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Poet, essayist, and critic Hanif Abdurraqib explains, celebrates, and mourns A Tribe Called Quest, the avant, jazz-influenced rap group. I had little-to-no knowledge of the musicians when I started, but I was never less than enraptured with this book. Abdurraqib explores fandom, artistry, love, and pretty much everything else there is, with remarkable skill and generosity. I’ll try to keep this brief: there are a lot of great books on this list; this is my favorite.

I admit that I questioned the need for another book on Ambassador Richard Holbrooke, and when I heard that George Packer had written a nonfiction book with a novelistic flair, I was even more skeptical. However, this book had me from the opening lines: “Holbrooke? Yes, I knew him. I can’t get his voice out of my head.” And now, neither can I. George Packer’s subject is not the man, but the man’s attempt to achieve greatness within a rapidly changing country within a rapidly changing world. This book rightfully belongs on the list of titles to read if you like Robert Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson series, which, I hope you understand, is the highest praise I can give.

I first saw this book in the solicitations for upcoming titles, and was struck by two things: the classic, minimalist cover and the quote from Dave Eggers that concluded: “I can’t imagine a scenario where this isn’t one of the more important — and breathlessly debated — books of the year.” That very intriguing blurb put Three Women right on my reading list, and Eggers can take comfort in the fact that the limits of his imagination were not exceeded. Lisa Taddeo’s debut is an account of the lives and desires of three women, reported with incredible depth and empathy. There is much to admire about Taddeo’s book, but foremost I am in absolute awe of her stylized, captivating prose.

I’m afraid that I can’t possibly do this one justice in a short blurb. Esmé Weijun Wang has written a collection of essays under the umbrella of schizophrenia — how it is understood, how it is diagnosed, how it is treated, how it is stigmatized, how it is endured — all informed by her own diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. These essays are smart and humane, a master class in using the personal essay to tell universal stories. They are elegant and compelling and a great deal more.

Do I need help navigating what Jenny Odell calls the “attention economy”? Yes, of course; every one of us does. But I am very unlikely to seek help of any kind, for any reason. Yes, that means I generally pass by the Self-Help aisle, but Odell’s book isn’t shelved there. In fact, deciding where to shelve it was a unique challenge for us because it turns out that the book is a spectacular balancing act, floating outside whatever genre you may initially think to confine it. Here’s what this book is not: it is never scolding, simplistic, unrealistic, or naïve. And here’s what this book is: it is timely, beautiful, thought-provoking, and ultimately, very helpful.

Patrick Radden Keefe has taken on an immensely difficult project: telling the story of The Troubles, and compounding it by centering his story on one mother’s abduction within the wider conflict, making this both a work of history and true crime. Keefe succeeds wildly at both — incorporating the focus on individual lives and psychology of true crime with the sweep and objectivity of history — and he makes it look easy. Maybe too easy, because you may not notice just how exquisite each component part of this book is right up through its stunner ending, but that’s why I am here: to point it out to you, just in case you missed it.

I often say that I need a book to know itself before I can enjoy it. Don’t ask me to explain that, I’m not sure that I could. I think The Yellow House is a book that discovers itself as it goes — or more likely, Sarah Broom is skilled enough to guide you along her path, thinking that you’re the one making the discovery. The titular house in which she, and most of her 11 siblings, grew up in New Orleans is at the center of this memoir that traces a family, a city, and a disaster. Like so many books on this list, this is a book about taking a journey while concurrently retracing your steps. It is both epic and intimate, both celebratory and mournful.

You won’t find me spelunking or tunneling. In fact, I object anytime I’m forced to enter a room with less than 12-foot ceilings. But with Robert Macfarlane’s command of language, he can entice you to follow him, Pied Piper-like, anywhere. Including on this journey into the depths: under the ground, through the sewer, into the ice. To read Underland is to follow Macfarlane into deep time, so rapt by a master storyteller that it may seem like no time has passed at all.

I can’t decide what I admire more about this book: just how smart it is, or just how moving. Carmen Maria Machado has given us an elegant, fearless memoir. She spins her memories of an abusive relationship in a centrifuge and examines the constituent parts. The tale is divided into tiny, delicate fragments — each written in a different literary genre — and this makes the emotional pain more vivid while also putting the reader in the same removed, dissociative viewpoint that people who have endured trauma often experience.

Jia Tolentino’s debut essay collection is electrifying — months later I’m still abuzz. Her writing is fluid, insightful, and so able to recognize and capture the current moment that you’ll wonder after the fact how you kept reading, rather than averting your eyes in shock. I can answer that question: you kept reading because you wanted to make sure that you had just discovered (or further confirmed if you’ve been reading her work in The New Yorker) an immensely talented and annoyingly young literary star. You did. Please try not to resent her, you’re better than that.