But today’s book club looks very different. When Dua Lipa recommends This House of Grief to her 90 million followers, or Florence Welch posts her annotated copy of The Bell Jar, something deeper is at play. Reading has become performance, identity, and, unexpectedly, power.
Holden Caulfield's voice felt like it had kicked the door open. It was messy, alive, and full of feeling. It didn’t sound like a book was supposed to sound, and that was precisely the point.
It wasn't even a casual comment. It was something he had thought about. On the surface, it might sound comforting for those of us bone-tired of the algorithmic hamster wheel we have found ourselves on. But it’s also, frankly, bad advice for most writers trying to carve out a space in today’s publishing world.
Log on to BookTok and you’ll find Rebecca Yarros’s Fourth Wing, Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses, and Taylor Jenkins Reid’s The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo passed around like holy scripture.
Over on Bookstagram, Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow or Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library are often perched artfully next to a flat white and some autumnal leaves. If you’re deep into literary fiction, chances are someone has handed you Sally Rooney’s Beautiful World, Where Are You, Elif Batuman’s The Idiot, or the ever-expanding crop of novels compared to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History.
A century after it first opened, Shakespeare and Company remains more than a bookshop; it’s a living testament to the power of words, memory, and belonging.
There are bookshops that sell books, and then there’s Shakespeare and Company. Each time I visit, as I did again recently, I’m
Now, fan fiction isn’t a detour en route to “real” literature; it’s a workshop, a movement, and a testing ground for the next generation of writers. The fanon canon, as it’s called online, is transforming how stories are written, shared, and sold.
These are the misfit texts: the ghost stories, experimental fragments, and one-off essays that never quite made it into the canon but hold a strange power all their own. They’re small, sometimes imperfect, but full of clues. In them, we catch glimpses of writers unguarded, playful, or restless, working things out before the world was watching.
It’s all candlelit study sessions, whispered debates about Greek tragedy, and the intoxicating smell of old money and old books. But what happens when we look past the velvet curtains? Is dark academia simply an aesthetic, or does it say something sharper about literature, class, and longing?
I’ve just finished reading Lonesome Dove. Again. Though technically a reread, it felt startlingly fresh – like coming back to a place you used to know but seeing it in a different light. It hit me harder than I expected.
Some novels haunt. Others entertain. Lonesome Dove does both, with a vastness that’s hard to put into words. It’s a story that spans thousands of miles and even more emotional terrain. And despite its 850-plus pages, it rarely drags. Larry McMurtry pulls us along with wit and grit, and a deep affection for his characters – all of whom feel maddeningly, painfully real.
And rather than leaving us cold, they pull us in. Think of Kafka’s The Castle, Sylvia Plath’s Double Exposure, or David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King. Each offers a kind of literary excavation site. We don’t simply read, we speculate, sift, and imagine.
Now, a novel might become a global sensation because someone sobbed over it on TikTok, annotated every page with pastel highlighters, or declared it "life-changing" in an Instagram caption. From Fourth Wing to The Song of Achilles, some books seem almost genetically engineered to break the internet.