Dear readers, With thousands and thousands of books published every year, how do any of them ever break through to the zeitgeist? The answer, at least according to the testimony that emerged a few years ago from the thwarted merger between Penguin Random House and Simon & Schuster, is that nobody really knows — not even the people who have devoted their entire careers to engineering exactly that. As a review editor, I love seeing which books bubble up, and why, and how. But of course, tons of great contenders still go under the radar: books that receive heaps of critical praise yet never hit the best-seller list. Books that are beloved by a dedicated community of readers but haven’t gotten the breakout success they deserve. Hidden gems that you feel a personal duty to press upon a wider audience, if only you had a way to reach readers’ inboxes on a Saturday morning. Here are two of my favorites. —MJ “Bluets,” by Maggie NelsonNonfiction, 2009
Nelson is perhaps best known for “The Argonauts,” which was voted one of the Best Books of the 21st Century. But “Bluets” — a 95-page ode to the color blue — has itself long inspired a passionate horde of readers. No brief description could do justice to the beauty and complexity of this slim monograph, which is also a memoir in pieces, a scrapbook of a relationship, a chronicle of heartbreak, a peek into depression, the musings of an artist and the field notes of a scholar. The book is told in 240 fragments, almost all of them returning to the same palette. Some convey factoids: “acyanoblepsia: non-perception of blue. A tier of hell, to be sure — albeit one that could be potentially corrected by Viagra, one of whose side effects is to see the world tinged with blue.” Others note instances when Nelson has encountered the hue in her own life: “From the window of our room, I watched a blue tarp on a roof across the way flap in the wind.” But Nelson’s real subject is her despair after a breakup; she’s using the color blue to process her pain. “This is how much I miss you talking,” she writes. “This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.” And that’s what makes the book so special. By documenting her obsession with a color, Nelson makes legible the indescribable agony of heartache. Reading “Bluets” is like touching a live wire — it’s raw and electric. “That this blue exists makes my life a remarkable one, just to have seen it,” Nelson writes early in “Bluets.” The same can be said of this unforgettable book — what a gift it is that it exists, what a privilege it is just to read it. Read if you like: Going to the museum on a rainy day; “The Dept. of Speculation,” by Jenny Offill; anything by Sheila Heti. “Tin Man,” by Sarah WinmanFiction, 2017
One genre of fiction I love is the quiet but devastating gay novel. Fortunately for me, there has been an embarrassment of riches in this category in recent years, with excellent books by Douglas Stuart (“Shuggie Bain”), André Aciman (“Call Me By Your Name”), Garth Greenwell (“Small Rain”), Brandon Taylor (“Real Life”), Alexander Chee (“Edinburgh”) and more all captivating readers. There is one book, though, that I wish got more shine: “Tin Man.” The story follows Ellis, a 40-something widower in Oxford. After the death of his wife, Annie, years prior, he’s grown into a recluse, preferring to wander in silence than socialize with his neighbors and co-workers. One night he’s biking home and, distracted by the light from a nearby shop, crashes into the ground and breaks his wrist. And maybe it’s the pain or maybe it’s the painkillers, but something in him cracks and he begins revisiting the difficult memories he has suppressed. It turns out Annie isn’t the only person Ellis is grieving. He’s also mourning the loss of Michael, a childhood friend turned first love who disappeared after Ellis’s marriage. The absence haunts Ellis. But midway through the novel, the story’s perspective shifts and we learn about Michael’s time away, and his own experiences of love and loss. The first thing about “Tin Man” that charmed me is Ellis himself. Oh, poor Ellis. He’s a character you just want to hug. At one point early in the book, feeling overwhelmed by grief at work, he steps outside into the snow for a break. A colleague follows. “Billy came out and saw him looking up with tears frozen before they could fall,” Winman writes. “And he wanted to say to Billy, I’m just trying to hold it all together, that’s all.” My heart! How could you not love this lost soul trying his best? Then there’s the novel’s tone. While the story juggles death, depression, homophobia, the AIDS crisis and more, the feeling it leaves you with is tenderness, not misery. Even as the characters look back on painful pasts, they never wallow. They’re reflecting; they’re accepting. When someone asks Michael whether he and Ellis ever got back together after their youthful romance, Michael answers simply: “No. We had our time.” So sure, the novel is sad, but it radiates serenity too. There is a powerful and captivating hush in “Tin Man.” It’s hypnotically gentle. Maybe that’s why it has gone under the radar — it feels less like an explosion than an exhalation. Reading it feels like being let in on a secret. And now you, dear readers, have been let in on it too. Read if you like: All of the books mentioned at the top of this write up; the movie “Weekend,” directed by Andrew Haigh; “Tinkers,” by Paul Harding. We hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, which is made possible through subscriber support. Subscribe to The New York Times. Friendly reminder: Check your local library for books! Many libraries allow you to reserve copies online. Like this email? Sign-up here or forward it to your friends. Have a suggestion or two on how we can improve it? Let us know at books@nytimes.com. Plunge further into books at The New York Times or our reading recommendations.
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