This year I haven’t had the chance to read as much as I’d like to, but I am approaching thirty books for the year. Since it’s the end of the year and everyone else is writing year-end and decade-end lists, I thought I’d add my own humble voice to the cacophony. So here, dear reader, are my favorite books of 2009. To clarify, these are the books I read in 2009–not books that were published in 2009. That sort of list would be far too relevant.

Runner-up: The Undertaking by Thomas Lynch. ★★★★ (finished April 18).

I don’t generally go in for nonfiction, but Lynch’s work is thought-provoking and poetic. He is a poet who also runs a cemetery, so death and dying are concepts that he lives with daily. It is no surprise that he has much to say on the subject.  The chapter “Uncle Eddie, Inc.” is a tour-de-force wherein Lynch asks a lot of questions about death, abortion, and suicide:

For if we live in a world where birth is suspect, where the value of of life is relative, and death is welcomed and well regarded, we live in a world vastly more shameful, abundantly sadder, and ever more perilous than all the primitive generations of our species before us who were sufficiently civilized to fill with wonder at the birth of a new life, dance with the living, and weep for the dead.

The book is easy to read, profound, and even funny at times. I got a lot out of it.
10. The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene. ★★★★ (finished April 23).

The Power and the Glory is the tale of a “whiskey priest” in 1930s anti-Catholic Mexico, who is hunted simply for being a priest. The irony (and power) of the book lies in the priest’s struggle to understand his faith vis-a-vis his overwhelming sense of shame. He has to fall to understand grace and love. The next best thing was the way Greene weaves minor characters in the plot throughout the book and then brings them all back in the end, showing how their lives have altered after their encounters with the whiskey priest. It shows the caliber of Greene’s writing ability and vision. This was my second trip through a Greene novel, and I will be back for more.

9.The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle. ★★★★ (December 5).

Having just finished reading Ovid (you’ll notice its absence from this list), I was in the mood for a page turner. I had been meaning to read Doyle for a long time, and I’m glad I spent some time with him and his famous sleuth. No, Baskervilles is not a perfect novel by any means, but it is engaging, gripping and–dare I say it–fun! My only complaint is that Holmes isn’t around enough in this one. The story is always better when Holmes is front and center. There were enough characters to keep one guessing, at least for a little while, and even after you find out who the guilty party is, Doyle has one or two more tricks up his sleeve.

8. A Room with a View by E. M. Forster. ★★★★ 1/2 (March 8).

I remember this book fondly. Room is a terrific novel that is executed extraordinarily well. Forster’s plot is well structured, and his prose–his prose!–is superb. He is able to render scenes, dialogue, and description with equal alacrity and depth. The characters are all very intriguing, especially Lucy, the protagonist. Forster’s stylistic prowess is even more enjoyable because with it he takes the reader to beautiful places (Florence and rural England), and the reader absolutely sees what he evokes. Forster also employs narrational flourishes I’ve never seen before and liked.
All this excellent workmanship carries a simple love triangle plot. Bonus: it’s only 199 pages!

7. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. ★★★★ 1/2 (August 11).

This book is wonderfully conceived, well written, and enthralling. The time travel element automatically makes a book more challenging to organize and arrange well; Niffenegger orchestrates her novel brilliantly. There are so many beautiful, poignant moments. The relationship between Clare and Henry is always powerfully and movingly evoked. Niffenegger’s style is lush and deep. The characterization is excellent. The plot is complex and gripping. I loved reading this book and was always loath to put it down. There are a few regrettable elements, but overall it is fantastic.

6. The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. ★★★★★ (June 7).

I read The Imitation for ten months, so I’m afraid I lost a lot of my sense of the totality of the book. I can say that God met me several times in its pages, and what is better than that?It was my devotional reading for most of that time, and it serves that purpose fairly well. There is a special blessing that comes with reading the works of authors from centuries past. Their world was so different from yours, so they have thoughts and ways of putting things that you do not. Thomas à Kempis is supremely devout and humble in his approach to God, which I need a lot more of. I learned a lot from his example and passion for the faith.

5. The Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton. ★★★★★ (July 30).

This will sound weird for nonbelievers, but I reread Merton because God told me to. I didn’t know what to read, so I prayed about it. “Read Thomas Merton,” said the voice in my mind.

“I meant what novel should I read,” I clarified.

“Why did you ask if you weren’t going to listen?” So I read Merton, and I am so glad I did.  This is a powerful memoir recounting Merton’s coming to Catholicism and then a Trappist monastery, but it is also so much more. Merton writes about Spiritual matters with clarity, depth, and power because he knows the Lord God and knows Him well.

More importantly (for me anyway) was that God had a lot to tell me in those pages. I was frustrated by life at the time, and I desperately wanted direction. I remember reading one passage where Merton writes about how God guided him via a path he couldn’t understand so Merton would learn to trust. I knew I was going through exactly the same thing.

4. Perelandra by C. S. Lewis. ★★★★★ (February 28).

Perelandra blindsided me. It is the second in Lewis’ space trilogy, and I definitely did not expect it to be so spectacular. There are two things that make Perelandra exceptional in my view. The first is the world Lewis evokes in the book. It is incredibly creative, well thought-out, and complete. It is also extraordinarily vivid.

The second, and best, aspect of the book is its philosophical and religious engagement. The protagonist, Ransom, travels to Perelandra (Venus) while its still in its Edenic state. He eventually realizes he’s been sent there to keep it from falling into sin. There are several compelling sections where Ransom argues against the Unman about good and evil that held me spellbound. There is also an amazing passage that bridges the gap between Calvinism and Armenianism, which I loved. Lewis has a mind that can grasp at the enormity and complexity of God better than any author I’ve read.

3. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. ★★★★★ (February 18).

Yes, I read it. All of it. War and Peace is renowned as one of the greatest novels for good reason. I was most impressed with the novel’s scope and characterization. This novel is immense, and I’m not talking about pagination only. Tolstoy takes on so many disparate topics and somehow manages to fuse them into a cohesive book. Amazing. As for the people who live in these pages, they are myriad and deep. Sure, there are a few flat characters, but many characters are engaging because they are in flux constantly. You like and dislike the main characters as they change, but they do not bore.

Is every page exciting? Certainly not. Tolstoy goes on about history far too much for my taste, especially at the end. However, the novel is on par with the best books of all time, and it was on my “lifetime reads” list. It’s rewarding to finish a book like that, even if it did take me three months.

2. Slaughterhouse-five by Kurt Vonnegut. ★★★★★ (June 9).

Had it not been for Chambers, this would have been my best read of the year. Vonnegut melds humor, gravitas, entertainment, and meaning in an astounding and complex way. I’ve read nothing like it.

The story is of Billy Pilgrim, a WWII veteran who comes unstuck in time. The narrative jumps around in Billy’s lifespan, and he experiences different moments in his life and jumps to others. Billy’s life is an interesting one: he is in WWII at the bombing of Dresden, gets unstuck in time, is abducted by aliens (the Tralfamadorians) and put in their zoo. Vonnegut uses all these disparate experiences (and some other, more pedestrian ones) to make profound insights and humorous commentary alternately.

Fascinating, funny, engaging, and never dull. I loved it. I wanted to reread it as soon as I turned the final page.

1. My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers. ★★★★★ (still reading).

It is somewhat of a surprise to me that a book of devotions is the best book I’ve read this year, but I couldn’t choose any other. Chambers is my daily companion in my walk with God. He is the sort of companion who keeps saying things I need to hear but don’t want to. He challenges me almost every day. Time and time again, he has convicted me of wrong in my own life, shown me who God is, shed light on complex topics, and given comfort. He is imminently quotable; I’ve underlined practically every other line.

My Utmost came recommended to me by everyone who had ever read it. Now I add my voice to the choir of people who cherish this book. I’ve used Chambers as inspiration for writing in my class, and he has been my masthead quote on this blog several times. I’ll finish the book on December 31, as each day has its own devotion. I know I’ll return to it soon.

And now, one of hundreds of highlighted passages from my copy: “There is only one relationship that matters, and that is your personal relationship to a personal Redeemer and Lord. Let everything else go, but maintain that at all costs, and God will fulfill His purpose through your life. One individual life may be of priceless value to God’s purposes, and yours may be that life.”

There you have it. If you’ve read this entire blog post, I salute you! I hope these recommendations are of use to you, and I look forward to more reading in 2010.

Somewhere around Lincoln, NE, my lovely wife and I finished “reading” (listening to) Elizabeth Gilbert’s renowned memoir Eat, Pray, Love. We had been enjoying it through our two recent trips back to the Midwest; there’s nothing like listening to a good book while you drive to kill time. Gilbert possesses an obvious talent at writing, and her journey (literal and figurative) is usually quite engaging. Indeed, the book has given me a lot to ruminate upon, especially spiritually. Thus, I was fully expecting to be wowed by the finish, but instead both J and I were disappointed. There is so much that is valuable in these pages (or CDs), but Gilbert leaves me to wonder what might have been. How do you evaluate a book that is wonderful 80% of the time but ends poorly?

So close to being amazing

If you’re unfamiliar with Eat, Pray, Love (EPL), let me catch you up. The book chronicles Gilbert’s yearlong journey from Italy to India to Indonesia (Bali) as she tries to figure out who she is and what to do with her life. She’s just come through a terrible divorce and a failed romance (different guys), and she needs to get a handle on herself. She decides to visit three different places that would help her work on specific characteristics of her life. She chooses Italy for its pleasure (especially culinary), India for its devotion, and Indonesia to find balance in her life.

One way to think about this book is to separate its different aspects and evaluate them individually. I think Gilbert would be on board with this idea because she clearly loves overt structure. The book is one third travel writing, one third spiritual odyssey, and one third autobiography.

It should come as no surprise to those who know me that the travel element of the book is my favorite. I haven’t traveled much, and I love hearing about all these different places she visits. However, my reasons for choosing the travel writing aspect of the book as my favorite extend beyond my desire to see the world; Gilbert is an extremely gifted travel author. She is skilled at making places come alive and uses imagery and description effectively and wonderfully. Listening to the book turned out to be a visual experience as well as an auditory one.

The second best facet of EPL in my view was her spiritual journey. As a Christian, it was constantly fascinating to see how Gilbert goes about her search for God, where she finds Him, and where she doesn’t. Gilbert’s faith exists outside of all the standard world religions, but she focuses mostly on Asian practices, especially meditation, to get where she’s going. She has a lot of prophetic dreams, and those were compelling. She definitely causes me to re-evaluate much of my assumptions regarding other belief systems; that needed to happen. However, Gilbert never really gets to her desired destination, i.e. close to God. She has amazing visions, yes, and who am I to say they aren’t real? Still, she seeks God on her own terms in her own ways, and that goes only so far. Also, she is surrounded on this journey by those who ceaselessly tell her the classic religious lie, “All religions are basically the same. They’re just different paths to the same end.” No. I think Gilbert proves my point by how her book ends.

The least interesting aspect of the book, for me, was the author’s personal life. Yes, it is a memoir, so I expected a good dose of Gilbert’s life to be in these pages. However, she comes off as self-obsessed after a while. I grew tired of her whining about how awful her divorce was (that would be the divorce she asked for) and how torn up she is that “David” and she can’t get along. As her travels progress, she moves beyond these emotional issues only to pick up other ones down the line. I get the feeling that Elizabeth Gilbert is a messy person–one who can’t help but immerse herself in drama wherever she goes.

I’m making EPL out to be a terrible book, which it is not, so let me talk about some of its many laudable aspects. Let me reiterate that Gilbert is a gifted author; she is obviously made to write. Her prose is always evocative, descriptive, and arranged well. She knows what she’s doing. Listening to her perform her own book is also a joy. She brings out all of the various accents of the friends she makes on her trip, from the Italian English spoken by Giovanni, to the Southern drawl of Richard from Texas, to the broken English of Ketut Liyer in Bali. It is a good choice for a book to listen to.

Reading EPL is an entrancing experience. Gilbert is eager and able to transport you to the places she goes, make you feel how she feels, and craft her experiences such that they are meaningful to all that hear about them. There is a lot of light and wisdom in this book. I was constantly being shown how close-minded I can be regarding other people–a hateful characteristic, indeed. The author is right about a lot of things: make space for God in your life, pursue things that are meaningful, friends can be found anywhere, and a happiness requires hard work. I profited a lot from this read.

Okay, let’s talk about selfishness. Apparently, Gilbert gets accused of being selfish a lot as a consequence of writing this book. After all, she breaks off her marriage and then spends pages complaining about how much it hurts. She then sends herself on a round-the-world journey doing things she wants to do and staying at places she wants to be in order to learn about…herself. This issue must be raised a lot because the author responds to it on her website. She argues that going on her journey was valuable because by becoming a better person, she is now less of a burden on those around her: “Saving my own life (through therapy, medication, prayer and–most of all–travel) was something I did for my own benefit, yes, but I can’t help but think that it was ultimately also a little bit of community service.” I like this idea, but I’m not entirely persuaded.

Overall, this is a good read, and I guess I’d recommend it; I definitely won’t tell people not to read it. I asked J if she’d listen through it again, and she said at least the first two sections (Italy and India) are worthy of more time; I agree. I’m not certain that I’d put myself through the entirety of emotional experience of this book again, though. 3.5 stars. And I definitely plan to eat at Pizzeria da Michele.

For those who want to know what I disliked so much about the finish of EPL, read on (SPOILERS AHEAD):Gilbert travels all over the place indulging and improving herself ; I bought into the validity of her pursuit of God and self-improvement until we get to the last section of the book where she decides to hook up with a rich Brazilian and try to live life on four continents. Worse, whom does she credit for her transformation and better life? Others? Her amazing opportunity most will never get? God? Nope, herself. She gives the ol’ “I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps” line, and trots off into the sunset. You wonder why I’m skeptical of the value of her spirituality? God grants her all kinds of grace and an unthinkable opportunity to go to these places and write this book, and she ends it by congratulating herself.

I was ready to gush about how great this book is. The self-focused ending made me re-evaluate the entire book.

One of the many interesting tidbits in Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir Eat, Pray, Love occurs in the first section while she’s in Italy. She loves Rome, but can’t figure out why she feels she doesn’t belong there. One of her Italian friends tells her a theory of his. He says every city has a one-word motto that describes it; it’s the word that most of the citizens are thinking about at any given moment. Rome’s word, he says, is sex. Gilbert feels that this explains her out-of-place feeling because she is avoiding romantic encounters at the moment. Then she muses about what words fit other towns. New York is achieve, she says, and Los Angeles’ word is succeed.*

This got J and me thinking. What words would we use to describe towns we knew? I thought long and hard about Denver, and the word I came up with was activity because that’s what people here care about most. Denverites ski, golf, hike, ski, camp, raft, ski, play sports, go drinking and ski. One never hangs out with people in Denver; one always must do something (I hate this fact, by the way). I asked J what she thought Denver’s word was, and she said–completely independently of me, mind you–active. I think we nailed that one.

After that, we thought about Cedar Rapids, IA, where we grew up. This was much harder for me, and I couldn’t think of anything. J suggested work, which I initially objected to. However, she pointed out that in CR, everyone views work as a necessity. If you don’t have a job in CR, people wonder what you’re doing.** Cedar Rapidians go to work, they come home and work on their houses, and their hobbies require work. All of which has made the wonderful citizens of CR durable, dependable and pragmatic people. Pragmatic was the second word J suggested for CR.

I really like the idea that one can understand any given place if one knows the mot juste. Like all abstract, metaphorical and fun ideas along the lines of this one, I’m not sure how important or valuable the perfect word theory is, but it made me wonder what other people would say about their towns. If you feel like it, I’d love to hear what word you’d use for your hometown and why.

*I apologize that I couldn’t use quotes in this section, but I have Gilbert’s book on CD only.

**This may have changed with the recent economic recession.

The topic of rereading has always been at the back of my mind in my pursuit of literature. The ongoing problem is that there are myriad books I haven’t yet read, and I feel that I ought to get to them in my short life. I suppose it’s akin to travel: do you return to your favorite spot year after year, or do you go somewhere else that everyone says is great? It’s not an easy question to answer. I read somewhere that C. S. Lewis alternated between reading new books and books he’d read previously. I decided to adopt his idea (for now anyway), and I began my rereading with Joseph Heller’s wonderful novel Catch-22, which I first read just after high school.

My memories of the book were vague. I remember thinking it was hilarious, especially at the beginning, but it became more tragic as it moved along. Upon rereading it, I found my memory to be both right and wrong. The absurdities that make the first half of the novel so humorous remain consistent throughout, but they take on a sinister nature as the book progresses. Things which seem harmless and are comical at first become dangerous in unforeseen ways. Heller shows the reader the intrinsic contradictions of life, which are sometimes laughable and sometimes horrifying, and the difference between the two isn’t as great as we like to think.

Catch-22 is a renowned anti-war novel. It tells the tale of Captain Yossarian, a bomber in World War II, who is terrified of dying and wants to get out of the war immediately. The problem is that Colonel Cathcart continuously raises the number of required flight missions, so Yossarian et al. are stuck. Heller is brilliant at exposing the ridiculous aspects of military life—the red tape (Yossarian has a dead man in his tent who “doesn’t exist” because he died before he could report for duty), the rivalries between superior officers (Cathcart, Col. Korn, Generals Dreedle and Peckem), and the opportunities for exploitation during war (Milo’s syndicate, in which everyone has a share) to name but a few. Heller also highlights the irrational nature of how we think of war, such as in this section of dialog between Nately and an old Italian:

‘There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war. Surely so many countries can’t all be worth dying for.

‘Anything worth living for,’ said Nately, ‘ is worth dying for.’

‘And anything worth dying for,’ answered the sacrilegious old man, ‘is certainly worth living for.’ (257)

It is fascinating how Nately’s cliche, used so often to defend war, is so easily turned on its head. One cannot really say either is more correct. It is this sort of thinking that Heller wants the reader to develop. I am glad, however, that the anti-war element in the novel does not take it over entirely. While I despise war (as every rational human should), I know that it will always exist (sorry, John Lennon) and in some cases must be waged.

The humor in the book is its crown jewel. Catch-22 is rarely as enjoyable as when the author is creating and exploring strange, illogical circumstances. I could give dozens of examples. Major Major refuses to let anyone see him unless he is not in is office:

‘What shall I say to the people who do come to see you while you’re here?’

‘Tell them I’m in and ask them to wait.’

‘Yes, sir. For how long.’

‘Until I’ve left.’ …

‘May I send them in to see you after you’ve left?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you won’t be here then, will you?’ (109)

Yossarian postpones the bombing mission to Bologna and fools his superior officers by moving the troop advancement line on a map past the target. The Chaplain is interrogated and convicted for a committing a crime about which he has no idea: “[W]hy would we be questioning you if you weren’t guilty?” (395). Col. Cathcart sends out sympathy letters to the families of his squadron: “Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or reported mission in action” (355). And there are endless throwaway lines, which may be my favorite aspect of the novel:

‘One hand washes the other. Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’

Yossarian knew what he meant.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Doc Daneeka said as Yossarian began scratching his back. (43)

The emotional power of the book develops slowly as the quirky characters begin to die, sometimes horrifically. There are several scenes that feature questioning of life and God. The “Eternal City” chapter features a despairing Yossarian wandering the streets of Rome and witnessing atrocity after atrocity: “The night was filled with horrors, and he thought he knew how Christ must have felt as he walked through the world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim through a prison full of thieves. What a welcome sight a leper must have been!” (425). The ability of Heller to balance the humorous with such poignancy demonstrates his efficacy as a writer.

The novel has its faults. The absurd humor and circular dialog that is so funny eventually wears on the reader, like hearing the same joke too often. The structure of the novel is somewhat choppy, as is typical of postmodern novels. Heller titles each of his chapters after a different character, and the book jumps all over in time and plot. I never felt lost, but the novel is unable to build up emotional momentum. The reader moves through the novel in a series of circles—almost like a plane circling over a landing strip. A lot is said, but not much happens. When big events do transpire, however, Heller drops them in casually and without warning, which I appreciate because sudden disasters are a horrible, inextricable part of war. The structural problems are overcome in part via several throughlines that Heller works into the story (Snowden’s death is especially well done), but it could have been better arranged.

All told, Catch-22 is a worthwhile and often funny read. It definitely deserves its spot in the Twentieth Century canon. I’m glad I reread it; I feel like it gave me a more complete and accurate understanding of the book, and there are several passages I was blessed to re-encounter, whether it was to laugh or contemplate. 4.5/5 stars.

It is no secret that the world and faith often conflict, and it is the same in the realm of literature. Many of the best books humanity has produced have parts in them that run counter to the will of God. Several are written to defy him. Others promote (or at least do not condemn) all sorts of sordid, injurious actions and mindsets. But in the midst of all this darkness, there is dazzling light to be found as well. Sometimes the author plunges her reader into the dark only to bring the reader back out. Plumbing the depths of humanity often brings understanding. All of this is to say that literature is complex and a mixed bag. Although there are passages and entire works that run contrary to the nature of God, it is my job as a Christian reader work out how to react to them.

While I’ve often thought about what a Christian’s relationship to literature should be, reading Lolita really returned the issue to the front of my mind. Just about every novel has characters in it who are guilty of vices (we all are), but Nabokov’s novel is uniquely challenging for me for two reasons. First, pedophilia is an especially revolting transgression; second, the novel is written from Humbert’s perspective, and he constantly tries to persuade the reader that what he did isn’t so bad. At times he is almost convincing. Moments like those made me consider putting down the novel, and I wondered again if there are certain books a Christian should avoid. If so, which? If not, how should the believer approach such books?

The relationship between morality and literature is far from a new issue. Samuel Johnson thought that all reading material ought to both delight and instruct, and much of literary scholarship incorporated that idea for a century or two. Now, of course, the literati glower at any mention of instruction being an important part of reading because it brings up other ugly words like “didacticism” and “close-mindedness.” Worse, it runs counter to the primary literary dogma of our time: it doesn’t encourage diversity! Why? Johnson’s idea is inherently linked with his very strict Protestant ethics, and that’s just not okay.

However, much is lost by repudiating Johnson’s rule entirely. I freely admit that all literature will not conform to Christian ideals; we would be foolish to expect otherwise. Indeed, Johnson’s scruples when it comes to literature are too much even for me (read Rambler 4 sometime). Still, if a book does not impart something to the reader, I submit that said book has failed at least in part. I like to read things just for fun, but if a work is to affect readers in this generation and those to come, it must have something profitable to impart.

Since I expect to find meaning in a critically acclaimed work, I do not read things without interacting with them. Myriad are the books that challenge our perspectives, beliefs, creeds, and observations, and I welcome those books. I should be challenged. I do not know everything. Some works, however, evoke a world or situation that goes too far for me. I try to read with a critical yet open mind regarding these books because I want to get something of value from them if possible, but I approach each read as a Christian, too.

For me, the debate surrounding my choices in reading secular literature* come down to two passages of Scripture. The first is the injunction one finds in Philippians 4:8 to think about things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy. That is quite a litany of adjectives. I highly doubt that most books I read measure up to that high standard, though every book I’ve read is at least a few of those things. On the other hand, there is 1 Thessalonians 5:21, which reads, “Test everything. Hold on to the good.” This verse has served as my motto in approaching literature. Adjusting a bit, I apply this verse as “Read everything. Hold on to what is good.” If I hear that a book is worth my while to imbibe, I read it, even if it runs counter to my faith. I suppose there are many believers out there who disapprove of this approach (some deplore it), but I have found that this approach has enormous benefits.

One of reading’s most important functions is its capability to expand one’s knowledge of life and permit one to see from another’s viewpoint. Many Christians today suffer from an inability to understand how nonbelievers interpret things. In fact, the increasing polarization of our culture is an enormous and growing threat to our society’s ability to communicate. We need to be able to step outside of ourselves and look at issues from as many sides as we can. This does not mean a Christian should abandon squi’s faith, but one must be willing to appraise what the other side believes, thinks and feels. Literature is a most effective means of drawing one out of one’s self and into the viewpoint of another. Frequently, readers see aspects of existence from a point of view entirely dissimilar to their own. Viewing life through the eyes of murderers, pedophiles, mad people, cheats, liars, adulterers, and all other sorts of scoundrels shows me their humanity. Are they so unlike me? Sure, the vices vary, but I have no leg to stand on if it comes to condemning them. The knowledge I’ve gained from reading these “immoral” books has been invaluable because it helps me better understand others.

The danger of entering into the (fictional) minds of these people is, of course, that one could get sucked in. It’s not a stupid concept. People looking to justify their actions often find vindication in literature (think of Hitler and Nietzsche, for example). I suppose this danger is one of the objections other Christians might raise to my approach to reading. Perhaps they’d allude to the “glove and puddle” concept as well: when you throw a white glove into a dirty puddle, the glove gets dirty—the puddle does not become clean. This odious example would have us believe that purity is inherently fragile, and all contact with the world should be avoided. Is this the gospel we’ve heard? It does not sound like setting your light on a stand so others can see. If Christ has overcome the world, why are so afraid of being tainted? Indeed, darkness flees from the light because it has to, and in Christ, there are many dirty puddles being purified.

Non-Christians reading this post may find it overwhelmingly naive and perhaps prudish. I know this because I’ve been in classes with extremely intelligent and good people who find nothing of worth in Christianity. Morality in literature is most certainly not a literary field of study right now; one would be laughed at if any such suggestion were made. That’s okay. I do not expect to change anyone’s mind regarding squi’s approach to reading. However, I will continue to read in the effort to balance my search for understanding with Christian principles. Dr. Johnson is too severe in his efforts to make literature entirely moral, but there’s something to be gleaned from his ideas yet. Literature ought to delight and instruct, and let the instruction come in as many forms as possible. 

*The reader is to understand that by no means do all works of literary merit take an aggressively anti-Christian stance. Often, the reverse is true; one finds that many books put forward Christian truths under other guises, whether the author knows it or not. This is one of the best reasons to read literature.

“I am trying to describe these things not to relive them in my present boundless misery, but to sort out the portion of hell and the portion of heaven in that strange, awful, maddening world–nymphet love” (135).

Not too long ago, I finished Vladimir Nabokov’s infamous novel Lolita, and I’m still sorting through my reactions to it. Perhaps more than any other book I’ve read, Lolita made a sharp divide between my moral self and my aesthetic self; the former aspect of the book is revolting, while the latter is beautiful. The novel brought the old literary argument back to the forefront of my mind: do books need to be moral to be worthwhile? This question is at the heart of my conflicted feelings toward Lolita.

In case you don’t know, Lolita is a novel about Humbert Humbert’s amorous relationship with the underage title character. Humbert is attracted to girls between the ages of 9 and 14 who have a certain je ne sais quois, whom he calls “nymphets.” He falls hard for Lolita and through a certain set of circumstances finds himself with sole guardianship over the girl. You can guess what happens next, and they go on a year-long trip around the country. Later on, the plot improves when Lolita escapes from Humbert’s grasp, and the reader tries to assemble the clues as to who her second abductor is. It’s almost a mystery story for that section.

Naturally, the ongoing statutory rape in the novel is repugnant, and several passages are enough to make me nauseous. Nabokov doesn’t write pornography (thankfully), but he is willing to push the boundaries. This puts him in the avant-garde category, but it also tests my willingness to tolerate the book. Sure, I’ve read dozens of books that feature immorality in them—in fact, just about all novels do. We’re human. We make big mistakes. Indeed, literature would be much the worse if sordid material did not exist in it. We need to understand our world, even its seamier side.

That said, Lolita is a lot to stomach. There is something especially heinous about raping an underage, helpless girl. Humbert’s sporadic descriptions of the events make it much worse. I will point out here that the bulk of the text is about what happens surrounding the relationship between Lo and Humbert, so one shouldn’t get the impression that sex is all the novel consists of. However, there are enough passages to make me consider dropping the book altogether, which I never do. It is exceedingly difficult to enjoy a book wherein the narrator is a person like Humbert.

In the midst of this darkness, though, the reader sees dazzling light from time to time. Nabokov provides relief through occasional moments of regret and self-loathing from Humbert. He is aware that this attraction to nymphets is a psychological illness, and that mitigates matters slightly. Of course, he should have fled, which he knows. The main source of enjoyment in the novel is Nabokov’s marvelous style. My back cover quotes Updike describing Nabokov’s writing as ecstatic, and I think that is well-put. In the mind of this twisted narrator, we soar to heights of grandeur and poetry and plummet into darkness and void. Perhaps my favorite passage comes on the penultimate page where Humbert is standing on a precipice hearing the voices of children rising up from the vale: “I stood there listening to that musical vibration from my lofty slope, to those flashes of separate cries with a kind of demure murmur for background, and then I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that concord” (308). Beautiful.

Now it’s time for some random thoughts. 1) This is yet another novel wherein I wished I knew French. Humbert is always tossing in random sentences en Francais. 2) The back of my edition quotes somebody from Vanity Fair (the magazine, not the book) as saying Lolita is “the only convincing love story of our century.” I’d like to find that person and punch squi in the teeth. That person is either entirely twisted or hasn’t read much. 3) It is important to read the foreword in this novel; it’s part of the story. As usual, I skipped it and read it at the end. That works too, but it isn’t ideal. 4) Don’t worry when Humbert says the reader should have guessed who Lo’s second “kidnapper” is; he hasn’t actually given you enough clues to know yet, but he thinks he has.

I’m not sure I recommend Lolita. It certainly is fascinating and had me pondering it days after I finished it. If that’s the mark of a great work, then Lolita is one. It’s certainly written masterfully. As I said, the child rape aspect of the book is at times unbearable. Decide for yourself whether it’s something you want to imbibe. If I had a daughter (especially in her early teens), this book would be much worse; I’d stay away.

We all knew it was bound to happen. With music and video going digital and becoming much  more computer friendly, books could not be far behind. Amazon introduced the world to the Kindle, and the new iPhone has a book downloading application. I have even heard of a campus that is considering moving all textbooks to electronic versions. All of these advances in technology are making reading much more convenient to consumers and, in many cases, cheaper. Who could possibly object to such a development? Me. Perhaps I’m in the minority, but I believe the proliferation of e-books is more curse than blessing.

Let me first admit the advantages that e-books have over traditional books, and there are many. E-books are the paragon of portable. Sure, novels, newspapers, and short works are easily carried in one’s bag, but textbooks and longer novels are supremely heavy and unpleasant to lug about. Also, owning a device like a Kindle makes one device capable of being any book. Don’t like your current reading material? Download another! I know my esteemed colleagues Jason and Kyle have been rallying for more electronic books, and publishers seem to be responding (albeit slowly).

Going along with portability, e-books are easy to hold while reading; this is not to be easily dismissed. Heavy books aren’t fun to wrestle with while reading. They’re too heavy for one hand, and the reader needs to constantly shift positions to be comfortable. E-books also have the potential to be much cheaper. With no ink, paper, cover, shipping or storing necessary, and electronic copy is far more affordable for both reader and publisher. I understand the appeal of electronic reading material, and I also am sure this trend will not abate any time soon. Like the music and the iPod, the marriage of convenience and availability will eventually be too much for the average reader.

However, even with all the above advantages, I much prefer regular, paper-and-ink books. One reason for that preference is technology overload. I spend a lot of my day dealing with electronics. I work on computers at both my jobs. At home, I spend too much time on my laptop (like, um, right now) and watching TV. My cell phone is with me everywhere. I don’t need more technology! It’s a delight and relief to hold something that doesn’t beep, ring, turn off or on, run out of batteries, break, get stolen due to its high cost, or have a screen. People can’t contact me via book. Books have no extra functions to distract me. They do only one thing: they have words on pages that wait to be read. They are quiet, patient and far more challenging when I actually engage them than any electronic thing I’ve ever encountered. I want to escape sometimes. I open a real book, and the technological world waits.

Secondly, books are wonderful things per se. I love the cover art of a book that entices me to open it. I love the title pages and the dedications. I like turning palpable pages using my fingers. The feel of a book is important to me: I seek smooth pages and covers that feel good in my hands. I even enjoy the weight of a book. Breakfast at Tiffany’s should not be as heavy as Moby-Dick; it feels false. I even enjoy the smell of a book, especially brand new ones and really old ones. A book is much much more than the words it contains—it has tremendous worth as an object, which the e-book fad completely discards. How many e-books are you going to put on your shelves at home? How many can you sell later if you wish? How many can you take an actual pen with actual ink and write on in your own handwriting?

I would also argue that the convenience of e-books, which is one of its greatest assets, is also a significant drawback. If you’re reading an e-book while on the subway and you tire of it, you fire up your browser and downloadanother or do something else. This enforces our repugnant cultural assumption that we can have anything we want now. One of the more valuable lessons of reading is persistence. Many of the best works don’t appeal to one immediately; one has to keep at it in order to profit from the experience. If I’m stuck with a book I don’t necessarily love, I’ll read it anyway, and usually I benefit from the experience.

By this point I probably sound like a curmudgeon. Perhaps I am. However, I do not advocate the abolition of e-books, just the prudent use of them. I think there are a great many areas of life where e-books would be quite useful and make more sense than regular books (expensive textbooks are a good example). However, I urge caution. We will lose more than most people realize if literature, like music, is swallowed up by the digital age. I hope you, like me, will continue buying actual books. If not, I’ll be glad to take them off your hands (if they’re good).

Did I mention that I like actual bookmarks, too?

It has been called the greatest novel ever written many times by folks more intelligent than I; how could I not read Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace? I saved it for myself as a reward for finishing grad school, which was funny to think about three months later when I was still reading it. I was in this epic tome from November 8, 2008 to February 18, 2009, and I read every one of the 1358 pages, which makes it the second longest book I’ve read to date (Les Mis is still #1). I suppose I’d be lying if I said I didn’t read it for the accomplishment, but that’s not the main reason I read it. I wanted to experience such a renowned novel for myself, and it was worth it!

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The primary achievement of W&P in my view is its scope: 15 years, multiple families, several dozen characters, and ever-shifting settings. Add to that a great deal of philosophy and the passages about Tolstoy’s opinion of history, and you’ve got a novel of unparalleled range. It would be easy for any author to stray into tangents with so much going on, and Tolstoy does from time to time. However, I always had the feeling that the tangents were the main point. Tolstoy manages to combine all these disparate elements into a cohesive whole. W&P is a showcase of an author’s unifying power of vision.

Now let’s break down the book into the two parts mentioned in the title, starting with war. Hemingway wrote that Tolstoy is the best at writing about war because he is able to show the broad picture and the individual struggles simultaneously. Borrowing movie terminology, Tolstoy has an amazing ability to zoom in and out on the battles. The reader sees what’s happening to the left flank and the position of all the troops and then squi’s is in the middle of the action with one of the characters with bullets whizzing past. The battles in the book are the Napoleonic wars of the early 1800s when the infamous Frenchman led his troops to Moscow only to be turned back (not a spoiler: check your history books). Napoleon is a fascinating character, but naturally Tolstoy is sympathetic to his Russians. His portrayal of their leaders, especially Kutuzov, is quite intriguing.

The peace sections take up two-thirds of the book, and they’re usually as compelling as the war parts. Unlike many male authors, Tolstoy is quite capable of portraying depth of emotion and exciting action. His female characters are among the best women written by a man that I’ve ever read—better than Flaubert. There is no condescension; the ladies in the book matter as does the way they live. There are many scenes of Russian high society and the accompanying back-stabbing and joy. Families in Tolstoy are also important, and the author spends plenty of time lingering on the inner-workings of a household.

The best part of the titular dual dynamic of the book title is that one is never bored. Just as I grew weary of hearing about corpses, battle schemes, and marching I was swept back into the busy households of St. Petersburg and Moscow. And when all the societal pressures and complicated relationships were beginning to bore me, I was back at the front lines.

As I indicated earlier, Tolstoy writes complex and believable characters. Not all of them are that way (the book would be even longer if so), but all the main characters are well-drawn and interesting. The reader doesn’t like all of them, but they are never poorly written. Interestingly, there are few characters that I loved if any. Usually, one picks out one or two folks to follow and root for, but I spent a lot of time forming my opinion of the characters. Is Andrey noble or cold-hearted? Is Natasha foolish or enchanting? Is Pierre a bumbling jerk or a philosophical seeker? Is Marya severe or pious? Tolstoy never lets his characters be simple, which is the best way because we are all complicated and have both positive and negative attributes. I ended up like Lise, Pierre and Natasha the best.

The book’s biggest weakness is Tolstoy’s occasional tendency to preach about history. There are several chapters about how historians view the Napoleonic wars and/or history in general and the errors they continually make. Basically, Tolstoy believes that enormous historical events (like that particular war) are never brought about by the will of a few people in power; there are countless causes for every event. He essentially advocates the view that history is always subject to the forces of necessity/destiny. I could go on, but my point is that Tolstoy goes on too long about this. I definitely knew what his opinions are by the time I got to the end; I did not need a long epilogue to further explore the issue! End the book, buddy.

Lastly, I’d like to sing the praises of the edition of W&P that I read. I read the Penguin Classics version (pictured above) that is translated by Anthony Briggs. Briggs’ translation is superb. The novel is always readable and never awkward. His phrasing and diction are excellent. In his brief note on translation, he writes that he wanted to strike a balance between fidelity to the text and accessibility; mission accomplished. Bravo! If that weren’t enough, this volume has very useful end notes, maps, chapter summaries (if you forget what’s happening), and—best of all—a character list! Why don’t all long books have a character list? Do you know how helpful that is? If I forget so-and-so who was mentioned 250 pages ago, I simply turn to the back. Publishers of the world, pick up this volume and take note. Oh, and it costs only $18.

All told, War and Peace is the peerless epic it is made out to be. Did I enjoy every page? Certainly not. However, the experience was definitely worth it. It is a type of novel that probably will never be written again–at least not soon. The scenes, characters, emotional depth, philosophical exploration, historical perspective, and unimaginable scope make War and Peace an undeniable masterpiece.

I am in the process of finishing of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and I have been in that process since November. It is a tome, and frequently when people see me lugging it around, they say, “You’re reading that?” When I say yes, they congratulate me, which I find somewhat odd. I’m reading a long book not winning a gold medal. I believe they are reacting to my efforts to take on a book of such intimidating length, but long books don’t have to be scary. You simply need a different approach to reading them.

Whenever I sit down to read a book of average length, say somewhere around 300 pages, my strategy is to attack it and get through it. Usually, this is fairly easily done, especially when the book is engaging. After a mere fifty pages, I can tell myself I’m 1/6 of the way to the end; when I reach triple digit pages, I have only 2/3 remaining. A relatively small amount of reading yields an accurate and lovely feeling of progress. By voraciously reading, I can enjoy the book and finish it without exhausting myself. This is an excellent approach to have for the vast majority of books.

However, when I take on longer books, the above strategy yields disaster. I read the same amount of pages, but I feel that I’ve gotten nowhere. If my book is 1000 pages, fifty pages is nothing, and 100 pages is a mere 1/10! Worst of all, the amount of pages remaining in my right hand seems undiminished. If I react by reading even more furiously in an attempt to get through the book, I don’t enjoy reading (my attention is on my progress, not the book) and I get exhausted. Using this method, it becomes all-too-easy to discard the book and pick up something shorter.

If you want to read long books, many of which are world famous and superb, you need a different approach. First, and most importantly, take your time. If you feel like reading a lot, go for it; if not, put it down without chastising yourself. The book will be there for you later. When you give yourself permission to read at the pace you want, you’ll find that reading that tome is enjoyable again. This step was hard for me to adopt because I like closure and the rush of finishing books; worse, I chastise myself when I “give up” on something.

Secondly, try not to look at the page numbers. You’ve got 1000 pages. What difference does it make if you’re on page 126 or 804? Your aim is to get into the book as much as possible. After all, the content is why you’re reading this heavy volume, right? Let the story absorb you; put it down when it does not. Yes, I know you’ll look at the page numbers still, but the less you do so, the better.

I also recommend reading another book (or several) while you read the monstrous volume. If you force yourself to inhabit the world of the heavy book exclusively, you will feel trapped when you can’t get out of it in a short period of time. Grab something else–something unrelated, shorter, and lighter (both literally and figuratively)–and read it when you don’t want to read your long book. At first, I thought it would be confusing to switch back and forth between books, but it’s actually a relief. Your mind will remember where you are in the epic tome; if not, skim the last chapter. Reading several books simultaneously results in the wonderful phenomenon of having ideas echo each other and/or merge. I am always surprised at how seemingly-unrelated texts often combine to form fascinating ideas. Plus, it’s fun to say, “Oh yeah, that book! I finished it while reading Moby-Dick.” 

Unfortunately, there are times when you cannot take your time with large texts. This usually occurs in the classroom setting. As an aspiring professor, I can already see that it will be difficult to balance excellent and long books with realistic expectations of how much students can read in a set amount of time. Whenever this happens, you just have to do your best. If that means skipping ahead or not finishing, so be it.

Hopefully this advice will be useful to you in your literary pursuits. Of course, every reader is unique, and the only way to know yourself better as a reader is to read. It took me several years to learn the above lessons for myself. I read Ulysses, Moby-Dick, Clarel, Les Miserables, and The Portrait of a Lady (and gave up on Middlemarch) using the wrong method, and the books suffered as a result. I took my time with Crime and Punishment, The Iliad, David Copperfield, and now War and Peace and enjoyed the experience much more.

The longer the book, the more important it is that you follow the above steps. There is a lot of amazing literature out there that is length-prohibitive for many people; if you want to read them, just take your time, ignore the page numbers, and read other books. You’ll find it’s not as difficult as it looks.

J and I recently finished Jane Austen’s celebrated novel Emma, which J had been through before and I had not. J’s an aficionado of the author, and I wanted to read more of  Austen after experiencing Pride and Prejudice a year or two ago, which is a masterpiece. The novel is definitely good reading, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as P&P.

The plot of the book, which you probably already know, follows the title character’s misadventures in match-making. Unlike P&P, which features several characters that one follows, Emma is the heart of this book and its only main character. True, there is the panoply of characters one expects in an Austen novel, but they exist always in relationship to Emma. Thus, one likes novel in proportion to how much squi likes its protagonist. At first, I found her to be immature and annoying; toward the end, she mends her ways, and the book achieves the emotional depth one expects from a great novelist. Since this book is somewhat of a bildungsroman, one should expect a progression in its protagonist, but early Emma didn’t interest me much, I’m afraid.

Admittedly, my reading of the book was hurt by the manner in which I read it. For a while, I read only a chapter or half a chapter to J before we went to sleep. This is a bad approach if a novel seeks to slowly develop emotion. I read it too sporadically to feel its swell. However, when J read it to me on the way back from Iowa, I got a better sense of the novel’s development of character, and I liked it much more. I recommend you read this one in large chunks rather than small bits.

I was slightly disappointed that there aren’t more comedic characters in Emma. P&P had me laughing aloud frequently, but the folks in this one aren’t as funny. Sure, Mr. Woodhouse’s extreme paranoia about people getting ill and his dislike of marriage bring a chuckle or two. I did enjoy Mrs. Elton from time to time, as she is a character one loves to loathe. Miss Bates is the funniest of them all with her ceaseless chatter; one cannot help but read breathlessly when her speeches come around! However, there was no foolish Mr. Collins nor a witty Mr. Bennett for me to enjoy. Again, I think I would have experienced more to laugh at had I read the book differently. Still, I wanted more humor.

One of the book’s most redeeming aspects, aside from Austen’s ever-elegant style and her depth of emotion, is Mr. Knightley. He is too aloof to fully enjoy, but he is an excellent man. One cannot help but admire him. His insights are always on-point, and his judgment balances his heart perfectly. The story improves whenever he makes an appearance. I think he is the match of Mr. Darcy at every point and perhaps his superior.

I read Jane Austen for her style, characters, comedy, and her amazing ability to elicit emotional profundity. These aspects of the books must be my focus as I already know the end of the plot before opening the cover. If she can throw me a plot twist, so much the better, but Austen is all about understanding and everyday people. Even though the novel isn’t as funny as I hoped, its characters are not quite as diverting, and the ending drags, the good attributes of Emma outweigh its weaknesses. It’s an enjoyable novel overall (especially toward the end), and it’s worthy of a read, perhaps two.