The New York Times' 100 best books of the 21st century

And why I'm giving myself eighteen months to read them all...

A little over a decade ago, when I decided to read my way through the BBC Top 100 Books, I did so not knowing that the challenge would change my life. I won’t bore you by wanging on about how - you can read that here, if you so wish (scroll down to the end where I write about Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier).

A few weeks ago a new literary list was declared, when the New York Times announced their ballot—or the 100 best books from the 21st century. To determine said books, they polled hundreds of literary luminaries, including the likes of R L Stine (be still my beating teenage heart, which used to obsesses over The Hitchhiker, The Babysitter, Hit and Run, et al), John Irving (one of the best-looking writers of our time, imho), Min Jin Lee and, ahem, Sarah Jessica-Parker, Sex and the City star-turned-publisher-extraordinaire.

When the list was published a few weeks ago, there was—as there always is with this sort of thing—plenty of uproar from displeased readers, myself included. People wondered how and why books like A Little Life, Hamnet, Homegoing, The Kite Runner, and The Night Watchman were left out, and how neither Lahiri, nor Murakami, nor any Native American writers at all were featured anywhere on the list.

The people behind the New York Times books department listened. And then they let the readers have their say, before releasing the list of the 100 best books of the 21st century, as voted by readers.

Shortly after both lists had been released I was invited on to ABC radio (26 minutes in if anyone fancies a listen) where the presenter incorrectly stated that the list was made up of novels (it was in fact a mixture of fiction and non-fiction) to discuss my thoughts. I noted that there was a lot more commercial fiction on the latter of the two lists, a lot more high-brow literature on the original. I totted up my own score (because what is the point of such lists if not to compete with random strangers on the internet to see who is better read?!) and was shamed, but not surprised, to see that I’d read thirty from the first list, forty-seven from the second.

The next day, while browsing my bookshelves for something to read, I came across Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, which took the tenth spot on the critics' list, so I decided to start reading it shortly thereafter. The more I mooched around my apartment, the more I saw that I already owned a number of the books declared as some of the the best of the 21st century. There were two copies of The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst (picked up from God-knows-where), a faded edition of Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, a sandwich-sized copy of The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner. Shortly after finishing Gilead, I read—and loved—Olive Kitteridge, and then my mind was set.

With eighteen months until I turn forty, it feels like the perfect time for a new challenge. I finished reading the BBC Big Read on the eve of my thirtieth, and so it seems fitting that before my next big birthday, I’ll aim to finish the 100 best books of the 21st century.

There are a few I’m already dreading (there’s a reason Station Eleven has been sitting gathering dust on my bookcase for the best part of a decade), some I can’t wait to read (Men We Reaped and We The Animals to name but two) and a few I know absolutely nothing about (The Sympathizer, The Return, The Emperor of all Maladies).

I don’t expect this challenge to impact me the way the previous one did, but I’m hopeful that I’ll discover new books I might not have otherwise come across, and perhaps add some new authors to the hallowed vault of my all-time favourite writers. And who knows—maybe the books editor of the New York Times will hear about my feat and commission me to write about it. One can but dream!