When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return

So, I apologize in advance, but I'm sort of obsessed.

Things I do not like about this video:

• Final position
• Take off could have been better
• Hand stuff on the sit

Up in the air I go flying again

Step one, climb ladder.

 

Step two, take off and do trick.

Step three, dismount.

And yes, I do realize this is supposed to be a blog about the list project. The thing is, it's been a long time since I've read one that I really hated, and those make the best fodder for posts.

Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze/ Tell me on a Sunday, please

A Prayer for Owen Meany is one that I liked in spite of myself. The plot did not sound appealing, and, of course, there is zero street cred to enjoying John Irving. Plus, we all remember how I felt about The Tin Drum.

And yet. And yet.

It was just rather a lot of fun, as it were. My favorite chapter was the one about Christmas. It was timely and sort of hilarious.

Anyway, I'd describe this one as very enjoyable. I suppose that there is room for a deeper literary analysis here, but once again, I'm not sure I'm especially interested in that. At all. I think I'll leave it at enjoying this one.

This is not the proper way to hold a cat

Ready is not a question

So, I just finished Libra. Sigh. At first, I was really excited about this book, since it had a plot! It's been so long since I've read a book with a real plot that was the main focus. I soon realized, though, that a plot may not be enough. As I described the book to someone, it makes me think of the sort of book that I would buy and read in an airport.

Since I don't really feel like writing about this book's literary merits, I thought I'd put the book in its historical context instead. Apparently it was published in 1989. One of the main things that happened in 1989 was that we acquired a pet cat. Yay! Seriously, I adored this cat.

Here are some fun pictures from 1989. I like the first one because I look demonic. I like the second one because he looks furious; I appear to be squishing him.

Faith is knowing One of two things will happen: There will be something solid to stand on or You will be taught to fly

 

 

Has she been there all along? Was I too far gone to know?

I still feel a bit out of synch with my reading. Or maybe it's just that Henderson the Rain King isn't doing too much for me. Ah, well.

In the meantime, let's make this be a blog about my other hobby.

This is me attempting the pullover shoot. I've got the pullover part down, and I'm good at balancing like a meerkat. Pump and shoot, that sort of didn't happen so much.

You're not going to let me in there, are you? You've got your armour back on.

I was looking at the list the other day, and all of a sudden it all felt very overwhelming. That's never really happened before, so on the one hand it's a bit strange. On the other hand, I suppose that it's a fairly understandable emotion in some ways. Yes, I've read over 430 books on the list, but I still have nearly 570 to go, and that, my friend, is a lot of books.

Some may just be that life generally feels a bit overwhelming at the moment. It's been an intense and exhausting week, certainly. Still, I'm intrigued that this feeling would come now, so soon after meeting my goal for the year and so close to the halfway point.

Failing to achieve something doesn't really hurt when it never seemed possible. It's the narrow misses, the almosts, the things that felt sure, that sting. I'm not sure if it's that the more achievable the goal of reading all these books feels the more I see not reading them all as a failure of some sort that is overwhelming, but considering, I think it's a piece.

Of course, I know that I'd never actually quit. I'm having far too much fun.

Where did you get your pants?

Confession: I haven't actually read Joseph Anton yet. I also haven't gotten a copy of A Dance to the Music of Time, though I did make a first attempt, which sadly failed. It's been quite a week, though, so I don't blame myself exactly. Still, I do have the tendency to plan these little rewards and then never follow through. For example, I have yet to eat a Madeline cookie. Le sigh.

I'm begging you, please wake me up/ In all my dreams I....

Ah, Edith Wharton. Decided to knock off the last two of hers that I have left on the list: Bunner Sisters and Summer. Both are super short, so you could probably read them in about an hour and then come back and finish this.

In some ways, both are a bit unusual for Wharton, though in different ways. If you, like just about everyone in the entire universe, think Age of Innocence or even House of Mirth, you'll feel a bit disoriented. If you think of Ethan Frome, you'll be closer.

That said, both novellas (let's get real here) are interested in the same main topic as Age of Innocence: the ways women's lives and identities were controlled and constrained, and how the narrowness of roles for women was a destructive force.

In Bunner Sisters this is explored in relation to the roles available to unmarried women over 30. In Summer, we get a sort of Tess of the d'Urbervilles experience. It's as fun as it sounds. Essentially, women are punished for desire of any sort.

Rather than going on a Franzen rant, I'll just end this by saying that, though Wharton's exploration is interested in gender and its relationship to the regulation of desire, you could reflect on her themes through many lenses.

Bunnies? I don't know what you're talking about, but I like the sound of it!

So, I've noticed that if you read and send text messages at the gym, no one pays any attention at all. But, if you read a novel by Edith Wharton, all of a sudden everyone is interested.

Hey, I just met you/ And this is crazy

There are many things that I love about my neighborhood. While its main selling point is its proximity to my job, there is lots more to love.

For example, people have a tendency to leave books outside for free. Now, generally these books tend to be of three varieties: romance novels, how-to books, children's books, and policy books. Today I got lucky, however! Someone was getting rid of several books that are on the list.

It does lead one to wonder why this person's whole collection seemed to be on the list. Are they working on this project, too? Likely he/she/they are moving, so I'll never meet them, but there you go.

The ones that you should fear the most may be the ones you fear the least

Yes! We have finally made our goal for list books in 2012, which is to say that we've finally read 100 books on the list this year. "Why did it take so long?", you may well ask. It's a very reasonable question, for which I don't have a good answer. I sort of have three thoughts, though.

1. I've read some long books. Some very, very long books. One took me a month, it was so long. This isn't a super great excuse, though, since I also read some really, really short ones.

2. I've done a lot of reading not on the list. I was doing quite well on the project this year up until August when I went on a serious non-fiction kick that has sort of continued; plus, there is always the temptation of the New Yorker.

3. Another reason that I've slowed down a bit is that I no longer am spending so much time each week metroing to and from Clarendon. Which, on the one hand, great life choice on my part, but on the other hand, not so great for the project.

At any rate, yay! As a reward, I'm going to read Joseph Anton, because yes, I do know how to celebrate. I also might use this as a chance to read the next longest book on the list.

The things that we could do in 20 minutes, girl

Have you ever said to yourself "Man, I'd just love to read a book about a slightly disturbed woman (spoiler alert: sort of) who drives around rural Scotland picking up male hitchhikers for dubious reasons"? Yeah, me neither. And that is really all I have to say about Under the Skin (which apparently is going to become a movie).

And addicted to the knife, she needs a little help with the agony

And now, if you will indulge me, a brief and unrelated interlude:

Have you ever noticed that we sort of consistently have to eat? That it is not something that you ever get to cross off your to-do list? You can never achieve haven eaten, you'll still have to do it all over again. It starts to feel a bit pointless, no? Which then leads to perpetual trips to the grocery store, which is very sad.

She won't let you feel a thing unless she wants you to. She twists the blade. He feels it.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the stories that we tell ourselves. These musings have come from both some of the more painful (in a good way!) books I've read recently, as well as things in my own life. I'm fascinated by the ways we make meaning from our experiences, the ways that we interpret our realities and through those narratives shape these realities in these dialectical ways.

Part of what fascinates me in all of this is how we construct these narratives without even realizing that we are doing so. It's almost instinctual. I'm reminded, in a strange way, of this course on epistemology that I took once. We had all these conversations about the question of whether objective reality exists, whether there is a capital T Truth, and about how interpretation shapes reality.

I am also fascinated by the cognitive dissonance that somehow manages to coexist in these narratives. I can know that I have constructed this part of my life in a way that tells a story that I can manage, that I can be all right with, even as I know that it is not True in that capital T way, even as I know I am constructing it for my own ability to cope.

It's an interesting lens to apply to novels, since I see this cropping up over and over again. Particularly with  most of the ones that I've read recently (Everything You Need, Surfacing, Rabbit Run, After the Quake, etc.). This is another one of those times that I almost want to write an academic paper.

Oh, you're gonna be my bruise

I've had so, so, so many awkward encounters lately! And they've all involved men and the gym in some capacity. One doesn't quite qualify perfectly, since it happened as I was walking to the gym, but we'll count it.

However, none of the three involve the list project in any way. They just involve me being awkward, so they don't really fit here.

I liked my memories as they were/ But now I'll leave remembering her

In addition to chapter books, picture books were a significant part of my childhood. We have a fairly epic collection of picture books, and many holidays have specific books that I associate with them.

One residual piece is that I whenever I have to mail a letter, I have a tendency to imagine myself as a character from A Letter to Amy. This is a bit absurd, I must admit, since I only ever mail a rent check to my landlord.

It's later than you think/ And a kiss is a terrible thing to waste

So, I recently read Notes from the Underground. It's a quick read, so I read it while at a Barnes and Noble. Did not take that long. Not my favorite by him. That said, the passage about tyranny and love was exquisite. Sadly, I couldn't note it, since I was reading in B&N, and I couldn't find it online, so here are a few others to enjoy:

Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind.

To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.

Yet, I didn't understand that she was intentionally disguising her feelings with sarcasm; that was usually the last resort of people who are timid and chaste of heart, whose souls have been coarsely and impudently invaded; and who, until the last moment, refuse to yield out of pride and are afraid to express their own feelings to you.

I love, I can only love the one I've left behind, stained with my blood when, ungrateful wretch that I am, I extinguished myself and shot myself through the heart. But never, never have I ceased to love that one, and even on the night I parted from him I loved him perhaps more poignantly than ever. We can truly love only with suffering and through suffering! We know not how to love otherwise. We know no other love. I want suffering in order to love. I want and thirst this very minute to kiss , with tears streaming down my cheeks, this one and only I have left behind. I don't want and won't accept any other.

If there's a slower death than living here and now/ They haven't found it yet

If you have a hobby, there comes a time when you have to decide if you recommend it for other people. This may happen because people start asking you if you'd suggest they take up said hobby, or it may happen because you spend too much time imagining hypothetical conversations you may have to experience at some point. Regardless, when it happens, you must be ready.

Some of my hobbies I would recommend without question or hesitation to anyone who asked me. Barre method, for example. Why? Because it is the workout that still typically makes me want to cry and/or die on a regular basis while doing it. Which is how you know that you've found a good workout.

With others, it seriously depends on the person. Trapeze is a good example. Should you take up flying trapeze? It really depends on the kind of person you are. Do you enjoy hanging upside-down in mid air? How do you feel about heights?

With the list project, I wouldn't really recommend it to anyone. There are so many reasons to not do this, and not too many to do it. If it doesn't automatically appeal to you without needing to ask, you won't enjoy it. Plus, I'm not sure there is much to be gained from it; at the rate I read, there are some books that I sort of completely forget, so it's not like you're gaining all this knowledge or insight or conversational material, even.

Someone would leave. Someone always leaves.

It's been awhile, but we always come back to it. Today's awkward encounter occurred while I was waiting for an abs class (why I have been taking an abs class is an awkward story in and of itself) with the abs instructor.

AI: Wow. You always have a book.
In my head: This is the third time that you've seen me.
Me: Oh, yeah.
AI: What are you reading?
Me: Ada, by Nabokov.
AI: Ah. What's it about?
In my head: Incest! Incest! A couch.
Me: Um. It's sort of a love story between these two people who met when they were younger and then reconnect later
AI: Ah. Love story. Nothing wrong with that.
Me: Right.
In my head: What?
AI: So, how do you like the class? Right amount of challenging?
Me: Oh, yeah.
AI: Are you an instructor?
Me: No.
AI: Oh.

Who Could See Beyond this Surface/ Who Will Love Me As I Am

Veronika Decides to Die is not an easy book to read. I've said before that all books are in essence about exploring the meaning of being human. Some are more clearly existential than others, though, and this one definitely falls near that end of the spectrum. Its central concerns are about finding meaning in existence and about problematizing the meaning of sanity/insanity.

The novel about a young woman who attempts suicide; though she survives, she wakes up in an insane asylum and is informed that she's damaged her heart and will soon die. At first she still wants to die, but as she forms relationships with others in the asylum she begins to find meaning in her life, even as she waits to die.

Though I seriously overuse the word "brutal" to describe books, it's quite accurate for this one. It's not an easy read, since it so unflinchingly - at times even viciously - cuts into you. As the reader, you are taken through Veronika's own journey, which goes to an incredibly dark place before there is any light.

Overall, I loved this one. You should assess your own mental state before reading it, though. I do not think it glamorizes self-harm per se, but it's a tricky line to walk and sometimes it almost crosses it. That's my only criticism. Well, that and it isn't as tightly crafted as my real favorite favorites. When it is on it is so incisive, but there is some filler.

Some sample quotes:

Each person knows the extent of their own suffering or the total absence of meaning in their lives.

When I took the pills, I wanted to kill someone I hated. I didn't know that other Veronikas existed inside me, Veronikas I could love.

There are people who spend their entire lives searching for a moment like the one you had last night, but they never achieve it. That's why, if you die now, you would die with your heart full of love.

[T]hank you for giving meaning to my life. I came into this world in order to go through everything I've gone through. . . That is the only reason I came into the world, to make you go back to the path you strayed from.

I pray I might/ Know why God has tempered judgment/ Not with mercy/ But with sorrow

I did not expect to like The Marble Faun by Hawthorne. I mean, The Scarlet Letter, The House of the Seven Gables: not promising introductions to his oeuvre. That said, I sort of loved this one. It's a bit hard to explain why, though, since it really is not the sort of book that I should like. Despite that, I found it strangely captivating, almost bewitching even. It also had an unexpected intersection with part of my life.

The novel is set in a sort of fantastical imagining of Italy in the mid 19th century, exploring the relationships of four friends, Donatello, Kenyon, Miriam, and Hilda. The story is mainly about the effects of the murder committed by one of the friends, how it impacts the friendships, and general questions about justice, mercy, and morality. Art also plays a main role, and each character represents a way of thought or an archetype. Kenyon, for example, represents rational humanism.

I used to think that concept novels/allegorical novels didn't really work for me, but I actually love many of them, like this one. While I could take issue with the Hilda/Miriam sort of virgin/whore thing, I actually did not overall (only part I sort of had trouble with, but Hilda worked more than I would have expected her to). 

One could teach a very interesting thematic course looking at guilt, criminality, justice, mercy, forgiveness etc. in literature, with this one, The Secret History, The Reader, Light of Day, and of course Crime and Punishment. It would be fascinating.

For whatever reason, this book did what I want most stories to do: it made me want to write and dive back into my own fiction. It also made me yearn for Europe. Seriously.

I'm only gonna break your heart

An interesting piece about Rushdie, particularly if you adore Rushdie like I do.

Reading pieces like this always makes me think about what I was doing during the time. I think mostly because it helps place it in context for me, though it can also serve to make the situation in the article seem even more removed. For example, for me 1989 was a seriously great year. I had an excellent time. I think I was a pretty happy toddler generally, though.

We Found Love in a Hopeless Place

Right. Yep. So, I read Fear and Trembling. It may not be what you are imaging exactly, but I bet you can surmise the general way a book with a title like that will leave you feeling. It's a ruthless, brutal little book; it's masterful at bringing you into the harrowing world of the narrator.

Exemplary passage that I find both beautiful and chilling:

Do not dare hope for anything beautiful. Do not expect to feel any sort of pleasure, because it will destroy you. Do not hope for love, because you're not worthy of it. Those who love will love you for the illusion of you, not for the real you. Do not hope that you will get anything out of life, because each passing year will take something from you. Do not even hope for something as simple as a peaceful life, because you don't have a single reason to be at peace. . . [Y]ou should not be so foolish as to suppose that anyone could want you for yourself.

If you had the choice would you do it again, knowing how much it would hurt in the end?

The thing about this project is that it is such a long process, that I don't really think of it as a terminable project. It's like laundry or eating: I feel like I'll to doing this forever and never really get anywhere. This is a bit of a strange perception, given that I can clearly see progress and there is a goal I come ever closer to attaining. Still, it's way too far off to really think about.

That said, I think the reason I'm still at it is because it feels so unattainable. By virtue of being such a lengthy endeavor, I've almost completely focused on the journey. I actually only think about the end when I'm either talking to someone, because people always ask, or when I'm blogging. Interesting.

That said, sometimes it can feel a bit much. Right now, for example, I've been on a serious non-fiction kick (New Yorker, of course, does not help, but I did read this absolutely fascinating piece about drug informants that I'd really like to discuss in-depth with someone).

Recently made cake pops again. May I just say that humidity is not the friend of cake pops?

She still has my monkey?

All right! Kafka on the Shore. I have incredibly mixed feelings about this one. It was so fascinating and so finely crafted, and there were many wrenchingly beautiful, haunting passages. It's a hard one to recommend, though, since I feel like before you could you'd have to ask the very awkward question "how do you feel about incest?" There are few questions as awkward, even questions about breakfast preferences.

It also could be triggering, and has a piece related to SA with which I took serious issue. That said, it is still compelling and thought provoking. Some illustrative quotes:

"People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues [italics in original]"

"I was afraid someday I'd lose this person. So I had to let go myself. If he was going to be stolen away from me, or I was going to lose him by accident, I decided it was better to discard him myself."

Fake it till you make it

So, I just read Uncle Tom's Cabin. No, really. I really did. Now, I don't think I'll talk too much about it. It's actually a rather uncomfortable book to read, for obvious reasons. There's lots to unpack here, of course, but I can't really do that effort justice. Rather than digging out my critical race theory books, let's go in another direction.

UTC is one of those books that you simply can't read without having pre-associations. Let's talk about my three:

1) Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown. Such a great book, of course. This is the last of the childhood ones before the high school ones, and you already start to feel some of the tonal shifts. The girls are growing up, and you start to really see their ambitions and dreams in this book. Why is that relevant? Because they go see a play version of UTC as part of the first story arc, which will then have implications later in the book. I love the illustration of the friends sitting in the box watching the play. This book was probably my first encounter with UTC.

2) Shirley Temple film version. Now, I never actually sat through this. I'm not sure I've ever actually watched an entire Shirley Temple film (because, gnat-like attention span); I just get too bored. Now, she went on to be an amazing adult and defy all the stereotypes of child stars, and her films aren't really her fault, but some are so problematic.

3) The King and I. Of course. As a child, I really only cared about the beginning. Because, so many children! Children everywhere! I loved stories with lots of children. For some reason, I thought I wanted to be part of a super large family. I'm not sure why I thought that. I was obsessed with books like Cheaper By the Dozen. I rarely made it all the way to their production of UTC, but man is it memorable. Come, let's all sing Poor Eliza together now!

Prize for the first person to understand the title!

I just died in your arms tonight

So, apparently I am a Chronological Reader. I think it's funny to be described as slow and steady, since I have the attention span of a gnat.

Oh, Just When I Thought My Heart Was Finally Numb

My thoughts here are not super coherent, so I apologize in advance. I know I’ve talked about my reading rate before, but I think it’s important to note that it’s an average. My rate varies significantly from book to book, and the length of the book actually has surprisingly little to do with how long it takes me. The main factor, for me, is emotional engagement.

Most books I don’t really engage with emotionally, simply intellectually. These I can breeze through very quickly. It takes me much longer to process emotions, though, and if I let a book in it will take me longer.

The question then becomes, when do I engage emotionally? Sometimes it’s because I have a favorite character with whom I really connect, but that’s not always the case.

There’s another, more important factor. I tend to get the most emotionally involved in stories about the failure of love in some way. Essentially stories where, no matter how deep, genuine, unconditional, desperate the love, it simply is not enough, it cannot save, it cannot always even last.

This is actually longstanding. When I think about the stories that always bothered me as a child - that Winnie-the-Pooh with the bird, Snoopy Come Home, Milo and Otis (shut up) - really, they're about that failure of love. Not that the love fails or falters, but that it simply isn't enough. Similarly for the ones that really get to me now, God of Small Things, Beloved, Fugitive Pieces, Hallucinating Foucault, etc.

Of course, so often it isn't enough. In my line of work, we always say to focus on the good ones, to not let yourself get caught in the ones where you weren't enough, for whatever reason. But it's always those that haunt you.

I suppose it's bleak to say that we are profoundly inadequate, especially with regard to love, but I am sort of a bleak person.

This is looking like a contest/ Of who can act like they care less

Generally, I do not read the introductions, literary analysis, or commentaries that accompany some books. I don't have a great reason for skipping these, aside from time - I try to almost always be progressing with the project when possible.

I made an exception, though, for Mill on the Floss.Why did I do this? Well, mostly because I was stuck on an airplane and I had finished the book. And, the person in my seat before me had done the crossword and sudoku.

I actually really liked this one; spoiler alert, though! What an ending! That said, I didn't really have an issue with Stephen (I feel like I got that; maybe it's a time period difference), so I was surprised that was the issue of focus here.

Nevertheless, some interesting quotes to think about from the commentary/analysis (this was the Penguin Classics edition):

It is perhaps worth remarking that he is the literary descendant of other energetic, simple, sexually powerful men in novels who create quite complex problems for women whose alternative lovers are perhaps more sensitive but less alive, forceful, and exciting.

Minna's appear[s] to have overestimated the taste, talent, and ability of a handsome young man who was dedicating to her his whole time and attention, and whose homage rendered her the envy of almost all the young women.

If you want to know why I was on a plane, it was because I was going to a place where I got this done:

Though it is, I admit/ The tiniest bit/ Unlike I anticipated

Normally I try to avoid looking at the stats for this blog, since it sort of freaks me out to think people read this thing (I am strangely popular in Russia and Slovenia). I am particularly unsettled by the number of people who come to this blog via Facebook, since that means these are people who know me are viewing this thing (and yes, I realize I put it on Facebook and this is my own fault). Sometimes I think about making this thing password protected.

That said, I did recently view my statistics. After getting over my freakout about how many people read this blog, I noticed that many of you are specifically looking at this post. I think that's great; I'm really excited to have so many people see the inside of my fridge.

I remember tears streaming down your face

An interesting read. The author argues, as a counterargument to a few other recent articles, that women do not base their literary tastes on a desire to indulge fantasies about dating the leading male.

I must say that I really hope that she is correct. If not, I'm not sure why my taste in books says about what I look for in a relationship, but it is not pretty. Or healthy. Which. . .

Actually, we'll let that one go.

You make me want to be with the one I'm leaving

Ladies and gentlemen, we are failing at life at the moment. Seriously. The other day I was having a conversation with someone whom I had only very recently met, and in the span of about 30 minutes he managed to get out of me pretty much all the information that I shore up and parcel out slowly to people over the first four - six months of knowing me.

By the end of this conversation he knew:

• My job
• How I got involved in that
• Where I went to undergrad
• What I majored in
• Where I grew up
• All of my hobbies
• My volunteer activities
• My reading habits
• My general thoughts on graduate school
• The Truman program

We were starting on the dangerous topic of my cooking/baking/eating habits when we got mercifully interrupted.

I. . . I don't know how this happened.

You don't really like being hugged, do you?

No. Generally I do not. There are a few exceptions.

And I will lead them on a merry chase

I recently had this conversation with someone (at a studio, not a gym).

"Trollope. Wow. I haven't seen anyone reading Trollope since graduate school. Are you enjoying it?"
"I just started, but so far."
"Are you reading it for school?"
"Just fun."
"Wow."

Now, I could have, I suppose, explained the project. Many of my awkward conversations would be less awkward, perhaps, if I did so. I rarely do.

I know that I've said before that I use this project a lot in small talk, and I do. However, I only bring it up in two circumstances: 1) when it's gotten so awkward that I feel I have no choice, usually after several conversations on my reading habits, and 2) when it's either talk about the project or talk about something else in my life.

Basically, my goal at all times is more or less to conceal information about myself. Why? Well, I could tell you, but that would sort of defeat the goal.

I think you've made your point now/ You've even gone a bit too far to get the message home

Some literary quotes that sum up my current outlook on life:

“Who is ever adequate? We all create situations each other can't live up to, then break our hearts at them because they don't.”
 - Elizabeth Bowen

"Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?"
 - Clarice Lespector

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”
- J. M. Barrie

"It's not safe out there." "Oh, and it's safe in here?"

It's true what they say: it never rains but it does pour. After a drought of awkward encounters, I'm piling them up again. Yay?

Recently I was waiting for a class in the studio, since there was no class in there before. I'm minding my own business reading my book, when one of the gym managers comes through giving a tour to a new or perspective gym member. Here was his spiel:

"This is our yoga studio; it's soundproof from the rest of the gym, and our yoga and pilates classes are in here. You're also always free to come in anytime there isn't a class to workout or, you know, read your book."

Sigh. I wanted to say in my defense that I was waiting for a class that was going to start in ten minutes; and yes, I could have been on a machine during that time, but I had done an hour workout at home beforehand and I just didn't feel like it. But I didn't actually say anything.

Want to see the inside of my fridge?

You’re passable. You’re passable. You’re passable, it’s true. Saw your face… …It’s okay. So I figured that you’ll do, til I find somebody new.

You may have noticed that I haven't written anything in the Awkward Encounters series, and you may be wondering why. It certainly isn't because I haven't been to the gym as much lately, because I have, and it definitely isn't because I'm any less awkward than before, because I definitely am not.

Why, then? I think it's because somehow lately it's become a bit more of a social outlet, so my ability to read at the gym has been a bit curtailed. I'm not sure how, exactly, but I'm failing at being a bento box.

That said, I finally had one! Random Gym Member 2 (RGM2) recently commented that I always seem to be reading a new book and asked how many I read a week. I explained that I read two per week, aiming for 100 a week. RGM2 then said, "Oh, wow. You should be on Jeopardy." I did not know what to say to that one; I mean, reading a lot of fiction is in no way preparation for that show. I just sort of paused for a moment and said, "Oh." Fortunately, it was then time for class.

How's this for a random picture?

I'm really into my fridge right now. At least, on the outside (so pretty); on the inside, I literally go between either having yogurt and a strange variety of water or a strange variety of water. Sometimes I think about grocery shopping.

It was difficult, later, to think of a time when Betsy and Tacy had not been friends

If I'm going to talk about childhood literary experiences that have shaped me, I must talk about the Betsy books by Maude Hart Lovelace.

Some of my earliest memories are of these books. I simply adored them. I was a hybrid Betsy and Tacy who wanted to be a Tib. Or at least have Tib's daring!

There is so much I love about these books - the portrayal of female friendship, the sister relationships especially as they grow up, her parents and their support of their daughters' dreams, the ambitions of the girls, everything about Betsy herself, etc.

As a child, I connected so deeply with these stories. Perhaps because they showed a world that was familiar to me, in that the girls had such rich imaginations and inner lives. I remember as a child creating fantastic worlds in which to live, and so I resonated with a childhood of mirror palaces and secret lanes. Deep Valley felt like home.

It took me awhile to come to the high school books. I couldn't bear for Tib to move away at first, and I wasn't ready for so much change; change can be hard for me. But when I was ready, these books were so perfect for me. I learned so much, and  I found so much comfort and inspiration in Betsy and her struggles and triumphs as she grew up.

I re-read them so often; I'm usually reading part of one of them at any given time, and I ritualistically re-read parts of Downtown before Christmas. I've worn through several copies. I always come back, or I guess never really leave; I am not the sort of person who generally describes books as friends, but the Betsy books are good friends.

Betsy and the Great World is probably my favorite, though it is a challenging one and there are parts I still find painful to read. I often think of this one quote, which I remember striking me when I read this as a young teenager: "Was life always like that? she wondered. A game of hide and seek in which you only occasionally found the person you wanted to be?"

I have come to think that part of growing up is realizing this, and I know I often find myself seeking for this version of self. In the meantime, whenever anyone asks me about my favorite literary heroine or character, I know I'll always answer: "Let me tell you about Betsy Ray."

She has the moronic beauty of youth, but she's sly.

In today's edition of lists, I present a list of random things that people have told me about my body:

• Your hair is like a lion's mane.
• You have remarkable hip-flexers.
• You have really large eyes.
• You have super small hands.
• You have tiny fingers.
• Your wrists are really small.

There is a bit of a pattern here, which explains my failed career as an oboist.

Someone recently told me that he thought I look like a gymnast, which is so way off it's funny. He did eventually amend that to a ballerina, which is still off, but maybe a bit better?

Made for labor, not for love

People often ask me if I use an eReader. The answer to date is no, and I usually say that I just prefer reading books the old fashioned way. The truth, I've come to realize, is a bit more complicated than that. There are definitely advantages for eReaders, of course, and though there are times when I'm sure I really would prefer a physical book, I can certainly think of many instances when I'd prefer the other.

Why, then, do I not have one? I think there are two many reasons: 1) Anxiety about buyer's remorse and 2) Hatred of buying electronics, likely due to my fear of electronics stores.

With regard to reason one, I think the root here is mostly shoes. I have terrible luck buying shoes. Some may also be due to a period in my most awkward teen years when I hated buy cloths generally. I've mostly gotten over that (shoes are my nemesis; I have weird feet), but I still worry about this. Would a Kindle or a Nook be better? Or should I buy an iPad (that would work as an eReader, right? I really know nothing on this topic).

Reason two is probably the main one, though. Seriously. I get anxious just thinking about electronics stores. Why, you may ask? Well, I think this actually goes back to my trouble with saying no - even when I really should - combined with an intense attempt at most electronics stores to up-sell me a warranty that I do not want.

I could, I suppose, work on this aspect of my personality, and I probably should. On the other hand, it's not gotten me into as much serious trouble as you might imagine, and it's led to some interesting experiences. Now, those include doing a backflip off a flying trapeze, eating mussels and getting rather ill, climbing a dam to run races in July in Arizona, and some other perhaps-not-so-good ideas, so this method for dealing with the world may not be right for everyone.

How can one man be so endlessly disappointing?

Regular readers of this blog (who am I kidding?) will not be surprised to hear that I did not care for Portnoy's Complaint. Seriously. Why does Philip Roth hate me so?

I couldn't decide if this one just didn't work for me, that is that it didn't sell the premise (this guy is an absolute man-child jerk) or if I missed the premise (this guy is fascinating and his inner thoughts are insightful) and totally disagree and hate him. That's really what it comes down to, are we supposed to hate him? If so, why write about him? If not, please, he's vile.

But it is the 400th book that I've read, so go me! Now to figure out how to celebrate this milestone.

Here's another random picture:

Re-introduction to a feeling I don't wanna know

It is very possible that we already have a winner for my favorite in 2012. Anything is possible, I suppose, but it would be hard for something to beat Everything is Illuminated. Since this one isn't obscure, and there is a very good chance that you've read it, I won't spend too much time on the plot.

This novel is remarkable in the way that it utilizes and integrates multiple tones. Sometimes tonal shifts simply do not work at all, but when the author is sufficiently talented and the tonal changes bring the work's themes and questions into relief, you have something painfully beautiful. At first this book is hilarious, but then as you go in more deeply you start to see the absolute tragedy.

Ultimately, Everything is Illuminated is mainly interested in the interplay with love, forgiveness, truth, and moral courage. I know it has some serious flaws, particularly regarding misrepresentation of some of the historical events, but I still love it because it asks some searing, challenging questions, and has some amazingly beautiful passages:

But each was the closest thing to a deserving recipient of love that the other would find. So they gave each other all of it. 

"What if it was not in His power?" "I could not believe in a God that could not stop what happened." "What it if was man and not God that did all of this?" "I do not believe in man, either."

But you don't even like it, he said. You always complain after.
I know, she said. . .
Then why?
Do you like thinking about Mom?
No.
Does it hurt after?
Yes.

Then why do you continue to do it? she asked. And why, she wondered, remembering the description of her rape, do we pursue it?

Did you ever love me?
She turned her head from him. No. Never.
I've always loved you, he told her.
I'm sorry for you.
You're a terrible person.
I know, she said.
I just wanted you to know that I know that.
Well, know that I do.

"We were stupid, he said, "because we believed in things."
"Why is this stupid?"
"Because there are not things to believe in."
(Love?)
(There is no love. Only the end of love)
(Goodness?)
(Do not be a fool.)
(God?)
(If God exists, He is not to be believed in.) 

Love me - just for a bit...

Lately, my New Yorker subscription has been causing some problems again with my list project. I had been in a bit of a dry spell with it, which is sad in some ways but great for the list. Recently, though, there have been so many articles that I've wanted to read:

• Endurance for long-distance running as a metaphor for approaching life
• History of the cliffhanger
• The Zetas/drug trafficking
• The University of Chicago scavenger hunt
• Recent developments in hip hop
• Forensic linguistics

Among other fascinating topics.

This all reminds me of a conversation that I once had with someone before I subscribed to the New Yorker. To help set the stage, he was driving me around southeast DC during this conversation and quizzing me about my media consumption habits. At the time I had a free subscription to The Economist, but that was the only periodical to which I subscribed.

My not subscribing to the New Yorker shocked him, since according to him I am the kind of person who would subscribe to it. To me, what was shocking was that I had any magazine subscriptions at all; I mean, this happened in 2010, people.

I think that he eventually came to terms with this deficiency on my part, though I think it was a grave disappointment to him. Of course, this is the guy who doesn't believe that I love action movies, so his picture of who I am may not be the most accurate.

It’s the way I’m feeling I just can’t deny/ But I’ve gotta let it go

More food for thought! I identified a lot with this one for some reason. . .

I thought that you were trouble/ But I couldn't resist

I read The Driver's Seat. I wish I hadn't. Do not read this one. If you do, serious, serious, serious trigger warning. I mean it. I should not have read this book. On the other hand, it gave me a chance to practice some of my excellent strategies for dealing with secondary trauma.

I need a pep outlet

This blog may be suffering from mission creep, but whatever.

 As you can tell from the title of this post, I need a pep outlet. I have a number of mildly interesting hobbies, but nothing that lets me work out my pep. And I am nothing if not full of excess pep.

Thus, I am taking suggestions for pep outlets. To give you a sense, here are my current hobbies:

• Hip Hop
• Masala Bhangra
• Swing dance
• Barre
• Zumba
• Flying trapeze
• Reading books on the list
• Writing bad fiction

Also, I thought I would mention that the time stamps on these posts have no relationship whatsoever to reality. I always schedule them for random times.

Boy, you're dangerous/Yeah, you're that guy/I'd be stupid to trust

We are almost at the 400 mark, having been working on this project earnestly for the past three years. For whatever reason, I feel like reflecting at this point. I realize that 500 would be a more reasonable choice for that, but since I'm in the mood now and who knows how I'll feel in a year, I thought I'd go for it.

It has been an amazing, wonderful, challenging three years. I've learned so much, and I am so much stronger now. While I've certainly made my share of mistakes, I have no real regrets.

I never thought I would still be in DC three years later; in my own way, I've fallen in love with this city. I'll be here for the foreseeable future, perhaps indefinitely. Sometimes that absolutely terrifies me, and other times it feels wonderful to have this place be home.

I have been able to do the most amazing, humbling, fulfilling work; this has probably been the best part of my life over the past three years, and I feel so lucky to be in this position. Sometimes the work is wrenching, yes, but on the balance it is the most fulfilling and exhilarating work I can imagine.

I've made so many friends who mean so much to me. I tend to be a pretty private and independent person, but knowing that I have people who have my back no matter what means so much to me. I've dived back into dance in a serious way; happiness is finding a way to dance at least two hours a day, and my dance outlets here have been another DC highlight for me.

Oh, and I've read a lot of books; 313 from the list, plus whatever I read that wasn't on the list.

I'm a monster, not a pretty little girl

I happen to adore both Rushdie and Dostoevsky. These affairs were slow burns initially; I actually didn't care too much for the first by each that I read (The Satanic Verses and The Brothers Karamazov, respectively), but after a few reads I fell hard. Which do I like better, you ask? I follow my general way of dealing with life: I love the one I'm with (I'm very fickle).

Let's start with Demons/Devils, since that's the one that I read first. Prior to reading this I had read The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Love Them, which ended up serving me rather well in reading this one. I think I was able to move a bit more quickly despite it being a bit confusing, since I was already familiar with its arc. It's mostly confusing because people's motivation in the novel just do not make too much sense to me. It's an extremely political novel, and it is in some ways more a mediation on politics and power than on the human condition per se. It also involves secret societies, so that's fun.

Shame is stylistically quite different from the previous work, but it is also a concept novel. Rushdie uses magical realisim, of course, to explore his topic, which you can probably guess from the title of the novel. Like most of Rushdie's works, it is a pretty unflinching, stark look at people and the world. He doesn't just explore the concept of shame, but more on the violence and destruction that stem from shame.

I likely would not choose to write about these two novels together, but given that I am, the main point of comparison would be exploring the ways they use narrative and characters to explore concepts. Specific characters are not really people so much as manifestations of ideas in both novels. That said, they are rather different works.

I'll conclude by saying that I truly, truly hope that you do not get the title reference. I'm not proud of it, but it is such a perfect quote for Shame (and sort of me?) that I decided to just go for it.

I don't want to lie. I can't tell the truth. So it's over.

Food for thought!

Also, one more vacation pic (do pictures really make blogs more interesting? I'm not sure. . .)

I have hated and loved you/I have hidden behind you/But I finally see

So, once again we have been on holiday. During this brief journey we did read, yes, but actually not too much. We mostly watched internet videos. If you have any questions about Bruno Mars or Pitbull, I'm currently your girl, but I can't imagine that you do.

I actually did read Demons and Shame, both of which warrant some serious writing, but at the moment I'm still recovering from jetlag.

In the meantime, here is a vacation pic:

I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it

Today's list celebration is about things at which I am epically bad.

1. Deciphering song lyrics based on just listening to a song (seriously; I can't adequately convey how awful I am at this; for example, there is a song where I confused the phrase bad man with the word baby and addict with nanny, and yes, it did seem very different in my version).
2. Catching anything (specifically tennis balls/baseballs, but really anything).
3. Rolling my Rs (really hindered my Spanish career, but apparently good for a laugh for others).
4. Pushups (this one makes me sad; I want to be good at these and I've tried to improve; I still am awful).
5. Giving directions (I just make people more confused; I'm either too vague or too detailed, I vacillate between the two, and I tend to give based on the four cardinal directions which apparently is confusing).
6. Karaoke.

You almost wish that you could have all that bad stuff back/ So that you could have the good

Every summer I re-read Madeleine L'Engle's A Ring of Endless Light. And every summer I just sob. This is such a beautiful and sad book. I read it at a particularly critical time in my life, but it's not lost any of its power to really cut through everything and leave me with a renewed sense of hope despite everything.

The novel is mainly about death and loss, but it is also about time and love, and how the four interweave. Loss permeates the novel in such wrenching, constant ways, but there is still an immeasurable sense of hope. L'Engle references both a ring of endless light and a deep but dazzling darkness; perhaps the one cannot exist without the other. Love ultimately is loss.

The part that really gets to me and always hits me anew is the scene when the main character and her younger brother talk about death and heaven. The topic is difficult enough, though his idea about heaven is wrenchingly exquisite. What really always gets to me, though, is the main character's realization that her brother is growing up and is no longer really a child. Her sense of loss at this inevitable change is subtle, but certainly present; it's not that she wants him to stay young, but that she just sees the loss that comes as inevitably as the passage of time.

When I first read this, I was about the age of the protagonist, and this just hit so close to home. It still really does. There is comfort in her words: "and nothing loved is ever lost," and truth in “Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”

Remember those walls I built/Well, baby. . . they're still there

Today's random list consists of things strangers have called me recently. Good times. Seriously, DC is the worst place I have lived in terms of street harassment (I acknowledge that Minneapolis isn't probably a good point of comparison; usually it's too cold). Most of these had modifiers.

• Babe
• Baby
• Chicka
• Child
• Honey
• Lady
• Mama
• Miss
• White girl

I've also been told to work it a few times lately, which always confuses me; it's too vague. The one that really confuses me, though is simmer down. That's happened twice, and I just don't get it. What does it mean?

Another one I don't understand is fine. To me, fine sort of means okay/all right/average. As in, "how are you?" "oh, fine." How is it possible to be super fine?

Not everybody/Knows how to work my body/Knows how to make me want it

Shall we talk about The Kreutzer Sonata (book 392 for me)? The truth is that I'd rather not. I've been wanting to read this one and wrap up Tolstoy, since though I love Russian novels I do not love Tolstoy generally. I still haven't forgiven him for War and Peace. I just can't.

I'm guessing most don't know what this little novella is about. Yay for you! Basically, it's about this train trip (so promising) where one traveler tells another about the time he killed his wife after discovering that she was having an affair. Tolstoy does not shy away from graphically describing this, and it was violent.

It's always interesting, I suppose, to read novels looking at the relationship between men and women/women's rights/gendered power dynamics from other time periods. And by interesting I generally mean maddening, of course.

While one could go in many directions if one needed to write a paper on this one, I was most interested in a short passage where the guy who killed his wife expounds on his views on women generally. His argument is that women have primarily been used by men for men's pleasure/enjoyment. That men have basically exerted control over women to exploit women for their own ends. He then goes on to argue that attempts to improve women's education, legal standing, political rights, etc. won't ever get anywhere because men will continue to view women mainly in terms of objects for their enjoyment, and that the only way for women to truly be emancipated is for them to not have sex (he says this generally; I assume he really meant with men).

One could, of course, go in many different directions with analyzing that argument, but what struck me most was how it completely ignores women's pleasure/desire and basically assumes that it does not exist. Since I don't want to get into a long treatise about women's sexual pleasure here, I think I'll just stop.

Gonna push it to the limit, give it more

Oh, oh, oh! Oh, goodness. I still have no words. So, this weekend I took a flying trapeze class. It was absolutely the most amazing thing I have ever done. Such an adrenaline rush, and so much fun. I am seriously obsessed now. On your first fly out they have you catch the trapeze with your legs and swing from your knees, and then you go from there. Just amazing. Now, I know what you are thinking (but you have a fear of heights!), but I already booked my next class and I am completely in love.

All I ever needed was the music, and the mirror/ And the chance to dance...

When people ask me what I'll do when I'm done with the list project I've always been taken aback. After all, there are millions of books out there; it's not like I'm going to be starved for options. Recently, though, I had an epiphany. They don't really mean to suggest that I wouldn't have plenty left to read. I think they probably mean to ask one of the following three questions:

Q. Do you have any particular plans for the books you'll read after finishing the list project?

A. Not really. Since I don't view this project as restricting my reading options (granted, the exceptions are few; Hunger Games, Mary Russell novels, books about number theory. . .) there aren't books that I am dying to read but can't right now. Non-fiction may seem like the obvious answer, but the reality is that most of the exceptions I make are for non-fiction right now. Actually, it might be more books that are not on the list but are by authors on the list, since I can't justify reading those right now generally (Edwin Drood for the win!).

Q. Are you going to attack any other challenges?

A. I'm not sure. Maybe not, since generally I find life pretty challenging, so that may be enough for me. But I could see this leaving a strange void in my life, so maybe I shall. That said, I can't really imagine tackling another 1,001 list. I don't have the attention span for the movie challenge, and with music I just like to listen to what I like, I don't tend to listen to stuff to expand my tastes (and my music tastes are pretty terrible, so. . .). I think I'd like to try something else, but I don't know at the moment what that would be.

Q. How are you going to celebrate?

A. This is another where I'm not sure. I want to do something epic, but I tend to not make plans more than three or four days in advance if I can avoid it, unless it involves transatlantic travel. As I said, it must be epic, and it must somehow have a sort of poetic connection to the project. I'm taking suggestions for sure. I've been thinking about maybe having a party for 500, perhaps with a literary theme. I tend to throw themed parties.

Since I have been bad about putting pictures on this blog, I added a random-ish one of me and my other hobby (it's old; the picture, not the hobby, that is; the hobby is current).

The girl gets around

We've been traveling a lot lately. This certainly has positives and negatives (for example, you realize how humid this place of residence really is), but overall it's been quite lovely. The point of all this is that recently I was on a trip with someone who knows about the list project, so of course he eventually asked me about it.

Most of his questions were the typical ones (where are you at generally, where are you at this year, any good ones recently, how are you tracking for completion, etc.), but since he's the kind of person who can think of about a million questions on any topic at a moment's notice, he had some more interesting questions. For example, we chatted some about how this project has changed my perspective on literature generally, how my tastes have evolved, what my main takeaways have been, etc.

We also had a fairly interesting conversation about the kind of books that just absolutely grip you to the point where you hardly can do anything else till you finish it. Books that excite and consume you all at the same time. We could not come up with a good term for this experience, though.

Somehow, and I'm not really sure how, we managed to segue from that perfectly safe topic of conversation to discussing my feelings about having babies. And we're not talking in the abstract, are you a zero population growth kind of girl sense, we're talking how do I personally feel about whether I want to have children/be a mother. Like I said, I don't know how this happened.

When you're ready, just say you're ready/ When all the baggage just ain't as heavy

Sometimes I worry that blogging is a very arrogant activity. Sure, I have thoughts and feelings and such, but what makes me think that anyone would be interested in reading about them? Fortunately, I don't actually think anyone reads this blog, so that more or less works itself out. I tend to briefly cycle through these stages of thinking this blog is sort of ridiculous to thinking that it sort of doesn't really matter.

Since I mostly write this for myself, you'd think it would be sort of a really honest presentation of myself. However, I'm very rarely fully open on this thing. I tend to only show one of my four main personality modes, which is my more manic/absurd version. This mode is probably the most amusing, but only a select few see it going IRL.

Then there is the me that I like, which is the one that I tend to use in professional contexts. It's the very competent, patient, confident, empathetic, nice me. This is sometimes more aspirational than not, but ah well.

Then there is the scary/dark/damaged me, which I'm not going to talk about here.

And finally, the me that most people experience, which is the guarded me with superficial friendliness while attempting to avoid telling you anything about me me (most people get this one and the second one in varying ratios depending on the context in which they know me; few get past them and even fewer get past them permanently).

I love everything about you that hurts

Somehow, I missed Bloom's Day this year. How did I do that? I really wanted to celebrate it; sort of like how I always intend to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day and Bastille Day, and yet never do. Sometimes I feel like a constant source of disappointment to myself (particularly when I try to give up dairy).

So, to make up for missing Bloom's Day, I decided to read Finnegans Wake. Wish me luck!

Little miss didn't do right/Went and ruined all the true plans/ Such a shame, such a sin

Both Fools of Fortune and Waterland were quite good, and I liked them both quite a bit. They didn't get to me like my favorites do, but still, I'd recommend them. They are both interested in how we make sense of individual lives in the context of larger historical events and the sort of dialogical relationship between the two.

The first, Fools of Fortune, is quite beautiful, but also rather depressing. Ultimately, it's about the ways that said larger historical forces can sort of destroy lives, though it does so without denying individual agency. Thus, while the characters may see their lives shaped by forces outside of their control, really how they react is what matters and destroys. I sort of felt like I should have liked this one more than I did, actually, since its themes are fascinating. Ah, well; the title of my post is a reference to this book (which, ouch), in case you are playing along at home.

I was really looking forward to Waterland, since it's by Graham Swift and I adored The Light of Day so much. My expectations probably were too high. I didn't love it as much, but it is really very excellent. It's unconventionally told, which adds to its power. It is more explicitly about the forces of history.

Here is a favorite quote:

Children, be curious. Nothing is worse (I know it) than when curiosity stops. Nothing is more repressive than the repression of curiosity. Curiosity begets love. It weds us to the world. It's part of our perverse, madcap love for this impossible planet we inhabit. People die when curiosity goes. 

 These are books 389 and 390, if you care to know.

Wait, what?

In today's edition of lists, we celebrate a list of some of the random questions people have asked me recently:

1. Are you sure that you don't want a haircut?
2. Were you mugged?
3. Have you done this before?
4. Does this usually happen?
5. Are you pregnant?
6. Is that really how you want it?
7. When should we go skydiving?

You get a point for every question where you can guess my answer. Bonus points if you can guess the context. Here is a hint: each question was asked by a different person.

You must bruise easily

Oh, goodness! In my recent post on top books, how could I forget The Plague? Such an amazing, wrenching, brutal, exquisite book.

Some favorite quotes:

"And that, too, is natural enough. In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity." 

"Tarrou nodded. 'Yes. But your victories will never be lasting; that's all.' Rieux's face darkened. 'Yes, I know that. But it's no reason for giving up the struggle.'"

"None the less, he knew that the tale he had to tell could not be one of a final victory. It could be only the record of what had had to be done, and what assuredly would have to be done again in the never ending fight against terror and its relentless onslaughts, despite their personal afflictions, by all who, while unable to be saints but refusing to bow down to pestilences, strive their utmost to be healers." 

That's all right because I like the way it hurts

It took me quite a while to get into The Discovery of Heaven. Which is to say, about 300 pages; quite the investment, I guess. To be fair, it is a pretty long book, so I still had a lot left after I got into it. I suppose it's an argument for why the rules of the list are important, since this is one I would have been very tempted to give up on, but I'm very glad to have read it.

I won't give a plot summary, because a) it doesn't really matter, and b) it would make it sound like a soap opera. Seriously. Ultimately, it wasn't the plot that really interested me anyway.

The Discovery of Heaven is another novel that explores questions about what makes life worth living. There's a lot more going on in the novel, of course, but I was really struck by the places where it seems to ask "is life worth it?" and perhaps more interestingly "is there a point when life stops being worth it, and if so, what then?"

I'm fascinated by novels that conclude sometimes that perhaps the answer is no to the first question and yes to the second, at least in some instances. This could feel very bleak, but in some ways it's very empowering. The answer to me is always yes to the first, but knowing that is a choice, an active commitment to certain values that I hold rather than a default position is empowering.

We all have our nights though, don't be so ashamed/I've had mine, you've had yours, we both know

Recently I went to New York; this trip was for a whole host of reasons. Visiting the Morgan Library was not one of them, but whilst I was in the city I managed to pop in for a bit.

I love libraries so much. I get how I tend to get on international trips (yes, we are lost, dehydrated, and probably getting heatstroke, but we're in Venice! yes, it is pouring rain, cold, muddy, and we're probably all going to get sick from this, but we're in Costa Rica!); just sort of seriously blissed out.

This is a particularly beautiful library, and it was pretty quiet when I was there, so I was able to really browse the titles. First I found Rebecca and Rowena by Thackery, for which I have a soft spot (for obvious reasons). Then I found the Brontes, and oh, it was lovely.

It all made me miss my books. Someone recently expressed surprise by how few books I have in my apartment, which is fair. Most of the list books come from the library, and most of my books are not with me. Sigh.

I used to be consciously naive

This weekend I did many things that I normally do not do, which, let me tell you, is a very good  thing (DC, I love you, but sometimes I think we should see other people). One thing that I did was read a book that is not on the list.

I read this book because someone loaned it to me with instructions to read it along with a very lengthy story about why I should read it. It's called The Defining Decade, and essentially its argument is that many twenty-somethings sort of waste their twenties being childish and acting as though they have all this time later to get things together, when in reality this decade establishes your options later, for better for for worse. Within that broad topic area, it specifically focuses on career/education and dating/marriage.

The person recommending the book told me it was the perfect book for someone my age (though he was a year off in his guess at my age, so maybe it is only almost perfect?); that said, however, I'm not exactly sure what to make of the recommendation. Also worth noting, this guy is not even five years older than me (I suppose he can claim a sort of older brother role in my life?).

Perhaps my favorite part of all of this is that the entire time he was telling me about this book and essentially instructing me to act like an adult, I was playing with neon green play-dough (and nodding my head earnestly).

Actually, though, this was an excellent book for me to read right now.

You're lying. I've been you

Recently I had the "Tell me the top ten books you've read so far" conversation. People, when they hear of this project, frequently want me to give them my thoughts on the ones they should definitely read as sort of a shortcut on the project. I can't say this enough: Please do not take my recommendations. They will not make you happy.

Here are my top picks, though, with a little description:

God of Small Things (this is a very violent book about an absolutely horrific event that ruins many lives, as well as a history of incredible cruelty and abuse among family members).

The Light of Day (this is a wrenching book about the ways cruelty drives violence, the fall out of violence, and the question about whether we can ever come back from the ultimate act of violence and still be human).

Beloved (this is a devastating book, also about the ways that violence begets violence, focusing on one of the most horrific forms of systematic exploitation/violence ever devised, and showing how coping mechanisms, for lack of a better description, can become so warped from this violence that they lead to their own devastating ends).

Cloud Atlas (this one is slightly less horrific than some on this list, but it is mostly about the ways that we exploit each other for our own ends, how we privilege our own needs over others, and how casual cruelty can lead to horrific exploitation).

Fugitive Pieces (this one uses another one of the most horrific acts of systematic violence to explore the question of what makes life worth living, what makes surviving possible, in the face of absolute and total loss).

Hallucinating Foucault (this one is also interested in the question of what remains when we have lost all we thought ever mattered to us; how do we go on existing in the face of such complete loss).

Saturday (this one explores the ways that random violence and hate can bring lives to the brink of devastation).

Now, then, please stop asking me to recommend books; you don't really want me to!

God Wants No Excuses/I have Only One/You Had Your Daddy's Hands/Forgive Me/You are Your Daddy's Son

I'm still trying to get through the pre-1700s, since as I've mentioned before, I'm really not a fan of these. I haven't had one in this category thus far that I have liked, and generally they just bore me or upset me. So, for book 383 in this project, I decided to read Chaireas and Kallirhoe.

I feel pretty safe in spoiling this one, since let's be honest, you weren't going to read it anyway. Essentially, it is about this couple, Chaireas and Kallirhoe. Kallirhoe is the most beautiful woman in the world (woohoo?), and because of this lots of people want to get with her, so they convince Chaireas that she's cheating on him. Chaireas, level-headed dude that he is, beats Kallirhoe till he thinks she's dead. She isn't dead, but whilst entombed is kidnapped by pirates and sold as a slave. The rest of the story is about them finding their way back to each other and eventually reunited to live happily ever after. Indeed.

One could, I suppose, attempt to read this as sort of a complicated treatise on the cycle of abuse and the reasons women return to abusive intimate partners. But again, let's be honest here, that's not what this is really about. I'm not inclined to read this ahistorically, so I'm just frustrated.

To be fair, I did not pick the best time in my life to read this one. I'm in one of those phases where I have to actively try to not see the vast majority of men as abusers or potential abusers with only extremely rare exceptions who aren't. I hate this about myself, but it happens sometimes. I'm starting to learn, slowly, that denying this doesn't help, and I just have to work through it. Still, I definitely flinched when random dude on the metro sat next to me and tried to start up a conversation. Could not handle it.

Boom! Splat!

Some useful tips, should you want to read and walk. I think the secret is practice and not worrying about speed.

A Very Merry Unbirthday

I think I'm getting a bit bored. Not with the project itself (that would be very sad; I have such a long ways to go still), but with talking about it. People ask me about the project very frequently if they know about it; people who don't know about it comment on all the reading I appear to do. Thus, I spend a surprising amount of time talking about my reading habits.

Now, I did actually bring this on myself in many ways. I received advice from a fellow introvert, who told me that the secret to small talk is to choose two things about yourself that you are willing to talk about, share those all the time, and then people won't notice all the things you don't want to talk about. Just be fully open on two things, then try to switch the topic to the other person, and you are set. He strongly and repeatedly encouraged me to adopt this habit; his advice has proven surprisingly effective, perhaps even too effective.

The list project is the perfect candidate for this sort of thing: because reading is a solitary activity, you can use it all the time with everyone. If you go with your roller derby habit, for example, you can't use that with the people with whom you do roller derby.

I suppose the trade off of being a bit bored is worth it, though, to avoid talking to people about all the things I prefer to avoid talking about: why I moved to DC, when and why I became a vegetarian, my childhood, my teen years, what I did last weekend, my tastes in TV, movies, and music, the (four) stupid things I've done after consuming alcohol, my experiences with road trips, my plans for my life, my "personal life," my amusing medical problems, and what I am thinking right in this moment when you caught me zoning out. Especially that last one. I never give a straight answer when people ask me "what are you thinking," unless it's in a brainstorming meeting or something.

We'll just go slow

I think I've commented before that all novels are ultimately about exploring what it means to be human or what makes life worth living; I suppose you could argue those are sort of two manifestations of the same thing, actually. Anyway, I stand by that argument, and the further I go with the list project the more I am convinced that it is correct.

It's always interesting to encounter ones that seem ambivalent about whether life ultimately is worth it. Coetzee is always so aggressively bleak, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that he would be one who sometimes seems to almost come down on the side of "it isn't, actually." The Life & Times of Michael K is fascinating in that it is about the value of life in many ways, and is sort of a testament to the intrinsic worth of life, while still leaving this question of "is it worth it" open to interpretation. Not, I should say, because of Michael K himself, but because of the horrific ways we interact with each other.

All this bleakness can certainly start to get to you. We do such horrifying, cruel, violent, and degrading things to each other and ourselves. And yet. . .

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

All right, The Siege of Lisbon. Raise your hand if you've heard of this one before! Yeah, I didn't think so. Anyway, it's actually mildly interesting, albeit fairly cerebral. It's definitely a concept book. Basically, it is interested in the nature of truth and the dialectical relationship between truth and fiction.

The novel more or less sets out to problematize the idea of objective truth, particularly in relation to history. It then uses this idea to explore both a particular historical moment and a specific relationship as a way to more broadly mediate on truth, meaning, and connection between disparate people.

Or something like that. You could do many academic papers on this one, I guess.

All of my titles here are references to something. If you get this one, you are good.

That hurt!

So, The Lost Language of Cranes is a subtly brutal little book. The summary on the dust jacket sort of hinted at that, but you don't really notice how truly brutal it is until you are well into it. To quickly summarize: it is the story of a middle-aged couple in New York and their adult son, beginning with a small crisis moment and then from there going into the ways that the secrets we keep from each other and the lies we tell each other/ourselves destroy us, and then destroy what we love.

Now, I realize that probably sounds bleak, but again, you don't really appreciate it until you get into the book. The novel ups the stakes by looking at the collateral damage of these lies, and sort of these cascading effects that then circle back. Part of what makes this so upsetting is that I also had terribly negative feelings about one of the characters and I hated what she did, but you can see how it all started with these brutal secrets.

I feel like lately I've read a lot of books about casual cruelty; that is, about the ways that we sort of hurt each other mostly out of fear and/or selfishness. Depressing. Doesn't help with my general outlook on humanity.

And I know that he knows I'm unfaithful/ And it kills him inside/ To know that I am happy with some other guy

Clearly I would love this article. Anything that references Betsy and Joe will, of course, be loved by me.

The $64,000 Question

I'm conflicted about this post, since the subject doesn't interest me much. That said, I get asked about this a lot.

So, how do I do it (i.e. read so many books at the rate I do)?

I do want to highlight again that I don't really like this question. It simply doesn't interest me, and I think it makes this project sound more impressive than I think it is. Given that caveat, here are some of the factors:

1. I make some jokes here about my attention span and ability to focus, and while I do have a short attention span and sometimes have the focus of a hyperactive rabbit, I'm actually pretty able to read in stolen moments. If you can't focus on a book on a 15min bus ride or while killing time before a dance class on an elliptical machine, this project would be harder for you. I'm pretty good at this.
2. Reading is sort of like working out, actually, in that the more you do, the better shape you are in to do more. I'm in the best reading shape I've been in my entire life. I read more quickly now, I'm more able to focus and digest complex novels, etc.
3. Different types of reading material take different muscles, I guess; I've only really built my literary fiction muscles. This isn't great for me as an overall reader, but for this project it's excellent. That said, if I needed to jump back into reading copious amounts of dense academic theory, that would take some re-training.
4.  Reading has always been part of my life; we are a family of serious readers, so this hasn't been a huge adjustment to me.
5. Along those lines, I enjoy this project.

Ultimately, I think that last point is the most important. I do this for fun.

Balancing act

Have you ever wondered which Fiddler on the Roof daughter you are? I'm just going to assume the answer is yes, because then I don't have to explain why I have considered this question. Yay!

So, when I was younger, I definitely wanted to be a Hodel. I mean, who wouldn't want to get with the hot guy from Kiev? She also gets to do the two dancing scenes with him, and the solo, so clearly she's sort of the most fun to be. Plus, as the second oldest, I sort of felt entitled to be a Hodel.

That said, I have come to realize that I definitely am a Chava, and I have come to terms with this fact. Actually, I've even really embraced it and come to love it, I would say. In some ways, this actually makes sense. Sarah is so much more a Hodel than a Tzeitel.

Tonight we're gonna party till they shut the club down

I really admire The Bridge on the Drina. So many novels are remarkably similar, which you realize when you read a lot of them. I'm a bit tired of biographical novels, and thus this one was such a breath of fresh air for me. I loved the way it is constructed; having a novel about a bridge rather than a person gives such an interesting perspective and sort of highlights the complex relationship between people and the worlds we create for ourselves.

That said, I was predisposed to like this one going into it, since I have a strange sort of thing for Bosnia. I know this sounds terrible, but let me try to explain. I've been asked multiple times if I am Bosnian, specifically a Bosnian refugee. This has led to me feeling like I should have this connection to Bosnia. Okay, explaining it doesn't really make this sound any better.

Actually, that sort of thing happens to me not infrequently. The most memorable instance was the argument I had with a Parisian in Vienna about how he was certain that I had to be French or perhaps Polish, and that there was no way that I could be American. It was a surprisingly long argument. Different people have provided me with different interpretations about his motivations for this discussion. I maintain that his motivation was that he needed to have his eyesight and hearing checked.

Anyway, a favorite passage from The Bridge on the Drina:

 Men who knew the world and its history often thought that it was a pity that fate had given this woman so narrow and undistinguished a part to play. Had her fate not been what or where it was, who know what this wise and humane woman, who did not think only of herself and who, predatory yet unselfish, beautiful and seductive yet chaste and cold, ran a small town hotel, and emptied the pockets of petty Casanovas, could have been or could have given to the world.

We've Been Busy

So, I recently got a bit of feedback on my blog. This is rare for me, since generally I like to pretend that no one reads this, and my readership goes along with this belief by not providing any reaction. Works pretty well for me, since it actually sort of freaks me out to think that people read this at all.

That said, I love feedback generally, and I do try to be responsive. Word is that I don't provide enough statistical information about my project. I thought I'd remedy that a bit with some quick information.

I have read 374 books on the list. I've been working through the list in earnest for almost exactly three years now. I read about two books per week or 104 books a year. The goal is always to do at least 100 a year. If I do keep up this rate, I'll finish in the fall of 2018 when I am 31 years old, almost 32 (if you want to know how old I am, I encourage you to do your own math).

This year, I have read 50 so far:


1.      Hallucinating Foucault – Patricia Duncker
2.      The Tin Drum – Günter Grass
3.      The End of the Story – Lydia Davi
4.      Tropic of Cancer – Henry Miller
5.      Written on the Body – Jeanette Winterson
6.      Stone Junction – Jim Dodge
7.      The Woodlanders – Thomas Hardy
8.      Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
9.      A Tale of a Tub – Jonathan Swift
10.  Brighton Rock – Graham Greene
11.  Cancer Ward – Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn
12.  The War of the Worlds – H.G. Wells
13.  The Double – José Saramago
14.  Her Privates We – Frederic Manning
15.  The Magic Mountain – Thomas Mann
16.  Family Matters – Rohinton Mistry
17.  The Enchanted Wanderer – Nicolai Leskov
18.  The Good Soldier Švejk – Jaroslav Hašek
19.  The Comfort of Strangers – Ian McEwan
20.  Mao II – Don DeLillo
21.  The Long Goodbye – Raymond Chandler
22.  Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami
23.  Arrow of God – Chinua Achebe
24.  The Interesting Narrative – Olaudah Equiano
25.  Glamorama – Bret Easton Ellis
26.  The Nose – Nikolay Gogol
27.  Cocaine Nights – J.G. Ballard
28.  The Beautiful Room is Empty – Edmund White
29.  One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey
30.  The Island of Dr. Moreau – H.G. Wells
31.  The Last Temptation of Christ – Nikos Kazantzákis
32.  How Late It Was, How Late – James Kelman
33.  Miss Lonelyhearts – Nathanael West
34.  On the Eve – Ivan Turgenev
35.  Cryptonomicon – Neal Stephenson
36.  The Nine Tailors – Dorothy L. Sayers
37.  The Stone Diaries – Carol Shields
38.  Germinal – Émile Zola
39.  The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
40.  Get Shorty – Elmore Leonard
41.  Cannery Row – John Steinbeck
42.  Typical – Padgett Powell
43.  On the Black Hill – Bruce Chatwin
44.  The Voyage Out – Virginia Woolf
45.  Infinite Jest – David Foster Wallace
46.  Wittgenstein’s Nephew – Thomas Bernhard
47.  July’s People – Nadine Gordimer
48.  The Yellow Wallpaper – Charlotte Perkins Gilman
49.  The Hours – Michael Cunningham
50.  Remembrance of Things Past – Marcel Proust