GARNER The Zambian writer Namwali Serpell’s first novel, “The Old Drift,” seemed to come out of nowhere. It’s that rarity — a big, multigenerational novel that’s crunchy and alive on almost every page. Susan Choi’s work has always been worth attending to, but her new one, “Trust Exercise,” seems to me like a breakthrough. It’s looser than her previous novels; there’s more blood coursing through its veins.

Did anyone in particular disappoint you?

SEHGAL My most anticipated book this year was Ben Moser’s biography of Susan Sontag — a writer I admire on one I revere. I found it too diagnostically minded, however, and I’m not convinced by his claim that Sontag’s enduring importance lies in her myth, not her work. I’d argue the opposite. I admired “Cat Person,” the viral New Yorker short story, but found Kristen Roupenian’s collection, “You Know You Want This,” shockingly shallow. Watching Salman Rushdie parody himself in “Quichotte” was depressing.

GARNER Ta-Nehisi Coates’s first novel, “The Water Dancer,” was undercooked. He’s an important nonfiction writer who may become an important novelist, but he isn’t one yet. I’m an Elizabeth McCracken admirer but her new one, “Bowlaway,” was too whimsical for my tastes. Ditto Téa Obreht’s “Inland,” which lost me from its first pages. Michel Houellebecq! Someone needs to wind him up and point him in a new direction.

SZALAI I think Linda Hirshman has a brilliant mind, but her book “Reckoning” — about the long history behind the #MeToo movement — really drips with disdain toward any feminist she deems too “libertine” for her liking (i.e. Catharine MacKinnon is O.K.; Gloria Steinem isn’t).

Malcolm Gladwell’s latest book, “Talking to Strangers,” didn’t include the weird, obscure historical narratives that he used to take pains to uncover. Do we really need his theory about why attempts to appease Adolf Hitler didn’t work?

What’s the book on each of your lists of 10 favorites that most surprised you, either in terms of how much you enjoyed it or why you enjoyed it?

GARNER I’ve been distributing copies of Chelsey Minnis’s book of poems “Baby, I Don’t Care” since I read it. I’ve begun to feel like a Jehovah’s Witness. The book is a set of nearly 150 single-page poems that tinker with notions taken from Hollywood’s golden era and film noir. It’s dark and droll and utterly delightful. “You see, I’m the type of person who would hurt a fly,” Minnis’s narrator says. And: “Did anyone ever try to kill you in a rowboat before?” These resemble Turner Classic Movies set to stun.