A Year (of Reading) in Review: 2020

I haven't had the time (or, more appropriately, I haven’t made the time) for one of these yearly reviews in quite a while.  Even this year, while I prioritized it and nearly forced myself to complete it, it’s taken until early February for me to actually get around to beginning it.  So why is this post, this reflection, significant?  Why does it matter to me?  I have a few answers ready, but I think the truest reason, while taking bits and pieces of these more stock responses, is something I can't quite put into words.  It has to do with how important books are to me ─ and when I say books, I mean a slew of things: physical books, the actually reading of the books, the self-reflection that books instigate within me, and the need I have after reading to enter into dialogue with someone or some group about the book, even if that only means reading a few Goodreads Reviews and perhaps typing up a short one of my own.  Apart from the things most objectively sacred to all of us ─ God, my relationship to God ─ and apart from my vocation as husband and father, books are the most important and even sacred aspects of my identity.  My point here isn’t to defend this as much as it is to simply put it into words.  My identity is inextricably wrapped up in the world of books, authors, the ideas books concern themselves with, and my ever-growing need to converse about books with other human persons.

In a more practical sense, my reflection here allows me to return to the most meaningful books I’ve read over the past year.  I will also use this post to explore two ideas about reading that have been bouncing around my head during the year 2020.

Part 1: The Top 3 Reads of 2020

I don’t usually rank my top books, but there’s only one that is an unambiguous pick for me this year.  I read it twice this year, even though my rereadings are usually separated by a few years or even decades.  I speak here of J.L. Carr’s A Month in the Country.  Like with most of my favorite books, the prose is spectacular.  (For me, clever plots or even well-drawn characters can only get you so far if the medium through which these are things are received ─ i.e. the narrator, and more specifically, the narrator’s language on a sentence level ─ are mediocre).  Carr’s prose takes a little to get into as he’s crafted a first-person narrator from the 1920s, but it's the kind of language that has the ability to evoke setting and emotion so powerfully without any cloying sentimentality.  I find it also has a number of other qualities that most draw me into a book: a powerful sense of place, with a focus on imagery and description of local setting; a book with a seeming lack of plot, made cohesive by genuine plot points that don’t drive the story as much as provide a bare bones structure through which the real book can meander contemplatively.  The book itself is about a Great War vetenrarn, suffering from post-war trauma both mental and physical, who takes a job restoring a medieval painting in an idyllic British countryside.  It is not only the best book I read in 2020, but it may be in my top 10 of all time.  In case it matters to some, it is quite short.

The other two books that finish out the top three are Journal of a Disappointed Man by W.N.P. Barbellion and Beowulf, read in a (newish) translation by Seamus Heaney.  I found the former difficult at times to get through, interspersed with moments of unbelievably apt reflection and deep human sympathy.  In particular, Barbellion (the author of this autobiography) felt so similar in mentality and personality to me as to make certain moments quite uncomfortable (especially  when his weaknesses and pride were concerned).  As far as Beowulf, I hadn’t read it since early college, and while it took me a bit to find the rhythm in Heaney’s translation, he set the stage wonderfully with his introduction to the book.  (The book is worth it for the introduction alone.)  And once I got rolling, I found Heaney’s expressions marvelously adept at expressing the ideas and expressions of the medieval classic.

Part 2: Reading is Always Reading In Context of Other Things

If you’re a reflective reader at all, I bet you’ve been conscious of the following experience: reading a book and being unimpressed with it but not being quite sure if your reaction was mainly the result of having just finished an absolutely amazing book.  I was dismissive of the ten books I read after finishing Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, even though I knew it was in part due to the fact that none of them were written by Robinson.

But this year I spent some time reflecting on the other ways in which our reading of individual books is shaped by things other than the book itself.  Consider where you read the book.  I generally save a book or two I know I’m going to enjoy for vacation.  Some of my fondest reading memories are geographically set in beautiful Lake George.  But further consider where you read the book: in a favorite reading chair, in bed at night, etc.  I know that the power of a book can conquer all settings (I fondly remember reading James Wood’s How Fiction Works on line at the DMV), but other memories of books I have are wrapped up in specific places.  Orwell’s 1984 is forever read and completed in a drafty attic of the house I lived in during college.  As a child, when I was about to finish a book that was particularly powerful, I would save it for when I went to bed; and despite the fact that I wasn’t technically allowed to read in bed, I finished many of my favorite childhood books under the covers with a flashlight, spending 5 minutes under the covers followed by 30 seconds of gulping down cool fresh air above the covers, and then diving back under again.  

But there are so many contexts in which we read books.  Is your life busy or peaceful?  Did you just have a child or are you childless?  Did you read the book in a few sittings or over a few months?  Whether a book affects you powerfully isn’t always so easy to determine by how you answer these questions, but they play a significant role nonetheless.  

I think this is especially true of our memories of books, which is shaped so vividly by the physical reading of books ─ which itself is shaped by so many other physical and psychological contexts.  I’d like to expand on this idea at some point.

Part 3:  What You’re Looking for in a Book          

Although I’m always reading a book, I get into reading ruts when I find it hard to get into or believe in or be moved by any of the books I pick up.  Now, based on what I just explored in Part 2, I know that this is often a reflection of my life at that time and not the books themselves.  Regardless, this is a painful reality for me at times.  When I’m at this point in my reading life, I’m looking for a book that can rock my world, in some shape or form.  

When I was listening to a recent episode of the podcast Backlisted (which, in my opinion, is not only the best podcast about books and reading but also one of the best podcasts of all time), one of the guests expressed what I feel so perfectly.  This is one of the reasons I love words and dialogue: they can express what I already experience in words I didn’t have, and the consciousness I gain from the words helps me reflect more deeply on my own experience.  I hope that makes some sense.  Either way, the guest speaker was speaking about being in a “reading rut,” and that when she’s in moments like this, she’s looking for a book that (and I’m paraphrasing here) “will inspire, change, or devastate” her.  I thought: that is so perfect.  It captures the way books in general can affect you.  It captures as well why reading is so important to me, because it can literally do all those things to me, sometimes all in the same book.  And it can do those things in a way that often regular life cannot.  

Great books inspire me, sometimes not to be a better person, but simply fill me with inspiration.  I’m simply more happy to be a human at the end of the book than I was at the start.  I’ve contemplated ideas that may not be practically useful but seem deeply human in the truest sense of the world.  At times, great books do inspire change in me.  I’m struck by the shallowness of a character whose shallowness is my own; or I’m awed by the actions of another that are not my own but I wish were.  And great books also sometimes devastate me.  They fill me with grief, or I question the humanity of humanity.  This last part is sometimes met with befuddlement by nonreaders, or readers who don’t look for this in books.  Why torment yourself, they say?  I can’t say why, or at least not in a few sentences, but the truth remains: books can destroy me.  

The best books do all three: They devastate me, and in the process inspire me to be a better person.  And this is never because the author manipulated me into this change, and probably not often because they even intended to.  Instead, it is simply the byproduct of a writer contemplating life (the good, the true, the beautiful, alongside the tragedy and failures of life) through the medium of prose and narrative. 

The Sympathizer: Viet Thanh Nguyen

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This brilliant novel is like a mash-up of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, Graham Green’s The Quiet American, Dostoevsky’s Underground Man and Brothers Karamazov, and Orwell’s 1984. The writing is fantastic; the plot interesting; the characters largely believable and engaging; and the “confession” conceit well done.

So why did I have a problem with it at various points, especially the end? I’m not entirely certain, but this is one take on my gut-reaction. It seems like the “heart” of the novel was ultimately didactic; it seems like the artistic trappings of the novel—the beautiful writing, complex characters, and multifaceted storyline—are all an attempt to make a rather specific ideological and historical point regarding the Vietnam War. In this sense, I felt a little cheated. Clearly Nguyen can write, but he seems to be using his art for a very didactic purpose. In the end, this made the novel feel too “complete." As Flannery O'Connor claimed and Dean Ready always reminded me, a good piece of fiction, while open to interpretation and literary criticism, ultimately resists a complete “interpretation.” This is because novels are art, not simple mouthpieces for the ideas of authors. It’s difficult for me to say of a novel that is clearly artistic that it “failed” at being art, but I think that’s what I’m saying.

Rating out of 10: 8.8

Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammett

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Red Harvest is one of the oldest hardboiled mystery novels, so what might read as cliché or derivative was actually original in 1929.  The novel was fun, and the writing (the sparsely worded action, the ridiculously delicious and dry metaphors, and the detective/gangster idioms) was really quite enjoyable.  But I found the constant action and revelations of new and important information unrewarding, if only because I had little time to form any connection with (and sometimes even an understanding of) the vast sea of characters.  I found the nameless detective/protagonist’s slow decent into the world of crime, and his newly acquired bloodlust, to be the only interesting psychological aspect to this story.

One final point: I just listened to a podcast that cast the hardboiled detective as a dark but morally centered character, a type of character contemporary culture doesn’t have.  But I didn’t find Red Harvest’s protagonist to have any moral center. Even the classic “loyalty” that seems to direct most hardboiled detective’s actions seemed relatively absent.  But this novel may be an exception to the rule.

Rating out of 10: 7.5

An Experiment in Criticism: C.S. Lewis

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I really quite enjoyed this long essay / short book. I particularly enjoyed Lewis’s early descriptions of the reading experience; I don’t think I’ve run across a more apt description of the pleasure of reading stories. In classic Lewis-fashion, the various distinctions he draws between the types of reading both ring true and prove enlightening. Additionally, Lewis’s approach seems a refreshing alternative to contemporary literary criticism, even if he is reacting to something quite different in his own times. (More on this below) For all the value of literary criticism (and I for one think there is some value), there’s something to be said for the more basic questions we should bring to a book: How and why does this story move us the way it moves us? If it works well, how does it work well?

Despite my absolute appreciation for much of what Lewis is doing here, I do have two criticisms. First, Lewis (unknowingly, I suppose) speaks very condescendingly toward non-literary readers. While I am tempted to agree with him on certain levels, I think my propensity is rooted in a rather subjective and prideful understanding of how much literary works are related to my own identity and how I see the world. I’d be quite hesitant to say all non-literary readers are lacking in something essential. Here is Lewis in his own words: “Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom realize the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors.” Cool up to this point. “We realize it best when we talk with an unliterary friend.” Possibly condescending turn. “He may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world.” Ouch. Can he get more condescending? The answer is yes. “In it, we should be suffocated.”

Second, in attempting to free literature from the shackles of “evaluative criticism” and the bore of academia, I feel like Lewis actually removes some of the potential social value of literature, as it existed in the past and present. Lewis dismisses all readings that attempt to find in the literature a “philosophy of life.” Lewis essentially denies the artist the ability to be communicating something about his view of life or what it means to be a human person; or he at least says that a reader’s job isn’t about doing this, and discussing books in this way is in poor taste. I grant part of Lewis’s point: we shouldn’t take a story that is essentially a comic romp—even a comic romp done with wonderful artistry—and wring it out to find out what it’s “saying about life.” Not all, or perhaps even most, stories are attempts to demonstrate something about life or society. However, artists have historically engaged the world and society through their art, contemplating or exploring perspectives on important matters through their art—and some of the joy of reading these texts is the vicarious exploration of exactly these perspectives. I’m not speaking of didactic texts, which are rarely good art. I’m speaking of artistic forays into social issues, texts whose values are rooted both in their aesthetic qualities paired with their social values. Huck Finn, The Divine Comedy, and numerous other classic texts clearly engage the society they exist within. To tell the reader that they shouldn’t attempt to perceive the texts' social meaning (which isn’t the same as social “message,” i.e. a boiled down ideological statement) is to deny one of the great values of art, which is to engage the present culture in a meaningful way. There is a strong chance I misinterpreted Lewis’s section on this topic; and perhaps he was responding to a different sort of “reading” than I’m defending, a type of reading I don’t have immediate access to in 2017.

Lewis’s most important target for this “experiment in criticism” is the “evaluative critic,” the interpreter of texts who tells us which texts are good, which are great, and which should be avoided at all costs. Interestingly, this type of criticism doesn’t exist anymore—unfortunately this isn’t because we have taken Lewis’s challenges to heart. Whereas Lewis rejected evaluation is favor of understanding how to read and enjoy and engage meaningfully in texts, the contemporary literary world has rejected evaluation because of its claim to objectivity. We can’t judge a text because there are no objective standards. The cool bit (at least I think it’s cool) is that Lewis’s antidote—his “experiment”—would also help the contemporary literary world. Yes, we don’t proclaim texts objectively good or objectively bad anymore; but we’ve replaced this with a literary analysis that reduces all texts to ideological statements or material products of ideology. We don’t care about the beauty of the text or how it moves us; we care about it as a demonstration of market forces, or political ideology, or social naivetés, or social progressiveness. We could do well beginning with the fact that we human persons, or at least some of us, just really freakin’ like to read a good story. 

Kafka on the Shore: Haruki Murakami

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The majority of my experience reading this spectacular and surreal novel was exceptional. I haven’t been as thoroughly absorbed by a fictional world in a long time. Specifically, reading the first half was mesmerizing. The writing is simple, compelling, and multi-layered. The text so often naturally but unobtrusively functions on a literal and symbolic level.

Like his Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World, I was less than thrilled by the way Murakami “landed” the dual narrative. It’s not that I wanted more explained; in fact, i may have wanted less. When people, narratives, and conflicts are mysteriously intertwined and the intertwining is done so well—and it’s done unbelievably well in this novel—it’s usually a let-down when the connections are explained. Additionally, the very end, while satisfying on certain levels, didn’t feel “resolution-y” enough to me.

Regardless of my criticisms, I loved this novel. I liked it more than Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World, which I really liked. It solidified my plan to continue reading Murakami in the near future.

Reading in 2016: A Year of Books in Review

I fell quite short of my 40 book goal this year. I won't disguise my excuse: the birth of our third child, the lovely Lila Grace. Until her birth September 8, I was more or less on track; however, after September 8, I only completed one book. A little sad, I suppose. But new life is never sad.

I still read 27 books in 2016, and a number of them were fantastic and memorable. I read my first (and still my favorite) Wendell Berry novel, Jayber Crow. It was one of my favorite books of all time. Top ten, I might say---at least top 15. It was the tops of 2016, no doubt in my mind. Another Berry snuck into my Top 5 this year, A Place on Earth. Interestingly, two of the other three on my Top 5 list were by Tobias Wolff: his memoir A Boy's Life and his short story collection, A Night in Question. The last book, PD James's Children of Men, came out of nowhere for me. I was hooked immediately, and I remain entranced by the atmosphere of the post-apocalyptic world created by the British mystery writer.

Here is my Top 5, sort of in order:

Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry
A Boy's Life, Tobias Wolff
The Children of Men, PD James
A Place on Earth, Wendell Berry
A Night in Question, Tobias Wolff

Other notable/memorable books of 2016:

Wizard of Earthsea, Usula K. LeGuin
Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Haruki Murakami
Jeweler's Shop, Karol Wojtyla
The Girls of Slender Means, Muriel Spark
Pastoria, George Saunders
Stories of Your Life and Others, Ted Chiang

Interesting (or not-so-interesting) Breakdowns

female	30%
male	70%
Catholic	33%
Christian	48%
2000+	26%
1990+	48%
long	7%
medium	56%
short	37%
fiction	81%
literary	89%
short story	11%
drama	4%
pop	7%
scifi/fantasy	26%
memoir	7%
philosophy, etc.	4%
poetry	0%

I didn't reach too many of my other goals, although their presence did push me into areas I wouldn't have gone otherwise, e.g. I received Wendell Berry's name from the Image list.

Just as I'm cutting back on my total book count, I'm also making my goals less ambitious. Hopefully this will help me not ignore them.

Goals

1. Read at least ONE book/author from "Image's Top 25 Contemporary Writers of Faith" List, found here
2. Read at least ONE book of poetry
3. Read at least ONE classic (pre-1900)
4. Read at least ONE book strictly philosophical or theological
5. Read TWO prize winners

Happy Reading!

A Place on Earth: Wendell Berry

Stories of Your Life and Others: Ted Chiang

The Night in Question: Tobias Wolff

The Children of Men: P.D. James

Tinker, Tailor, Solider, Spy: John Le Carre

Unbroken: Laura Hillenbrand

The Girls of Slender Means: Muriel Spark

The Barracks Thief: Tobias Wolff

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My Brilliant Friend: Elena Ferrante

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul: Douglas Adams

All the Light We Cannot See: Anthony Doerr

The Jeweler's Shop: Karol Wojtyla

A Wizard of Earthsea: Ursula Le Guin

Bel Canto: Ann Patchett

The Driver's Seat: Muriel Spark

Pastorlia: George Saunders

Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake-Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia: Dennis Covington

Brothers K: David James Duncan

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Nathan Coulter: Wendell Berry

Covenant Community & Church: Stephen B Clark (editor)

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: Haruki Murakami

We Have Always Lived in the Castle: Shirley Jackson

When Gravity Fails: George Alec Effinger

Jayber Crow: Wendell Berry

Only the Lover Sings: Art and Contemplation: Josef Pieper

Cold Mountain: Charles Frazier

This Boy's Life: Tobias Wolff

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Goals for Reading in 2016

My overarching reading goal for 2016 is the same as 2015: Read 40 books. I read 41 last year, so I’m beginning the year confident.

But I’d like to add a few goals to my reading life in 2016. I’d like to propose a few category/genre “requirements.” I am most drawn to fiction—and “most drawn” is an extreme understatement. 90+% of my reading is what might is labeled “literary fiction.” Therefore, I’d like to push myself, slightly, out of my comfort zone. That being said, these goals are to be important suggestions to keep in mind. In the end, only my “read 40 books” shall have strong hold on my reading habits.

Some of these categories/genres overlap, which is intentional. If you add up each “requirement” the sum would be large; but the result is not the case if you consider overlaps.

Goal #1: Read THREE prizewinners from last year. The Pulitzer for fiction (All the Light We Cannot See) and the National Book Award (Adam Johnson’s Fortune Smiles: Stories) seem shoe-ins for me; but what should the third award be? Maybe Nobel Prize in Literature winner; maybe PEN/Faulkner winner in literature.

Goal #2: Read TWO books from 2016. I hardly ever read books in their year of publication. Last year, the only 2015 book I read was Go Set a Watchman. Listening to my literary podcasts will give me tons of choices.

Goal #3: Read at least FIVE non-fiction books.

Goal #4: Read at least TWO books of poetry.

Goal #5: Read at least THREE spiritual books.

Goal #6: Read TWO “classics”—one must be pre-1900.

Goal #7: Read TWO science-fiction or fantasy books.

Goal #8: Read at least ONE book of strictly philosophy or theology.

Goal #9: Read ONE book of American history.

Goal #10: Read at least TWO books from my bookshelves.

P.S. Goal #11: Read FIVE books from five new authors from "Image's Top 25 Contemporary Writers of Faith" List, found here

Reading in 2015: A Year in Review

2015 was full of ups and downs. It began with great gusto and promise. I read a number of books I really loved, and after a few months I felt I already had a number of my favorites of the year. Then I hit a rough spot, and I read quite a lot of books in a row I didn't form any attachment to and didn't rate at 5 stars on Goodreads. (I'm a high rater.) Then I ended the year with some strong books. This pattern offered me difficulty when attempting to vote for my top 5 books of the year. I was left only with two definite choices, but the next level was full of choices. So there's quite a lot of books under my heading "other notables books."

My reread of Tolkien's trilogy was beyond exhilarating. This time around, the basic action---the battles, etc.---didn't interest me much, but the quiet moments were full of depth and personal meaning. In short, I think I enjoyed the book more this time than any other time.

Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek was one of the best pieces of nonfiction I've ever read. I think it easily makes my top ten books of all time. The prose, the philosophical musings, the imagery: entrancing.

I ended the year with 41 books read, exceeding my goal by 1. More importantly, 2015 stopped my trending reading decline, going from 55 to 40 to 33. In fact, 41 puts me at more books read (in recent history, at least) than any year but my monster 2012 year. I am more than pleased with my reading habits over the past 12 months. 

Here are my top 5 books of the year. They are sort of in order:

The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard

My Antonia, Willa Cather

A Soldier of the Great War, Mark Helpin

The Prime of Miss Brodie, Muriel Sparks

Other Notable Reads (in no particular order):

A Canticle for Lebowitz, Henry Miller Jr. 

Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

Outside Enderby, Anthony Burgess

Death Comes for the Deconstructionist, Daniel Taylor

Father, Brother, Keeper, Nathan Pool

In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, Tobias Wolff

Civilwarland in decline, George Saunders

The Edge of Sadness, Edwin O'Connor

Dirk Gently's Detective Agency, Douglas Adams

Last, here are some interesting stats on my "reading year." I broke down my 41 books by looking at 4 categories: gender of writer, length of book, genre of book, and religion of writer. The last category is a bit tenuous: I went with what I knew, and put "other" down if I didn't know. Also, for someone to classify as a Catholic or Christian writer, I need to know they were practicing and orthodox---not perfect, just actually affiliated with a religious dogma.

Gender of author: 76% male; 24% female
Length of book: 34% short; 61% medium; 5% long
Religion of author: 44% Catholic; 12% Christian; 44% other
Genre: 39% novel; 5% novella; 10% science-fiction; 7% fantasy; 22% short stories; 2% poetry; 2% young adult; 12% non-fiction

CivilWarLand in bad decline: George Saunders

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Outside Enderby: Anthony Burgess

(40!)

Station Eleven: Emily St. John Mandel

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie: Muriel Spark

In the Garden of the North American Martyrs: Tobias Wolff

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency: Douglas Adams

The Nearest Thing to Life: James Wood

A Drink Before the War: Dennis Lehane

A Canticle for Lebowitz: Walter M Miller Jr

The Edge of Sadness: Edwin O'Connor

Death Comes for the Archbishop: Willa Cather

Separate Flights: Andre Dubus

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Holy the Firm: Annie Dillard

After Rain: William Trevor

The Maytrees: Annie Dillard

Pathkiller as the Holy Ghost: Nathan Poole

Cathedral: Raymond Carver

Go Set a Watchman: Harper Lee

An American Childhood: Annie Dillard

Down in the River: Ryan Blacketter

Exiles: Ron Hansen

Father Brother Keeper: Nathan Poole

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A Soldier of the Great War: Mark Helprin

The Man Suit: Zachary Schomburg

A Land Without Sin: Paula Huston

The Book Against God: James Wood

The Nachman Stories: Leonard Michaels

Intruding Upon the Timeless: Gregory Wolfe

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: Annie Dillard

The Claw of the Conciliator: Gene Wolfe

The Shadow of the Torturer: Gene Wolfe

Death Comes for the Deconstructionist: Daniel Taylor

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Going Places: Leonard Michaels

The Return of the King: J.R.R. Tolkien

The Two Towers: J.R.R. Tolkien

The Fellowship of the Ring: J.R.R. Tolkien

Light Boxes: Shane Jones

Redeployment: Phil Klay

My Antonia: Willa Cather

Madame Bovary: Gustave Flaubert

The Orchard Keeper: Cormac McCarthy

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2014 In Review

In 2014, I undershot my goal of reading 40 books by 7, but I'm still happy with my overall effort and production. I believe having 2 kids now cramps my reading style a bit. Moving forward, I will maintain a 40 book goal for 2015.

I read 56 books in 2012, 40 in 2013, and 33 in 2014. I hope to buck the trend in 2015. I may not get back up into the 50s, but I think I can get close to 40.

I read a number of terrific books this year: some were classics (Heart of Darkness); some are on their way to being classics (a bunch of Flannery O'Connor's); some were published this year (Lila); some were non-fiction (Pieper), which is shocking for me; some were rather obscure (Shusako Endo).

Top 5 Books I Read in 2014 (in order of when I read them)

Flannery O'Connor's Everything That Rises Must Converge
Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness
Shusaku Endo's Silence
Marilynne Robinson's Lila
Joseph Pieper's Leisure, the Basis of Culture

Other Notable Reads of the Year (in order of when I read them)

Ron Hansen's Nebraska
Ron Hansen's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners
Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried
Franz Kafka's The Trial

Hitler's Niece

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Hyperion Falling: Dan Simmons

Amsterdam: Ian McEwan

Hyperion: Dan Simmons

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Leisure, the Basis of Culture: Joseph Pieper

Cannery Row: John Steinbeck

The Presence of Grace: J.F. Powers

Lila: Marilynne Robinson

Silence: Shusaku Endo

Late Have I Loved Thee: Ethel Mannin

The Trial: Franz Kafka

The Illustrated Man: Ray Bradbury

Atticus: Ron Hansen

'In the Beginning...' A Catholic Understanding of the Story of Creation and the Fall: Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger

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The Things They Carried: Tim O'Brien

Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose: Flannery O'Connor

Disgrace: J.M. Coetzee

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford: Ron Hansen

Mostly Harmless: Douglass Adams

So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish: Douglas Adams

Charming Billy: Alice McDermott

Beggar’s Feast: Randy Boyagoda