Remember how everyone kept saying 2022 was a quiet year for fiction? The awards completely disproved that. The Booker Prize going to 'The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida' by Shehan Karunatilaka was a real 'about time' moment for me. It’s this wild, metaphysical satire set in the Sri Lankan civil war, narrated by a dead photojournalist. The prose just crackles with this angry, funny energy that feels utterly unique—it doesn’t read like anything else that won that year. It tackles huge themes of atrocity and truth, but it’s never a slog. It moves.
Then you’ve got the Pulitzer for Fiction, which went to 'The Netanyahus' by Joshua Cohen. That one’s a campus novel blended with historical farce, imagining a visit by the Netanyahu family to a college in 1960s New York. It’s erudite and packed with wordplay, but somehow also hysterically funny. I remember reading parts out loud to my partner because the dialogue was just so sharp. It’s the kind of book that makes you feel smarter, or maybe just more aware of how much you don’t know.
Beyond those two giants, I kept noticing 'Trust' by Hernan Diaz on shortlists, and it eventually won the Pulitzer too? No, that was 2023. Wait, I’m mixing it up. For 2022, Diaz’s 'Trust' was a finalist for the Booker and won some other critic’s circles awards. It’s a brilliant puzzle-box of a novel about wealth and narrative, told through four conflicting manuscripts. It didn’t snag the biggest prize, but its presence in the conversation defined the year’s literary mood for me—intellectually daring, structurally playful, and deeply skeptical of official stories. That thread connects all three of these books, now that I think about it.