The "read all of the classics of literature" goal I set for myself at age 15 is essentially done. There are some holes and Italy remains a weak spot. Herodotus, Lucretius, Chaucer, The Scarlet Letter, and a general recognition that I should be more familiar with pre-1900 English poetry, a thing I am absolutely not going to get on right away. I have read only two of the four classic William Faulkner novels and 1.5 of the classic three by Edith Wharton, but these are nits. There is still more to read, but nothing truly embarrassing.
For a long time my reading was dominated my themes or tastes--reading through modern Spanish-language literature, modern Japanese literature, that weird period where I realized I hadn't read a book by a white English-speaking man for six months and then just ran it out for another year. The four-five-six book system makes things a little more intentional and methodical. Thus I have been working through German and Austrian literature for over a year or so. There's been a lot of coverage but not a lot I really love, though a lot of it comes close.
A distinct Spanish-language phase that ran from 2009-2015 or so. Soldiers of Salamis easily the best of this group. A general distaste for El Boom: I did not entirely enjoy Vargas Llosa, Cortazar or Garcia Marquez (or Allende), or enjoyed them in the way I enjoy Thomas Mann: obvious genius and skill that does not speak to me personally usually through too thorough commitment to the scheme. Spanish-language poetry a tough field; Mexican poetry tends to do pretty well in translation, but whatever it is in Ruben Dario, Cesar Vallejo, Pablo Neruda et al is lost on me. All minor Spanish-language writers are great, however; regardless of genre, their books punch at or above their weight no matter length or complexity, and you are like as not to find a work of real genius. (I don't even like the genre of Our Share of Night but it doesn't even matter, the book was great.)
The Spanish phase was replaced by Japanese literature with A True Novel, which everyone compared to Wuthering Heights but to me felt more like A Hero of Our Time. From there to Natsume Soseki, especially I Am A Cat but all others. Haiku was, alas, not as much of a hit as I wanted. We eventually ended up in feminist postwar fiction and genre, especially crime (especially especially feminist crime, a fascinating genre, go read Out). Breasts and Eggs. Territory of Light. Another high-value literature, but very slow in translation, especially since there is somewhat lighter fare that sells better and gets translated more readily.
Which I suppose leaves German-language literature as the current phase. I continue to read it because I do see something of myself and the more esoteric ways of my family in it, but I have to admit there's not really any classics here. Anniversaries is closest, but it's still hard to disentangle how I feel about it from the year of my life I spent reading it. Post-reunification literature has not entirely made it past Die Wende, and I suppose I can't blame them: it must've been awesome to be young in Berlin in, say, 1992. (It was not awesome to be young in Michigan in 1992, but I didn't expect it to be, so.) 20th century German literature has an obvious central gravitational pull, and though my appetite for exile-or-staying-or-surviving-or-thriving is higher than average, a lot of these works have narrative problems because events are what they are: you will probably not escape. If you do escape, you will probably have a bad time. If you stay, you will absolutely have a bad time, even if you never lifted a finger to help the Nazis.
Classical German literature is also a bit of an issue: there's Goethe and then a bunch of dramatists and poets. The poets work in what feels to me like a high classical and romantic metier that is difficult to read at any length (I am having the same problem with Milton and Paradise Lost at this exact moment.) Goethe is weird and interesting, though it was disappointing to learn that he was, charitably, and even by the standards of the time, a dirtbag, not unlike my hated Rousseau.
I ran through British 20th century literature for quite awhile--Powell a particular favorite, and Elizabeth Taylor still; Pym did not interest me enough to try more; Elizabeth Bowen did, but I foundered on the (excellent) short stories. The Transit of Venus and especially The Great Fire were and remain favorites. Everything Persephone Books publishes is worth it, and the care they put into their editions is amazing, but the cost eventually became prohibitive. Heat Lightning and The Shuttle and The Fortnight in September, the best beach book ever. Girl, Woman, Other. It remains a reliable source of perfectly solid novels of all kinds.
Lagos and Nigeria ran hot for a few years, but it was hard to get a reliable read on what was really good coming out of Western Africa, a sort of version of the Japan problem.
And America, well... it has become clear to me that modernism and romanticism and the sheer dreaminess of the American Dream touched something in American letters from Whitman through World War I, but by the time Hemingway converted to Catholicism, it was over, and never to return. My Átonia and An American Tragedy are unspeakably beautiful. Modern, post-1990 literature is fine and sometimes great, but I wouldn't hang my hat on it.
I may have come around on LeGuin, but I won't be reading Earthsea. Philip K. Dick works best as a treatment writer for movie premises. Pynchon is very weird, and not in a good way.
I like Sally Rooney's novels.
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