I mentioned this a few weeks ago, but, after completing my M.A. in literature, I was sort of burned out on books. I couldn’t read without hearing this annoying critical voice commenting on the technique or straining to draw a comparison between what I was reading and some other text I’d read. In short, reading felt like an academic exercise — not a source of enjoyment.
Something changed over the Christmas holidays and I’ve reverted to my old bookworm ways since. I’m currently on my 21st book so far this year. I’ve read a lot of duds, but there have been some spectacular, life-changing discoveries as well. My top five so far this year are outlined below:
Joan Didion’sThe Year of Magical Thinkingis life-changing — possibly one of the most important pieces I’ve ever read. In this memoir, Didion strives to make sense of and come to terms with the passing of her husband. There’s an almost incantantory power in the recollection and reverberation of some of the memories, phrases, moments that surface throughout the book as she clings to her husband’s memory while coping with the grief of the present. Absolute perfection. Didion is just a literary heavyweight. There is a word in the French language with no direct counterpart in American — recherche — which means, roughly, well-researched, deeply informed, well-wrought. This work is recherche to the nth degree in its allusiveness, depth, thoughtfulness.
P.S. I also read Carole Radziwell’s What Remains: A Memoir of Fate, Friendship, and Love, which addresses a similar sad situation: the death of a husband and a best friend in the same summer. (You may know Radziwell from her role on The Real Housewives of New York, and because Jackie O. was a Radziwell before she married into the Kennedy dynasty. I was initially hesitant about the quality of the writing from this lens, but Radziwell does not disappoint. She thoughtfully, artfully narrates her experience, her heartbreak. Very moving.)
Andre Agassi’s fascinating Open: An Autobiography had me riveted. Agassi is intensely and richly insightful — philosophical, really — about the art and sport of tennis, which has clear implications for the kind of man and thinker he is. He holds, for example, that tennis is the loneliest activity on the planet, and much of the book is saturated in a feeling of bitter isolation and self-involvement. He is as intensely self-aware as he is observant of the people around him and how they react to him. It’s hard to tell whether this is a skill that made him good at tennis, or vice versa (that tennis cultivated this skill), but you get a clear view into the intense amount of strategy and psychology that goes into playing the game well as he recounts dozens of matches in incredible detail, mainly reflecting on the body language and expression of his opponents and how he read and calculated each minute facial tic, gesture, sigh in order to adjust his game. I’ll also admit to a voyeuristic pleasure in reading his memoir, given his celebrity — did you know, for example, that he did crystal meth? And that he was bald in his teens, wearing a hair-piece? And that he has a very different perspective on his marriage to Brooke Shields than she did (I also read Brooke’s There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me — which was absolutely awfully written; in bad need of a better editor)?
Mr. Magpie also loved this book.
I’d read a few of Austen’s other works, but never her Persuasion, and MAN was I missing out. I absolutely died over this book. Though I’ll admit that it can take a second to calibrate to the early 19th century diction, once you make the leap, this book is alternately hilarious, moving, and keenly insightful. I guarantee that you’ve met people that fit all of the profiles of the characters in this work of genius, from a whining, maudlin sister suffering from Goldilocks syndrome (it’s too hot — it’s too cold — it’s never just right) to a snobby father only interested in his appearance to a humble friend who’s fallen on bad times but is still able to look at the glass as half full. The book is all about doubles, second chances, swappings — there’s a lot of twos in this book, and a lot to think about. There is something so modern about the way she tells this story, too. LOVE.
Haruki Murakami is better known for his fiction, but I picked up his memoir on the hobby of running, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (Vintage International), and have not stopped thinking about it since. It’s a curious little work. In some ways, the book mirrors the experience of running — generally quiet, evenly paced, somewhat mundane, and occasionally tedious — and then, all of the sudden: a breakthrough, a gem. There are some great observations on life, on how we experience and understand pain, patience, goal-setting, achievement, routine. I highly recommend it to fellow runners; not sure if it would resonate at all with those who’ve never been in the habit of running, as there are some exceptionally boring sections detailing the conditions, preparations, and experiences of specific runs. The writing is precise, cutting. I’m inspired to read his other works.
For total pleasure: I SO enjoyed Mindy Kaling’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns). I read it on a plane and found myself laughing out loud like a crazy person. Please read it if you’re in need of a good laugh.
These are possibly a little more niche, but a few others I enjoyed:
For page-turning, gossip-y book club fodder, I’ll admit that I read Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train in about a day.
There were also a bunch of medium books (score of 3 on a scale of 1-5) that are probably not worth mentioning here. And then there were some terrible books that I would not wish on anyone, including Stephanie La Cava’s An Extraordinary Theory of Objects and Diane Von Furstenberg’s The Woman I Wanted to Be.
