1920
21 books
- Maskull grows new sense organs in the first hours on Tormance, and the book keeps doing that to you, offering a worldview each chapter then tearing it down. Harsh, strange, philosophically serious, clumsy in patches.
- It starts with a bored ex-soldier putting an ad in the paper asking for trouble, and trouble obligingly arrives, in the form of Carl Peterson and a kidnapped millionaire. Pure between-the-wars pulp, cheerfully daft and very dated in its attitudes, but fast fun if you take it lightly.
- You’ll appreciate Anatole Clerambault’s uncomfortable change from patriotic poet to outspoken critic of the war, especially as his son Max’s death strips away his illusions. Rolland writes plainly and polemically, so it can feel more like a moral argument than a novel, but its lonely defense of conscience still lands.
- You get Dorothy and Ozma traveling with Glinda into the strange country of the Flatheads, where Baum’s imagination turns geography into play. It’s a gentle, episodic late Oz book, more curious than suspenseful, and especially good when you want the familiar characters in a slightly dreamier, less polished adventure.
- You’ll like the way Stephens makes Irish myth feel mischievous and alive, especially in Fionn’s boyhood, where wisdom arrives through the Salmon of Knowledge rather than solemn instruction. The stories are strange, lyrical, and occasionally abrupt, with gods, warriors, and ordinary people all sharing the same unruly world.
- Carol Kennicott arrives in Gopher Prairie full of plans to bring beauty to a small Minnesota town, and the town just quietly absorbs every one of them. If you've ever felt trapped somewhere polite and suffocating, this hits close, though Lewis takes his time getting there.
- This is the play that gave us the word robot, and it's stranger and sadder than that sounds: factory managers debating souls while their creations quietly outgrow them. It's talky and a bit stiff in places, but the ending lands somewhere unexpectedly tender.
- You get Tarzan at his most grief-driven here: after finding his estate destroyed and Jane apparently dead, he turns vengeance loose across wartime Africa. The action is brisk and vividly pulpy, though the racist wartime caricatures and colonial assumptions can make this a difficult read.
- Nothing much happens on the surface, and that's the point: Newland Archer's whole life turns on glances and unfinished sentences in 1870s New York drawing rooms. If you like your heartbreak quiet and precise, Wharton will wreck you gently, especially that last scene in Paris.
- You get a wonderfully methodical early police procedural, with Inspector French tracing a human body packed into a cask through shipping records, witnesses, and shifting alibis. It takes its time and occasionally feels procedural in the old-fashioned sense, but the patient reconstruction is quietly satisfying.
- Fair warning, this isn't Jeeves territory: it's Wodehouse trying an actual domestic drama, a young painter's marriage nearly wrecked by money and a bossy aunt who raises the baby by scientific theory in a germ-proof nursery. If you're curious what he sounds like being earnest, it's oddly touching.
- If you liked the Pimpernel's swagger, his ancestor Diogenes has it rawer: a laughing soldier of fortune in frozen Holland, with the vengeful Stoutenburg circling him and Gilda again. It helps to read The Laughing Cavalier first, but the derring-do stands fine on its own.
- Two men who look exactly alike meet in German East Africa, and only one comes back to England, so you spend the whole book second-guessing which one you're watching. Pulpy 1920s spy stuff with a gothic haunted-wood subplot thrown in, and honestly the guessing game still works.
- Alvina Houghton chucking respectable spinsterhood in a dying Midlands shop town to follow Ciccio, a broke Italian vaudeville performer, into the bare Abruzzi mountains, that's the whole strange pull of it. Start it for the small-town comedy, stay for how unsettling the ending feels.
- Poirot's very first case, and half the fun is watching Hastings confidently guess wrong while the little Belgian fusses over spilled candle wax and a spirit lamp. A tidy country-house poisoning, cozy rather than dark, best read with tea and zero hurry.
- A cathedral close called Paradise, a stranger dead at the foot of an old stair, and a guardian whose past is locked tight. Fletcher's quiet English scene-setting does the real work; the mystery is serviceable, the town is the pleasure.
- You get a wonderfully odd adventure in which Doctor Dolittle learns animals’ languages, travels with a pushmi-pullyu, and treats creatures with more patience than people. The storytelling is warm and playful, though its colonial-era attitudes and language can jar, so you read it as an old book with a very kind heart.
- You get Amory Blaine in all his charm, vanity, hunger, and confusion, stumbling through Princeton, romance, and the aftermath of war. The novel is uneven and sometimes wonderfully overstuffed, but its quick shifts in voice capture what it feels like to outgrow the person you thought you’d become.
- You get a brisk, pulpy Barsoom adventure with Carthoris and Thuvia caught in political trouble, strange cities, and aerial escapes. Thuvia’s uncanny power to summon banths gives the romance some teeth, though the episodic plot feels more like a lively continuation than a deeply developed novel.
- Lawrence writes arguments between lovers like nobody else, and Birkin and Ursula bicker their way toward something real while Gerald and Gudrun tear each other apart. Fair warning, it's feverish and talky, but if you like feeling ideas in your body, this delivers.