More so than the films I watch or the music I listen to, the books I read are the catalysts for my thoughts on the world around me. When I am doing my deepest thinking – and my deepest feeling – about the people I interact with, about the things I as a person do and think, about the basic, reoccurring problems of humanity, I come at these with the thoughts and emotions aroused by and found within the books I read. Never has this been more apparent to me than this year: the year in which I completed a trying student teaching experience, graduated from college, separated from most of my friends as I moved back home, endured a long summer of attacking a small number of job prospects (and coming up with an even smaller number of offers), and – finally – began work as a full-time teacher.
From the beginning of the year to now, I have gone from having no time for reading to having what feels like quite a good deal of time for reading. Indeed, although I am no longer reading at the rate of a book or two a week, as I was at Berry, I feel like I am now reading more than ever. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m no longer consumed with the stresses of classes or that I’m able to read whatever I want to – not, notably, what a professor has assigned (as good as those assignments admittedly were). Perhaps. I’m sure that has something to do with it. However, I think the reason I’m feeling far better about the quantity and the quality of my reading is that I no longer have to do it.
Reading has become, for the first time in a long time, something almost wholly optional. Sure, I may reread the occasional book or story for my classes (i.e. the classes I’m teaching), but – for the most part – reading a book has become entirely my choice. As such, I have branched out in my reading this year: becoming a frequent reader and follower of small presses, booksellers, and literary critics and following my burgeoning interests in translated literature and lesser-known contemporary writers. Doing so has made me feel part of a larger, always-ongoing literary conversation I could never have in Ringgold or Chattanooga, as well as led me to a number of great writers, new and old. All of this has led me to feel increasingly more grateful for what literature can do and, all in all, to feel way more actual pleasure in reading than I have before. When it comes to books and reading, it has been a good year.
So, yes, “what literature can do”: that is one of the primary themes of the one book that took up most of my reading time January to April: The Goldfinch. While it – or, more specifically, others’ reactions to it – certainly caused a number of think-pieces and debate in literary circles, The Goldfinch was for me a simple reminder of what a good story can do. Was The Goldfinch bloated and its thematic/aesthetic conclusions not worth the time investment? Probably, yeah. But I can’t say I minded. Instead The Goldfinch, in all its drawn-out glory, became a familiar companion over the months it took to complete. Whenever I was overcome with the stresses of student teaching, I looked forward to getting back to it and relished being able to sink into its world, to interact with its characters, whenever possible, even if I did have certain critical qualms about that world and those characters. Like the few albums I was listening to obsessively at the time*, The Goldfinch was, simply, a relief. I am still thankful for that, and I remember it fondly.
Being left with an abundance of free time in late April, I threw myself into reading all that I had eyed with interest in those first months of the year (helped oh so much by the inter-library loan program at Berry). I read, among others, the wrenchingly beautiful Prayer Journal of Flannery O’Connor; Teju Cole’s Every Day is for the Thief**; Leslie Jamison’s striking, moving, and memorable essay collection, The Empathy Exams; and Bennett Sims’ DFW-esque take on the zombie genre, A Questionable Shape. All afforded their own pleasures, but I must confess that Jamison’s collection is the one book that has stayed with me the most these past seven months, becoming one of the few books this year that I’ve pushed on friends and recommended passionately to anyone who will listen.
In the summer, I read giants like Cervantes and Beckett for the first time, enjoying Don Quxote and Waiting for Godot. I explored short stories: Lorrie Moore’s Self-Help and Lydia Davis’s Break It Down, filled with perfectly formed sentences that packed more emotion than some writers arouse in a whole novel; Tolstoy’s Selected Short Stories (trans. Pevear and Volokhonsky), all of which are as incredible as you have heard; and Kyle Minor’s shockingly great Praying Drunk. Seriously. You need to read Praying Drunk. Six months later, I still think about this collection and certain stories, such as “In A Distant Country,” which has perhaps become one of my all-time favorite short stories. If you’re like me, you’ll rush through Praying Drunk so quickly – because it’s so good – that you’ll simply have to go back and read it again a few months later and then again sometime after that.
I ended my summer by discovering a book that, no “perhaps” about it, became an automatic all-time favorite: Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. In the span of this slim novel, Robinson captures a stunning amount of life. Told in the form of letters written by an aging preacher to his young son, Gilead is one of the most emotionally affecting books I’ve read, with Robinson offering a portrait of life and Christianity that feels Real and True. Robinson’s sentences embody grace – religious and otherwise – in a way no other writer I’ve read has. Gilead is light but deep, simple but complex: paradoxical, yes, but true to life.
I’ve gone through the latter part of the year with a flurry of great books, each one of which I could write an entire post about. There was Emily St. John Mandel’s terrific Station Eleven (reviewed here), which has become my other go-to recommendation along with The Empathy Exams. There was Herman Melville’s Pierre, a book that lived up to its reputation as batshit-insane (and which is better than its reputation as a curiosity suggests). There was Nell Zink’s The Wallcreeper, also one of the more unusual books I’ve ever read but that has guaranteed I’ll follow whatever Zink writes from here on out. Truly, Zink is the wittiest and most unique voice I’ve encountered among the many new writers I’ve read this past year. Finally, there was David Markson’s Wittgenstein’s Mistress, Homer’s The Iliad, and Mathias Enard’s Zone. Reading these three in succession made for a small project of sorts, as both Zone and Mistress related back to The Iliad in several subtle and obvious ways. Reading these three throughout the later months of 2014, in conjunction with so many terrible events around the world and in the U.S., forced me to reflect on the several problems these issues raised: how we deal with loss, our propensity and desire for violence, our propensity and desire for violence’s debilitating effects on culture and our personal psyches, the rareness and value of human kindness.
I’ll end my year by finishing a reread of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, which I started, along with Katie, back in May. I first read IJ in 2011 during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college. It was life-changing, introducing me to a voice that would influence my own writing for years to come; that would shape my thoughts on literature and its purpose; that would, in so many small ways, make me into a better, more empathetic person. Coming back to it after three years of college in which I had grown as both a reader and a person felt right. I suppose – although it is hard to definitively state this, given the number of books I’ve read this year – that it has been the most rewarding reading experience I’ve had in 2014. There were, of course, the numerous little details can only be noted and understood once you’ve passed through the book once already. I was also able to pick up on the nuances of structure – of smaller sections and of the book as a whole. Most of all, though, I was able to connect even more with how effectively DFW can address the complexities and paradoxes of life: the pain of experience, the truth of banal, sentimental aphorisms, the grace that can be found in simple human kindness. My favorite section of the book details what one learns from spending time “around a Substance-recovery halfway facility like Enfield MA’s state-funded Ennet House.” Wallace notes, among many other things, “that sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt … that there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness … that there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels … that God—unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both—speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God.” These ideas, to me, are the main themes of Infinite Jest. While much has been made, and rightly so, of Infinite Jest’s place at the end of the post-modern canon (or, also, at the start of the post-post-modern canon) and of Wallace’s investigation of irony, Infinite Jest is above all, for me, a moralistic book, one that has as much in common with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky as it does with Pynchon and DeLillo. Wallace is struggling with questions of how a person should be, of how to interact with other persons in a world that shies away from naked sincerity and that is inundated with technology, of what it means to live a good life, of what it means to be a good person. By the end of the novel, one comes away from with a clear idea of what DFW’s answers are to those questions, answers that have resonated and will continue to resonate deeply with me. What makes them ring capital-T True, though, is the way in which he gets there, prompted by a question posed at the very beginning: “So yo then man what’s your story?”
*Future Islands’ Singles, Weatherbox’s Flying in All Directions, The War on Drugs’ Lost in the Dream, The Hold Steady’s Teeth Dreams.
**Which ended up reading, Every Day is for the Thief did, like a dry run at the excellence found in his follow-up, Open City.
*** I’ll take this space to note that I don’t entirely agree with my review of Station Eleven from August. While I expressed disappointment at the time that the book did not live up to the incredible images that it sets up, I no longer feel that way. If anything, Mandel’s deft melding of genre fiction and literary aims has only increased in stature in my mind since finishing it. Station Eleven became the sort of book that, on later reflection, seemed easier to produce than it actually was. In other words, Mandel wrote a book so well that I underrated just how well she wrote it. Its complexities and craft have become increasingly evident as I think back on its characters, story, and structure (oh, how I love the structure of Station Eleven).