In a literary landscape often obsessed with the next big bestseller or the most polarizing political memoir, Sarah Orman offers a radically different metric for a year of reading: the texture of human survival. Rather than tallying sales or awards, Orman curates a year of texts that grapple with the fragility of the body, the weight of history, and the quiet desperation of modern life, arguing that the most vital books are those that refuse to offer easy comfort.
The Architecture of Vulnerability
Orman begins her exploration of memoir by highlighting works that treat personal struggle not as a plot device, but as a site of critical inquiry. She draws particular attention to Sarah Moss's My Good, Bright Wolf, noting how the author "weaves in literary criticism, exploring the ideologies behind Little House on the Prairie, Jane Eyre, Little Women, and other classic novels with young female characters." This approach reframes the memoir from a simple confession into a forensic examination of how cultural narratives shape physical reality. Orman writes, "Readers should know that the story of Moss's anorexia can be quite harrowing, especially the middle portion in which she suffers a relapse in her 40s, starving herself in accordance with the instructions of health experts on podcasts about intermittent fasting until her organs are on the verge of collapse."
The commentary here is sharp: Orman identifies a disturbing trend where modern wellness culture, often marketed as empowerment, can become a vehicle for self-destruction. By linking the personal tragedy to the broader ideological currents of the time, she elevates the memoir beyond individual pathology. However, a counterargument worth considering is whether focusing so heavily on the "harrowing" aspects of illness risks reducing the subject to their trauma, potentially overshadowing the literary critique Orman also praises.
This theme of the body under siege continues with Anne Enright's Making Babies. Orman describes the book as "somewhat tossed off in the most appropriate way—like she wrote it in drips and drabs in between nursing, changing diapers, etc." She argues that this structural unevenness is not a flaw but a feature, capturing the fragmented reality of early motherhood. "Except for the last, stunning chapter about depression, this book feels somewhat tossed off in the most appropriate way," Orman observes, suggesting that the form of the book mirrors the chaotic experience it describes. This is a compelling defense of aesthetic imperfection, challenging the polished, linear narratives often expected of memoirs.
Reading a memoir should not be the same as reading a novel, in my view.
Orman applies this same lens to Hannah Pittard's We Are Too Many, a book she found divisive in her book club. She critiques the inclusion of "lengthy, imagined dialogues," feeling they "felt too much like an extended writing exercise to me." Here, Orman draws a firm line between fiction and nonfiction, arguing that the power of memoir lies in its adherence to the messy truth rather than the constructed elegance of a script. While some critics might argue that hybrid forms allow for a deeper emotional truth that strict factuality cannot reach, Orman's insistence on the essayistic over the dramatic holds up as a defense of the genre's integrity.
History, Politics, and the Weight of Words
Moving into nonfiction, Orman shifts her focus to the systemic forces that shape individual lives. She highlights Matthew Desmond's Evicted as a cornerstone of the year's reading, citing a specific assertion that will "stick with me forever": that "poor Black men in America are locked up, while poor Black women are locked out." This distinction is crucial; it moves the conversation from a general discussion of poverty to a specific analysis of how gender and race intersect with the criminal justice and housing systems. Orman notes the book is "urgent, compelling, sobering," but her real contribution is pointing out how Desmond's work forces a confrontation with the structural nature of inequality.
Similarly, in discussing Clint Smith's How the Word Is Passed, Orman praises the "perfect blend of political and personal writing." She notes that Smith, a poet, ensures his "sentences sing" even as he visits former plantations to explore the legacy of slavery. This observation underscores the importance of style in political writing; the aesthetic quality of the prose does not dilute the horror of the subject but rather makes it more bearable and, paradoxically, more impactful. Orman suggests this book serves as a necessary companion to Jerry Stahl's Nein, Nein, Nein, linking the history of American slavery with the history of the Holocaust to show how trauma is processed across different contexts.
The political dimension of reading is further explored in Orman's discussion of Jill Lepore's These Truths. She admits she "wanted to read a big fat history book before the 2024 presidential election," acknowledging the desire for context in a polarized climate. However, she offers a candid critique of the genre, stating, "I've never read a history book from cover to cover, and I'm not sure I will again." She finds the book's strength not in its broad overview but when it "descended from the overview to focus on a specific person, such as Frederick Douglass or Margaret Fuller." This preference for the biographical over the abstract suggests that in an era of overwhelming data, human-scale stories remain the most effective way to understand historical forces.
The Ethics of Form and the Future of Reading
Orman's commentary extends to the very mechanics of how we consume stories, particularly in the realm of poetry and graphic memoirs. She describes Ocean Vuong's Night Sky with Exit Wounds as a work where "lines meander across margins like stray thoughts but are held together by sensuality and concrete images." This visual description of the text highlights how the physical layout of a page can influence the reading experience, a point often lost in audiobook formats but essential to the genre. She also champions Julie Poole's Gorgeous Freak, noting that the poems were "written while walking and structured her collection as a series of letters to a future soulmate." Orman connects this to her own practice, suggesting that "if you, like me, use the Notes app on your phone while walking, you might be inspired to think of what might come out of it."
In her discussion of graphic memoirs, Orman finds profound emotional resonance in A.J. Dungo's In Waves, a book about her late partner's battle with cancer and the history of surfing. She admits to having "cried in public because of this book," a raw admission that speaks to the unique power of the graphic form to convey grief and memory simultaneously. This emotional vulnerability is a hallmark of Orman's approach; she does not shy away from the impact these books have on her, using her own reactions as evidence of their value.
The audiobook was smart and funny in all the right ways, plus it actually made me want to be a better person.
This sentiment is echoed in her review of Michael Schur's How To Be Perfect, where she notes the audiobook's ability to blend humor with moral philosophy. She highlights the "little weird facts about philosophers," such as Jean-Paul Sartre's cat named Nothing, to illustrate how the book makes complex ethical questions accessible. Orman argues that this accessibility is not a dilution of the subject matter but a strategic choice that engages readers who might otherwise be intimidated by moral philosophy.
Bottom Line
Sarah Orman's year-end list succeeds not because it covers the most famous titles, but because it identifies a specific thread of human resilience that runs through memoir, history, and poetry. Her strongest argument is that the most valuable books are those that refuse to smooth over the rough edges of life, whether through the fragmented structure of a mother's memoir or the harrowing details of an eating disorder. The piece's biggest vulnerability lies in its reliance on personal taste as the primary metric for literary value, which may alienate readers seeking a more objective analysis of the year's publishing landscape. However, for a reader seeking to understand the emotional and intellectual currents of 2024, Orman's curated journey offers a necessary and deeply human perspective.