Short on time? 10 books you can finish quickly. - The Washington Post

Sometimes, even those of us who read for a living are happy to pick up a book that we can finish in just a few days — or maybe even in a lazy afternoon at the park. We’re pretty sure that’s true for everyone else, too, so the Book World staff rounded up some of our favorite titles — new and old, fiction and nonfiction — that come and go as quickly as Washington’s brief spring. Here you’ll find memoirs and novels alike. Our only rule is that everything had to come in under 200 pages — sometimes a lot shorter.

1. ‘Look at Me,’ by Anita Brookner

A surprising number of my favorite books hover around the 200-page mark, and some of these are indisputable classics (“Mrs. Dalloway,” “Notes From Underground,” “The Great Gatsby,” “The Good Soldier”). What’s most remarkable is how much these books can get done in a relatively small space, constraint seeming to paradoxically increase breadth and ambition. In “Look at Me” (1983), Anita Brookner’s third novel, a research librarian named Frances Hinton narrates the story of how she entered the social orbit of a shiny, charming married couple and their friend. Like many of Brookner’s characters, Frances lives a stringent, lonely life that seems a combination of consciously, even proudly, chosen and temperamentally inevitable. Not much happens in the book by way of plot, and not much has to. This is one of the most beautifully written and psychologically penetrating novels you’ll find. (192 pages) — John Williams

2. ‘Waiting for the Barbarians,’ by J.M. Coetzee

In “Waiting for the Barbarians” (1980), Nobel Prize-winning South African writer J.M. Coetzee pulls off an eventful trick, writing about his home country’s political sins (and political sins more generally) through an allegory about an unspecified “Empire.” Narrated by a magistrate in the hinterlands, the plot revolves around the capture and treatment of “barbarians” who oppose the Empire. Often disturbing, the book is a condensed epic, vividly written and philosophically provocative on nearly all its relatively few pages. (152 pages) — John Williams

3. ‘The Dry Heart,’ by Natalia Ginzburg (96 pages)

“The Dry Heart” (1947), a sleek and startling novella by postwar Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg, is a sort of feminist answer to Albert Camus’s “The Stranger.” His book begins, famously, “Mother died today.” Ginzburg’s even more arresting opening is at once flatly matter-of-fact and feverishly wrathful. “I shot him between the eyes,” she writes on the book’s very first page. “He” is the narrator’s decidedly underwhelming husband, a philandering loafer who marries her out of boredom and refuses to terminate a years-long affair with another woman.

Ginzburg is a crisp stylist, and her unsentimental and disciplined prose is curiously at odds with her novella’s guiding sentiment: fury that simmers until, all at once, it boils over. “The Dry Heart” is as taut and methodical a record of rage and revenge as you are apt to find. (96 pages) — Becca Rothfeld

4. ‘Spurious,’ by Lars Iyer

People are often drawn to short novels because of some unspoken promise of elegance and perfectionism. Such books are marketed to readers as marvels of precision, darling little objects. (Yes, there’s something mildly orthorexic about what Esquire called the rise of the “slim volume.”) Lars Iyer’s “Spurious” (2011), though, is foul-mouthed, high-spirited, rough around the edges. Nothing much happens in it: Two best frenemies tool around England and, in the words of the author, “take the mickey” out of each other. I’m told it’s a “philosophical novel” — Lars and his friend W, like the author, work in academia and bemoan their intellectual limitations — but don’t blanch! It’s also way more entertaining than it has any right to be. Iyer makes you believe in insult comedy as an Olympic sport, even a form of love. And if you like this one, it’s a gateway to five more in a similar vein. The perfect tonic for anyone haunted by the thought that they ought to be reading something better, more rigorous, more wholesome. (190 pages) — Sophia Nguyen

5. ‘Where Reasons End,’ by Yiyun Li

Written after the suicide of Yiyun Li’s son, this novel from 2019 is largely composed of conversations between a bereaved mother and her dead child, Nikolai. They muse over various intellectual matters — the nature of time, the proper usage of language — and needle each other. (At one point, he tells her, “If you’re protesting by becoming a bad writer, I would say it’s highly unnecessary,” to which she retorts, “Dying is highly unnecessary too.”) It’s a tough book to widely recommend, purely because of the heaviness of its subject matter. But “Where Reasons End” is also unforgettable, the kind of book that feels like a miracle of physics: You’re amazed by how lightly the prose moves, despite the density of its emotional core. (192 pages) — Sophia Nguyen

6. ‘The Minotaur at Calle Lanza,’ by Zito Madu

Throughout the first year of the covid pandemic, my girlfriend and I mainlined season after season of the genial PBS travel program “Rick Steves’ Europe,” seeking a habitable elsewhere in its images of crowded market squares and ornate palazzos. Nigerian American writer Zito Madu’s experience of the era was altogether different, thanks to an artist’s residency that brought him to Venice in the fall of 2020, a time when the city had been largely emptied out, especially of the tourists who normally drift along its canals.

In this memoir published earlier this year, that evacuated milieu becomes an occasion for Madu’s elegant meditations on alienation, especially from his own family, but also from the overwhelmingly White world he moves through. His prose has the smooth and constant warmth of blood in a vein, a fluidity so steady it sometimes seems no different from stillness. Though Madu’s narrative culminates in a shockingly surreal sequence that is unlike anything I have read in a memoir, I will remember “The Minotaur at Calle Lanza” for its calmer moments: an African priest’s service in an otherwise Italian Catholic church or the quiet labor of a glass blower, a man content to carry on his business in silence “as if you weren’t there.” (184 pages) — Jacob Brogan

7. ‘The Spinning Heart,’ by Donal Ryan

A portrait of a rural Irish town decimated by economic collapse, Donal Ryan’s debut novel made a splash when it was published in 2012, winning the Irish Book Award for both newcomer of the year and book of the year. Each of the 21 short chapters in “The Spinning Heart” is told from the perspective of a different inhabitant, their lives woven together by economic uncertainty and marred by tragedy. Bobby Mahon, a construction company foreman, blames himself after owner Pokey Burke skipped town, putting the livelihoods of his workers at risk. And Pokey’s father, Joseph Burke, is ashamed of his son, who appears to have fleeced the laborers to save himself. As the residents’ stories unfold, their public personas shield inner monologues that expose the truth about what they think of each other and of themselves. (156 pages) — Becky Meloan

8. ‘About Alice,’ by Calvin Trillin

The author photo on the back of Calvin Trillin’s 2006 memoir about his wife, Alice, may be the happiest I’ve ever seen. It’s from their wedding day in 1965. Neither seems dressed for the occasion, but they are beaming. That joy radiates through “About Alice,” adapted from a New Yorker article, which should be sad because it is essentially about Alice’s death, on Sept. 11, 2001 (not in the terrorist attacks but in a hospital a few miles away, of heart failure stemming from lung cancer treatment).

Here the longtime New Yorker writer who for years had turned his wife into a favorite character in his books and articles aims to set the record straight about her. She was wise, yes, but not a stern “dietician in sensible shoes.”Rather, “she had something close to a child’s sense of wonderment. She was the only adult I ever knew who might respond to encountering a deer on a forest path by saying, ‘Wowsers!’” By the end of this brief, witty and loving portrait, you’ll wish you’d met Alice, too, if only to hear that exclamation. (78 pages) — Nora Krug

9. ‘The Island of Dr. Moreau,’ by H.G. Wells

There are several late 19th-century novellas — among them, Stevenson’s “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Wells’s “The Time Machine,” James’s “The Turn of the Screw” and Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” — that strikingly anticipate the anxieties and obsessions of our modern world. All four are rightly celebrated, but I now find a fifth, H.G. Wells’s “The Island of Dr. Moreau” (1896), the most disturbing and prophetic of all.

Why? Because it probes real-life issues that haunt us more than ever: What makes us human? Are we really that different from other animals? What is the relationship between science and morality? In particular, Wells asks us to think hard about the ethics and consequences of experimentation and what we now call genetic engineering.

Not least, “The Island of Dr. Moreau” embeds all these questions in a perfectly orchestrated crescendo of mystery, terror, violence, sacrifice and spiritual desolation. You will never forget it. “Are we not men?” (160 pages) — Michael Dirda

10. ‘Another Brooklyn,’ by Jacqueline Woodson

With the economy of a poet, Jacqueline Woodson packs so much life and pain into her National Book Award-winning novel, “Another Brooklyn.” When it was published in 2016, it was a return of sorts; Woodson had been focusing her creative efforts on books for young readers, to critical acclaim, and this was her first novel for adults in nearly two decades. The story, though, revolves around a child: August is 8 years old when she moves from Tennessee to New York with her brother and father after her mother’s death. Her fragmented recollections of 1970s Brooklyn — related years later after she becomes an anthropologist — work on multiple frequencies, capturing a child’s partial understanding of the dangers around her and the electric thrill of new friendships while also conveying nostalgia for the relationships that couldn’t withstand time and the innocence that was lost too soon. (192 pages) — Stephanie Merry

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