You thought going home to see your childhood friends and family was taxing? Let’s put those trying relationships in perspective. Hanya Yanigihara's A Little Life tells the story of four male friends coming of age in New York City, focusing on Jude, whose abusive childhood reverberates throughout his relationships and self-worth. The characters are full and flawed, and Yanigihara's descriptions of the dynamics of young friendship, in which "confessions were currency, and divulgences were a form of intimacy," are beautiful. Be forewarned: You will cry during the last chapter. —Charley Locke

Over the past couple of years, thanks to a series of Grantland gems, writer Shea Serrano and illustrator Arturo Torres have become the Stan Lee and Jack Kirby of online rap-and-sports graphic humor. (Or, as literary critics refer to it, ORSGH. [Literary critics do not do this.]) By that analogy, the New York Times-bestelling Rap Year Book, which unpacks the history of hip-hop one year at a time, is basically The Fantastic Four. It's as hilarious as it is insightful, and the arguments it's likely to spawn will—or at least should—dominate your group texts for months to come. —Peter Rubin

Another tome from a seminal science-fiction author known for doorstop-sized novels, Neal Stephenson’s Seveneves takes place over 5,000 years after Earth’s moon explodes "for no apparent reason." In response to the impending millennia where the planet will be uninhabitable, humans construct a Space Ark. But of course, the plan to wait out the interregnum with a Human Genetic Archive goes awry, and the titular Seven Eves come into play. It’s basically an elaborate excuse for Stephenson to toy with how to build a new human society on Earth—with long passages discussing the orbital particulars of spaceflight breaking up the new civilization origin story. But despite the long-windedness that is hallmark Stephenson, it’s a fascinating novel that seems all too real. —K.M. McFarland

Kazuo Ishiguro is obsessed with memory. If you remember, his last book, Never Let Me Go, unfolded in flashbacks. That’s not possible in The Buried Giant, since Axl and Beatrice can’t really recall much of anything. They’re the elderly couple at the center of this dreamy tale of knights and castles, though their dementia isn’t due to their declining years. Join them on a quest to find their son, slay the dragon—and discover that some things are better left forgotten. —Jason Kehe

Sci-fi and fantasy are often as much about commenting on the real world as they are tools for escaping it. Nowhere are those things more starkly in relief than in N.K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season, wherein sorcerers (known as orogenes) are the subject of terrible oppression for their powers over nature. That thread, Jemisin has said, was inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement and the novel itself is "my processing [of] the systematic racism that I live with, and see, and am trying to come to terms with." Beyond its influences, The Fifth Season is a lush read with some of the strongest world-building to come out of the sci-fi/fantasy genre this year. And Jemisin’s world is one so worth immersing yourself in. —Angela Watercutter

If you want to get a jump-start on what will surely be one of the biggest page-to-screen stories of 2016, join the teeming masses who have already devoured Paula Hawkins' The Girl on the Train. It’s one of the most popular books of 2015, and one of the fastest-selling debut adult novels ever. The film version, coming next October (just like Gone Girl in 2014), touts Emily Blunt alongside Justin Theroux, Luke Evans, and Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation standout Rebecca Ferguson. The story centers on Rachel Watson, a recently unemployed alcoholic struggling to pick up the pieces of a messy divorce, who continues to ride her regular train to work to keep up appearances. From the train, she watches her ex-husband continue his seemingly picturesque life in their old house, as well as another supposedly happy family a few doors down. It’s the voyeuristic amateur detective work of Rear Window mixed with the darkly romantic thriller elements of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl. —K.M. McFarland

If you had to pick someone to author a mind-bending graphic exploration of space, time, and metatextual Russian nesting dolls, you've only got one real choice: psychotropic magician Grant Morrison. His nine-issue run of The Multiversity, which concluded on DC Comics earlier this year, hurtles through dimensions to tell seemingly unrelated stories that link across worlds. If that sounds like Cloud Atlas, it shouldn't: Cloud Atlas wasn't nearly this ambitious. —Peter Rubin

In The Water Knife's particular near-future, water is unevenly distributed: Cities like Las Vegas siphon it all up into lush habitats while places like Phoenix crumble unto dust. If you live anywhere west of the Rockies, you pretty much must read this book, if only because it’s such a shake-you-by-the-lapels wakeup call. What I loved about it, though, was the masterfully incremental way Paolo Baccigalupi dials you into the world he has built. Take the Clearsacs, for example. First they’re mentioned in passing, then you see them a few times out of the corner of your eye, then, gradually, graphically, you learn what they really are. Or the way he walks you into a terrible understanding of the human cost of such a dry planet, starting you with a closely monitored water urn and leading you to what people in this desiccated land will do for a shower. As always, he brings you a tale from a place that’s foreign enough to be interesting but familiar enough to be very, very scary.—Sarah Fallon

Ta-Nehisi Coates may not have written Between the World and Me for everyone. But the slim, forceful book, which Toni Morrison describes as "required reading," has helped inform conversations about racism and socioeconomics in America among readers of all backgrounds. Through the form of a letter to his 14-year-old son, Coates offers a scathing, unapologetically honest description of what it’s like to be black in America. Read it. —Charley Locke

In Claire Vaye Watkins' Gold, Fame, Citrus, after all the water dries up, everyone—at least, everyone who can afford it—evacuates the American Southwest. All that’s left are scavengers. When Luz and Ray find a neglected, wide-eyed baby, they leave the barren remains of Los Angeles and head east towards the Amargosa, or great dune sea. Claire Vaye Watkins writes about a part of the country that has had its fair share of literary attention, but her prose skews more Terry Tempest Williams than Cormac McCarthy—as Watkins describes them, the dunes are mystical and emotionally rife. It’s a beautifully told post-apocalyptic story that hits close to home, especially for us Californians entering the fourth year of drought. —Charley Locke