Who’d have expected that it would be difficult to find time to read during college life? Anyhow, I’m trying to read whenever I have a chance, and I’d like to continue even as my academics and life pick up. I would say I read to learn and broaden my perspective, but the truth is more that I read to feel, and the former benefits seem to stem from the impressionability of emotion. Book recommendations always appreciated!

Current:

• Proust?!
• I suspect I am channeling another Infinite Jest run-through soon…Also meaning to meaningfully pick up Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet…
• Death in the Afternoon, Ernest Hemingway. First of all, what a sick title. It’s kinda like Moby Dick but bulls, and Spain! I am enjoying this and really just Hemingway’s lovely prose and am getting excited and wanting to go to Spain soon and see myself a bullfight before they are gone (+ rest of Spain stuff :).

Perpetually open (collections):

• King James Bible. After reading way too many books with biblical allusions, I figured it was about time I got some context. I remember an english teacher at my high school being ridiculed for bringing the Bible into everything, and perhaps that was a little unfair.
• Penguin Anthology of Japanese Short Stories, various authors. I’m enjoying getting outside of my America-centric bubble and seeing other ways of living, thinking, writing and narrativizing.
• Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency, Chen Chen. The first Chen Chen book I’ve purchased! Excited!
• Devotions, Mary Oliver. Beautiful and nature-centric. Brings me back to my boy scout days and makes me yearn for outside-of-my-room-and-my-monitors.
• The Story and Its Writer, Charters. Going to start making my way through this behemoth. I would like to learn to write, and hoping I might be inspired here.
• Short Stories, Gogol. Recommended by my frosh advisor, Tracy–I’m struggling to see what is so game-changing in Gogol’s work more generally, but I certainly see where “The Overcoat” lies, for one.
• Tiny Beautiful Things, Strayed. Matthew mentioned this to me a while ago. Like what the title says. Suffering, but good. Not good. But at least something. Something to hold on to, perhaps.

Opened and oops (abandoned…for now):

• All About Love, bell hooks. This book has been really impactful for clearly thinking about how I define love, and thus try to give it as well as receive it. Highly recommend.
• The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, bell hooks. This book has been rapidly changing my worldview and giving a voice to many sentiments I’ve had but not known where to put. Seems incredibly important, perhaps the most important here. Having my parents read this, and likely my brothers and others who come into my life.
• Babbitt, Sinclair Lewis. Continuing the kinda more fun, narrative reads. I know this doesn’t even fit well. Maybe will pick up some more Murakami soon.
• A Clockwork Orange, Burgess. This seems like a somewhat foundational read so I mean to get to it at some point. Writing a bit hard to parse. Did the movie, and feel somewhat satisfied at that?
• What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Murakami. A memoir about writing and running that I picked up for the writing part first, but has somehow overcome my activation energy for running. I even bought running shoes! Update: welp.
• Dostoyevsky Reads Hegel in Siberia and Bursts into Tears, Foldenyi. Saw this title in a bookstore and was immediately curious. I think I need more context on Hegel first.

Up next:

• Thinking Fast and Slow, Kahneman. I’ve heard about this one a few times and seems like an interesting nonfiction piece. The Divine Comedy, The Myth of Sisyphus, Americanah, To Kill a Mockingbird (again), …

Finished:

• The Garden of Eden, Ernest Hemingway. I really enjoyed and was moved by Hemingway in these strange (for him) waters – a sprinkle of nontraditional gender roles and nonmonagamy, but still natural within what he is skillful at. Some discussion of the fragility (due to complexity) of human relations, especially when extended past their simplest 1 on 1 format. I think what really hurt me was watching such a perfect inside crack as Catherine began to feel herself on the outside in this contrived manner / of her own machinations. I loved the meta writing scenes and commentary and was compelled by the certain realism to the self-centered but unjustifying world we inhabit through his main character. I went online afterward and many people were split or angry but I can never be angry with Hemingway, man that I love. As the song goes, he would always be there for me.
• The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, John Steinbeck. This was an easy read and great fun and I only wish it were longer.
• The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera. I enjoy Kundera’s style and it is easily recognizable and comfortable to me. He builds up meaning in this methodical and transparent way that somehow doesn’t offend my anti-sentimentalist sensibilities. And he interacts with his characters in a way that is somewhat odd literarily, but works.
• If on a winter’s night a traveler…, Italo Calvino. From Aileen; I really thoroughly enjoyed / found this interesting – the former largely from its variety and the latter from its meta-commentary / postmodernism. It reminded me of much else I had read before and I am now more excited to read and write more of these things. And I take with me this picture, what do I feel like reading in this very moment, and Jacob Collier on creating music similarly, and pulling specificity and concreteness whenever I can.
• The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, Yukio Mishima. From Trent; most of the book was a drag to me because he was being overly descriptive and taking his grand old time to make anything happen–I don’t view this meandering as artful or intentional as it didn’t have useful effect on me. I did find the gang of boys compelling, and there were a few beautiful moments to begin, and once the plot peaked, the last 1/6th of the book slipped away at a respectable speed.
• Siddhartha, Herman Hesse. I enjoyed this mainly as further engagement with Buddhism and Indian culture, and continue to want to do more. I’m surprised how into it Hesse got, to be able to write this faithfully, and then read also about the Beatles in India. So much history and culture that I don’t know and want to learn.
• Little Birds, Erotica, Anais Nin. I picked this up because I had heard so much of her and it was indeed interesting, mostly as a sort of historical artifact, and because I have been aware of the various tropes desire is often fit into but had not read it so explicitly and formally put down. I think it was cool to read, though at the end of the day, what it claims to be. More erotica than literary, though it isn’t super sloppily done. Also the idea that even a good writer must fall into repetition and tropiary when writing erotica, perhaps, because it is somehow too familiar for much genuine novelty. I want to engage more with this from a psychology basis too, but not just the overused and simplistic Freudian / Oedipian views.
• An Apprenticeship or The Book of PLEASURES, Clarice Lispector. I loved this book so very much, my experience of it was the consistent synthesis of so much within me, so much building. The things people say about it are silly. Though I must be by myself, Clarice is perhaps one of the indivduals who has most helped me be closer to me, who has helped me to exist. Departing, I feel as if gently covered by a sheen of her light sweat.
• The Trial, Franz Kafka. I came to this looking for slightly more narrative and so acessible Kafka; I must report that while it was that it didn’t really serve the purpose intended. I respect his use of symbols and his attraction to the odd but I found neither the narrative fully satisfying, nor the surreality of it either. I did enjoy the parable and last three chapters a good deal in general. Felt pretty unfinished.
• White Nights, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Max (of all people!!) recommended this to me, raving, almost, after randomly picking a copy up on his mom’s coffee table. So I followed suit. I must admit it is a very different Dostoyevsky than I am used to from his longer novels, but consistent with Notes from the Underground, which I’m intrigued to engage with. A little troll-y / incel-y, and interesting to see pre-Freudian modernism and internality. I wasn’t that impressed novelty-wise but at the same time had a lot of fun with it.
• American Pastoral, Philip Roth. Didn’t actually finish–got about 100 pages in and couldn’t take his heavy-handed and repetitive and sentimentalist style anymore. I mean, he simply wasn’t driving the book at a reasonable pace, but maybe this is what older folk like, to just exist within narrative for a while. Beyond me how this won a Pulitzer, though.
• Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes. This was short and enjoyable as a little thought experiment-type thing. Read re. Annie, but I remember how much Jonny liked it too. It was sweet and nicely executed. I don’t think it’s that useful for me to think about the nature of my intelligence at the moment. I’m plastic, but limited.
• First Stories, Lispector. I’ve been plowing through these Lispector shorts because they’re short and because this means she must make herself more readily legible. Much of the same Lispector that baffles me is there though. These first stories were pretty surprisingly feminist and mostly deal with a young woman in relation to some man, in some variety of manners and interactions. They’re sufficiently varied and feel precocious for a 24 yo? The feelings expressed are jarring and relatable.
• Go Tell It on the Mountain, James Baldwin. He writes some real fire here, and there was one part that had me reeling in particular. Mostly, it’s full of complexity and interwoven lives, in some sort of modernist fashion, and laced with religion. This helped me understand much more concretely but also emotionally, the role Christianity played for African Americans following emancipation and all, and things make a bit more sense to me overall. This is the first I’ve read of a big collection I just bought, which was just pub’d, w/ Toni Morrison editing. I’m excited for more, but I think need a break from Baldwin’s intensity.
• The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger. Tim rec’d me, said Salinger really loved youth and I found this compelling. I found the book quite compelling, if you want to know the truth. The cute writing style with all its repetitiveness and colloquiality. The phonies and all, but mostly the way Holden loved things and how specific they could be. This set to a backdrop of depression. I’m glad I read this.
• Ask the Dust, John Fante. Fante is like Bukowski, but with innocence and with some respect for women. It’s like Bukowski in love; before he got all sour and lewd, when he was pretending it and going through the motions in his head because he thought he knew that was what it meant to be a great writer. The sentimentalization, the attachment to Bukowski (in intro) definitely contributes to my reading of it (though it’s a damn good book in it’s own right). The narrator is a scared asshole but there are some surprisingly tender moments which break my heart. I finished it in three days, reading in the mornings before work. Bukowski wrote a poem for Fante which they included at the end and it was trash. I think most of Bukowski’s poems are flaming garbage artistically, though.
• The Great Gatsby, Scott Fitzgerald. I came to this from Hem because he said it was a great book and said something like, man, Scott was crazy but after I read his book I knew I had to protect this man at all costs because if he could write something that good he could certainly write something better, too. I had tried to read it before, failed, saw a play at Princeton, then tried this time and again I’m disturbed by the satire and sarcasm and I guess again meaning that I just don’t enjoy this stream of consciousness existing within mine. But it was overall good and pretty and I get it, the way he painted the scene of people so vividly (not quite the people themselves) and I understand why people associate this so heavily with the roaring twenties, as if its portraiture, and I am to watch the movie w/ DiCaprio tonight. I’m curious how the movie will go since it seems there are so many different and valid ways they could translate this book, which was quite exact to begin with, almost in nature, leaving many substantial artistic choices.
• A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway. Even now I can hear myself writing with a touch of Hem. I read his books like I drink water and find myself nourished and refreshed and how natural and good it is to have his writing inside of my brain. I found some nice inspiration for life and for work here, and it was interesting to hear about his contemporaries. But mostly the way he lives and writes his life I find beautiful and moving and I want to be him, I want to be like him, I want to feel as much and as deeply as he does (especially for his work) and to process it so calmly without the attachment of extra sentiment as I am often so quick to do. And I want to explore some unconventional relationships, like where is my Gertrude Stein? And I got some nice pointers to other artists/works from this too that I actually felt inclined to follow up since I trust his nose. I also flipped around the restored version too just to diff them and for extra content–my initial reference to this book was something about how his wife had edited the book perhaps unfairly after his death–though I don’t think too much was edited despite the fuss they make in the foreword and all. I appreciated the added discussion of him growing his hair out with his wife and how this was subversive and still feels so to me today, and how they had their little secrets as a couple. I realized here also that he paints his wife, maybe just women (and people) in general so well, that I have a clear voice in my head for her. But that voice seems to share and be built from many of his other women in books past. And lastly, it was painful to hear all the fragments, bits and pieces repeated and rearranged, Hem trying to begin or to end the book to little satisfaction and I don’t know if that was just writing for him or if it was because he was dying. But either way it tugged at my heard and made him more human and more loveable. Anyway, I really like this and him. I guess I dislike sentimenalization but this is a kind of sentimentalizing and I like it so then I must enjoy some forms and then perhaps what I dislike is lame sentimenalism, the needful (and often excessive) attachment of meaning to things not present (see: Murakami, who also wrote a short story collection taking Hem’s title, Men Without Women).
• To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf. This book was really, really good! Definitely goes into the top 5 (?) for me and a surprise too because while Mrs. Dalloway was good, it was difficult and I didn’t always enjoy having that writing pass through my internal monologue. I mean, it was amazing, it was a feat, it was lovely: Woolf, weaving in and out of each person’s consciousness so fluidly and in this supremely modernist manner. Each of the characters so rich and that interaction/dialogue between them playing off of it and adding to their depth. Here, I see how she did something wonderful for the first time, and I believe. I want to try The Waves, Jen’s favorite Woolf (or book, ever?), purportedly even better than this…
• If Beale Street Could Talk, James Baldwin. I watched the movie on Prime a while back and thought it very good, and had been meaning to read Baldwin for quite some time. At first I didn’t enjoy reading this because it was so much dialogue, and it felt like maybe this should have been a play or a movie (like I’d first seen it) but as a book maybe it was too clumsy. But then I stopped feeling bad about it later on. This story is largely a love letter to the man, in my estimation, to the male lover. We’ve heard all about the woman and her merits before, but here, we see the young man trembling and loving and trying and vulnerable. The male lover is painted well and it breaks my heart a little bit. The movie paints the woman and the couple as beautiful, largely physically and in manner, and it is very good but also that’s just what the medium does most easily and perhaps most well and in the book the woman’s beauty is obscured because she’s the narrator and what is beautiful about the man is not so visual and so writing seems a better medium for it.
• What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Raymond Carver. Carver is always enjoyable in his sort of equanimous manner, and it was nice to read the whole collection (it was decently cohesive and building) and to revisit the title story in context. Surprisingly, there was another story after it, called One More Thing, that I felt a nice addition and a quaint wrap up (without that mortal sin of trying too hard to be quaint and wrap things up).
• Moby Dick, Herman Melville. I read this with Emily and Arthur sorta-ish. It was a long trek, though definitely not as obscure as I’d expected. It was pretty fun overall, and I enjoyed Melville’s playful prose. Tons of biblical (and other) references which I appreciated; these validated my bible reading so far and encouraged it further. Also had fun diving into whale anatomy and the technicals of whaling and such, and now have a fun repertoire of facts in my back pocket. I came across some interpretations while reading (e.g., white whale as God, white whale as racism in America) and this seems like a fun book to reflect upon / reread at some point through different lenses, as I am led to believe that there are seveal plausible ones.
• At Times, Brooke Horvath. I picked this up at a used book store with Eve, and it has a lot of these “snapshot” pieces so to speak (as the title would suggest). A lot of pain has been written into this, and I am enjoying many of the poems. He does some clever pieces that aren’t amazing but that I enjoyed seeing his artifice through, if that makes sense. Overall, this book has been a welcome companion, and one of the first collections of poetry I’ve bought and actually finished, lol.
• Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf. About time I try her, following Jen Jahner. The style is certaintly distinct and I wonder if I shall overcome it. In retrospect, I quite enjoyed this book! It took me some time to get into the groove of her writing (perhaps as with all distinct styles) but then, what modernist beauty, what reeling peoplescapes and landscapes painted. I look forward to reading her again!
• Someone Who Will Love You In All Your Damaged Glory, Raphael Bob-Waksberg. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t parts that got through to me. I almost cried after the dog story, and I think some of the later stories felt more genuine and nice. I read this because Chandrew handed me his copy and so I had to, but also because similar thread with Norwegian Wood of seeing parts of myself in these things, a mirror, and being somewhat disgusted and this as a way to exorcise some things I didn’t realized I’d annexed. My overall feeling for this book and its dark humor vibes is: cheapening of love and really just life in general. It attacks relevant tropes but to what end? It perhaps sounds like a 20s-30s y.o. man roving and wallowing in his sadness. It is perhaps useful to see and experience, but I’m personally not crazy about it.
• Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami. I had this downloaded already at past recommendations, so had a go. I overall don’t know how I feel about this book, but that’s been happening more and more these days across all of life and that seems okay. There were parts I enjoyed reading, and there were parts that were painful to watch play out. I don’t think it’s my right nor my desire (nor need, nor role) particularly to judge this piece of art, or anything really. I experienced it and on I go.
• Tortilla Flat, John Steinbeck. Emily recommended this to me, and it was a good fun sweet (and quick) read! At least in my mind, Steinbeck got an outsized negative reputation from The Grapes of Wrath, but everything else I’ve read by him has been surprisingly pleasant and accessible. Perhaps I read that one too young.
• The Passion According to G.H., Clarice Lispector. In the mood for her, and oh boy, from the beginning I am hooked. Pre-read her The Imitation of the Rose and The Yellow Wallpaper, which were great and consistent. Update, many months later: I started this in spring of 2023 and finished over Thanksgiving break of 2023. And it was very difficult for me to get through, in part because so much of my focus was being asked elsewhere. But I really did love it, and am more verklempt than ever I have been with Lispector before; I think this is probably her most compelling and bizarre and religious? piece and I don’t really even know what to say. As she says: words fail. So have a read, have an experience, and trust that the experience that you have is indeed the one that you came to have. I will revisit this, and push it toward the top of my recommendation list.
• Before the Coffee Gets Cold, Toshikazu Kawaguchi. Recommended by Jackie! I enjoyed the narrative, the sweetness, and the general sentiment though I don’t think I got much novelty here. And I found the writing style a bit clunky, repetitive, generic / cliché a good deal of the time. But I think if you can overlook that / these things bother you less than they do me, a nice read. Not sure I’ll continue the series…
• Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut. I enjoyed this one a lot, and have yet to meet a Vonnegut book that does not agree with me. Perhaps I am a member of his karass. I keep turning to him because my brain has not the energy to process more dense writing and his flows easily through my folds. I suspect that I also come out much more nihilist each time I read him. Well, time to wash my nihilism away and go to work! Perhaps the proper tagline after having read Vonnegut: you were sick, but now you’re well again, and there’s work to be done! Notably, also buoying my conviction to continue forth into the bible.
• The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers. I felt this book much more intensely than the last of hers I read (The Member of the Wedding). I guess what I would say is that it was downright painful at times for me, the humanity and the grasping and the yearning and all of it unfulfilled and unsatisfied. The loneliness. I liked this book. And the last page or two was proper modernist beauty, all ambivalence and ambiguous terror.
• Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, Roald Dahl. I had a good deal of fun with this one–RD seems to be quite good at holding a reader, even though his plots usually hinge on one small touch of dastardly cleverness. I am entertained.
• Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut. Reread this and I think processed much better than I did originally. I think this was my first Vonnegut ever, perhaps.
• Men Without Women, Ernest Hemingway. I do love this man. I had been meaning to read this for a while following 1) Murakami’s Men Without Women, and 2) Chandrew’s favorite short story contained within, Hills Like White Elephants. I don’t grow tired of his voice. You’d think one would be exhausted of bull-fighting by now too, but how can I, when he humanizes it so neutrally and coldly? Perhaps Hemingway’s strength for me is what is left in the gaps, the kindness and understanding he allows us to interpolate from his unassuming and innocent recollections.
• Armageddon in Retrospect, Kurt Vonnegut. I always enjoy Kurt, and this one was a bit dark and I think closer to life for him than some of his more fantastical pieces. Done well and with a bit less of the cutting sarcasm you may be used to from him.
• The House of the Spirits, Isabel Allende. This was quite good, and I like this arc of Latin American women I’ve been reading lately. It evoked much emotion in me, I think I cried twice?, and empathy, and lack of understanding in my understanding, if that makes any sense. This may also have to do with me continuing to actively break my walls down and allow myself to feel though moreso than the book. But I think good.
• When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi. I found myself disliking this book very strongly, surprisingly so. I just don’t have the taste for his worldview, the worship of achievement and status and respect and power and dearth of emotion and meta-consideration and really just love of any legible kind. Perhaps in part because I am myself treading from where he stood, away. In any case, was quite an interesting experience, just to see myself bristle. Foils are important.
• Disgrace, J. M. Coetzee. Felt myself needing a more fun (easy? enjoyable?) read and this one was kinda that, though still somewhat heavy. I cringed through much of the main character’s actions and it provoked me in interesting ways even though I didn’t love it.
• Deaf Republic, Ilya Kaminsky. Oh my. This was really good and moving and painful and craft. Like, really. I think I’d recommend this to almost anyone. A chance to grow one’s empathy in a rather unique medium: short, somewhat narratively-cohesive poems in two acts with ambiguous characters. And somehow so abstract and so concrete and distant and hurtful for its distance all in one, and I don’t know what to do / I shall do with the burden charged me (that of my fellow human–a keeper of all my brothers), but it weighs and I think it will not be for naught.
• Klara and the Sun, Kazuo Ishiguro. Honestly, a pretty mid read. There were certainly nice parts and ideas but the concentration, the frequency with which they were delivered was quite low for me. And the writing style wasn’t really compelling enough to pull me through.
• This Is How You Lose Her, Junot Diaz. Man. This was good. There are parts where I get chills, and the final story knocked me over with how genuine it felt (was it? do I even care?). Fucked me up with how heartfelt the meta-writing was. I’m glad there are people like Junot Diaz in this world, and I don’t mean that as in his literary persona either. Just people capable of this kind of beauty, whether or not it’s real. Don’t wake me up. /Picked this up from the Princeton Library store for $3! Can’t be beat. Anyway, have been into his stuff since reading a preview of Drown under Rachel and then actually reading Oscar Wao and so here we are again, and I figured this book would be shorter and flow well and so be a nice “break” of sorts. We all need breaks :)
• A Tale for the Time Being, Ruth Ozeki. Bday gift from Leah! More Asian American lit (#2)! My thoughts on this: to start off, I did very much like the parts that I liked. The voice of Nao, and really the whole Japanese family arc was quite enjoyable. It felt well written and realistic, even though Ozeki probably shouldn’t have been so good at this. Where things get a little funny: the writing as Ruth was just styled poorly, didn’t feel quite believable, and words like pithy come to mind. And toward the end I detected the author’s voice mixing across Nao and Ruth and Oliver which hurt my supsension of disbelief. I appreciated the meta-commentary on writing as a concept and other metaphysical discourse, but overall “Ruth” just didn’t work well for me? But silly because the book as a whole was good fun. And an interesting (speculative) example of writing fiction but really just writing yourself loosely, salient because I just wrote a rather reflective short fiction piece last term.
• East of Eden, John Steinbeck. I had been avoiding Steinbeck ever since The Grapes of Wrath but both Leah and Maggie very strongly recommended this to me. And lo and behold–I loved it. This book has been unbelievably good to me–see how it parameterizes my speech, even now–and I particularly enjoyed its descriptions of human nature and interpersonal relationships and developing California. It was also fairly plot-driven and done well at this too, which I haven’t felt in a while. I’d say that this goes solidly into my top 5 books of all time, but as I read more this distinction is getting less and less meaningful. I loved it. I think you might too–try it?
• A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce. Picked this up somewhere for free. Was going to read Near to the Wild Heart first, but read the back and saw that it was named for a James Joyce line, and well, respecting provenance, here I am. This one took me a terribly long time to finish–I started in the fall, and have just finished, during spring break. It was really a drag in a lot of places, particularly the first half, but when James Joyce gets going–oh my–. I’m not sure I can recommend this because I’m a rather patient and masochistic reader and even this was a struggle for me, but if you can, do try. I want to reread more critically with guidance later in life.
• Agua Viva, Clarice Lispector. This writing is a trip. I got 34 / 89? pages in initially, after getting it at the LA Festival of Books in Spring 2022 (at USC). The opening is fucking captivating. Like, c’mon. And the writing style is unlike anything I’d seen anywhere before. This was the inspiration for beginning my reading course with Jen @ Caltech, and we ended on it, and still so wonderful and I am blown away and this is probably the most beautiful work of art I’ve read in a while, maybe ever? I will revisit and revisit. Lovely lovely lovely. Do try.
• No-No Boy, John Okada. I really liked this book! This may be the first explicitly Asian-American literature I’ve read, which makes very little sense…but I felt seen in a number of ways, and it was comforting. It was also an awfully painful book. But really good! For cold war modernist literature class.
• The Hour of the Star, Clarice Lispector. The second of four Lispector books for my independent reading course–this one was her last book and is kind of a trip. She does this really interesting interplay where there’s a writer/narrator who is writing the story of the “main character” and it’s fantastic and complex and I can’t quite wrap my head around all of it. Very interesting but doesn’t read as easily, as flow-ily as most anything else.
• The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers. For a cold war literature class; more modernist lit. I actually didn’t mind this book so much, though a lot of it was just silliness, and the ending worked really well for me. There was so much callousness and misery in this book that the little bits of sweetness felt especially lovely to me, particularly John Henry and the closing scene as a sense of hope and leaving off with the drear for the time being.
• Near to the Wild Heart, Clarice Lispector. How can I explain to you why this book is so wonderful? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so seen by a book before in my life. I didn’t expect this at all going in, but it’s just incredibly on the nose in a lot of regards. Instantly a current top 3 book, and probably a top 5 or 10 of all time candidate? And it’s so full of poetry and consciousness and internal monologue and all of it just lovely lovely lovely. I feel it shifting the way I view myself and others and the world to some extent, too. Do try.
• Beetlecreek, William Demby. I read this for a class on cold war literature, and I think it was interesting as a concept but I certainly did not enojoy reading it as a piece of literature. Characters seemed unspecific/underdeveloped and relatively uniform, despite modernist focus on internal state and emotions, and just generally didn’t resonate with the narrator’s voice. Anyhow, have to draw some below average samples.
• Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett. Lol. This was nice and dreadful. Get up ‘til I embrace you!
• For Whom The Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway. I was feeling nostalgic for Hemingway and he really knocked it out of the park on this one. I was particularly impressed by how he writes a book in English with a mainly Spanish dialogue and somehow manages to really capture the foreign/naive feel of it for us in English. Many lovely lines and scenarios and such. I always love reading Hemingway.
• Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace. It’s always refreshing when I hit upon somebody grappling fiercely with some of the same problems I am. This book was 1000+ pages of straight masterpiece and immersion. Like, wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. With most good books, I can imagine how one might have written them, but here, I really just cannot understand how DFW managed to craft this thing. I yield. He was probably a standard deviation of intelligence above me.
• Such Color, Tracy K. Smith. I love Tracy K. Smith. This is a nice collection of her poetry that spans all of her works to date and I am positively enjoying it so far. She does a decent amount of sort of indigenous/racial poetry here that I like, but that loses me a little bit. I guess I just want it all interspersed together.
• Time is a Mother, Ocean Vuong. Was enjoying the last poetry collection so preordered this and got a signed copy with a cute poem printout! I really enjoyed this, and think I shall revisit it. I’ve been wondering what exactly it is that Ocean does so well, such that even though the poems repeat themes and such, it’s still good. I think a large part of this is gentleness, but I’m not sure. Will keep pondering.
• What We Lose, Zinzi Clemmons. This was a good meditation on love and loss. Easy read and in choppy little bits that construct a continuous narrative reminscient of some of Matthew’s stuff that I’ve read. Many quaint bits that resonated with me. Somewhere in the middle on the flow-of-consciousness spectrum–clearly narrative, but not quite clean and thus pulls off being humane quite well.
• Women, Charles Bukowski. So this has actually been my favorite of the bunch–yes, still crude descriptions of women, but I think the direction he’s going at the end is hopeful in a nice way. Realizing one is using people just like they have been used and stomped in the past. Trying to be less inconsiderate, and do right by people. I like that.
• The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz. I got this as a signed copy for just $8 at a book store in Princeton after uni discount and sale! I enjoyed the historical aspect and how well it’s woven into the fiction–perhaps this is a more compelling medium for me to learn history in. I think we always want the stories anyway, not the straight facts (reminds me of the framing of Logicomix as well). But I mean, overall, a real solid book. Forgot about myself for quite some time there. I’m not sure how much I care for the first-order messages, but the higher-order derivatives I quite like (and can’t quite describe either, but that’s the thing about higher-order derivatives anyway).
• The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2002, various authors. I picked this up because I thought it’d be interesting to see what people were writing about the year I was born (2001), and it did not disappoint. My favorites were probably Zoe Trope’s “Please Don’t Kill the Freshman” (short version), Heidi Schmidt’s “Blood Poison”, and Eric Schlosser’s “Why McDonald’s Fries Taste So Good”. Easy to read though in its short form. The pieces about problems around the world (and there were several, which is good) were informative, but didn’t feel like particularly great writing to me.
• Post Office, Charles Bukowski. I mean, these are kinda just the same old stuff but this one has got me feeling rather depressed. I’m probably just projecting.
• Factotum, Charles Bukowski. More of the same, in progression. Still crude, but we’re getting some sense of gentleness now.
• Will You Please Be Quiet, Please, Raymond Carver. In spirit of Chandrew, picked this up–the short stories were good reads and I like how Carver kinda just leaves you there at these transition points in his characters’ lives with the change being largely left up to the imagination–it allows these stories to do a lot more work for the reader than they would if played fully out. A lot of good pictures though and definitely worth a read. Expect to be a bit confused and lost at times.
• Night Sky with Exit Wounds, Ocean Vuong. I was told his poetry is better than his prose, and I’m not sure I conclusively agree since there’s so much overlap but I really enjoyed a lot of these poems. A lot of recurrent themes and I think I like that as cohesiveness but some sense of you feel like you’re rereading him but also there’s a pretty decent diversity through the collection despite this. Overall, would recommend. Paper pain, as per usual.
• Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski. My first reaction to this book: “I think I just impulse-bought depression.” I’ve read a lot of quotes and whatnot from Bukowski from here and there, and felt I should try him out. I have to say, his writing style is quite compelling and really got me into his narrative. Just ordered a few more of his books and a poetry collection, so looking forward to that. The narrative felt rather crude and I am rather taken aback that life could have ever been anything like how it’s described here…
• The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera. This was really, really well done–I imagine I’ll come back to this one, along with Dorian Gray. This is one of those books that puts forth so many interesting and potentially profound ideas that I couldn’t process them all now (and some I haven’t the experience to pass judgement currently). I’d highly recommend giving this a read. I’m a big fan of this genre that is effectively fiction that very intentionally considers love and relationships, stemming from my reading of Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, and want more. Not sure where to look though.
• On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong. I’m stunned by how much pain and beauty one can write into so few words. This makes me want to stumble headfirst into life, into beauty–and perhaps I’m already doing that. I want to reread this again at some point and revist all of the images and metaphors. This, in itself, beauty.
• The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde. First of all, I love the preface. I think this piece is genuinely one of the more profound things I’ve read–not for the plot, which was rather predictable, but for how it presents all kinds of novel thoughts along with every step that stimulate and allow one to reconsider notions. I appreciated how on the macro-scale too, over the course of the book we go from theorizing to potentiating and fulfilling, and it certainly points out the sin of empty thought for conceit’s sake in the character of Lord Henry. There’s much more to digest here, and I shall have to read it multiple times I think, and will be glad to do so. Good thing I bought a physical copy.
• The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut. I really do need to do a complete Vonnegut tour at some point. Sophie lent her copy to me, and I very much enjoyed it–quite existential, and running sort of to the conclusion that weak we are and weak we shall remain for our own good, and that where purpose is devoid everything becomes the purpose. It’s lovely and scary and piercing. A good read to shake you, should you need it, from whatever preconceived notions you might be wrestling wholeheartedly with.
• David Copperfield, Charles Dickens. I quite like Dickens’ style of writing, and am taken by how well he constructs all of his characters. I even liked the plot on this one–if it lacks originality, it is because I’ve seen it echoed in more recent works and in my own life. There’s a certain comfort to it, in how so much goes wrong but still all is well. I am also reminded that any decent autobiography is likely some sort of love story. Totally recommend, though there are some slow parts in the middle–the end makes it all well worth it (even though, no, largely because it reads like a romcom or something of the sort–and you knew subconsciously it was to happen from the beginning).
• After the Quake, Haruki Murakami. I wasn’t initially impressed by the first few stories individually, but I do think this collection comes together well as it progresses. I particularly liked the last three stories, and thought “Honey Pie” was nice. Would recommend as example of short story collection that is relatively cohesive without being too much like a novel.
• The Graduate, Charles Webb. For Fleming book club. A quick, easy read. I really did not like this book. It was written devoid of style, but the plot was also mediocre and just upset me. It had potential to be relatable and profound and I was really rooting for it, but fell very short. Perhaps that’s the point?
• Watership Down, Richard Adams. I devoured this one by storm in a few days, and have to say this is one of the most enjoyable adventure books I’ve read in some time, all the more so because it’s about rabbits. A must read in my opinion (came across it in a used book section earlier this week and picked it up because of its mention in eleanor & park).
• Borne, Jeff VanderMeer. I was underwhelmed by the plot here, and frankly, didn’t enjoy the writing style much either. Not the most satisfying read, and a little easy to see where things were going.
• 1Q84, Haruki Murakami. This one was very engaging, and quite enjoyed the characters even if I’m never terribly taken up by the fantastical lines of Murakami’s plots (and this one was a little out there). I especially enjoyed the placement of a writer and a novel at the center of the story though, and the discussion of the writing industry (perhaps because it’s novel to me, perhaps because it makes it seem more accessible and not so far off…). There were even some bits so strong they inspired unusual dreams in me, which was a nice surprise. Overall, would recommend if for nothing else its sense of peculiarity.
• Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller. A quick but interesting read that I think is good context to have (mainly regarding how not to let oneself think about life).
• House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski. Honestly, I haven’t the words. I try and still fail to wrap my head around the beauty and magnitude of what has been woven here, and I love it. This is a beautiful literary feat, really, and a must read if you like words or literature at all. Chandrew loaned this one out to me and said I’d really like it, so he is right about some things.
• eleanor & park, Rainbow Rowell. This book was really sweet, like it’s hard for me to believe this is remotely realistic kind of lovely. Makes you some kind of hopeful and sad.
• A Man Called Ove, Fredrik Backman. I think this would’ve been good for me to read a couple months ago, though now it was less moving. Very wholesome and feel-good, though I’m not sure I’d say it’s a must-read.
• First Person Singular, Haruki Murakami. I really liked this one. A lot of very good concepts, like musical wallpaper, and appreciated all of the music-centric pieces. I particularly enjoyed The Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection, and the title story was a very well done conclusion to the set of stories (and gave me indelible chills throughout). Here, I definitely do feel that the stories together are greater than their sum.
• Men Without Women, Haruki Murakami. A short story collection recommended by Chandrew. Really hits you in your feels. I related to An Independent Organ a lot more than I’d like to admit. In general, good heartbreak/simping stories.
• A Good Man is Hard to Find + other stories, Flannery O’Connor. There’s a ridiculous amount to unpack here, and I certainly haven’t gotten all of it. It’s been nice doing so with Fleming book club though. A certain simplicity and futility that unsettles me even though I am far removed.
• The Prophets, Robert Jones. Isn’t really the type of book I’d pick up usually, but Rachel gave it to me and there’s a nice note on page 89. Honestly, it was great. Made me feel for the characters, the people. Made me lose myself in the narrative because it felt that real. Very well written.
• Love Story, Erich Segal. I love this. The straightforwardness, the openness, the raw reality of it. The flesh and bones. Matthew gave this to me on a flashdrive years back for my birthday, and I ran through it again because I wanted to feel. How can something manage to be so idyllic and still so sad? A strong recommend.
• the Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff. Picked this up at a little free library on a walk in a dark place. They really are beautiful ideas, and I’d like break down all the pretentions and bisy backson-ness that I’ve been built up with. I don’t quite know how it all fits into the position I’ve gotten myself into by now, but I suppose I shall make it. Would recommend.
• God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Kurt Vonnegut. Bought this at a book store–my first. A lot of interesting commentary on what it means to be human and what it means to love and be loved and how money and privilege and these societal values we take as inherently ours play into that and get in the way. And the general insanity and absurdism of it all is endlessly comforting, in some not quite sane way.
• Anxious People, Fredrik Backman. You know, I really wasn’t expecting to like this one very much. Too many words to say so little, too cliche, and so on. I wanted Fleming book club to read The Brothers Karamazov, but you’ve got to be awfully persuasive to push a classic these days. Anyhow, I liked the overall thought behind it and can appreciate the execution for what it is (I often narrate in such a style myself) and there were a number of good lines throughout. I think it got across a number of the points I picked up from Dostoyevsky too, though I see those points in many books now that my eyes have been opened. Perhaps a comforting read, if you’re ever in need.
• The Great Alone, Kristin Hannah. Picked this up at a little free library outside of a book store I stumbled upon in Pasadena on a walk and finished it in a weekend. Not sure about the plot, but made me feel many things and had a lot of interesting points about love and family and community.
• Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami. For Fleming book club; glad we chose this book! It was nice to be thoroughly carried away and invested into somebody else’s struggles, if only for a moment.
• The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. This book was good for the heart. Need I say more?
• Where the Crawdads Sing, Delia Owens. I enjoyed this book, but thought that a lot of it was drawn out and a tad predictable. It felt like the author was trying to make me feel, which of course, makes me less inclined. It’s good to expand to newer books though so thanks to Fleming Book Club again for introducing me.
• Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut. A nice read and a nice attitude with lots of entertaining bits. It’s interesting how one can write a good war story. I appreciate the absurdity that Vonnegut perpetuates–it makes me feel much more normal and at ease.
• Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste Ng. Usually not my cup of tea, but well constructed in a way that was almost too predictable but good nonetheless. Honestly scares me a bit at the thought of my own affinity for planning and control and what that means for my future kids (?). Another recommendation from book club.
• A Thousand Splendid Suns, Khaled Hosseini. It’s difficult to fathom that this is, or even was, the reality of any living being. It makes me feel incredibly guilty and incredibly grateful. If everyone read more often, we’d all be more empathetic. A nice book to kick off the Fleming Book Club with.
• The Razor’s Edge, William Maugham. Recommended by Matt. This one was interesting and unsatisfying in a way, but also comforting in the understanding that life is quite unsatisfactory, and that embracing that makes it satisfactory enough.
• The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway. An ode to taking it as it comes, and being dreadfully obstinate.
• The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway. It strikes me as both rather absurd and beautiful that people could (and can) simply go around in such a fashion and just live and take what life has to offer without putting up much in return. I should like to do so too. Anyhow, the carefree and matter-of-fact attitude is refreshing.
• The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. This one wasn’t the most satisfying read, though the characters were enjoyable.
• The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Many really interesting questions of morality, suffering, self awareness, religion here and packaged into some very compelling characters (especially Alyosha!). Certainly made me think about what it is I’m doing with my life and my attitude toward others. One of my top recommendations.
• The Martian, Andy Weir. I mean, Mars is cool, and so are Martian potatoes. But overall, meh. I am entertained that Caltech assigned this as our summer reading as some of us will likely be involved in future Mars missions, and probably still won’t send a botanist.
• The Hyperion Cantos, Dan Simmons. I haven’t been a huge fan of sci-fi for several years, but I thoroughly enjoyed this series. Great narrative, and a lot of arguably relevant parallels with AI and science as well as religion and politics. Perhaps the ending is a litttle cheesy.
• Great Expectations, Charles Dickens. The plot doesn’t strike me as terribly original, but I quite liked the character development and idiosyncrasies as well as the writing style.
• A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway. Because life isn’t sad enough already. I ought to read more Hemingway. I could fall for the way the words are strung together alone.