligrapher, who only wants her to obey and marry into a wealthy and respectable family, and an aristocratic mother who’s more open-minded and understanding of her child’s tribulations. The tribulations in question are just as you’d expect: Najin wants freedom, wants to get an education and start working, wants to be in control over her life, marriage is the last thing on her mind. But despite her almost scandalously frivolous desires she still values her family and has to find a way to balance autonomy with traditional womanly duties.

Yes, it’s a very common story that you’ve probably read before. So have I. For example, for me it brings to mind Etaf Rum’s A Woman Is No Man (another 2025 read). And yet!

The book is majorly based on Eugenia Kim’s mother’s experience and even though it’s not a direct account it’s still as factually accurate as it gets. Unlike a lot of historical fiction, it doesn’t solely focus on political and social events but presents the reader with a compelling narrative, complex characters and their thoughts on what’s happening in their country. Not to mention that despite being Kim’s debut work it’s very well written and poignant.

I can’t rank it any higher as despite surpassing my expectations it still had a few flaws: I wasn’t a huge fan of the romance, pacing felt weird at times, and I wish side characters were given more attention.

All in all, I recommend this book to people who like well-written historical fiction, especially if, just like me, you’re only vaguely familiar with Korean history.

9. The Color Purple by Alice Walker (1982)

An epistolary novel about a young black girl called Celie in early 20^th century Georgia. Each chapter is either an entry from Celie’s diary addressed to God, who she considers her sole ally, or a letter. I don’t always enjoy the epistolary genre, but this is an example of it done right! The writing feels very natural and poignant, it’s unfiltered in a way that makes you forget Celie isn’t a real person and changes as she matures, becomes more educated and goes through the motions of life. A touch I loved was the inclusion of misspelled and misused words, which writers often omit in fear of looking uncultured but that are obviously present in real people’s diaries.

This book is considered one of the lesbian literature classics and rightfully so! I don’t want to spoil anything, so let me just say that the love portrayed in The Color Purple is extremely sweet and touching yet complicated and flawed. But while the romance is a big part of it and the main selling point if you will, for me it was more a story of female liberation in spite of rampant misogyny and anti-blackness. There was some controversy surrounding how violent some parts of it are, but even though it really was nauseating at times, it wasn’t any more cruel than the reality black women used to face and continue facing.

Alice Walker is a terrific writer who created a story so heartbreaking it genuinely gave me chills sometimes. And I think I’m in a parasocial relationship with her or something, because the other day I picked up a book (Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neal Hurston, amazing work btw) just because it had a blurb by her on the front page. If Alice Walker says it’s good, then it’s good.

8. Private Rites by Julia Armfield (2024)

A speculative fiction/magic realism story about 3 (lesbian) sisters navigating the death of their estranged and mostly hated father, sibling relationships and personal love issues. All in a world where it hasn’t stopped raining in decades. The book explores what it’s like to live knowing the future brings nothing but loss of everything from regular means of transportation and housing to personal identity and no amount of effort can change it, while still having to deal with mundane problems like divorce and cooking dinner.

I’m glad I picked up this book, because God knows I didn’t like Our Wives Under the Sea (Armfield’s breakthrough work) as much as other people did. These two books are similar in how good they’re at creating a suffocating and hopeless atmosphere as well as the recurring theme of Water, which made me wonder if Armfield is perhaps a marine biologist or a retired sailor (spoiler: she’s not). But where Our Wives Under the Sea characters are dealing with a personal tragedy in the midst of everyone else continuing their normal lives, the events of Private Rites are worldwide which nevertheless doesn’t make them any less scary and isolating.

80% of the story focuses on the characters’ trials and tribulations, but there’s a little horror-y twist. Wink wink. The book is a retelling of Shakespeare’s King Lear, which doesn’t mean much to me, as I’ve never read it, but may mean something to you!

7. Notes of a Crocodile by Qiu Miaojin (1994)

This book fought tooth and nail to be here, because immediately after reading it I gave it a pretty low rating and thought it was overrated… but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about and referencing it for months now. I guess some works you have to ruminate over for them to grow on you.

Notes of a Crocodile is set in 80s Taiwan and follows a young woman Lazi as she enters university, mostly hates it there, falls in love with a female classmate, goes on a self-discovery journey and meets a lot of other queer peers from different walks of life. Most chapters are meant to be diary entries from Lazi’s diaries, so the book mainly focuses on her feelings and thoughts, which is why I thought it was a bit empty plot-wise, and some parts were confusing due to Lazi (or Qiu Miaojin herself?) having a rather disorganized narration style. But it was still an interesting read and unlike anything I’ve encountered before.

I try to judge books based on what they are on their own and not give historical/social/whichever else context too much weight, but here I had to make an exception. Notes of a Crocodile was published amidst a media scandal which involved the outing of several lesbians (which loosely inspired some parts of the book) and had so much influence on local queer culture, that “crocodile” and “Lazi” are still used as slang terms for “lesbian”. By writing Notes of a Crocodile Qiu effectively came out as a lesbian herself and became the first out lesbian writer in Taiwan. Despite the amount of influence her work had on both domestic and international community and the acclaim it received (both during her life and posthumously), she died by suicide when she was only 26 years old, ostensibly because the attention and subsequent discrimination she faced got too difficult to handle. It honestly kills me to think that such an amazing and talented person would’ve still been alive if it wasn’t for homophobia. But it also warms my heart to see how much influence she’s had not only on queer people in general, but on writers who came after her as well . For example, I recently read Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, where he used her words as an opening quote and it made me smile. We love and remember you, Qiu Miaojin.

"Resisting death. That’s what it comes down to. It’s like you’re on autopilot: no matter how much you hate life, your body doggedly resists death. Even other people aren’t allowed to die. You still try to stop them. What a joke!"

6. Swimming in the Dark by Tomasz Jedrowski (2020)

A last-minute addition to the list, fresh out of the oven!

This book follows a boy named Ludwik as he navigates being gay in 80s Poland with all its complications: decaying communism, living in a traditional close-minded society, suffocating authoritarianism, carceral punishment for being queer and much more.

This story reminded me a lot of James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room and not without reason: the book is often mentioned in Swimming in the Dark and was likely one of the sources of inspiration for the author. The plots are not too similar, but if you squint you could imagine Swimming in the Dark as Giovanni’s Room but from Giovanni’s point of view and with a slightly more optimistic and hopeful ending.

Although in the beginning it may seem like a tragic but simple love story, what this book ultimately is is an exploration of the connection between queerness and the political situation you’re born into. Jedrowski presents two possible paths for queer people from homophobic countries by creating two characters to represent them. Janusz who wants to blend in, submit, even participate in the system and be himself only behind closed doors, hoping it’ll give him a shot at happiness. Ludwig who wants to protest, fight for a better life, be himself even if it means giving up the sense of security and belonging. The important part is that Jedrowski doesn’t pass judgment and point at one of the approaches as being correct. Because the point of the story and the absolute truth of life is that you’ll be miserable no matter how you go around it. As a reader, it’s easy to say that Janusz is wrong and Ludwik is right, but in real life the choice between safety and freedom of self-expression isn’t that simple and can cost you your life.

While I think it’s possible to enjoy this book if you don’t find the story relatable or aren’t even queer yourself, for me it definitely hit very close to home and echoed a lot of my current thoughts and dilemmas which is why it ended up meaning so much to me. I’m not from 80s communist Poland (duh) but still close enough to expect to become just like one of the two characters in the future, I’m just not sure which one yet.

“And yet, it occurs to me now that we can never run with our lives indefinitely. Sooner or later we are forced to confront their darkness. We can choose the when, not the if. And the more we wait, the more painful and uncertain it will be.”

5. Just Kids by Patti Smith (2010)

Just like most people, I only knew Patti Smith as a singer (whose music I don’t like all that much), but turns out she’s what in k-pop would be known as an all-rounder. Drawing, poetry, photography, mixed media art – she’s done it all, but, in my humble opinion, writing is her real calling. Most musicians’ autobiographical works insist upon themselves and are only interesting if you really care about the said musician or want gossip, but Just Kids will make you want to know more even if like me you’d never thought about Patti Smith in your life. What’s interesting about this book is that Patti isn’t even the main character in it, no, it’s dedicated to Robert Mapplethorpe, fellow artist and her life partner (not to be confused with husband, that’s a different person).

Patti has that effortless writing style that people often attribute to Joan Didion (not me thought, Joan Didion mostly makes me mad), that makes reading her books easy and rewarding. This one follows her and Robert’s life in New York: from when Patti first arrives there and ends up homeless to the day of Robert’s death. Some people say her name-dropping manner is annoying and it’s true that, just like a lot of American authors, you’ll see her mention a bunch of people, places and phenomena you’ve probably never heard about, but to me it only added to the book’s charm. It felt like reading someone’s very personal diary, where the person doesn’t need to care about whether the reader knows who Sandy Daley is or not.

I’m not an artist in any way or form, but even I found Patti’s approach to art inspiring, same with her attitude towards life in general: easy-going, optimistic and open-minded. It’s one of those books that make you say “if she could turn her odds around, then so can I”. I love you, Patti Smith (apparently).

(Highly recommend going through her Instagram. She posts every day and it’s always a wonder.)

4. Nevada by Imogen Binnie (2013)

Saw a lot of people criticize this one lately which I think has to do with trans writers (especially women) being held to higher standards and expected to portray their trans characters in a more positive and palatable way. But Imogen Binnie does the exact opposite and I think it’s perfect!

The main character is a woman in her late 20s who’s going through some sort of catharsis exacerbated by her girlfriend dumping her, getting laid off, struggling to form meaningful relationships because of her emotional numbness (caused by years of suppressing her trans identity, obviously) and much more. Basically, she can’t catch a break.

Definitely my favorite depiction of transness in literature: honest, witty, flippant and unpolished; showing how difficult yet dull being trans really is. Maria (the aforementioned woman in her late 20s) is by no means a likeable character but neither is she a bad person and least of all boring. Binnie consciously gives her a more outspoken personality and a more privileged background that she herself has had, which makes for a curious dichotomy where Maria is very self-assured but constantly wrong and reprimanded by the narrative.

There are several trans characters in the book with Maria, paradoxically, being the luckiest of them all. Each of them offers a new perspective or trans phenomenon: a person who’s tired just bored of transness and doesn’t want to think about it anymore, someone who’s undeniably trans but can’t and won’t accept it, a so-called queer elder who’s been dealing with shit for longer than some of them have been alive.

Wow, I love Nevada.  

“There’s a much better understanding of what it means to be trans now: you just are trans. The fact that your transition might not go smoothly because of the shape of your body or the shape of your family or the shape of your personality or the way that your sexuality has been shaped does not mean that therefore you can just decide not to be trans. You can’t will it away. Deciding to will it away is a defense mechanism that is inevitably going to fail and you’ll be back where you started: trans. Just older and more entrenched in a life that itself not much more than a coping mechanism designed to keep you from having to be trans in the real world. If you’re trans you’re trans and if you’re obsessed with whether you might be trans you probably are trans.”

3. The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall (1928)

A 1928 book about Stephen, a British lesbian or, as both her and Radclyffe Hall call themselves, an invert (a now discarded term that presently would probably be used to describe a straight trans man or maybe a butch). Despite being written almost a century ago it follows Stephen as she faces much the same problems as queer people still do these days: being shunned and ostracized, falling in love with closeted women, finding and losing community etc. Aside from being brilliantly written, it introduces a lot of ideas that could be considered radical even now; my favorite one being about how more privileged queer people have a responsibility towards those who are less lucky and owe us their advocacy.

In a way, The Well of Loneliness ruined reading for me, because now every time I read classics, I expect them to feel as “new” and resonate with me as much as it did, but they never do.

An important disclaimer: don’t expect intersectionality from this book. Stephen (just like the author) is a rich white person and while her affluence (moral and financial) is addressed and used as the basis for a lot of interesting conversations, her whiteness is white-ing, so brace yourself for anti-blackness in one of the chapters. I know it’s a deal-breaker for a lot of people (which is justified), but just this once I’ll allow separating the art from the artist because Radclyffe Hall is long dead and, no matter how I look at it, The Well of Loneliness is the most comprehensive account we have of what it was like to be queer in the beginning of 20^th century.

“Do the best you can, no man can do more – but never stop fighting. For us there is no sin so great as despair, and perhaps no virtue so vital as courage.”

Amazing excerpt on straight people: “They trod on the necks of those thousands of others who, for God knew what reason, were not made as they were; they prided themselves on their indignation, on what they proclaimed as their righteous judgements. They sinned grossly; even vilely at times, like lustful beasts – but yet they were normal! And the vilest of them could point a finger of scorn at her, and be loudly applauded.”

2. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (1997)

The book follows two twins, Estha and Rahel, from one fateful day in their childhood that changed their lives forever to the present where they’re in their 30s and meet for the first time in over two decades. As much as I want to say more about the plot I can’t, as I think the least you know about this book the better and you should go into it blindly.

It might take you a while to get used to Roy’s style (with its non-linear narrative and generous use of imagery), but once you do it’ll be so, so rewarding. She has possibly the most beautiful, sardonic and evocative prose I’ve ever seen. So much so that despite the book not being horror in the slightest it occasionally gave me chills by being eerily immersive. It has that suspenseful layer-after-layer narration style that will have you expecting the bomb to drop any second now. The atmosphere Roy maintains throughout the entire book only adds to that eeriness; it’s dark, quiet even when several characters are talking over each other and utterly suffocating.

Aside from being a terrific work of fiction, TGOFST is also a critique of casteism and misogyny and an exploration of the grapple between communism and capitalism in 20^th century India. And, at its core, a forbidden love story.

Recommended by my dear Ri. Hehe

“It wasn't what lay at the end of her road that frightened Ammu as much as the nature of the road itself. No milestones marked its progress. No trees grew along it. No dappled shadows shaded it. No mists rolled over it. No birds circled it. No twists, no turns or hairpin bends obscured even momentarily, her clear view of the end. This filled Ammu with an awful dread, because she was not the kind of woman who wanted her future told. She dreaded it too much. So if she were granted one small wish perhaps it would have been Not to Know, Not to know what each day had in store for her. Not to know where she might be, next month, next year. Ten years on. Not to know which way her road might turn and what lay beyond the bend.”

1. The Heart’s Invisible Furies by John Boyne (2017)

If you saw John Boyne’s name and thought it sounded familiar that’s because it’s the same guy who wrote The Boy In Striped Pajamas. But stay with me!! Please set aside whatever opinions and prejudices you have about him and that book, because this one is completely different in both plot and mood and so, so much better.

The story follows Cyril Avery throughout his entire life as he navigates being gay in turn-of-the-millennium Ireland with its prejudices and homophobic laws. Unlike most (all) other queer books on this list, despite being undeniably heartbreaking (it’s the only book this year that made me cry), it also has a humorous twist which won’t stop you from feeling for Cyril but will help you not kill yourself 100 times. Satirical and intentionally unrealistic moments notwithstanding, this book has all the hallmarks of queer misery: clashes with the law, being in love with your best friend, losing loved ones to AIDS, forced immigration, compulsive heterosexuality, getting hate crimed and much more (man… some of us have never had a good day in our lives).

Compared to some other books that span the main character’s entire life The Heart’s Invisible Furies doesn’t struggle with pacing. The story is told in 7 year intervals which allows Boyne to cover all stages of Cyril’s life regardless of how important they are to the plot. Side characters are also given enough personality, so the narrative doesn’t feel one-sided or slanted.

Read it. Seriously. Please. You’re going to cry and laugh and live and love it a lot. Long live Ireland!

Indirectly recommended by Andy, the Catalyst to my White Prophet <3

Honorable mentions:

“Their Eyes Were Watching God” by Zora Neale Hurston (1937)

“Wolf Hall” by Hilary Mantel (2009)

“Trainspotting” by Irvine Welsh (1993)

“Music” by Yukio Mishima (1965)

“Madonna in a Fur Coat” by Sabahattin Ali (1943)

“The Waves” by Virginia Woolf (1931)

“Babel” by R.F. Kuang (2022)

“Giovanni’s Room” by James Baldwin (1956)

“The Three-Body Problem” by Cixin Liu (2006) (recommended by my best friend <3)