This week’s “So You Want to Read YA?” guest post comes to us from Daniel Kraus.
If someone says, “I don’t read YA,” I have the same reaction as if they said “I don’t read science fiction” or “I don’t read fiction” or “I don’t read.” It’s their prerogative, of course, but it pains me to know what they’re missing. It works both ways. I don’t read a lot of comic books. I don’t watch a lot of TV shows. No doubt there are brain-melting tour de forces coming out right and left that I am a sad little fool for skipping. But I think we understand each other, right? There are only so many hours. So I’m going to limit this list to a few outright masterpieces. No, even that would take too long. A few recent masterpieces. I respect your time.
33 Snowfish by Adam Rapp
You probably have a thing for Cormac McCarthy. That’s okay, most of us do. Was it The Road? It was The Road, wasn’t it? Oh, it was Blood Meridian? Even better. Here’s a book you can sit right alongside those decorated tomes. So raw it’ll burn the flesh off your fingers.
Andromeda Klein by Frank Portman
It’s a love story, I guess, but one of (romantically?) deep conviction that risks losing wide swaths of readership with its (romantically?) tireless catalog of what it’s like in the tar pit of a young woman’s obsessive brain. Things get stuck down there. You will too.
The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation; v.1: The Pox Party by M.T. Anderson
You’ve heard of this one, dearest non-YA reader? Maybe not? Let me assure you it won just about every award a young-adult book can win. No doubt you’re rolling your eyes imagining the stultifying groupthink that led to such a feat, but fear not. This book punches naysayers and uppity-ups in the face and is riveting from the first paragraph. Riveting.
Nothing by Janne Teller
This book exists out of time. It feels like something foisted upon your great-grandparents in a one-room schoolhouse back when books came in cloth-bound readers with tiny print—and there were rulers that would crack down on knuckles if you looked away from the text. Which you would because, page by page, your stomach would twist and your skin would sweat as you became convinced by Teller’s calm logic that you and your children and your grandchildren were doomed—and always had been.
The Watch that Ends the Night: Voices from the Titanic by Allan Wolf
Historical fiction. Written in poetry. In two dozen different voices. And one of the voices is an iceberg? Kill me now. Wait, don’t. This is no gimmick. This has the heft and passion of a life’s work. I don’t know Mr. Wolf but as far as I’m concerned he can retire and spend his days contemplating his brilliance because that’s what I’m doing. How can someone write so many words in a row and not screw up any of them?