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Books that made me

(Since I highly doubt that The Guardian will ever feature me in their Books that made me series, I have borrowed their template and interviewed myself.)

The book I am currently reading
Ben Katchor’s graphic novel Julius Knipl: Real Estate Photographer, for what I believe is the third time. During trying times like these, I find myself turning back to old favorites like Katchor and his alter ego Knipl.

The book that changed my life
Probably Division Street: America, by Studs Terkel, the first book of his that I read (with many others following later). Terkel treated his oral history subjects with such fairness and empathy, even those that he clearly didn’t agree with. In meticulously exploring the everyday lives of his subjects, he taught me to be curious about the people around me, something that doesn’t come naturally to an introvert like myself.

The book I wish I’d written
Anything from Nelson Algren at his 1942-51 peak (never mind the rest of his lamentable career), or anything that Kent Haruf ever wrote. See below.

The book that had the greatest influence on my writing
I’m tempted to name any one of three or four books by Algren, my literary hero, but my writing has none of the dark humor or grit of his great early work. Instead I think it has to be Haruf’s Plainsong, or, really, any of his novels. The way he conjured up, over the course of those six novels, the fictional small town of Holt, Colorado and its struggling but optimistic people leaves me in envious awe. In my fiction, I find myself endlessly trying to write the story of Midwestern small towns that inevitably pale in comparison to Holt.

The book that is most underrated
I guess “underrated” can mean the same thing as “unknown”, so I’ll go with Ander Monson’s idiosyncratic and quietly devastating novel-in-stories, Other Electricities. The book got a fair amount of indie buzz when it came out in 2005, but seems somewhat invisible now, which is a shame. It’s a truly beautiful book.

The book that changed my mind
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown. I’m a proud University of Illinois alumnus who once truly revered the school’s former symbol, Chief Illiniwek (which wasn’t overtly racist, but still a simplistic stereotype). Of course I knew that Native Americans had long been exploited by white settlers hungry for land and westward expansion, but until I read Brown’s book I had no idea how severe that exploitation was (enough so that “exploitation” is too mild of a term), and how much white people like me owe Native Americans. No longer supporting Chief Illiniwek  was the very least I could do. The school stopped using Illiniwek several years ago, and I don’t miss it at all.

The last book that made me cry
The Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank. My then-high schooler daughter admonished me a few years ago for not having read the book. Of course I was indirectly familiar with Anne’s life, as I suspect most literary-minded people over the age of twenty are, but for some reason I had never read it. (My high school seemed to have bypassed most of the near-standard texts that are required reading for most other high schoolers.) Even though I knew her fate beforehand, reading the book still brought this stoic to tears.

The last book that made me laugh
I don’t read many comic novels, so this goes back a few years, but I clearly remember laughing my ass off while reading Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis - especially the epic morning-after, hangover-from-hell scene. Which always makes me think of the Beat Farmers’ song “Lost Weekend” (“I wish somebody’d tell me/Just who or what I did/Why’s this ring on my finger/And who’s that screaming kid?”)

The book I couldn’t finish
I usually approach new books warily, trying to get a feel for what they’re all about, and whether I'll like them or not, so once I finally start a book it’s very rare that I fail to finish. But something about Brendan Behan’s Borstal Boy just didn’t connect with me at all. I stopped reading it recently after finishing the first section, in order to move on to another book that I was eagerly anticipating, and probably won’t ever return.

The book I’m most ashamed not to have read
Nothing really comes to mind. Every year I observe my Summer of Classics, when I read nothing but classics that I somehow missed during my younger years. Sometimes the result has been earthshaking (1984, The Grapes of Wrath), but just as often the result has been “Meh.” There have been enough of the latter that I no longer worry if I haven’t read a book that everyone says is great.

The book I give as a gift
Where do I even start? I give books almost exclusively as Christmas gifts to my family. I like to think they appreciate the books I give them, but if they don't, being Midwestern Swedes, they’re too polite to say so. One year I gave everyone a copy of Haruf’s Our Souls at Night, his final, perfect novel. Other than that, the book I’ve probably given more than any other is Knut Hamsun’s brilliant Hunger, my favorite book.

The book I’d most like to be remembered for
I’m tempted to evoke Frank Lloyd Wright, who when once asked what he thought was his favorite work, replied, “Oh, my dear boy. Why, the next one, of course.” But with my pitiable lack of productivity, I’m not sure there will ever be a next book. So instead I’ll say Wheatyard, my debut novel. If I never publish another book, I’ll be happy with my writing career, because I’m so thoroughly proud of that one.

My earliest reading memory
A baseball card of Ken Hubbs, former infielder for the Chicago Cubs. Hubbs died in a plane crash early in his promising career, and Topps issued a special In Memoriam card in his honor. Not reading yet, I asked my older brother and sister to read me the text from the back of the card so many times that one of them finally got fed up and said, “Why don’t you read it yourself?” I went off and tried to do just that, and eventually succeeded. I was three or four years old at the time.

My comfort read
I don’t re-read the Sherlock Holmes stories nearly as much as I should, but since I first read them as a child they’ve never been far from my mind. The brilliant intellect of Holmes, the infinite patience of Watson, the foggy, grimy London streets (oh, to have been a Baker Street Irregular!), the thrilling plots, the denouement that somehow never feels over-explained. I know that Holmes will always be on my shelf waiting for me, when I need him.

May 2, 2020 in Books, Personal | Permalink

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