What I read in 2024

Five book recommendations from me.

Last year I set myself the target of reading 30 books—a target that I (to my own surprise) absolutely smashed, completing 49 in total. While I was partly disappointed I did not make it to 50 in the end, I was still rather proud of what I had accomplished.

This year, I yet again exceeded my own expectations. With the aid of numerous audiobooks via Spotify and Audible, which helped pass the time on my rather lengthy commutes, I close the door on 2024 having somehow managed to complete 64 books.

As with last year, the vast majority of these consist of non-fiction books—although I was inspired to return to one of my favourite Star Wars stories: Drew Karpyshyn’s Darth Bane trilogy, which easily dwarfs anything that has been produced by Disney in their decade in charge of the franchise. I could probably write a whole post on this story alone, but that is not the focus here today.

As with last year, I wanted to highlight five books that I found especially interesting or relevant to ongoing events. Having an even greater pool of options this time around has made my job even harder, unfortunately.

In no particular order:

Mortality by Christopher Hitchens (2013)

Christopher Hitchens was a man whose words often ignited fierce debate, unflinching in his convictions and razor-sharp in his prose. In Mortality, published posthumously, he takes the reader on an intimate journey through his final battle with cancer, a diagnosis he faced with the same unapologetic honesty that defined his life and career.

For me, reading this book was both a deeply emotional and profoundly thought-provoking experience. Hitchens’ account of his illness resonated not only due to my admiration for his work but because it hit painfully close to home. In the past few years, I have lost several close family members to cancer, and Hitchens' reflections laid bare the universal struggles, fears, and indignities that accompany this devastating disease.

What sets this book apart is Hitchens’ ability to confront his condition with brutal candour while maintaining his characteristic wit. He writes about the clinical world of hospitals, the indignities of treatment, and the loss of his once-commanding voice—a particularly cruel blow for a man whose life was built on the power of rhetoric. There’s no attempt to sugarcoat his reality. Instead, he offers unvarnished truths, infused with moments of dark humour and philosophical musing.

Hitchens also challenges the cultural narratives surrounding terminal illness, particularly the language of “battles” and “fights” against cancer. He critiques the notion that succumbing to illness represents a failure, instead framing it as a human reality we all must eventually face. For someone like me, who has seen loved ones endure the gruelling toll of cancer treatment, his insights felt both validating and enlightening.

At its heart, Mortality is not just a book about dying—it’s a meditation on life itself. Hitchens reflects on the beliefs and principles that defined him, refusing to compromise even as death loomed. He maintains his atheism and scepticism, resisting the temptation to seek comfort in religion or an afterlife. This steadfastness in the face of the unknown is both admirable and humbling, even for those who might not share his worldview.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of Mortality is its unrelenting intimacy. Hitchens allows readers into his most vulnerable moments, creating a connection that transcends the page. For those of us who have been touched by cancer, either directly or through the experiences of loved ones, his words feel achingly familiar.

In a society where cancer remains one of the leading causes of death, Hitchens’ reflections are as relevant as ever. They remind us not only of the fragility of life but of the importance of facing it with integrity and courage. For me, this was more than just a book—it was a mirror reflecting a portion of my own grief, fears, and hopes.

It is a work I would recommend to anyone grappling with the universal questions of mortality and meaning.

After the Pogrom by Brendan O’Neill (2024)

Brendan O’Neill delivers a searing critique of Western societies’ response to the October 7th attacks in Israel, a turning point that exposed the ideological contortions of modern progressivism. This book is not just an analysis—it’s a wake-up call, a sharp reminder of how quickly societal norms can unravel when faced with the moral gymnastics of illiberal ideologues.

O’Neill explores the aftermath of the attacks with unflinching precision, documenting how Western societies were swept up in a wave of madness that sought to justify the unjustifiable. The atrocities committed against Israeli civilians—rape, murder, and the abduction of dozens of innocents—were met, in some quarters, not with condemnation but with a troubling glorification of their perpetrators. Feminist organisations that have long championed women’s rights suddenly found themselves unable—or unwilling—to address the sexual violence inflicted upon Israeli women. Instead, they pivoted to framing Gaza as a “reproductive rights issue”, a bizarre deflection in my opinion.

This phenomenon, as O’Neill illustrates, is not an isolated case but a symptom of a deeper crisis within progressive movements. The same ideologies that preach empathy, equality, and human rights can, when politically expedient, abandon those principles altogether. O’Neill dissects these contradictions with wit and clarity, exposing the dangerous implications of such selective outrage.

For me, this book struck a deeply personal chord. Watching these events unfold in real time has been both bewildering and infuriating. As I’ve documented on this blog, the rise of this illiberal madness masquerading as progressivism has been a major catalyst for my decision to speak out. O’Neill’s work is a bold statement of clarity in an increasingly unhinged world, a reminder that reason and moral consistency must remain our guiding lights.

What makes After the Pogrom particularly compelling is its refusal to shy away from difficult truths. O’Neill does not mince words or attempt to soften the blow for the sake of decorum. Instead, he tackles the issue head-on, shining a light on the hypocrisy and intellectual cowardice that have defined much of the discourse surrounding these events.

In a world where moral relativism often reigns supreme, this book is a necessary intervention. It challenges readers to confront uncomfortable realities and to question the narratives that dominate public discourse. For anyone seeking to understand the deeper implications of the October 7th attacks and their fallout, I consider this essential reading.

Brendan O’Neill has delivered more than just a critique—he has provided a roadmap for resisting the descent into madness. His work is a testament to the power of clear thinking and moral courage in the face of chaos.

What’s Left? by Nick Cohen (2007)

Nick Cohen offers a scathing critique of the ideological contortions within the political left, unmasking a tendency to sympathise with authoritarians and fascists simply because of their opposition to the West. Although the book was written nearly two decades ago, its analysis feels eerily prescient, offering a lens through which to understand much of today’s political hysteria.

Cohen’s central focus is the left’s reaction to the Iraq War and the baffling contradictions in its rhetoric. He documents, in meticulous detail, the horrors of Saddam Hussein’s regime: the mass graves, the chemical attacks, and the brutal oppression of dissent. Yet, despite this litany of atrocities, many leftists opposed Western intervention with a fervour that seemed to overlook or even excuse Hussein’s crimes. Cohen doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable truths, drawing a stark comparison between this betrayal of principles and the infamous Nazi-Soviet Pact. In both cases, professed anti-fascists abandoned their moral stance in favour of political expediency, shifting allegiances to align with those they had once vehemently opposed.

For Cohen, this betrayal extends beyond Iraq. He dissects the left’s uneasy relationship with Islamic extremism, highlighting how a desire to oppose Western imperialism has led some to tacitly endorse—or at least downplay—the oppressive and regressive ideologies espoused by certain groups. This dynamic, which Cohen identifies as a fundamental betrayal of the left’s commitment to human rights and social justice, has only grown more pronounced in the years since the book’s publication.

Reading this book felt like peeling back the layers of a deeply uncomfortable truth. Cohen’s analysis of the left’s moral failings resonates strongly in today’s context, where similar patterns of cognitive dissonance are on full display. The parallels between the events of the early 2000s and the present are impossible to ignore. Just as leftists once marched against intervention in Iraq while ignoring the plight of its victims, many now turn a blind eye to the oppressive actions of regimes or movements that claim to be “anti-imperialist.”

“Why is Palestine a cause for the liberal-left, but not China, Sudan, Zimbabwe, the Congo or North Korea? Why, even in the case of Palestine, can’t those who say they support the Palestinian cause tell you what type of Palestine they would like to see? After the 9/11 attacks on New York and Washington why were you as likely to read that a sinister conspiracy of Jews controlled American or British foreign policy in a superior literary journal as in a neo-Nazi hate sheet? Any why after the 7/7 attacks on London did leftish rather than right-wing newspapers run pieces excusing suicide bombers who were inspired by a psychopathic theology from the ultra-right?”

Cohen’s prose is unrelenting, his arguments sharp and incisive. He does not merely criticise the left for its contradictions but challenges it to return to its roots: a commitment to universal human rights, a rejection of oppression in all its forms, and an unwavering belief in progress and equality. His comparisons to historical events, particularly the Nazi-Soviet pact, are both provocative and compelling, forcing readers to confront the uncomfortable realities of ideological compromise.

For me, What’s Left? is an essential read for anyone grappling with the complexities of modern leftist politics. It is not merely a critique of past failures but a call to vigilance against repeating them. As the ideological battles of our time continue to unfold, Cohen’s insights remain as relevant as ever, urging us to prioritise principles over partisanship and to resist the allure of simplistic narratives that pit the West as the sole villain of the global stage.

Left Out by Gabriel Pogrund and Patrick Maguire (2021)

Left Out is a masterful chronicle of the Labour Party’s turbulent years under Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership. It is a fascinating yet deeply frustrating read for anyone invested in the party’s fortunes and the broader direction of British politics. This account of Corbynism’s rise and fall pulls no punches, offering a detailed exploration of how the left of the Labour Party reached its high-water mark and the myriad reasons it ultimately failed to claim power.

As someone who has little sympathy for Corbyn’s style of politics, I approached this book with scepticism. And yet, it’s impossible to deny the momentous nature of Corbyn’s leadership, particularly his remarkable ability to energise sections of the electorate in 2017. His campaign that year tapped into widespread disillusionment with austerity, Brexit, and Theresa May’s uninspiring premiership, delivering a result that shocked even his most ardent critics. However, it wasn’t enough. The 2017 election highlighted Labour’s potential but also revealed Corbyn’s weaknesses—weaknesses that would later become insurmountable obstacles.

The book captures Corbyn’s inability to capitalise on his initial success, painting a portrait of a leader who struggled to make progress in the years that followed. Pogrund and Maguire detail the litany of blunders and scandals that plagued his leadership, from Labour’s failure to articulate a coherent position on Brexit to the devastating accusations of antisemitism that fractured the party. These controversies alienated both the public and party members, creating an atmosphere of distrust and disarray that Corbyn’s team seemed incapable of overcoming.

What stands out most is the sense of missed opportunity. As much as I dislike Corbyn’s politics, I have to admit that he is unashamedly genuine—a rarity in Westminster. But his authenticity could not compensate for his glaring inadequacies as a leader. His tenure culminated in the catastrophic 2019 general election, which handed Boris Johnson a majority he neither earned nor deserved. For many Labour supporters, myself included, the result was a bitter pill to swallow. It wasn’t just a defeat for Labour—it was a squandered opportunity to hold the Conservatives to account for years of mismanagement and failure.

Reading Left Out made me long for an alternative history: one where Labour was led by someone capable of bridging the divides on Brexit, presenting a clear and confident vision for the country, and exposing the Conservatives’ incompetence. Instead, the party’s embrace of hard-left politics during Corbyn’s tenure did long-term damage, alienating moderates and ensuring its exile in the political wilderness for years to come.

I recommend this book to anyone seeking to understand the complexities and contradictions of modern Labour politics. It is both a cautionary tale and a detailed autopsy of a movement that promised so much but delivered so little. For all its frustrations, Left Out offers valuable insights into how political ideologies and personal failings can collide, shaping not just the fate of a party but the future of a nation.

The Dark Knight and the Puppet Master by Chris Clarke (2020)

Chris Clarke’s book is an incisive critique of the ideological weaknesses of the hard-left and a thoughtful plea for a more pluralistic and constructive approach to politics.

Written in the aftermath of Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour Party, Clarke dissects the intellectual and strategic flaws that defined this period, offering an analysis that resonated deeply with me. This book not only clarified my own political convictions but also solidified my belief in the value of centre-left politics as a pragmatic and principled alternative to the extremes.

Clarke’s central argument revolves around the dual archetypes he presents in the book’s title. The “Dark Knight” represents a combative, righteous force—a political mindset defined by the need to fight perceived enemies, whether they are the establishment, corporations, or political rivals. The “Puppet Master,” meanwhile, embodies a conspiratorial worldview, seeing hidden agendas and shadowy elites as the true architects of society’s problems. Together, these archetypes describe the hard-left’s tendency to frame politics as a perpetual struggle between heroes and villains, often at the expense of nuance and pragmatic solutions.

What struck me most was Clarke’s ability to critique these tendencies without descending into cynicism or dismissal. Instead, he offers a constructive vision for the left—one that embraces pluralism, intellectual humility, and a willingness to engage with opposing perspectives. For someone like me, who has long struggled with the polarising nature of contemporary politics, this message was refreshing and deeply affirming.

Reading this book was a transformative experience, one that influenced both my personal and political outlook. It reinforced my belief that a functioning political movement cannot rely solely on ideological purity or moral superiority. Instead, it must be grounded in real-world problem-solving, an appreciation for complexity, and a commitment to coalition-building. These principles are what drew me to the centre-left, and they are why I ultimately endorsed the Labour Party, led by Keir Starmer, in this year’s general election.

During the Corbyn years, I often felt uneasy about the Labour Party’s direction. While I supported the broader goals of equality and social justice, I was deeply uncomfortable with the factionalism, conspiratorial rhetoric, and combative tone that came to define the hard-left’s approach. Clarke’s book helped me articulate why this style of politics felt so alienating and why I feel far more confident in a Labour Party led by Starmer, even if his government has so far left much to be desired.

The Dark Knight and the Puppet Master is a book that I return to often, both for its sharp analysis and its hopeful vision for the future of progressive politics. For anyone grappling with the challenges facing the left today, Clarke’s insights are invaluable. His call for a more pluralistic, inclusive, and solutions-oriented left is not just timely but essential. It is a reminder that political progress is not achieved through purity tests or ideological warfare but through dialogue, compromise, and a shared commitment to building a better society.