Started a reading challenge project mid-spring. The goal: read 100 books by summer in a year. I’m inching along, albeit at a slower pace than I’d like. Figured posting the list on my blog would hold me accountable–also, I get to share cool books!
So here’s a list of books I’ve reading; I plan to update every 10 books or so. If you have any book recommendations, I’d love to hear them! 🙂
One! Hundred! Demons!, Lynda Barry
James and the Giant Peach, Roald Dahl
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, Sherman Alexie
Here, Richard McGuire
Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks
Burned, Ellen Hopkins
Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, Mindy Kaling
Walking Dead 1, Robert Kirkman
Walking Dead 2, Robert Kirkman
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelous
Milk and Honey, Rupi Kaur
Partner Track, Helen Wan
Girl, Interrupted, Susanna Kaysen
Kafka, R. Crumb
Project Jennifer, Jill Rosenblatt
Dignity, Donna Hicks
Can We Talk About Something More Pleasant, Roz Chast
Ginny Moon, Benjamin Ludwig
Autobiography of Barefoot Gen, Nakazawa Keji
Meow Meow, Jose Fonollosa
Beautiful Darkness, Fabien Vehlmann
Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
The Skin Above My Knees, Marcia Butler
Essential Poems (To Fall in Love With), Daisy Goodwin
Sailing Alone Around the Room, Billy Collins
Future Tense, Paintings by Alex Gross
Why Not Me?, Mindy Kaling
Thirst, Poems by Mary Oliver
Global Street Art, Lee Boffkin
Men Without Women, Haruki Murakami
Vintage Cisneros, Sandra Cisneros
Have You Seen Marie, Sandra Cisneros
Woman Hollering Creek, Sandra Cisneros
The Quiet Eye: A Way of Looking at Pictures, Sylvia Judson
A few days ago I finished Autobiography of Barefoot Gen, a book about Hiroshima written by survivor Nakazawa Keiji. His survival, as a child, was miraculous–he had stood behind a cement wall, which somehow protected him, which then fell against a tree, which then prevented the wall from crushing him. Despite everything he went through, from poverty to shame to stigma, he went on to depict the horrors of the atomic bomb in manga-form.
Sometimes I marvel at humanity’s incredible capacity for cruelty. It isn’t to say that all of humanity’s terrible–that isn’t true, there is a lot of kindness and goodness–but at the same time, just, well, wow. Trips down history lane tend to reinforce this belief. Ironic, since history’s written by its victors and you’d think they’d want to portray themselves in the best light possible. But between these moments of kindness, of peace and progress and beauty, are undeniable pockets of cruelty you couldn’t even begin to imagine. From mass genocide to strangely cruel punishments to war to sheer greed, it’s alarming what people are capable of. And this cruelty–it’s from the ground up, too, it’s not just victors from high-up who wield power that are evil, but neighbors, too–family, friends, people you thought you could trust.
I think of Art Spiegelman, author of MAUS, who depicted his father’s survival of the Holocaust in comics form. As a child, Art had fallen down and his friends had left him behind. Upon telling his father, his father says that until he’s spent five days locked up in a room with others with no food, driven to the brink of desperation, he does not know the meaning of “friends”. When I read this, one of the first pages of the book, I was confused. Then it quickly dawned on me–ah, yes, the Lord of the Rings-esque brutality that brews beneath the surface of humanity: that’s what he’s referring to.
If I were in some sort of literature class on comics–and I was, but I no longer am–I’d start drawing parallels between Spiegelman’s MAUS and Nakazawa Autobiography of Barefoot Gen. I will anyways. Both depict the horrors during World War II, with one taking place in Germany, the other taking place in Japan. Both stories are told with a combination of text and visual form–in this case, comics. But whereas MAUS is Art’s depiction of his father’s stories, Nakazawa’s stories are his–he had gone through the horrors first-hand. Even so, both descend into depression after writing their stories.
There aren’t many ways you can effectively communicate these experiences without alienating the audience. With most people, they cannot stomach reliving–if only as a third party–the reality of these atrocities. Even with the removal provided by time, space, distance, mental-acrobats, glass museum displays, it can be difficult to (literally) face history. But that’s what makes their use of comics genius. It’s easy, as a viewer, to look at comics, to listen to a story ballooned through speech-bubbles. Comics offer a cartoonish version of reality, where things are distilled into visual and mental palatability. Possible downsides: it doesn’t accurately convey the horror, waters down the experience. But I’d say that Spiegelman and Keiji succeed in toeing the balance between depicting their experiences while keeping the stories, well, “audience-friendly.” Relatively, at least–they’re still horrific.
From a personal bookish perspective, both are really good reads. Not sure if the Autobiography of Barefoot Gen is online, but MAUS Iand MAUS II are (I’ve linked to the pdf for MAUS). If you ever get a chance to read any of them, I’d recommend it, especially if you’re interested in history, WWII, comics or memoirs. Or if you’d like to get a glimpse of the realities of those who lived through these atrocities, hear the stories of these survivors.
Good books are the ones that stay with you; they’re the ones that form memories of experiences you’ve never had. Ender’s Game is one of them. Year after year I return to this book. Then it’s like I’m in space all over again as a six year old boy with a Dragon Army squad that’s training to beat the Buggers.
…So coughing insomniac me’s reading Ender’s Game for maybe the seventh time at 3 in the morning because, y’know, I can.
Except instead of reading it in the book format, as I usually do, I’m reading it online as a graphic novel. (Comics are such an incredible art form–underlooked and underrated.) I’m really impressed by the artist’s ability to visually translate this text. Usually people envision texts differently–book-based movies never look quite the way we imagine it, etc. But Ferry, the artist, just did a really great job of depicting the scenes and characters that I’d at least argue did the story justice. Ender seems Ender-esque: clever, worn and perceptive; the Buggers look strange (but then I remember to empathize); the scenes are vivid and bring to life Orson Scott Card’s descriptions. So props to it, Ferry.
If you’d like to read the Ender’s Game comic online, ’tis here. Ender’s Game, in case you’ve never heard of it, is a military-style sci-fi book that pits mankind against space buggers. Even if you’re not into, say, aliens or sci-fi, I’d still totally recommend this book.
Note to self: read, read, and then read some more. Here are some titles that’ve been tacked on the side of my computer screen for some time with the title, author and cursory description. I’m obnoxiously picky, so they’ve all got ratings of >4 on book-review-thingamajigs. Also, they sounded really interesting:
The New Journalism, Tom Wolfe
1973 anthology of journalism
Palestine & Footnotes in Gaza, Joe Sacco
Journalistic graphic novel about Israel-Palestinian conflict
Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Joan Didion
Didion’s 1968 collection of essays
Stone Butch Blues, Leslie Feinberg
Novel on transgenderism
The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa
A ‘“factless autobiography”, fragmentary life project
Either/Or a Fragment of Life
On human development, aesthetic-ethical, consciousness, philosophy
Quantum and Lotus, Matthieu Ricard
Buddhism meets contemporary science, written in form of dialogue
Ficciones, Jorge Luis Borges
Collection of short stories
The White Album, Joan Didion
Didion’s 1979 book of essays
Kool Aids: The Art of War, Rabih Alameddine
Situated in 80’s, on AIDS epidemic in San Fran, Lebanese civil war
Reading: a method of self-annihilation, also a method of escapism. From what?… probably the world. Normalcy equates to bouts of tragedy punctuated by moments of silence and then yet another tragedy right on the heels of the last until they’re stacked one on top of another and you’re like, well, shit.
Lately I’ve been reading a lot, aka participating “engrossed self-annihilation”, mild escapism, and basic nerdy pleasure. I’ve been burying my nose into books, lots of books–story books, nonfiction books, books-books. (It’s the library card fever.)
I’ve been trying to finish Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, but it has the effect of making real life seem as slow as he portrays. Figured I’d just forgotten how to read. But then I devoured Burrough’s latest memoir Lust and Wonder and blundered on through three more in a week, so I figure that maybe I just wasn’t vibin’ Steinbeck.
Also, it’s official: I’ve fallen in love with Haruki Murakami. I quoted him before I read him and now I get it. Him. Sort of. At least, I can hear his voice, I can paint his scenes and it’s all coming together. It’s like a partially weaved quilt of gradual understanding. My mind picks up on recurring themes in Murakami’s stories: the struggling novelist, the empty one night stands, the natural disasters. Occasionally it’s doused in absurdism. Overall, though, it’s fantastic. Dreamlike. The perfect thing to lose your sense of self with, oh-ho-ho.
Lately writing feels addictive and forced and weighty. Maybe it’s just because most things in my head feel heavy and convoluted so I don’t how exactly how to communicate them. Right now they’re like fragments of not-yet-developed muse in some globbish nascent.
And then there’s that voice lamenting the lack of LIFE LIVED. It’s counting the number of days left, keen drop-outs, creative wanderers. Too little, I’m too damn little, it says. And there’s so many places to be other than my circuitous head but I can’t get out. So I read.
The more of an author’s work I read, the more I grow to understand and see them. The writer, I mean. It’s like slipping on perspective goggles to momentarily view the world from their perspective. As the focus sharpens, you zero in on the writers’ lives dotted with feelings, thoughts, experiences; it forms into a mental collage, glued together by the alphabet, dried by sentiment.
It’s pretty fucking beautiful.
So when I think of Eugenides, I see Detroit, mountains, suburbia and Greece. Harukami, and it’s Japan, missing cats, disappearances and lust. Steinbeck and it’s slow heat, open fields, Salinas Valley. Burroughs and it’s exploitation, oddball psychiatrists, suburban neighborhoods, and mothers who eat wax sandwiches. Worlds, you know. Voices and conversations.
Just to keep track–here’s a list of books I’ve barreled on through the past two weeks (nose buried a million worlds deep):
Lust and Wonder, Jeffrey Eugenides
Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami
After The Quake, Haruki Murakami
The Strange Library, Haruki Murakami
Shakespeare’s Counselor, Charlaine Harris
Poems From Homeroom, Kathi Appelt
The Stranger, Albert Camus
Now at 1AM, I curl up, book in hand. Am currently reading:
The Wind Up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Marukami (recent obsession)
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When The Rainbow is Enuf
…as memories of other books are tickle-flirt-whisper for me to read and reread:
I feel so happy. And I can’t tell if it’s because my bag is stuffed with books (mostly Murakami, thanks Dayana for the rec!) and Burrough’s new memoir is on my lap or because the cafe always plays great music or because caffeine is pumping through my veins.
On a random side note, I just befriended a two year old and her grandma at the library about an hour ago. We spoke only in Chinese though I can be reluctant to do so and introduced me to all the sibs and friends. I ended up reading to the lil’ bebe and wandering around the library with her, one tiny hand clasped around my (comparably) large four. I watched as she patted the books and peered around. God, I love kids.
I’m also mad excited about having a library card again. I feel wild with power, the way the Arthur crew probably felt as they rapped “having fun–isn’t hard–when you’ve got a library card!” I thought I’d limit myself to four yesterday but, drunken with card power, returned shortly after to check out some more. Can’t stop me. Can’t stop myself.
And, well, now here I am. Giddy and wild and recklessly quiet in a cozy comfy corner of the library. Will be off to the best friend’s place in a bit!