Nicholas Nickleby, by Charles Dickens: The classic tale of a young man’s attempts to make his own way in the world and care for his family against the machinations of his nasty, money-lending uncle. This might be the Platonic Ideal of the Dickens Novel: it’s got everything you expect, including comic poor people, tragic poor people, mean rich people, benevolent rich people, and some great London street scenes. (I wrote a bit more about it here.)
Midnight Chicken (and Other Recipes Worth Living For), by Ella Risbridger: I’ve been following Risbridger’s writing, and life, for years. She’s got a hell of a story. This is a cookbook, but also a memoir, beautifully illustrated, and containing the kind of recipes that it’s perfectly easy to follow if you’re a little bit drunk. It’s aspirational in a completely achievable, you-do-you sort of way; there are allusions to Laurie Lee and Laurie Colwin, The Railway Children and The Secret Garden. Lovely.
What Is This Thing Called Love, by Kim Addonizio: I’m freshly obsessed with poetry at the moment and I hope it lasts. Addonizio’s is sexy, smoky, bluesy. The final poem in this collection, “Kisses”, in which she imagines every kiss she’s ever received imprinted on her body, is worth the price of admission on its own, I think. (You can read it for free here if you need convincing.)
The Night Tiger, by Yansze Choo (out in February), and Selected Poems 1950-2012, by Adrienne Rich.