Beaverland: How One Weird Rodent Made America
Leila Philip, (2024, 2022)
Getting the chance to take the world apart and figure out how it works.
Towards the end of the Fall 2024 semester, it was common for me to open my office door to find a plain package or two on my desk. They had been placed there by the department's administrative assistant, having been routed to there by University mail services, which received the package from the author of the book contained within. My point is that it takes a long time to send a physical thing to someone at my workplace, even inter-office mail, and I appreciate that. There's no streamlined process, no third-party ed tech app to save someone in upper admin a fraction of a second, no expectation that anyone act immediately.
I was receiving these gifts because a colleague asked me to judge submissions for the "academic book of the year" category for Texas Institute of Letters awards. I read them all within the first few months of the year, and every single one of the nominees offered insight into topics I knew very little about along with worth-my-time wordcraft. Most were history books, and as storytelling is a weighty part of their methodology, I maintain that historians tend to be good writers. My favorite of the lot, the eventual overall winner, was Houston and the Permanence of Segregation: An Afropessimist Approach to Urban History, by David Ponton III. Compelling scholarly argument that blended straightforward, quantitative analysis of public data, analyzed through a clear-eyed application of antiracist theories. It was timely not just in topic but in approach, as it made transparent how little the bad faith critics of critical theory actually understand of what they're complaining about.
An extracurricular project I started over the past year was to read all of William Shakespeare, a play a month. So far I've completed with six re-reads*: Antony and Cleopatra (1623), As You Like It (1623) The Comedy of Errors (1595), Julius Cesar* (1623), Love's Labour's Lost (1598), A Midsummer Night's Dream* (1596), Much Ado About Nothing* (1623), Romeo and Juliet* (1597), The Taming of the Shrew* (1592), Titus Andronicus* (1594), Twelfth Night, or What You Will (1602), and The Winter's Tale (1623). I included the dates on that list out of my adherence to formatting consistency, but the differences of the years don't mean as much to me as a reader in the twenty-first century. What's more, there is considerable variation between when Shakespeare is believed to have written each play, its first performance, its physical publication, and the experts' definitive date. I've never considered myself any good at reading drama, and the iambic pentameter would wash over me at times, forcing me to double back, but then I'd get pulled in by a phrase that is now part of the firmament but in reading I was reminded someone actually came up with this.
Finally, project-wise, at the urging of a friend, and having taken much longer than it should have, I completed my read of Karl Ove Knausgård's My Struggle series of autofiction tomes with Some Rain Must Fall (2016) and The End (2018). Over the course, I've read more words written by Knausgård than any other author: 1,371,255, to be exact. (For comparison, all of Shakespeare's plays total 884,421 words.) The sections I appreciated the most, across the series, were the switches from literary criticism to the narrative and back. I'm referring to the unstated shifts from one style to the other, moves that were *maybe* show-off-y but that snapped me to attention.
Favorite books I read in 2025:
The rest of the books:
This review is late coming, because of for no one but me. I'll start with the books I most enjoyed reading during the year 2024.
Until I am given a really good reason to expect otherwise, I will anticipate every new Hanif Abdurraqib book and read it as soon as I can. Last year, it was There's Always This Year (2024), which is about basketball in the same way that Go Ahead in the Rain was "about" A Tribe Called Quest (2019). That is, yes, it's absolutely about the thing that the book jacket says its about, but it's also an opportunity for Abdurraqib to reflect and critique across a range of socially-relevant subjects. I've always been a fan of the "talking about one thing as an entry point to talk about some other thing" genre, and sure, this metaphorical approach to essaying is not unique or even rare, but what remains exceptional is the care that Abdurraqib puts into his writing. The specifics are important to him, but that they are can be important to anyone.
Even before getting my hands on a preordered copy of Magical/Realism: Essays on Music, Memory, Fantasy, and Borders by Vanessa Angélica Villarreal (2024), I knew it would be an instant favorite. Villarreal does so many great things I appreciate from an essayist: blending genres, jumping from everyday to academic registers, and helping me think deeply about people around me.
As usual, I read a lot of books for work. I'm currently working on a review essay on the common themes from Toward an Anti-Capitalist Composition by James Rushing Daniel (2022), Unwell Writing Centers: Searching for Wellness in Neoliberal Educational Institutions and Beyond by Genie Nicole Giaimo (2023), and Storying Writing Center Labor for Anti-Capitalist Futures, edited by Genie Nicole Giaimo and Daniel Lawson (2024).
Another sequence of projects uses Critical Hits: Writers Playing Video Games edited by J. Robert Lennon and Carmen Maria Machado (2023), Show Me the Bone: Reconstructing Prehistoric Monsters in Nineteenth-Century Britain and America by Gowan Dawson (2016), The Jurassic Park Book: New Perspectives on the Classic 1990s Blockbuster edited by Matthew Melia (2023), Rereading the Fossil Record: The Growth of Paleobiology as an Evolutionary Discipline by David Sepkoski (2015), and The End of Eden: Wild Nature in the Age of Climate Breakdown by Adam Welz (2023).
And to incorporate across various teaching, scholarship, and service projects: Inclusive STEM: Transforming Disciplinary Writing Instruction for a Socially Just Future, edited by Heather M. Falconer and LaKeisha McClary (2024) and Keywords in Technical and Professional Communication, edited by Han Yu & Jonathan Buehl (2023) (WAC Clearinghouse remains worth the regular donations). Two by Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers Through Society (1987) and Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (2005), They Thought They Were Free by Milton Mayer (1955), Engaging Ambience: Visual and Multisensory Methodologies and Rhetorical Theory by Brian McNely (2024) (which I've already assigned to multiple thesis-writing grad students), and What Universities Owe Democracy by Grant Shreve, with Phillip Spector and Ronald J. Daniels (2021).
Maybe because other books I read this year have become overshadowed by famous film adaptations, but I was conscientious of how the books I was reading might look on the screen. I'm not much of a cinephile—I like what I like, I guess—but I do tend to categorize movies in terms of time: either clustering films that were released around the same time (as discussed at length in Brian Raftery's (2019) Best. Movie. Year. Ever.: How 1999 Blew Up the Big Screen) or across the oeuvre of a single director. Leaning on the latter, four of Dennis Lehane's novels have already been adapted to film, by Ben Affleck, Clint Eastwood, Michaël R. Roskam, and Martin Scorsese. Affleck best captured the setting, so give him another go with Small Mercies (2023). Some others:I've learned that returning to a beloved book is often time better spent than rewatching a movie or watching a lot of what I end up watching for the first time. This past year, I re-read Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton (1990) with a class of rhetoric majors in an upper-division course titled "Writing about Dinosaurs," for which we hosted a showing of the Steven Spielberg (1993) film as our course "final".
Technically a re-read, Trilogía El Señor de los Anillos is the original Spanish translation of J. R. R. Tolkien's (1954-1955) foundational fantasy series. Luis Domènech, (Francisco Porrúa), and Matilde Horne (1977-1980), working out of Buenos Aires, Argentina, are the credited translators (as far as I have been able to find out, Domènech is one of Porrúa's pseudonyms).
Here are the other books I read over the year 2024:
“By teaching us how to read, they had taught us how to get away.”
Six years (2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022) now, logging my book reading. It's a streak bested by "favorite songs/albums" and "movies that came out last year that I didn't watch but would like to some day" EOY lists.
Here is every book I read in 2023, with some superlatives, followed by holistic observations. Re-reads are indicated by an asterisk*.
Once again (2018, 2019, 2020, 2021), I logged my book reading for all of 2022. Here's the list, followed by some reflection. Re-reads are indicated by an asterisk*.
Notes:
The publication date for The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson is 2020, but that obviously isn't indicative of when the poems were written. The most famous (and famously reclusive) resident of Amherst, Massachusetts, lived and wrote during the middle of the 19th Century. Each poem in the collection is conveniently numbered, and I will inconveniently indicate the ones that stuck out to me as I read: 28, 51, 76, 84, 128, 131, 135, 145, 148, 173, 175, 185, 214, 254, 255, 328, 465, 520, 698, 699, 712, 718, 809, 810, 822, 866, 893, 917, 919, 943, 980, 1104, 1272, 1303, 1308, 1395, 1422, 1479, 1512, 1545, 1627, 1681, 1736.
As anyone reading this has likely come to expect, I read strategically and contextually. Each year, that means themed readings around St. Patrick's Day (Gods and Fighting Men), Halloween/Día de los Muertos/Autumn (Book of the Dead, Graveyard Shift, Lincoln in the Bardo, Underland), and this year, the FIFA Men's World Cup (Doctor Socrates).
Sometimes, I plan to read something based on where I expect to be reading, such as Where the Devil Don't Stay during breaks from driving through Alabama and other parts of the South. I listened to Welcome 2 Club XIII, the latest album by the Drive-By Truckers, while actually driving.
I spent one long summer afternoon reading The Devil and the Dark Water—a creepy murder mystery, possibly supernatural, set on a 17th century Dutch merchant ship—sipping a Flyaway New English IPA from Shovel Town Brewery (North Easton, Massachusetts). This was my view:
My favorite reads of the year include: Beatty's style in The Sellout is relentless; a less careful, more pretentious, writer would have made mincemeat out of all those clichés, puns, slang, and references. Macdonald has for some time been one of those "I'll read whatever they write" authors, and Vesper Flights shows how a familiar theme can manifest across shorter modes. Entangled Life—paired with Bjork's mushroom-influenced-but-not-in-that-way-album, Fossora—was less about fungi than about how humans perceive the interconnectedness of things (I was hoping for a little more on those other definitions of "entanglement," though).
Some other observations, by the numbers:
At least nine of my completed books are ones that I have or am likely to incorporate into my teaching and research: White Evangelical Racism, Rhet Ops, Bird by Bird, Queerly Centered, Fossils, The Bedside Book of Birds, The Undercommons, Try This, and Free Speech and Koch Money.
Five books were read as part of various "book clubs", a term employed here to mean a combination of accountability group and an excuse to regularly gather together to share a chat and coffee/beer.
Four were written by folks I know (or have met). Two of these, Mind Lit in Neon and Queerly Centered, represent projects I followed throughout development, so it was rewarding to see them in print.
None of the books I read are regrets, although a couple or three were less engaging than their reputations led me to select them.