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Here is the second part of our reviewers’ trawl through 2025. The first part was here. The third will appear on Friday.
Debbie Gascoyne
This has been a terrific year for books, including new books by old favourites that did not disappoint along with new discoveries. In January, I thought it was going to be impossible to beat the impact of Samantha Harvey’s Orbital, the mesmerizing, almost dream-like account of the thoughts and observations of a team of astronauts in the international space station. I don’t think it matters one jot whether it is or is not SF (I’m on the side of it is, kind of, but it’s also almost creative non-fiction if you want to quibble). Another novel that crosses genres and is almost-but-not-quite purely literary is Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor, and this was another, like Orbital, that blew the top of my head off. It isn’t often that I find myself muttering “omg this is SO GOOD” as I’m reading. Both books took me places I’ve never been and will likely never go, both made me think about what it means to be human. I do most of my reading via the library these days, but both these books made me want to run out and buy a copy so that I will be able to reread freely. Death of the Author in particular made me want to turn back to the first page and read the whole thing again once I reached the ending.
A runner-up for book of the year is the one I’ve read most lately, it having only just come out in October. That is The Rose Field by Philip Pullman, the eagerly awaited conclusion to The Book of Dust trilogy, bringing to a somewhat ambiguous and open end the story of Lyra Silvertongue and her daemon, Pantalaimon. This was another that I wanted to reread almost immediately, and I also now want to reread the six novels comprising His Dark Materials and The Book of Dust. The combined series links so many ideas and characters; Pullman may be able to keep them all in his head over the thirty years since the publication of the first one, but I can’t. We’ve moved in this latest series from Milton to Spenser and Blake, and from the ills of organized religion to those of late capitalism (although Pullman’s knives are still out for the church). If the socio-political commentary is a little heavy-handed, it somehow feels more necessary and apt in the context of today’s world than thirty years ago.
My favourite YA novel this year was Among Ghosts by Rachel Hartman, a stand-alone but set in the same world as her earlier novels. I’ve enjoyed all Hartman’s books, particularly Tess of the Road, which was one of my favourites the year it came out, but I was particularly impressed with this one. It’s quieter, with fewer topical axes to grind, the structure is sophisticated and subtle, and the characters interesting. It is another that asks all kinds of questions about life and death and identity.
And I haven’t mentioned A Drop of Corruption by Robert Jackson Bennett, or Hemlock and Silver by T. Kingfisher, both of which were terrific. I also reread The Lord of the Rings for the first time in many, many years (and loved it just as much), and did a reread of the Greenwing and Dart series by Victoria Goddard, which is a delight. Yes, there might have been a few disappointments and some books that simply passed the time, but overall this has been a very good reading year, and reading has, thank heavens, taken some of the edge off the otherwise pretty awful real world of 2025.
Dan Hartland
Perhaps my highlight of 2025 was how hard it proves to pick a highlight of 2025. For example, the year arguably lacked a single “big book” around which the consensus cognoscenti might gather. For various reasons, even weighty candidates for the title such as Okorafor’s Death of the Author, Kuang’s Katabasis, El-Mohtar’s The River has Roots, Tesh’s The Incandescent, or Park’s Luminous seem not quite to have achieved domination in the way other titles have managed in previous years. Even in short fiction, multiple poles existed, including but—in a year characterized by remarkable collections—very much not limited to Debbie Urbanski’s Portalmania and Thomas Ha’s Uncertain Sons. Not only that, but several surprise sleeper hits emerged: from Fellman’s stellar Notes from a Regicide or H. G. Parry’s A Far Better Thing through Alix Harrow’s The Everlasting and Sarah Maria Griffin’s Eat the Ones You Love, it often felt as if books could break out in 2025—that conglomerates and algorithm and AI notwithstanding, word-of-mouth remained a force in shaping if not sales figures then certainly readerly estimation.
This is to be warmly welcomed, as is the sheer range of fronts on which this was happening. Horror, science fiction, and fantasy alike all seemed to be vibrating at creative frequency; publishers not usually associated with these forms published some of their best examples (Faber published Freezing Point, Granta The Expansion Project, New Directions Archipelago of the Sun and so on); new ways of writing in the modes, and indeed avowedly genreless approaches, were common, perhaps definitive. Much gnashing of teeth occasioned the sheer dominance of Romantasy in this year’s SFF sales figures; but it simply cannot be said that this turn is affecting the quality and breadth of fantastical literature being written more broadly. Indeed, the mainstream openness which has powered Romantasy’s entry into generic spaces might have something to do with the vibrancy.
To understand whether that hypothesis holds water, we will need critics—and the further good news is that 2025 saw a sustained flowering of critical spaces in speculative fiction. This was not a new development in the last twelve months, but the fact that 2025 saw no slackening of it is promising. Paul Kincaid’s Colourfields was a major retrospective from an always engaging critic, and therefore an important intervention in the present critical dialogue; but again, there was a great variety of voice, approach, and methodology this year (see Phillips’s Dismantling the Master’s Clock, Roberts’s Fantasy: A Short History, Bacchilega and Greenhill’s Justice in 21st-Century Fairy Tales and the Power of Wonder). Even the Hugo Award for Best Related Work this year went to a piece of criticism, Carroll’s Speculative Whiteness—something is happening, Mr. Jones.
None of this is to say that speculative fiction has across the board arrived at a state of poly-vocal, self-reflexive enlightenment; very obviously not. But it is to say that 2025 was a year in which a certain kind of open-ended, unencumbered approach to the literature became the default at some of its most significant leading edges. Onwards.
Aaron Heil
I read somewhere that most entertainment cycles either through periods of comedy or horror, and my consumption habits in 2025 for film and literature went in opposite directions. I wanted to be transported in time, but not worry about driving the car. My literary sense missed the challenge of running up university libraries’ steps to dip into obscure corners, scrolling Abebooks for that 1950s book of mystery short stories when the library couldn’t find a copy. When I asked my brother his opinion on something I thought he had read—possibly Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane—I described myself as on a “horror kick,” although I realized I’ve been reading horror all year. There’s Shutter Island, of course, but I dipped into A Drink Before the War as well, though that’s a Lehane urban mystery, almost a noir pastiche.
Actually, reading Grady Hendrix’s (much as I love his fiction) nonfiction book, Paperbacks from Hell, on the trends and fads of the industry started the whole thing. Paperbacks from Hell is hilarious, and I will never look at mass market paperbacks the same again. Hendrix has an especially helpfully insight when he points out that so many “mystery” books are horror remarketed. He blames Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon, and justly so, but Red Dragon really does read like a Criminal Minds movie in retrospect. It’s quite easy to see the influence. Along the way, then, I immersed myself in straight, unapologetic noir, working my way through Raymond Chandler’s Marlowe mysteries. Tracking down the movies themselves as been harder, since I’m a skinflint and refuse to simply pay extra for the movie rental. Still, I watched the Farewell, My Lovely adaption, starring Robert Mitchum. Wow, what a weird movie. Robert Mitchum has become my favorite Marlowe. I’m finishing up Davis Grubb’s The Night of the Hunter at present, so maybe it’s more like a Robert Mitchum kick.
At the movies more generally, I just wanted to laugh. Besides Marlowe, and Scorsese’s Shutter Island that I watched soon after finishing the novel, I’ve been searching for some good film comedies. Being jaded about current movies is in fashion, but I really enjoyed The Phoenician Scheme. It’s classic Wes Anderson, understated humor presenting a clear image of a time and place that have gone by, if they ever existed. But that’s the only movie I’ve seen in 2025, released in 2025. Weirdly enough, I’ve been combing the archives for my kicks and giggles. Stripes resurfaced on Netflix and its hilarious. Bill Murray is so young! He, Harold Ramis, and John Candy are new, creative, and innovative even decades later.
More classic still, I’ve tracked down a few Ealing comedies starring Alec Guinness: The Man in the White Suit, and the legendary The Ladykillers. Back in the fifties, comedy could be much sharper and stranger somehow, but the camera does most of the work, focusing in on the ersatz, postwar world that only seems to be holding on by its fingernails while the characters’ absurd conversation carry on with nary a chuckle. What’s also interesting is that The Man in the White Suit presents scientific principles as fiction that really don’t sound implausible. It’s because they’re not anymore, according to IMDB, even if the results don’t match the results of the film. Old comedies, even old science fiction, can apparently carry wisdom forward even into the future.
The hybrid horror book that made me laugh at so many random times that it baffled my wife was Jason Pargin’s 2022 novel, If This Book Exists, You’re in the Wrong Universe. Pargin has previously published books under the pen name David Wong, which he used when writing for Cracked.com. (Remember Cracked.com?!?) It’s the fourth book in the John Dies at the End series, but continuity is for sticklers so just start wherever and enjoy the ride. The humor is random, gory, irreverant, and idiosyncratic. It’s such a strange ride that it’s easy to lose yourself until the next entry comes out in 2026.
Paul Kincaid
Two books stand out for me in 2025. Either of them would be unassailed as the best novel of the year at any other time, but here they are together, so I’m not going to choose, just say that each of these is well worth your time. One is A Granite Silence by Nina Allan, an extraordinary work, perhaps the best thing she has written, but not one that fits easily into any recognisable category. It’s a true crime story with a hint of autofiction, but there are elements of the fantastic, and it ends with an extraordinary ghost story that doesn’t read like a ghost story. So, don’t try to identify the genre, just accept that it is brilliant.
The other is more readily identifiable as science fiction, but a narrow genre reading does it no favours. When There Are Wolves Again by E. J. Swift reads like a hopeful counterpart to the coruscating anger of her previous novel, The Coral Bones. But here we are seeing a positive response to climate change over the next few decades in Britain that is an absolute joy to read. Other than those two, do yourself a favour and read City of All Seasons by Oliver K. Langmead and Aliya Whiteley, which is great fun. I also recommend a mainstream novel from 2024, Enlightenment by Sarah Perry, which is full of a scientific sensibility that should appeal to any SF reader with comets, orbits, and gravity shaping the way the characters revolve around each other.
Dean Leetal
This year I went from book slump to book slump. I DNFed left and right. It was hard to concentrate, hard to open up to a story, with everything going on in the world, and particularly in Gaza. I DNFed some genuinely lovely books. Lessons in Magic and Disaster by Charlie Jane Anders was so beautifully poignant that I was unable to finish it. The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar was lyrically and emotionally spellbinding, and I couldn’t put it down till it was just too much. Lucky Day by Chuck Tingle shared such raw grief that I just couldn’t. I hope things get so much better soon that I am able to return and finish these.
A few books did make it through, though. Magica Riot by Kara Buchanan was just perfect, a happy story about a trans magical girl. I also read my first Ali Hazelwood—not my cup of tea but well written. I enjoyed Play Nice by Rachel Harrison, an auto-buy author for me. I was delighted to find out the sequel to Magica Riot, Magica Riot: Full Bloom, was released. I am saving it for the long, lonely days after Hanukkah.
One of my favorite new books that I read this year was Cinder House by Freya Marske. It is a gothic retelling of Cinderella, if Cinderella had been killed and become a ghost. Marske’s writing is, as usual, appealing, to the point, and hard to put down. This year I also started reading books for my PhD. If you somehow missed The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi, or Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon, do yourself a favor and go back to read them. They are horrifying and beautiful, liminal, and touching.
David Lewis
It’s been another great year for reading. I wrote gushing reviews of Philip Fracassi’s The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre and Alexandria Faulkenbury’s debut novel Somewhere Past the End. But those aren’t the only noteworthy books I read this year.
Since Detransition, Baby I’d been raving about Torrey Peters, and her genre-crossing collection, Stag Dance, was one of my 2025 highlights. One of the things I love about her characters is that nobody (trans, cis, or undefined) is fully a victim or an oppressor. They’re messy and uncertain, not easy characters to write about clearly. Yet, whether in dystopian futures or a nineteenth-century logging camp, Peters does so in elegant and moving prose.
Sarah Maria Griffin’s botanical horror novel, Eat the Ones You Love, didn’t grow out of Ireland’s green fields, rather one of its many half-abandoned shopping centers. When Shell starts working in the Woodbine Crown mall, she doesn’t realize that her beautiful boss is the caretaker of a monstrous, sentient plant that’s always hungry. This Hiberno Shop of Horrors takes a look at relationships, consumerism, and even the housing crisis in modern Ireland while remaining a fun and creepy read.
My favorite of the year is Stephen Graham Jones’s The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. Spanning three centuries, this novel confronts the US federal government’s history of terrorism and genocide of Native Americans through the story of a Blackfeet vampire. An (un)holy trinity of elegant writing, a captivating narrative, and an important history, this is a horror masterpiece.
In a decolonizing vein, favorites from my catch-up reading are LeAnne Howe’s 2001 Choctaw epic, Shell Shaker, and Andrea Rogers’ 2022 Cherokee gothic collection, Man Made Monsters. Both books feature characters from pre-Trail of Tears to present times; the monsters and spirits they encounter sometimes lead them to safety, sometimes to death.
Dawn Macdonald
My husband and I have a routine of reading out loud to each other, taking turns in the evenings, and lately we’ve been working through Anthony C. Yu’s four-volume 1980s translation of the sixteenth-century Chinese epic Journey to the West, attributed to Wu Cheng’en. As the tale progresses, I have to ask—is this the progenitor text to The Wizard of Oz? We’ve got a naïve hero with three magical helpers each representing an aspect of the self, plus a non-speaking animal companion, on a lengthy foot journey in pursuit of a boon that could have been delivered at any point, but the trials of the task are deemed necessary to its attainment. It’s easy to see why this story has been a popular favorite for hundreds of years. Anyway, should you ever decide to undertake your own oral recitation, my pro tip is to do the character Chu Pa-chieh with a countrified accent, Sha Monk with a snooty British accent, and the various fiends as New York mobsters.
2025 has also been a good year for speculative poetry. Here I’d like to highlight Kyle Flemmer’s wildly experimental, space-themed collection Supergiants, Gary Jackson’s Afrofuturist “graphic novel in verse” small lives, and Mahaila Smith’s dystopian-but-hopeful Seed Beetle. (Full disclosure: I know Mahaila slightly and have published in a journal they co-edit.) It’s also the year I discovered R. Kolewe’s 2021 book-length poem The Absence of Zero, which blends lines from Misner, Thorne, and Wheeler’s classic textbook Gravitation with T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets and bits of the poet’s own brain. Each one of these books will gently take your mind apart and hand it back to you transformed.
Paul March-Russell
To be honest, I’ve watched more films than read novels that were released in 2025. In saying that, I’m omitting the books published by Gold SF (The Mune, The Path of Most Resistance, Maybe the Birds) with which I’ve had more than a hand. The reading of manuscripts, the editing of articles, the occasional review … they all tend to distract from the newly published. The Clarke Award is a chance to catch up and at least sound as if I’m in step with the contemporary.
But I’m not, always lagging behind. If I dwell upon novels of the past, and upon works that have little or nothing to do with SF—notable texts this year include The Bloater, The Hearing Trumpet, and The War Between the Tates—then at least I can claim I’m reading to enhance my sense of perspective. Any disingenuity is offset by the fact that nearly all the fiction I read these days is by women. I will, of course, be interested to see what China Miéville’s new novel is like. But with the exception of a few writers (M. John Harrison, Jon McGregor, David Mitchell, Max Porter), I doubt whether I have any interest left for the words of a living male author.
Nonetheless, amongst the non-fiction books that impressed me the most were Jim Endersby’s The Arrival of the Fittest, an extraordinary re-evaluation of the biological sciences during the early twentieth century, and Horatio Clare’s We Came by Sea, an inspirational reassessment not only of the so-called migrant crisis but also British values of inclusivity and hospitality. To these I would add Robert Macfarlane’s Is a River Alive? and Jenn Ashworth’s The Parallel Path.
But the most surprising thing this year was Alex Garland’s screenplay for 28 Years Later. I’ve never much cared for Garland’s writing. But amidst the visceral horror—it’s a zombie movie, after all—there were lengthy and poignant passages about love and landscape, grief and mourning, community and mortality. Several parts Patrick Ness’s A Monster Calls, with a dash of Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker, it was an unexpectedly mature piece with which to awaken the undead of a seemingly moribund franchise.
Marisa Mercurio
My library holds list forced me to drop almost everything but reading in August, when eight novels came in at once. It was a rush to a four-week finish line. I could enumerate the new releases I loved this year (many of which I indeed read in August), including Fresh, Green Life by Sebastian Castillo, The Bog Wife by Kay Chronister, and Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito, and chart-toppers like The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones and We Do Not Part by Han Kang. My favorite novel of the year, however, is backlist: Orlanda by Jacqueline Harpman. Known best in the English-speaking world for I Who Have Never Known Men, a French-language science fiction novel, Harpman was a prolific author and psychoanalyst whose careers beautifully synchronize in Orlanda. The 1996 novel opens in Paris’s Gard du Nord with timid literature professor Aline struggling to read Virgina Woolf’s Orlando. When she sees a beautiful young man also waiting in the train station, a shard of her soul—the part housing the tomboy Aline was before it was dampened—splits off and takes over his body. This shard adopts the feminized name Orlanda while using he/him pronouns to honor the genderqueer facets of his bodymind. The world reopens for Orlanda. He cruises; he shrugs off responsibilities; he laughs often. This is one of those introspective take-stock-of-your-life novels that I love to read around the New Year, and which celebrates the spectrum within the individual.
Cameron Miguel
2025’s tumultuous nature cleared and required space for literary reprieve. I sought refuge from my trials and anxieties between the covers of so many terrific stories, amid fires and floods and government attacks against my community. Perhaps I’m Nero, reading while Los Angeles burns. But, facing near-insurmountable odds, reading is the key to community action and awareness.
Reviewing with Strange Horizons has rekindled my analytical passions, sharpened my authorial instincts, and introduced me to many authors I’ll read in subsequent years. Applying to several Creative Writing MFA programs colored my annual reading experience and what impacted me most. I turned the pages of many literary and speculative novels and had my fill of audiobooks.
I resonated with the traumas of Hal Lancaster in Allen Bratton’s Henry, Henry; yearned for love amid suspense with Carys Davies’s Clear; and was left in shambles by John Boyne’s The Absolutist. I reconnected with literary classics such as Baldwin through Giovanni’s Room, Le Guin through an audiobook of The Left Hand of Darkness; and Forster, whose Maurice I devoured in a day while getting my car serviced. I met H. G. Perry through A Far Better Thing, K. J. Parker through Making History, and Jonathan Parks-Ramage through It’s Not the End of the World. While earlier novels have more optimism (overall) compared to contemporary novels, the note of heartache threaded through each novel remains on my mind. Sometimes it’s loud as an organ, as in The Absolutist; other times it’s mellow, as in Making History.
I’m grateful for the platform Strange Horizons has given me to share my thoughts, and for the novels I’ve read this year that changed the way I view the world. I look forward to continuing in my role, especially with so many upcoming releases in 2026.
Anushree Nande
2025 was a year of the novella and short stories (The Wayward Children by Seanan McGuire, The Knight and the Butcherbird by Alix Harrow, catching up on Nghi Vo’s Singing Hills Cycle series), the year of repeat comfort authors and series (The Geographer’s Map to Romance by India Holton, Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales by Heather Fawcett, Brigands and Breadknives by Travis Baldree) and the year I discovered cozy sci-fi courtesy Becky Chambers (her Monk and Robot novellas kickstarted the year for me, the perfect entry point to a genre at large that has always felt rather intimidating; The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet expanded upon that first very positive experience, and I’m now looking ahead with anticipation). Speaking of SFF, I also read and enjoyed the stories by my fellow anthology cohort for volume 1 of the IF anthology of new Indian SFF (Westland Books), which skews in favour of sci-fi.
Moving on to new releases. Marie-Helene Bertino’s Beautyland was a surprise 2024 favourite, so I was highly anticipating short story collection Exit Zero, which became my first review for Strange Horizons. The other one I reviewed for SH was H. G. Parry’s captivating, expansive portal fantasy take on A Tale of Two Cities. I now have my eye on her backlist for next year, even as I look ahead to her new release. In Tashan Mehta’s headily, cosmically, imaginative Mad Sisters of Esi (a 2023 release for India, but a 2025 one for the US) and Alix Harrow’s stunning ourobouros, The Everlasting, I found two breathtaking, sweeping, life-altering stories I know I’ll be returning to.
A year, then, of thinking about the nature of stories, how and why they matter; about identity, memory, community, fighting for safer spaces, and radical hope.
Jacqueline Nyathi
223 books in 2025 (the year isn’t over), but I wasn’t on top of things, and blame the person who persuaded me it was ok to read more than one book at a time. I think, though, this in Bad Indians Book Club by Patty Krawec (still unfinished) vindicates me: “[L]ayering fiction with non-fiction, or setting conversational books alongside more academic material … [p]uts the books into conversation with each other, which leads to new ideas or ways of understanding the topics, other ways of reading and understanding familiar texts.”
I always gravitate toward hard SF but I enjoyed SFF in general (excellent collections from Thomas Ha, Vanessa Fogg, Carla E. Dash, Gareth Powell, two Blaft anthologies, the Nebula Awards Showcase 60, the Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume 2, and novels from JP Nebra and Jane Mondrup). In translated fiction, I recommend All That Dies in April by Mariana Travacio (tr. Samantha Schnee and Will Morningstar) and Río Muerto by Ricardo Silva Romero (tr. Victor Meadowcraft). I found non-fiction essay collections compelling (Jamaica Kincaid, Lavinia Greenlaw’s The Vast Extent, Trace Press’s River in an Ocean). Other favourite non-fiction: How to Kill a Witch by Zoe Venditozzi and Claire Mitchell (read it!), Decolonizing Language and Other Revolutionary Ideas by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, The Two Princes of Mpfumo by Lindsay O’Neill, Moshtari Hilal’s Ugliness, Kate Loveman’s The Strange History of Samuel Pepys’s Diary, and Howard W. French’s The Second Emancipation. In African lit I loved Oyinkan Braithwaite’s Cursed Daughters, Adam Oyebanji’s Esperance, Will This Be A Problem? Issue V, Chido Muchemwa’s Who Will Bury You? And Other Stories, and enjoyed the ZamaShort series. And the book that made me cackle is Richard Martin’s I Inherited a Mixed Animal from Uncle Living in Woods.
My recency bias is due to reading a tonne of ARCs, which I’m somewhat regretful about as I don’t get round to other stuff I’m interested in. I joined a (virtual) book club to counter this a bit, but I can’t always make the time.
Roseanna Pendlebury
2025 was simply too full. Too many books I warmly anticipated, too many good books I hadn’t expected, too many books as yet unread but so well reviewed they call out to be picked up and read as soon as possible.
Hard to find any pattern in the multitude, but a few specific points call out to be remembered. Notes from a Regicide by Isaac Fellman was my standout, much anticipated and even more beloved of the year. He remains the author in SFF right now I think best able to engender awe and wonder in the reader, while managing to keep the same work fully grounded in the realities of being human. His books feel, and that is so valuable to me.
Much of the rest of my bests and beloveds echo that need for feeling—hope in Syr Hayati Beker’s What a Fish Looks Like, which finds community in a time that feels like the end of everything; determination in Lara Elena Donnelly’s No Such Thing as Duty, coupled with a deeply realistic self-doubt; the slipperiness of belief in Natalia Theodoridou’s Sour Cherry; onto more complex, layered emotional reactions to the long tail of trauma in The Place of Shells by Mai Ishizawa, translated by Polly Barton.
But the most unexpected was When There Are Wolves Again by E. J. Swift, in which she joins an unlikely optimism that all is not lost, ecologically, in the future with a despair that that possibility might nonetheless be lost by inaction. Much of its power comes from how plausible her vision of that slightly better future is, how real the steps to reach it. That cocktail of fragile hope and realism was a heady one, one I know will stick with me into the future, whatever that might be.
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