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Six novels that spent the autumn being argued over were reduced, in a single sentence spoken in London, to one. The 2026 Booker Prize went to The End of Everything by M. John Harrison, the oldest winner in the prize’s history.
On Easter night an old scholar rewrites the first line of the Gospel, and the devil steps out of the smoke to help him act on it. From Marlowe and Goethe to Moscow, Brazil, Prague and Beijing, the Faustian bargain has been retold wherever ambition meets its price.



At the top of a Paris staircase, a single name changes the shape of the French reading year. The 2026 Prix Goncourt went to Philippe Jaenada for L’Inconnue du quai de Javel, a book not yet available in English.



A hanged woman takes the rope from her neck and sings while two men drink coffee. From occupied Paris to Robben Island, Buenos Aires and Karachi, Antigone has been retold wherever a state decides who may be mourned.



A red, winged boy writes his autobiography; a schoolteacher in Pennsylvania limps out of class with an arrow in his ankle. Anne Carson and John Updike each retold a monster wounded by Herakles, and read together their books reveal two ways of living with a wound.



There has never been a worse time to choose what to read, only because there has never been more to choose from. This is the quiet use of the literary prize: a century of juries, doing a first pass of the sorting on our behalf.



A woman ascends into heaven while folding laundry, and the neighbors mourn only the lost bedsheets. That image holds the secret of a genre that insists the marvelous was here all along, folded into the ordinary, waiting to be seen.
One writer’s name became an adjective because he mapped a nightmare the whole modern world would come to share. The novels gathered here are the great inheritors of that vision, from a fort awaiting an enemy that never comes to a ministry that harvests a nation’s dreams. Each shows the kafkaesque wearing a different face,…



There is a habit of speaking about Chinua Achebe as though he were a statue, the man who wrote the one African novel everyone is assigned in school. The fuller figure is stranger and larger: the novelist across three generations, the critic who took on the Western canon, the editor who published a whole tradition…



A man sets out to walk across a continent, and the country he is really crossing is himself. Patrick White’s Voss turns an expedition into a test of the soul, where the will to conquer and the willingness to be humbled prove to be the same motion. Voss is a remarkable book.



They were the twin faces of a philosophy, inseparable in the cafés of occupied Paris, until a single book about revolution and murder turned them into enemies who never spoke again. The quarrel between Camus and Sartre was no mere literary feud; it was the moment existentialism split in two over the oldest question of…



A man reaches for a stone on the beach and cannot bring himself to touch it. That small failure is the beginning of Roquentin’s nausea, the dawning horror at the sheer, unjustified thereness of everything that exists. Sartre’s first novel turns a metaphysical shudder into a story, and it remains the truest door into existentialism…


