Its vision of a postapocalyptic New York City, where teams of amateur soldiers roam the streets in search of any stray remaining undead, is foreboding and appropriately caked with ash and grime.
Here’s our annual roundup of the books that struck us as outstanding this year—not exhaustive, not definitive, but an accurate thumbnail of what grabbed us and didn’t let go.
When he was a creative-writing undergrad at the University of Victoria, D.W. Wilson came up with some fairly strict rules about how to write a sentence.
It pains me to say so, but the ninth novel from Maine’s Nicholson Baker is exactly the kind of hollow fuck-fest his other sex books were once decried as back in the ’90s.
All of Wallace's hallmarks are here: asides that run on for pages, soliloquies rife with jargon, and a determination to treat his characters with as much empathy as possible.
Widely buzzed as one of the summer’s must-read novels, the debut by Nashville’s Adam Ross is a grisly look at death, marriage, and obsession, told through the prism of three failed husbands.
Arriving just 18 months after the man’s suicide, David Lipsky’s Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself leads the pack of posthumous books about David Foster Wallace.
The Straight caught up with Mason via e-mail to discuss the compiling of his Lost Books, why so many writers are drawn to Odysseus’s story, and why he sent a custom-built Trojan horse to the New York Times Book Review—complete with a copy of his novel hidden in its belly.
At the centre of the debut novel by Guelph, Ontario’s Nicholas Ruddock is a highfalutin philosophy trumpeted by a (fictional) group of Mexican poets circa 1975.
The freewheeling eighth novel by Brooklyn’s Jonathan Lethem takes place in an alternate-universe version of Manhattan, though the degree of its unreality is never clearly defined.
When faced with a book of essays, especially one that isn’t tied to a single, unifying topic, it’s tempting to leaf through the table of contents, cherry-pick the best entries, and discard the rest. But this isn’t possible with Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays.
Even if you don’t like poetry, or haven’t read it in years, the fictional Paul Chowder is a lovable, self-effacing dope of a tour guide, one who’s able to poke holes in the gospel of iambic pentameter without putting everyone to sleep.
The seeds for the grandiose new novel by Istanbul’s Orhan Pamuk were covertly planted midway through Snow, his metafictional murder mystery translated into English in 2004.
With his sixth and latest novel, Juliet, Naked, Nick Hornby revisits the spiky terrain of pop music and the obsessives who consume it, but his tone is calmer, more assured, and ultimately more nourishing.
Interviews, by their very nature, are stilted affairs for both parties—each with a clear job to do, and all ensuing charisma at least a little premeditated. But author Douglas Coupland shrugs this entire convention away.
Dave Eggers' new work, the nonfiction book Zeitoun, is a quietly devastating account of one man’s experience of Hurricane Katrina and its surreal, frayed, often Kafkaesque aftermath.
There are many remarkable ways to describe the hero of Los Angeles–based writer Percival Everett’s 17th novel, and that’s not even counting his legal name: Not Sidney Poitier.
It’s tempting to describe the core conflict in Fall as a love triangle, but things are slightly more complicated than that. Can it still be called a triangle if two sides are barely aware of the third’s existence?
Both kinds of ghosts, the colonized and the physically battered, are contained in Chris Cleave’s titular hero, Little Bee, a shell-shocked Nigerian teenager who flees to London after a savage oil war destroys her village and family.
Confession, the tempting but bland new novel from Toronto’s Lee Gowan, chronicles the life and times of Dwight Froese, a sullen elementary-school janitor who grew up in a small town in Saskatchewan.
Lawrence Lessig's latest book Remix: Making Art and Commerce Thrive in the Hybrid Economy, demonstrates just how creaky and antiquated the current American laws are.
Dragonflies, the new novel from Mayne Island’s Grant Buday, does an admirable job of re-imagining the Trojan Horse myth, synthesizing various secondhand accounts (from Virgil, Sophocles, and Homer, to name a few) into one sharp, crisp hybrid.
This may be Chuck Klosterman's first novel, but Downtown Owl is hardly a venture into the unknown. It revisits the essayist's two chief obsessions: the sleepiness of small-town America and the unexamined profundities of pop culture.
Will Self's sixth book is a characteristically sweeping effort, veering with gusto from screwball road-trip comedy to a brooding critique of the West’s lingering imperialist urges.
This narrative formula usually drains suspense automatically, but here Ross Raisin deftly pulls it inside out in a chilling and utterly believable descent into self-delusion and obsession.
The good news is that Running is indeed a memoir, where Haruki Murakami himself is firmly under the microscope. But the bad news is that all he wants to talk about is long-distance running.