Roughly two hundred titles on the floor at any moment. Below, the shelves as we currently keep them.
Novels and story collections published in the last five years that we can defend at length.
A large Irish family novel with the propulsion of a thriller and the interiority of Alice Munro. Long, but never wasteful.
A poet in a Kentucky hospital during a heatwave. Greenwell's most patient sentences to date.
A daughter and mother walking through Tokyo in the off-season. Read it in one sitting on a rainy afternoon.
Formally restless, emotionally exact. A debut that earns every experiment.
Books that think out loud, argue with themselves, and change their mind by page 200.
A walking book about the Suffolk coast, silk, herring, and empire. Nothing else reads like it.
Three short memoirs, translated from Danish, that read as one long, unblinking sentence about a life.
Two hundred and forty numbered propositions about the color blue, love, and loss. A book to reread.
The best sustained argument we know for not knowing where you are going.
A small, stubborn poetry section. About sixty titles at a time.
Grief work of the highest order. Read slowly.
The sonnet stretched, broken, and put back together. A book you will want to hand to someone.
If it exists and it ships to the United States, we can get it. No account required — just call or write.
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