You exit the portal into an empty study once again. This time, a storm seems to have blown through: dozens of books are piled up and around the lacquered writing desk. Some lay open, some are stacked, some are bookmarked, some are bookmarks. Your eyes travel across the bookshelves lining the octagonal walls and you catch glimpses of stonework through holes where books presumably used to be. Either Kat hasn't had guests over for a long while... or she's been doing last minute research.

The spiral staircase down to the common room is also full of surprises today. Unless you expected more books, that is. The trusty wrought iron handrail is your new best friend as you navigate around tomes dark and colourful, stacked haphazardly on the worn stone steps.

The common room is unusually dark, the people already mingling around are like clusters of shadows, gathered around a single lit table in the centre. A red velvet cloth is draped over it, and on top, in stark contrast to the chaos upstairs, are 4 books, neatly arrayed.

As you approach, you spot me on the other side of the table, another book in my hand. Our eyes meet and I suddenly look embarrassed.

“I’m not late, you’re late!” I squeak in mock apprehension, unprompted.

As more people arrive, I shuffle over closer to you and whisper, “You’d think a proper castle like this would have a library. I used to just throw all the books I’ve read into the pocket dimension behind the portrait of Geralt, you know, the one in the study, but it’s filled to the brim, sorry, to the frame, so now I gotta conjure an empty room that could serve as a library. And why not sort all the books while I’m at it? Ha!” I roll my eyes, “The work we find for ourselves, it never ends. Anyway, these have earned a place of honour.”

One of the interesting things about growing older is that my sense of time is shrinking. Sometimes that scares me, because days can feel too short (and not just because it’s winter), but it also intrigues me, because years no longer feel endless. Committing to something for a year no longer feels like a prison sentence, but an invitation. Invitation to explore something new, but not have to hurry about it. A year feels manageable.

So for 2025, I made two commitments:

1. Stop buying clothes.
2. Read non-fiction.

The second challenge is what we’re here for today. I’ve been an avid fiction connoisseur for quite a few years now, enjoying classics and new titles, following productive authors and keeping an eye on the slow ones, leaving a neat trail of reviews on Goodreads and two years ago, even a beautiful scrapbooking reading journal. In two words, I was in it.

Non-fiction was somehow just not on the radar. Maybe my teenage years reading dumbed-down pop-psychology books, and my dad’s obsession with (inevitably ghostwritten) biographies of famous people gave me the wrong impression of the whole genre, or perhaps I just needed the escapism. Whatever the case, I wasn’t curious about it, not until I had moved countries and started attending a design school full of extremely curious people. Suddenly, the secrets of the real world were haunting me. What is pottery really made of? Who came up with notebooks? What’s the deal with mushrooms? All this and more, turns out, has been written about, outside of scientific papers, where any old joe can just read and suddenly know the obscure lives of bacteria and traffic lights and what came before and what could come after.

So I set out to read non-fiction in 2025. This was by no means a hard challenge. I did have two fugue states of rereading fiction series, Murderbot in the spring and Temeraire in autumn (I can recommend both), and I kinda fell off the train by the end of the year, thanks to one, two, then three rather unappetising books I couldn’t finish. But I will still consider it a success, since I make the rules and nobody can tell me otherwise.

My childlike wonder about nature came back in a big way, thanks to the books gathered here. There’s still a few I have to read, so there might be a follow-up to this list sometime next year (and there will be a test! So you better read these by then!), but the ones here make a nice, well-rounded group. I think there’s something here for any mood, and the authors are true and passionate (which is like catnip to scientists and experts, I’ve been told), so your time won’t be wasted.

So, what is the deal with mushrooms?
Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake
If you’re in a curious mood, and you would like to travel the world with fungi experts, looking at how lichen eats rock to make soil, how mycelium is like a transport network and a stock exchange, and how a human might look from a myco-centric perspective, but, you know, you’ve still got to commute to work and cook your own meals – this is the book you should read. It’s well-researched, well-edited, it’s mindblowing and it’s fun.
The author also appears in a fungi documentary that’s narrated by Bjork? If you’ve seen that one video where Bjork explains television, you know she’s the perfect casting.

Okay, but what’s the deal with plants?
Light Eaters by Zoe Schlanger
This one is quite new, but to me a worthy companion to the book above. Turns out, defining a plant is not that simple. Some of them aren’t green. Some of them are carnivorous. Some of them mimic the leaf shapes of other plants, even if those “plants” are made of plastic and we have no clue how they know what they’re mimicking, short of them having some sort of eyes. Okay, that’s intense. And quite a few scientists seem to agree - plant intelligence is a very polarising topic in science, and the author goes into that as well. If you’re not ready to bow to our mycelian overlords yet, but you’ve you named your houseplants during Covid and juicy scientist drama sounds intriguing, this one’s for you.

Wait, so now even eating plants is morally bad??
Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World by Robin Wall Kimmerer
If you need hope and yearn to feel more like a human being that’s connected the world around it, this one’s for you. It’s short and poetic, connecting fruits and birds and foragers, to gifts and sharing and scavengers. It’s a book that inspired me to give and take, for free, with friends and strangers, and to notice many urban sharing initiatives in my own city. This reciprocity is something capitalism doesn’t want you to know about, which means you should definitely look into it.

Actually, all this real life stuff is too much for me.
A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers
Sometimes following a story in another world can be necessary, healing and inspiring. This very short book boosted my mental health when I needed it, especially because it starts with the robot apocalypse.
If the responsibility of existence is weighing on you, and you need a little boost, this one’s for you. You can always read about the mushrooms later.

Bonus: a film about birds!
LISTERS: A Glimpse into Extreme Birdwatching by Owen Reiser
Speaking of committing to things for a year, this adventure documentary is a maximalist example. Two guys spend a year living out of a van, trying to see as many different birds as possible. It's a fun mix – delightfully high-definition shots of birds, crusty camcorder footage of #vanlife gastronomy, Twin Peaks-style intermissions, stop motion and hilarious interviews. It shows that, with enough drive and curiosity, within less than a year you can grow to have extensive knowledge and immense love for something you knew fuck all about before. And if that’s not a heartening defense of growing older, I don’t know what is.

The litle flames flare up in the wall sconces and the common room returns to a comfortable brightness. As the evening continues in an informal atmosphere, I remind everyone to always check if your local library has the books you want, and if not, only then check used book stores (online or, even better, online!), and if not, only then pirate the books if you have an e-reader, and if not, only then buy a new book from a physical book store, and if not, only then buy a new book from an online retailer. And if not, maybe ask for an e-reader for Christmas?

As you slowly make your way back to the portal upstairs, you notice a new door leading off from the stairway. Books have gathered around it in stacks, looking like choirs of orphans on Christmas Eve. The brass handle glimmers invitingly in the torchlight. You check, but it’s locked. At least for now.