Over the course of 2019, I read or listened to 114 books. I adored some, loved many, liked many more, and there were only a few I was unexcited about. Here are the best and the rest.
Books I adored
Among my favorite books of the year are some novels (A General Theory of Oblivion, There There, Mockingbird), short stories (What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky), memoirs (The Lights of Pointe-Noire, The Girl who Smiled Beads, How Dare the Sun Rise), autobiography (Barracoon), poetry (The Sea-Migrations: Tahriib), and one graphic novel (Akissi: Tales of Mischief).
Books I loved
I loved a lot of books this year, so I’ll split these into categories.
Nonfiction I loved
Graphic novels and graphic memoirs that I loved
Fiction I loved
Books I really liked
Nonfiction I really liked
Graphic novels and graphic memoirs I really liked
Fiction I really liked
Poems and plays I really liked
Books that I liked (just, you know, not quite as much)
Books that often had a few ideas or images that really spoke to me but that otherwise I couldn’t really figure out. (No regrets!)
Which books did I get wrong? What were your favorites of the year?
I enjoy movies! I watch movies alone, with my spouse, with my kids, with friends, with my parents, with my siblings. (I haven’t watched a movie with an archenemy yet, but I’m working on it.) Here is what I saw this year. Some are first-time watches; some are rewatches. A few movies appear twice, which indicates that I saw them more than once this year.
Movies I adored
Movies I loved (just, you know, a little less)
Movies I didn’t love but still really enjoyed
Movies I enjoyed reasonably well
Movies that I enjoyed at least some even though they weren’t that great
Beyond the Rice Fields visits Madagascar during the first half of the nineteenth century. A young boy, Tsito, and his family are captured in the forest and sold as slaves. Tsito ends up serving a family with a daughter, Fara, with whom he falls in love. Their story takes place against the backdrop of massive upheaval in Madagascar, with a queen heavily persecuting converts to Christianity and others judged disloyal. Naivo balances an intimate portrayal of Tsito’s and Fara’s lives — the book’s narration alternates between them — with the country’s political shifts. Other characters — Fara’s mother and grandmother, Tsito’s patron, an older slave who serves as a mentor — flesh out the picture. This glimpse into Malagasy history and Naivo’s imagination is well worth the read.
Here is how this ended up being the first Malagasy novel translated into English.
Here are a few lines I liked:
One character observes how Madagascar is changing: This is a sacred land, but it is adrift, at the mercy of outside interests, foreign dealings that go far beyond us. This land is rich, but we’re leaving it fit for pigs and stray dogs.”
On the subtle art of persuasion: “I just told him that the next time, I’d rip his head off with my own bare hands. Sometimes you need to make a convincing argument.”
And, an economist’s favorite euphemism for death: A man “has left for the market of no return.”
Here is what some others thought of the book:
Kate Prengel, Words without Borders: “Beyond the Rice Fields is a spiraling, dense, and prickly work, difficult to access until the foreign reader has agreed to put in some time and effort. But once the effort is put in, it is richly rewarding.”
Meg Nola, Foreword Reviews: “With quiet surety, the novel pairs an elegantly poetic narrative with an intensifying brutality of events as Madagascar finds itself beset by internal strife, French industrialism, and the zealous efforts of Christian missionaries.”
Publishers Weekly: “Naivo provides readers with an astonishing amount of information about Madagascar’s culture and past.”
Ann Morgan, A Year of Reading the World: “Vivid, thought-provoking narration; rich, mind-furnishing imagery; and an insight into a place and time that has hitherto been absent from the English-language literary landscape.”
This is book #50 in my effort to read a book by an author from every African country in 2019. You can read reviews of all the books here.
Asouf lives alone in the desert. He cares for massive, ancient rock paintings and guides the tourists who venture to see them. He alone knows where to find the sacred waddan, “a kind of wild mountain sheep … the oldest animal in the Sahara.” In The Bleeding of the Stone, the first novel of prolific Libyan novelist Ibrahim al-Koni to be translated into English (by May Jayyusi and Christopher Tingley), Asouf faces dangerous beasts and bloodthirsty hunters. The entire novel reads like a dream or an extended fable, with an unearthly quality to it. It’s strange and beautiful and magical and tragic.
Kirkus Reviews: “A winning combination of ecological fable, political statement, and lyrical lament for the past… The story’s melodramatic apocalyptic finale seems slightly forced, but in no way dissipates the power of al-Koni’s subtle dramatization of irreconcilable cultural misunderstanding and enmity.”
Ann Morgan, A Year of Reading the World: “Al-Koni pushes the spiritual aspect of the natural world into the realm of magical realism, introducing a series of strange interludes in which gazelles speak and waddan (the ancient desert sheep that roam the mountain ranges) assume mystical powers… They all work to further the sense of wonder and wistfulness for a shrinking way of life that pervades the text.”
This is book #49 in my effort to read a book by an author from every African country in 2019. You can read reviews of all the books here.
Amadou Hampaté Bâ was a writer well-known in his native country of Mali and beyond. He lived 90 years and wrote both fiction and nonfiction. In 1957, he wrote a biography of and collection of teachings by his spiritual leader, Tierno Bokar. He rewrote the book in 1980, and it was published in English as A Spirit of Tolerance: The Inspiring Life of Tierno Bokar — translated by Fatima Jane Casewit — only in 2008.
Tierno Bokar was a Muslim spiritual teacher and Sufi mystic from what would become Mali. He lived from 1875 to 1939.
In the first half of this book, Bâ paints Bokar as a wonderfully wise, tolerant teacher. The tone is deeply loving, even hagiographic. Later in Bokar’s life, his reputation was destroyed as adversaries used a difference in religious interpretation against him. Some of this part of the book was challenging for me to follow given my complete lack of background.
The second half of the book recounts Bokar’s teachings. I’m not Muslim nor Sufi, but I found much to enjoy and to consider.
Here are some passages that struck me:
On memory: “In Africa, when an old person dies, it is as if a library has burned down.” (Amadou Hampaté Bâ)
On saying no: “If you ask a favor of the people of Segou and they want to refuse it, they will do so with so much intelligence and courtesy that you will find yourself obliged to thank them.” (Fily Dabo Sissoko)
On physical violence: “Material weapons can only destroy matter but not the principle of evil itself, which always rises from the ashes stronger than ever? Evil, he was to teach us, can only be destroyed by Goodness and Love.” (Bâ paraphrasing Bokar)
On being eighteen: “He was eighteen, the age of torment, the age of many dreams, of many pathways.” (Bâ)
On self-denial: “It is necessary to deprive the soul of some things that are permitted so that it does not aspire to things that are forbidden to it.” (alGhazali)
On using religion poorly: “Tierno Bokar was the victim of the ignorance and obscurantism of men who confused clan loyalty with religious commitment and who had forgotten that tolerance is a fundamental principle in Islam.” (Bâ)
On simplicity of expression: “He had an aversion to those who expressed themselves in anything other than ordinary language.” (Bâ on Bokar)
On clarity of language: “One of the characteristics of ‘sorcerers’ was to use impenetrable language.” (Bâ)
On teaching: “Speak to people according to the level of their understanding” (Bâ quoting the Prophet)
On learning about other religions: “You will gain enormously by knowing about the various forms of religion. Believe me, each one of these forms, however strange it may seem to you, contains that which can strengthen your own faith.” (Bokar)
On humor: “Always being overly serious is something that cannot be taken seriously!” (Bokar)
No one has a pure pedigree: “Do not dig too much around the roots of the illustrious trunk of your origins because beyond several layers of earth you risk discovering that the roots originate in a mass of refuse.” (Bokar)
In other words, “from every royal palace you will find an alleyway that leads to the thatched cottage of a poor person.” (Bokar)
On detachment: “It is for man to act, using all of his faculties, but then to keep his heart serene concerning the outcome of his actions.” (Bâ)
On spiritual knowledge: “There are three ways to know a river: First of all, there is the man who has heard the river spoken about and becomes capable by imitation and repetition to describe it without having seen it himself. This is the first degree of knowledge. Then there is the man who has undertaken the journey and who has arrived at the banks of the river. Seated on the banks of the river, he contemplates it with his own eyes and is a witness to its majesty. This is the second degree of knowledge. Finally, there is the man who throws himself into the river and becomes one with it. This is the supreme degree of Knowledge.” (Bokar)
On the sacred around us: “Islam is not an escape towards the sacred, but rather, a conscious integration of the sacred on all planes of existence.” (Bâ?)
This is book #48 in my effort to read a book by an author from every African country in 2019. You can read reviews of all the books here.
For a time, K. Limakatso Kendall taught at the National University of Lesotho. While there, she gathered stories by or about the women of Lesotho. (Three quarters are by women; the rest are by men, recounting stories told to them.) In the wonderfully idiosyncratic collection, Basali! Stories by and about women in Lesotho, Kendall presents 16 of these stories, plus a small collection of annotated photos of life in Lesotho.
Many of the writers are first-time authors. Some are recounting their own experiences, others are telling stories that happened to others. The fight for a good education comes up repeatedly (on the optimistic side), along with repeated incidents of domestic violence (on the pessimistic side). Several stories center on the search for work and the quest of women to help their children survive. What some of the stories lack in style, they compensate for in passion and insight.
Here are a few passages that stood out:
Vengeance as motivation for education: “I promised my aunt that I would live to retaliate. The old woman needs to see me going up the ladder while she is swimming in the mud of poverty.” (Monica Nthabeleng Ramarothole, “The African Goddess”)
Illegal immigration for education: “There was no place to hide. The alternative was to lie down flat in the veld and hope that our city clothes blended in well with the bush… We had heard that schools in the former protectorates were a lot better by comparison.” (Nomakhosi Mntuyedwa, “Escape to Manzini”)
The outward signs of communism: “Ntate Mokhehle is a Communist… When he speaks, poisonous flames come out of his mouth.” (Hilda ‘M’amapele Chakela, “How I Became an Activist”)
On not reading African writers in a Lesotho school: “We were not reading African writers; we were not even told that Africans were capable of writing novels or plays.” (Hilda ‘M’amapele Chakela, “How I Became an Activist”)
This is book #47 in my effort to read a book by an author from every African country in 2019. You can read reviews of all the books here.