“So many books, so little time.”
You have, no doubt, heard the expression. In my case, I chose to carve out time for books, as explained in my introduction. But still, there was neither time nor space for all the world’s great short books.
Sorry: Alvarez, Bellow, Cather, Dos Passos. Sorry, Ellison, Forster, Gide, Himes, James—Henry and P.D.—Kafka, Wilde, and Wilder.
These are but a few of the worthy authors whose books were long-listed for this compendium. I could easily go through the alphabet more than once: Austen, Brönte (all three), Cheever, et alia. You get the picture. Extraordinary writers were left out. Many remain stacked high on my desk’s “TBR” (To-Be-Read) pile.
There is an entire galaxy of great short books still to be explored. Aren’t you lucky?
To reduce this compendium to fifty-eight great short books, I read—or, in some cases, started—many others. But rules are rules. First, I honored my page-length standard, which knocked out a large number of great novels. Short story collections also did not count. Next, I was guided by my ambition to read work that was new to me rather than just sticking with the familiar canon.
But that meant forgoing some of my most-admired writers: Louise Erdrich, Patricia Highsmith, Jhumpa Lahiri, Salman Rushdie, José Saramago, and John Steinbeck among them. I also left out The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, whose author, John le Carré, passed away late in 2020. Another favorite, he was by no means just a “spy novelist.”
Also omitted were short works by important writers that I felt don’t quite measure up. That was the case with William Faulkner, perhaps the most obvious absence in this collection. Initially, I planned to include The Bear, a coming-of-age tale told through a hunt for a legendary bear—a landlocked version of Moby-Dick. But The Bear is more appropriately read with the stories comprising the novel Go Down, Moses. By all means, read Faulkner.
In fact, don’t stop here. This guide is about inspiring more reading. So, to playfully paraphrase the old saying about voting in Chicago, “read early and often!”
I had also pledged that I would not read out of duty. This project emerged from arguing the indispensable, intrinsic value of the pleasure of reading. So, in my search for great reading, there were a few false starts. I must confess I did set aside, among others, Thornton Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey and Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? I plan to revisit them.
Perhaps the thorniest question I faced surrounds the debate over reckoning with writers whose work has fallen from favor in light of changing conventions, a question raised in the entry on Kate Chopin’s Awakening. Racism, anti-Semitism, sexism, and other “isms” represent views no longer acceptable, thanks to decades of social progress. How, then, do we deal with writers—many of them dead and unable to respond—whose attitudes about race, gender, and sexual identity are no longer deemed tolerable?
Some modern readers and critics have applied such a judgment to Ernest Hemingway, whose racism and anti-Semitism were explored in the Hemingway entry. Joseph Conrad is a writer of elegance and insight. But his novels are now viewed by many critics and scholars as unacceptably racist, as discussed in the entry on Chinua Achebe. In a later essay Achebe wrote, “The writer cannot expect to be excused from the task of reeducation and regeneration that must be done.” But do we relegate Hemingway and Conrad to the literary dustbin? Or do we still read them with new critical eyes?
From Voltaire to Kate Chopin, James Joyce, and James M. Cain—and Toni Morrison in our time—writers considered “offensive” have been suppressed by civil and religious authorities. Throughout my career as a writer and as an individual, I have argued forcefully for intellectual freedom, literary license, and the right to expression. I am loath to tell anyone what not to read.
That said, I will single out one title that I initially thought was a shoo-in for this collection, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But first, another confession. I had never read Truman Capote’s novella that made an icon of Holly Golightly. Nor, like George Costanza of Seinfeld, had I ever seen the movie in which Audrey Hepburn was immortalized as Capote’s beloved courtesan. I was taken aback, then, by Holly Golightly’s vulgar racism and homophobic utterances. By all means read it if you choose. But it is not on my list of great short books.
Nor are any works by Georges Simenon, whose detective novels feature Inspector Maigret. Among the most prolific novelists of the twentieth century, Simenon has been celebrated as a singular writer of mysteries. But I was unimpressed by my choice of Maigret at Picratt’s. Neither psychologically insightful nor intriguing, it also suffered from dated, derogatory references to gay men in the Parisian demimonde. That book crossed a line for me. It is a line that each of us must draw for ourselves based on what we may deem ugly and gratuitous. I may try another of Simenon’s hundreds of novels.
While these works of Capote and Simenon were regrettable surprises, most of my reading experiences were far more satisfying. Certainly, to re-encounter a familiar book from many years ago—The Red Badge of Courage and Waiting for the Barbarians come to mind—provided the pleasurable surprise of reading something old and wonderful with different eyes.
I first read Crane’s Civil War masterpiece before my own attitudes about war were reshaped by Vietnam (and, since then, by a great many other senseless, unnecessary wars). The notions of duty, honor, bravery, and service I may have felt as the young son of a World War II veteran read very differently now.
Many years ago, Coetzee’s fantastical tale of the Magistrate confronting Colonel Joll and his remarkable eyeglasses had to be viewed in light of South Africa’s apartheid policies. Returning to this brilliant work now, I see it in much broader strokes as an indictment of soulless authoritarianism that carries a warning that is both timely and timeless.
The point is we grow up, changing as people and readers, bringing new perspectives to old ideas. We may have experienced some of the crises faced by characters in these novels—becoming parents, losing a lover, indulging in an affair, or catching a very large fish. As we view these stories from altered vantage points, our sympathies may shift. Our insights may deepen. It is the natural process of becoming older—hopefully wiser—and questioning some of the assumptions and values we once held. Revisiting a familiar book permits us to see something we may have missed the first time. And, of course, the times change, so books that held some specific meaning fifty years ago may resonate very differently today.
But for me, the best surprise by far in compiling this book was the delight of discovering extraordinary writers for the first time and knowing there is more of their exceptional work still to be read. In this category, I would place Edna O’Brien, Colson Whitehead, and Nella Larsen. With O’Brien and Whitehead, I enjoyed becoming familiar with novelists whose fiction has garnered richly deserved praise and attention. In Larsen’s case, it was the wonder of encountering a writer whose work was woefully lost to the literary world for too long but whose historical and social relevance is completely of the moment.
In my year of reading briefly, I also learned something that bears mention—something rather astonishing. Reading can help you live longer. Yes, you read that right. According to a report on a 2016 Yale study, “Bookworms live longer.” How much longer? The Yale researchers reported, “Book readers averaged a two-year longer life span than those who did not read at all.” So, in addition to providing you with a year of great reading, I may be helping give you two more years to read.
Additional longevity or not, this seems to confirm what I suspected all along. But it is worth repeating. Reading is its own best reward, both psychologically and spiritually. The lifelong learner may find a richer, deeper sense of fulfillment in life, especially in a moment when it feels in such short supply.
Happily, I can report that has been true for me. In a year of remarkable stress over health, disconnection from family, and political upheaval, my year of reading briefly provided some of what one of the Yale researchers called the “survival advantage.” It taught me that being absorbed in a book does provide a balm to the soul and psyche. And it helps create empathy. These novels allowed me to examine anew the world and my life, as well as exploring those of others. And if the world needs anything now, it is empathy and understanding. But something more as well.
Although fallen from favor, Joseph Conrad wrote compellingly of the role of the writer as artist in an 1897 essay:
My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see. That—and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your desserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm—all you demand; and perhaps also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.
So, I hope, Gentle Reader, that you have found in this collection all these things: encouragement, consolation, fear, and charm—and, most important, a glimpse of truth.
Of course, these are the views of one “Common Reader.” I am certain that someone else might propose a different canon. But that brings me back to my starting point. Yes, there are so many books—great short books. But you can choose your own adventure.
Make time to read them all.