Everything I Read in May

On the best reading month I have had in over a year...

I don’t remember the last time I read eight books in a single month. Not properly — not without skimming or speed-reading or just abandoning them halfway through because my brain had been hollowed out by the 9-5 grind. For most of the last year, I barely scraped four books a month. Sometimes less. Sometimes none. So to hit eight in May feels a little bit like magic. Or, more realistically, like the outcome of a strict routine, a slightly obsessive relationship with my Forest app, and a refusal to let my phone win. (It’s allowed NYT Games, obviously — I have a Wordle streak to protect.)

There were bank holidays, sure. But even on the normal days — the up-at-5, out-the-door-at-8 kind of days — I stuck to it. A few pages before work, a few more before sleep. No grand revelation, no sacred ritual. Just me, and my kindle, reading in those small, quiet moments most of us forget to claim for ourselves.

And maybe that’s why this month felt different. Not just because of the number of books, but because of the connection to them. I didn’t just read — I underlined. I paused. I highlighted passages like I was trying to mark proof of my own aliveness. The genres were varied, but the thread running through them was the same: that feeling of being moved. Of seeing yourself mirrored. Of whispering god, that’s good into the soft glow of your bedside lamp (although my partner is obsessed with putting on the big light).

Overall this month I hit an average rating of 3.6/5.0 which given there were 8 books was pretty decent. It was a good month — for literature, yes, but also for me (I got promoted hehe). The only downside of reading so many books is that my monthly reading wrap up takes longer to write!

Great Big Beautiful World, Emily Henry (4.5/5.0)

I know this one wasn’t everyone’s favourite. But for me, this might be Henry’s strongest yet — not because it’s her most polished (it isn’t), but because it’s her most honest.

If you want the deep-dive, I wrote a quotation study on this novel — where I unpack the layers of meta-textuality and why this feels, in many ways, like her version of The Tempest. Shakespeare had his shipwreck and his farewells; Henry has her writer’s retreat, her collapsing romance tropes, her subtle exit from the genre that made her a household name.

This isn’t a romance novel, not really.The romantic plotline is still there, of course — but it’s not the centrepiece. It’s a shadow, a commentary, a kind of postscript to something larger and more uncertain.

And yes, I’ll admit it: the novel is rushed in places. You can feel the editorial knife that didn’t go deep enough. There’s a messiness to the structure that might be intentional but also might just be — well, messiness. Some of the emotional turns are a little too neat. Some of the dialogue feels like it needed one more pass. And let’s not even talk about the perfect bow that is tied at the end. It’s predictable at times, in the way that literary fiction about writers can sometimes be — full of mirrors and manuscripts and conversations about the stories we tell ourselves to survive.

But despite all that, I gave it a 4.5.

This was Henry stepping off the familiar stage. And whether she stumbles or not, I’m glad she did it and there were a fair few lines I loved:

‘Keep working, keep moving, keep hoping.’

‘“I think she loves me, because I’m her daughter. But I’ve never felt sure she loves me because I’m me. Does that make sense?”’

‘But the problem is, once you love someone, you can’t have it all anymore. Love comes with sacrifice. That’s how it works.’

Counter Attacks at Thirty, Won-pyung Sohn (4.25/5.0)

I’d been desperate to read this book, given the nature of my hatred for my 9-5. I’d heard this book tackled capitalism and burnout head-on, and I was craving something that wouldn’t just describe my frustration but validate it — hold it up and scream with me. South Korean and Japanese fiction always seem to manage that in a way English-language books rarely do. Maybe it’s the restraint, maybe it’s the tone, but there’s a particular clarity in the quiet despair — a power in what’s left unsaid.

This is a book about hitting thirty and realising you’re not where you thought you’d be — and maybe never will be. It opens with a biting, propulsive energy, rooted in the protagonist’s inner voice as she navigates the bottom rungs of the work hierarchy. There’s no hope of promotion, no dream left intact, just a relentless loop of meaningless tasks and corporate nonsense. Naturally, I felt seen.

But then: a shift. An antagonist enters the picture. Pranks begin. The chaos grows. And while I understood the symbolism — rebellion, subversion, a metaphor for fighting back against the machine — it lost me a little. I prefer a slower kind of revolt. Internal reckonings. Quiet refusals. The kind of anti-capitalist rage that doesn’t explode but simmers, unresolved.

Still, this was sharp, smart, and far more honest than most books about working life dare to be. Even when I didn’t love the direction, I respected the intention. It was a novel that met me exactly where I was — tired, overworked, and needing a reminder that I’m not the only one screaming silently on the inside.

Some lines that stuck with me (but more coming in a quotation study):

‘I’m tired. I don’t want to have to think about dreams or aspirations anymore. I’m sick and tired of being crushed by people who have it easier than me.’

‘For some reason, self-introductions always made a mess of me. Even if people swore I did fine, that wasn’t how I felt.’

‘Keep my money, but just don’t take my time.’

Girls Against God, Jenny Hyval (2.5/5.0)

I’m not a girl against God, but I am a girl who once sat through too many philosophy lectures on the nature of belief, so I came into this one ready — eager, even — for some meaty theological deconstruction. Instead, I got… confusion.

Girls Against God is surrealist autofiction meets anti-church fever dream — a fragmented, feminist takedown of religion, patriarchy, and the cultural sterility of Norway in the '90s. At least, I think it is. The book resists clarity almost on purpose, cycling through vignettes, inner monologues, black metal references, and poetic fragments that don’t build so much as loop. It's not plot-driven so much as mood-drenched — somewhere between novel, essay, and experimental lament.

It started strong. I was intrigued by the narrator’s fury, her fixation on darkness, her desire to unlearn everything she was taught. And there were flashes of brilliance — especially in the etymological digressions, which had that philosophy-student-on-a-bender energy I still have a soft spot for. But soon, the book spun off into something too self-referential, too elliptical. I couldn’t find a through line, and eventually I stopped trying.

Maybe it’s a case of translation loss — I did wonder how much of Hval’s original rhythm and intent got lost crossing linguistic borders. Or maybe I just wasn't the right reader.

Here are some lines I did highlight in those first few pages:

‘Every battle is linguistic.’

‘Can art’s insignificant explosions blast our illusions to bits?’

‘I hate it off by heart, I hate it backwards and upside-down.’

Hunchback, Saou Ichikawa (4.0/5.0)

This one’s short — barely over a hundred pages — but it lands with more weight than novels three times its length. I don’t usually go for novellas. I like a slow build, a 300-page sprawl, something I can sit with. But Hunchback had me from the start, and it didn’t let go. It ended exactly when it needed to, and somehow still felt complete. Saou Ichikawa has that rare thing: perfect pacing.

The novel follows a reclusive woman with a hunchback who works in a bookstore and lives largely detached from the world around her. She moves through life unseen, watching society from a distance — judged, pitied, or ignored entirely. Her condition shapes not only the way others perceive her, but the way she perceives herself: as someone half-formed, unworthy of affection, uninvited to the spectacle of ordinary life. Her voice is quiet, observational, almost clinical at times, but underneath is a simmering resentment — not loud or dramatic, just deeply human.

Like much of the Japanese fiction I gravitate toward, Hunchback is unflinching. Blunt without being cold. It speaks softly but carries an emotional weight that lingers long after. Instead of focusing on capitalism or gender (the usual territory I reach for), Ichikawa turns toward the cultural discomfort around disability — how those who live with visible difference are rendered invisible, pushed to the fringes of society and selfhood. It’s a novel about being looked at, avoided, and ultimately erased.

In some ways, it reminded me of Almond — the stillness, the interiority — but this felt sharper, more provoking. It doesn’t offer redemption or revelation, and it doesn’t ask for pity. It simply observes, and in doing so, says more than most books dare.

The only line I highlighted:

‘To live, my body breaks’

The Secret History, Donna Tart (3.75/5.0)

Half-finished in April, completed audiobook in May — and honestly, I think that was the right call. The Secret History has been on my TBR for what feels like forever, one of those books people treat like a rite of passage if you’ve ever studied the humanities or worn black in the winter. It’s canonical in that vague, literary-Tumblr-meets-English-degree kind of way. I knew I had to get to it eventually. But did I love it? Not really. And I didn’t really get the whole dark academia vibe.

I’ll skip a summary given that most people have read it or know the gist.

Listening to the audiobook helped soften some of the density — Tartt’s prose is beautiful but often indulgent, and I’m not sure I would’ve had the patience to read every overwritten page. I appreciated the Greek references and philosophical weight, but at times it felt like the novel was trying too hard to be important. That said, I still get the hype. It’s clever, atmospheric, and knows exactly what it's doing. But like The Goldfinch, it builds an impressive scaffolding of tension and grandeur that doesn’t entirely deliver.

Do I think the book deserves its reputation? Yes. Do I also think it’s a little overhyped? Absolutely. It's the kind of novel that makes you wish you'd read it at the exact right time in your life — probably 19, in a cold room, with a cheap wine hangover and a vague desire to learn Latin. But now you have lived through that, it seems weak.

Elena Knows, Claudia Piñeiro (3.0/5.0)

This was one of those quiet, unassuming books that stays with you long after the last page. It traces the slow unraveling of a woman living with Alzheimer’s and the toll it takes on her daughter, who is steadily worn down by caregiving. There’s no sweeping drama or sudden twists—just the tender, often painful reality of watching someone you love fade away, piece by piece.

The story shifts gently between the mother’s slipping memories and the daughter’s growing exhaustion and guilt. It’s an intimate, raw exploration of loss—not just of a person’s identity, but of the relationship itself. And yet, amid the erosion, love endures.

It’s not a flashy or groundbreaking narrative, but sometimes the simplest, most honest stories leave the deepest marks. A small book with a quiet, steady heart—a reminder of the courage it takes to hold on when connection begins to fray.

A Court of Frost and Starlight, Sarah J Mass (3.0/5.0)

I listened to this one on audiobook, and honestly, it was the filler novella it was supposed to be. You can tell it’s meant to tide you over. I’m invested enough in the characters to want to finish the series, but I don’t feel like spending my physical reading time on it anymore. So, once my Spotify hours come back, I’m planning to finish the rest through audiobooks instead.

The Lamb, Lucy Rose ( 4.0/5.0)

I went in with low expectations — cannibalism in fiction feels a little overdone at this point — but this one surprised me. The Lamb is told through the voice of a young girl named Margot, who’s lived her entire life off-grid in a remote cabin with her mother, isolated from the world and shaped entirely by her mother’s strict, chilling rules. The line between survival and indoctrination blurs quickly, and what begins as a quiet, eerie story slowly descends into something much darker.

There’s a sharp emotional undercurrent to the novel, especially in how it explores the mother-daughter dynamic — it’s intimate, obsessive, and devastating. The pacing is tight, and Margot’s childlike voice makes the horror feel all the more immediate. It’s not graphic in the ways you might expect, but it’s deeply unsettling in its restraint.

The only reason this wasn’t a five-star read for me is the ending. (Spoiler ahead.) I wanted a different kind of resolution — I kept hoping Eden would turn out to be a cop and rescue Margot, in a twist that echoed If You Find Me by Emily Murdoch, a YA novel I read as a teenager and never quite forgot. I think I was craving that kind of catharsis, but Rose had something much colder in mind.

Still, a compelling, disturbing debut. If you like your horror quiet, psychological, and rooted in voice, this is worth picking up.

Books I Didn't Get Around To

1. Martyr, Kaveh Akbar

2. Us Fools, Nora Lange

What I would like to read in June

1. Mongrel, Hanako Footman

2. Winter in Sokcho, Elisa Shua Dusapin

3. Prophet Song, Paul Lynch

4. Greek Lessons, Han Kang

5. Ms Ice Cream Sandwich, Mieko Kawakami

6. Natural Beauty, Ling Ling Huang

7. Martyr, Kaveh Akbar

8. The Possessed, Elif Batuman

9. Us Fools, Nora Lange