In a literary landscape often paralyzed by algorithmic cynicism and the fear of the new, Rachel Connolly's "2025 year in reading" offers a radical act of defiance: a curated list where the primary metric is not prestige or safety, but the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of a book that works. Rather than offering a dry inventory of bestsellers, Connolly constructs a mosaic of voices that collectively argue for the vitality of contemporary fiction against a tide of dismissal, proving that the most interesting stories are often the ones that refuse to be neat.
The Architecture of Disappointment
Connolly begins by dismantling the very premise of a standard "best of" list, admitting that her initial prompt was "badly written" and that the resulting diversity of interpretation was a feature, not a bug. This sets the stage for a collection that values idiosyncrasy over consensus. The most striking moment comes when Connolly addresses the Booker Prize and the stylistic conservatism of literary awards. She notes, "I placed a bet against it winning the Booker, although I thought it should win. I just assumed it wouldn't. And actually not because men have been banned from winning literary prizes, although they certainly have and you will see definitely evidence of this on any prize list you care to check. But because I thought it was more stylistically distinctive and riskier than prize winners tend to presently be."
This observation cuts deeper than a simple complaint about a specific award; it identifies a systemic risk-aversion in the publishing industry that prioritizes palatability over innovation. Connolly's willingness to admit she bet against a book she loved highlights a tension between personal taste and institutional validation. The commentary here is sharp: the industry often rewards the "safe" even when the "risky" is superior. However, one might argue that framing this as a binary choice between risk and reward oversimplifies the complex market forces that dictate prize outcomes, yet the core sentiment—that distinctive style is being punished—resonates with many readers feeling the stagnation of the canon.
"Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico was also not for me... I found it a bit obvious I suppose. And it didn't seem to me to have anything to say about human nature."
The inclusion of honest disappointment is just as vital as the praise. When Connolly describes failing to connect with Patrick DeWitt's Ablutions, she offers a rare, vulnerable take on the reader-author relationship: "It's exactly the kind of book I would like, it's funny and dark and the writing is great, but somehow I couldn't get into it. That happens sometimes, like when you meet a person you theoretically should like and you just can't in practise get along with them." This metaphor elevates literary criticism from a judgment of quality to an exploration of chemistry, reminding the busy reader that a book's merit does not guarantee a personal connection.
The Resurrection of the Forgotten and the Defense of the New
The piece gains significant momentum when it weaves in the voices of contributors who champion the overlooked. Jess White's discovery of Rosemary Tonks serves as a powerful historical anchor. White notes that Tonks, an English writer who published through the 1960s and early 70s before vanishing into fundamentalist Christianity, offers prose that is "exact, funny and cutting, while also being filled with meaning." This reference to Tonks' abrupt departure from the London literary scene mirrors the trajectory of Natalia Ginzburg, whose work Connolly also celebrates. Just as Ginzburg's Happiness as Such opens with a line about the "sadder" boarding house in Leeds, Tonks' work reminds us that the literary past is not a monolith of dead classics but a reservoir of living, breathing voices waiting to be rediscovered.
Nicole Flattery takes this defense of the new to its logical extreme, challenging the prevailing "disdain right now for contemporary fiction." She writes, "Funnily, it seems to be writers, critics and publishers, of a certain generation, who are most eager to declare every new book worthless, to hasten the end after they've extracted all they possibly can from the industry, to make the transition to AI as seamless as possible." This is a provocative claim, suggesting that the nostalgia for the past is not just an aesthetic preference but a cynical strategy to clear the deck for automation. While critics might note that this view risks painting all older critics with the same brush of cynicism, Flattery's call to be "defiant" in the face of this hostility is a necessary counter-narrative to the doom-scrolling of the literary world.
"She is a true artist and a complete freak."
Sean Tanner's contribution on Miranda July's All Fours exemplifies the kind of fearless weirdness Connolly's list seeks to promote. Tanner describes July's work as "erotically fondling a handful of her breakdancing lover's urine," a description that is as shocking as it is accurate to the text's spirit. This endorsement of the "complete freak" stands in stark contrast to the "wan narrators who tremble all the time" that Monica Heisey explicitly rejects in her own section. Heisey's list of grievances—"women lying face down on book covers," "sisters with a secret," and "overlong descriptions of paintings in museums"—serves as a manifesto for what readers are tired of, clearing the space for the raw, unpolished energy of the books Connolly highlights.
The Human Cost of Literary Trends
The collection also touches on the weight of history and identity in reading. Issa Quincy's reflection on Adrienne Kennedy's He Brought Her Heart Back In A Box grounds the literary discussion in personal and historical reality. Quincy, the grandson of a doomed interracial marriage, finds resonance in a story set in 1940s Georgia, admiring Kennedy's "dramatic inventiveness and the dreamy enlivening of a story that so easily could've felt tired." This connection between the reader's biography and the text's themes adds a layer of gravity that pure aesthetic criticism often misses. It reminds us that reading is not just an intellectual exercise but an emotional and historical engagement.
Similarly, the inclusion of Margarita Khemlin's Klostvog and its "very interesting view on trauma" regarding a Jewish woman in the Soviet Union ensures that the list does not remain in the realm of the light and funny. The juxtaposition of these heavy historical narratives with the absurdity of a Donald Judd essay collection creates a dynamic rhythm, mirroring the chaotic reality of the world itself.
Bottom Line
Rachel Connolly's curation succeeds because it refuses to apologize for its own subjectivity, turning a simple list of favorites into a polemic for the relevance of new and forgotten literature alike. Its greatest strength is the collective voice it amplifies, which collectively argues that the fear of the new is a self-fulfilling prophecy that the industry must break. The only vulnerability lies in its potential to alienate readers who prefer the comfort of established canons, but that friction is precisely the point: to provoke a conversation about what we value and why. For the busy reader, this piece is a reminder that the next great book is not in the past, but waiting to be read right now.