Your 7 favorite novels of all time (1 Viewer)

[timschochet]

I am just adding a couple:

The Firm

Pillars of the Earth

If you like Pillars, have you tried World Without End? I actually think its even better.

Yes. I read World. They were both great. I have finished the first 2 of Follets century books as well. Hoping the last book of that trilogy is out this year. The century books were good but not as good as Pillars.

Yeah the century books were a bit of a disappointment for me too. They were fine but I was hoping for do much more. For me, Follett's 3 best books are World, Pillars, and A Dangerous Fortune.

 

[Ditkaless Wonders]

Tropic of Cancer

Lord of the Rings Trilogy

Dune Series

Lonesome Dove

Lord of Light - Roger Zelazny

Foundation Trilogy

The Illiad

 

[FUBAR]

Warning - Skiffy Nerd :

Dune - Frank Herbert

Inherit the Stars - James Hogan

The Shadow of the Lion - Mercedes Lackey et al.

Emergence - David Palmer

Ender's Game - Orson Card

Midnight at the Well of Souls - Jack Chalker

Anything by Heinlein

...and tons of other stuff, mostly series - 1632 series by Flint, MYTH books by Asprin, Dragonrider series by McCaffrey, Elenium series by Eddings, Conrad series by Frankowski, Kencyr series by Hodgell, Keeper series by Huff, Troy Rising series by Ringo, Callahan's books by Robinson, Boundry series by Spoor, stuff by Ing, Crichton, Clancy, Cussler - geez, I have and read too darn many books.

Val

Love Ender's game but never considered it a novel.

Possibly because Card wrote it more than once - it was originally a short story (Analog, 1977) that was expanded to novel length which won the Hugo for best novel in 1986. He's since released updated versions to reflect things like the fall of the Soviet Union.

It could just be my poor understanding of what a novel is. I always think of higher fiction, EG is along the same lines as Harry Potter, except shorter

 

[FattyVM]

Ender's Game

The Name of the Wind

The Blinding Knife

American Gods

The Magicians

The Lord of the Rings

Honorable Mentions: Storm of Swords, The Novice, Rainbow Six

 

[sports_fan]

In no particular order (numbered so I stop at se7en) -

1. The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner

2. Light in August, Faulkner

3. Americana, Delillo

4. V., Pynchon

5. Madame Bovary, Flaubert

6. Lolita, Nabokov

7. Swann's Way, Proust (or if you want to be a stickler for the category, "novel," then the whole mofo Remembrance of Things Past)

I know Ulysses should be up there somewhere, but to my shame, I haven't read it yet. Every time I start it screws up my own writing. Within a page I suddenly realize I'm imitating Joyce and just can't stop. So I stop reading Joyce.

ETA: Just realized I've read each of these at least twice, and some several times (Americana, Sound & Fury, Light in August). The only one I read once is Bovary, and I'm teaching it this fall so that'll be remedied. Look at me. I read big books. :flex:

my guess is I could maybe make it through 50 pages of one of those books. my mind just cant handle it.

They're crack to my mind. I actually read passages of The Sound and the Fury on my ipod's Kindle ap between sets at the gym. This is book nerd level 11, for sure.

I sort of wish I was more into great literature. I push myself with movies and try to read a bit of non fiction, so when I get around to a novel I go a little more for entertainment.

I've found the best way to approach challenging literature is to not pressure yourself to read for hours on end or 20+ pages at a time. My only rule when I'm actively reading a book is to read 1 page a day. Pick it up and read 1 page. If after 1 page you don't want to read anymore then put it down and try again later. No tricks or mind games. If you want to stop then stop.

Usually you'll end up reading more. A piece of dialogue, a particular setting or event will pull you in and you won't want to stop. Some days you'll have a headache or you're too tired or you just don't have time and you'll stop after that 1 page. That's fine. Just read that 1 page. It will keep the story fresh in your mind and you'll find yourself thinking about it after you've put the book down.

If you keep slowly chipping away at it eventually you'll finish the book (probably quicker than you would've thought) it's impossible not to.

 

[skol asylum]

None

I have not read this....can I get it through amazon?

Nope. Only one copy was ever written and im not sharing.

 

[pantagrapher]

In no particular order (numbered so I stop at se7en) -

1. The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner

2. Light in August, Faulkner

3. Americana, Delillo

4. V., Pynchon

5. Madame Bovary, Flaubert

6. Lolita, Nabokov

7. Swann's Way, Proust (or if you want to be a stickler for the category, "novel," then the whole mofo Remembrance of Things Past)

I know Ulysses should be up there somewhere, but to my shame, I haven't read it yet. Every time I start it screws up my own writing. Within a page I suddenly realize I'm imitating Joyce and just can't stop. So I stop reading Joyce.

ETA: Just realized I've read each of these at least twice, and some several times (Americana, Sound & Fury, Light in August). The only one I read once is Bovary, and I'm teaching it this fall so that'll be remedied. Look at me. I read big books. :flex:

Swann's Way is definitely my favorite of the first six volumes, but Time Regained blew me away like no other.

If this was top 8 novels, Madame Bovary would have made my list.

 

[Ilov80s]

Okay, novels. I love political dystopias, for some reason. And masculinity and its powerlessness. These are the ones that come to mind.

1984 - Orwell

The Sun Also Rises - Hemingway

Infinite Jest - Wallace

Tender Is The Night - Fitzgerald

Light Years - James Salter

Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

Notes From Underground - Dostoyevsky

Thanks for reminding me to read Confederacy. It's been on my list for awhile and I keep overlooking it.

Highly overrated, IMO. Is it just me, or is humor in novel form like the toughest art form to nail? I guess humor is just so highly subjective that one man's classic (or many men's) like Confederacy is another man's meh (Herb)Also, my list is embarrassing. I need to read some more classic fiction, I guess. It's just that so much of it seems so... daunting.

I keep coming back to Infinite Jest in the bookstore but it scares me away every time...

How does Confederacy compare to Catch 22? I agree humor in a novel is difficult, but I also think Catch 22 is the ultimate funny.,

Catch 22 was the longest slog of a novel I've ever been through. I had 2 close friends recommend it to me, one of whom considers it her favorite novel ever. I laughed a couple of times, but mostly hated it. I liked Confederacy WAY more than Catch 22.I love stand-up, funny movies and shows and can frequently find humor in those formats that others don't.

My novel funny-bone is just broken. Fear and Loathing in LV and I Love You Beth Cooper are about the only books I've read in my adulthood that actually made me laugh out loud. And Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson, which I just finished. That dude is funny, although his novels certainly aren't comedy.

Catch-22's comedy was based upon almost exactly two or three pretty elementary language "tricks." Mostly having to do with simple juxtaposition of opposites. If they didn't tickle your funny bone on the first page, there wasn't going to be a lot of comedy in store for you there. The language hijinx have always made the philosophy underpinning the whole look a little comedic at first blush, but its absurdism is really pretty dire if you don't get on board with the funny.It also makes Heller pretty easy to rip off. See, more recently, And Then We Came to the End. Josh Ferris ought to be paying royalties to the Heller estate.

I liked Catch-22 enough to pick up Heller's second novel Something Happened. He waited thirteen years to write his followup. I remember it as being a dreadful slog, with little of the wit of Catch-22.I was a young man when I read both books. Even though Heller was almost 40 when Catch-22 was published, it was a reminiscence of his youth. Something Happened was the book by and about a much older man. Heller had turned 50 before finishing it. I wonder if I'd relate more to it today than I did then.

This is kind of a problem with books. The OP said books you've read multiple times but for me there just aren't that many. I've read a few books twice but I can't think of any I've read three times. Other art forms like movies, music and paintings require a lot less personal investment to experience. My tastes in music have evolved over the years--there are albums I loved in the 80s that do nothing for me today. Movies are more static but I still view them differently than I did in my teens and twenties. But books for me are forever coupled with the time, place and person I was when I read them for the first and only time.

I am reading Something Happened now. I am about 60 pages in so far and really like it. It kind of has a Mad Men feeling to it- like if you got into the head of one of those guys.

 

[El Floppo]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

 

[DiStefano]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

Or who lie about it, because they think you'll be impressed.

 

[timschochet]

I tried to read Ulysses. I couldn't.

I can appreciate the brilliance of a novel like that, but what I want personally from a novel is a good story that I can get "into"- filled with suspense and memorable characters. When I say "suspense" that means any plot-driven situation in grips your interest and makes you want to read more. It needn't be crime related.

 

[Freelove]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

If you get Oxford-level, tenured Irish Lit scholars liquored up enough, even they'll admit they never finished Ulysses.

Which is still better than anyone has ever done with Finnegans Wake.

 

[pantagrapher]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

 

[pantagrapher]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

If you get Oxford-level, tenured Irish Lit scholars liquored up enough, even they'll admit they never finished Ulysses.

Yeah, doubtful. Of course, whatever people need to tell themselves to feel better about not liking it.

I tried to read Ulysses. I couldn't.

I can appreciate the brilliance of a novel like that, but what I want personally from a novel is a good story that I can get "into"- filled with suspense and memorable characters. When I say "suspense" that means any plot-driven situation in grips your interest and makes you want to read more. It needn't be crime related.

We had this conversation back during the novel draft. You like page-turners. Ulysses isn't a page-turner.

 

[KarmaPolice]

In no particular order (numbered so I stop at se7en) -

1. The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner

2. Light in August, Faulkner

3. Americana, Delillo

4. V., Pynchon

5. Madame Bovary, Flaubert

6. Lolita, Nabokov

7. Swann's Way, Proust (or if you want to be a stickler for the category, "novel," then the whole mofo Remembrance of Things Past)

I know Ulysses should be up there somewhere, but to my shame, I haven't read it yet. Every time I start it screws up my own writing. Within a page I suddenly realize I'm imitating Joyce and just can't stop. So I stop reading Joyce.

ETA: Just realized I've read each of these at least twice, and some several times (Americana, Sound & Fury, Light in August). The only one I read once is Bovary, and I'm teaching it this fall so that'll be remedied. Look at me. I read big books. :flex:

my guess is I could maybe make it through 50 pages of one of those books. my mind just cant handle it.

They're crack to my mind. I actually read passages of The Sound and the Fury on my ipod's Kindle ap between sets at the gym. This is book nerd level 11, for sure.

I sort of wish I was more into great literature. I push myself with movies and try to read a bit of non fiction, so when I get around to a novel I go a little more for entertainment.

I've found the best way to approach challenging literature is to not pressure yourself to read for hours on end or 20+ pages at a time. My only rule when I'm actively reading a book is to read 1 page a day. Pick it up and read 1 page. If after 1 page you don't want to read anymore then put it down and try again later. No tricks or mind games. If you want to stop then stop.

Usually you'll end up reading more. A piece of dialogue, a particular setting or event will pull you in and you won't want to stop. Some days you'll have a headache or you're too tired or you just don't have time and you'll stop after that 1 page. That's fine. Just read that 1 page. It will keep the story fresh in your mind and you'll find yourself thinking about it after you've put the book down.

If you keep slowly chipping away at it eventually you'll finish the book (probably quicker than you would've thought) it's impossible not to.

Not a bad idea, but I will be honest and say it wouldn't work with me. Bad combo of impatience and horrible memory. If I go to slow with a book or there is a several day break between readings, I will forget what was going on or lose interest and move on to something else.

I usually know right away if I am going to be able to get into the book and writing style. I bail on books, but usually have a 75 page cutoff (give or take). I will give it an honest shot, but will move on if I am not liking the experience. If it feels too much like the English Lit class I had to take in school, it's not going to happen.

I do read a bit, but as Tim posted above, I read more so to be entertained. Love learning about damn near any topic, and when I read fiction there has to be plot/character to pull me in. It is not always just about the language and sentence structure. I would say that it is 50/50 why I would bail on a book. Sometimes it's because I will start reading and feel like I have 0 clue what I am reading: I think my experience with Faulkner and Nabokov fell under that category.

A more recent experience was just because I thought it was boring. What I have been doing because of drafts and list like this is writing lists of classic or highly rated recent books that are short. I figured it would be a quicker intro to some of the writing styles of authors while battling my attention span. Talking novels that are around 250 pages or less. Anyway, yesterday I got to around page 80 in The Sun Also Rises. I really liked some of the wording and descriptions Hemmingway uses but didn't like being around a single one of the characters and was quite bored reading the book. Remember having a similar feeling when I was reading Gatsby so maybe I just don't like reading about socialites from the 20s?

 

[KarmaPolice]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

 

[Ilov80s]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside. Joyce is stream of consciousness while Lynch intentionally messes with the audience by not making sense.

 

[Freelove]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

If you get Oxford-level, tenured Irish Lit scholars liquored up enough, even they'll admit they never finished Ulysses.

Yeah, doubtful. Of course, whatever people need to tell themselves to feel better about not liking it.

Yeah, what do I know. I didn't type out every college sophomore's coffee house prop list as my top seven, so I'm probably an ignorant rube with no lit background.

Probably.

 

[KarmaPolice]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

 

[Jeff Vader]

In no particular order (numbered so I stop at se7en) -

1. The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner

2. Light in August, Faulkner

3. Americana, Delillo

4. V., Pynchon

5. Madame Bovary, Flaubert

6. Lolita, Nabokov

7. Swann's Way, Proust (or if you want to be a stickler for the category, "novel," then the whole mofo Remembrance of Things Past)

I know Ulysses should be up there somewhere, but to my shame, I haven't read it yet. Every time I start it screws up my own writing. Within a page I suddenly realize I'm imitating Joyce and just can't stop. So I stop reading Joyce.

ETA: Just realized I've read each of these at least twice, and some several times (Americana, Sound & Fury, Light in August). The only one I read once is Bovary, and I'm teaching it this fall so that'll be remedied. Look at me. I read big books. :flex:

Swann's Way is definitely my favorite of the first six volumes, but Time Regained blew me away like no other.

If this was top 8 novels, Madame Bovary would have made my list.

He's so eloquent and beautiful that, were he alive today, I might have gone gay for Marcel. Plus he plays a mean air guitar.

 

[Jeff Vader]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

F@#!ing brilliant. And this is EXACTLY what I'm talking about. It's brilliant, but I don't count Joyce as my school of prose. My style is much more like Faulkner, Delillo, Pynchon, Wallace, etc. But Joyce is so ### #### amazing that I always, ALWAYS end up writing like him when I read too much of his work. I'm actually praying that passage there doesn't mess up my current WIP and cost me days of readjustment.

The man is like a painter of words. The Van Gogh of prose.

 

[Jeff Vader]

I'm impressed at the amount people who have read Ulysses more than once.

If you get Oxford-level, tenured Irish Lit scholars liquored up enough, even they'll admit they never finished Ulysses.

Yeah, doubtful. Of course, whatever people need to tell themselves to feel better about not liking it.

Yeah, what do I know. I didn't type out every college sophomore's coffee house prop list as my top seven, so I'm probably an ignorant rube with no lit background.

Probably.

Jeezus. I actually had a lot of respect for you as a pretty smart new guy, but this anti-literature line you got going is just awful. Don't like Joyce or Faulkner or whomever, fine, that's cool. But getting all stiff lipped and snotty about it is just terrible and immature. I thought you were better than this.

 

[Ilov80s]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

Would you also compare Shakespeare to Lynch?

 

[Jeff Vader]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

Two keys to "getting it" as it were -

1. Ignore any proper names you don't know. They mean something, sure, but in the end are not terribly important. i.e. if you don't know "Drumleck" is a place in Ireland, that's fine.

2. Don't think of this as surreal or abstract. It's the direct opposite. It's so concrete as it be almost without symbolic meaning. Everything here is happening, as if were, at the time he's with this wife. It's pure concrete details generated by emotional force.

 

[Dinsy Ejotuz]

If we're talking strictly favorites...

The Shipping News -- Annie Proulx

The Bone People -- Keri Hulme

Game of Thrones Series - GRRM

Cloud Atlas -- David Mitchell

High Fidelity/Fever Pitch -- Nick Hornby

The Woman Who Walked Into Walls -- Roddy Doyle

My Antonia -- Willa Cather

 

[timschochet]

The passage that Pantagrapher quoted is closer to poetry than it is to prose, IMO. Perhaps Ulysses should more properly be characterized as a long poem, ala Paradise Lost, than as a novel?

 

[KarmaPolice]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

Would you also compare Shakespeare to Lynch?

No.

(and I apologize in advance for what will probably be ####ty analogies)

IMO I would say that Shakespeare is more like watching a foreign language movie or a British movie with heavy accents. I have read Shakespeare, and though it is slow going for the most part, it is straight forward after you get over the language/word barrier. I do enjoy that. Other authors like Faulkner and Joyce struck me as the barrier being more on the stream of consciousness style of writing - more like watching a Lynch movie or Tree of Life. I would hazard a guess that some of the authors it is style + a little of the the language they use, so it would be whoever the foreign equivalent of Lynch would be.

I would bet that a lot of fans of the works will say that it is just a matter of getting used to the way they write, and I am sure that is the case.

 

[KarmaPolice]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

Two keys to "getting it" as it were -

1. Ignore any proper names you don't know. They mean something, sure, but in the end are not terribly important. i.e. if you don't know "Drumleck" is a place in Ireland, that's fine.

2. Don't think of this as surreal or abstract. It's the direct opposite. It's so concrete as it be almost without symbolic meaning. Everything here is happening, as if were, at the time he's with this wife. It's pure concrete details generated by emotional force.

I will be honest. I have read that passage about 7 times now, and get what you are saying. Seems weirder on first read through than it is. That said, it took me 7 times reading it through to get there, and I am willing to give it a go, but not sure if I will be able to get through a whole novel where I have to reread the same passages over and over to start to get what the author is doing.

Maybe this might be the rare case where sports fan might be on to something. Read a couple pages a day before bed, let it digest, and see how it goes.

 

[Jeff Vader]

The passage that Pantagrapher quoted is closer to poetry than it is to prose, IMO. Perhaps Ulysses should more properly be characterized as a long poem, ala Paradise Lost, than as a novel?

No. The novel is all about psychological development of its characters, and without even reading Ulysses, I'm confident that's what it's about at heart. The exploration of Leopold's heart and mind through time. There's a reason it's been called the greatest novel ever written, the peak of the form's mountain. I'm sure Pant can comment more here.

 

[The_Man]

I do read a bit, but as Tim posted above, I read more so to be entertained. Love learning about damn near any topic, and when I read fiction there has to be plot/character to pull me in. It is not always just about the language and sentence structure. I would say that it is 50/50 why I would bail on a book. Sometimes it's because I will start reading and feel like I have 0 clue what I am reading: I think my experience with Faulkner and Nabokov fell under that category.

A more recent experience was just because I thought it was boring. What I have been doing because of drafts and list like this is writing lists of classic or highly rated recent books that are short. I figured it would be a quicker intro to some of the writing styles of authors while battling my attention span. Talking novels that are around 250 pages or less. Anyway, yesterday I got to around page 80 in The Sun Also Rises. I really liked some of the wording and descriptions Hemmingway uses but didn't like being around a single one of the characters and was quite bored reading the book. Remember having a similar feeling when I was reading Gatsby so maybe I just don't like reading about socialites from the 20s?

Sometimes with a particular author, it helps to start with a more accessible book, then delve deeper if you like them. I also initially found Sun Also Rises a little boring. But For Whom the Bell Tolls is a war story and a page-turner. I loved it, and then went back for more Hemingway.

With Faulker, Light in August was the way in for me. Again, I found it to be just an enjoyable book that prepped me for more Faulker. With Nabokov, it's Lolita - it was hilarious.

 

[Jeff Vader]

I do read a bit, but as Tim posted above, I read more so to be entertained. Love learning about damn near any topic, and when I read fiction there has to be plot/character to pull me in. It is not always just about the language and sentence structure. I would say that it is 50/50 why I would bail on a book. Sometimes it's because I will start reading and feel like I have 0 clue what I am reading: I think my experience with Faulkner and Nabokov fell under that category.

A more recent experience was just because I thought it was boring. What I have been doing because of drafts and list like this is writing lists of classic or highly rated recent books that are short. I figured it would be a quicker intro to some of the writing styles of authors while battling my attention span. Talking novels that are around 250 pages or less. Anyway, yesterday I got to around page 80 in The Sun Also Rises. I really liked some of the wording and descriptions Hemmingway uses but didn't like being around a single one of the characters and was quite bored reading the book. Remember having a similar feeling when I was reading Gatsby so maybe I just don't like reading about socialites from the 20s?

Sometimes with a particular author, it helps to start with a more accessible book, then delve deeper if you like them. I also initially found Sun Also Rises a little boring. But For Whom the Bell Tolls is a war story and a page-turner. I loved it, and then went back for more Hemingway.

With Faulker, Light in August was the way in for me. Again, I found it to be just an enjoyable book that prepped me for more Faulker. With Nabokov, it's Lolita - it was hilarious.

Good advice here.

For Pynchon, start with Crying of Lot 49

For Joyce, it's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man or even Dubliners, though I like Portrait way better.

 

[pantagrapher]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside. Joyce is stream of consciousness while Lynch intentionally messes with the audience by not making sense.

And this isn't even one of the stream of consciousness parts. I think the reason people probably give up so quickly is that one of the toughest parts—and definitely a stream of consciousness powerhouse—is the part near the beginning where Stephen D. walks along Sandymount Strand and even the ####### dog's thoughts are folded seamlessly into the stream. I still have trouble with it, but I find the experience of unraveling these things very enjoyable.

 

[Ilov80s]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

So, this is basically the literary equivalent of a David Lynch dream sequence?

Not really. Lunch' stuff is surreal to the point of often not making any sense. Joyce was just describing having sex outside.

Yeah, describing it in a way that doesn't make any sense to me.

Would you also compare Shakespeare to Lynch?

No.

(and I apologize in advance for what will probably be ####ty analogies)

IMO I would say that Shakespeare is more like watching a foreign language movie or a British movie with heavy accents. I have read Shakespeare, and though it is slow going for the most part, it is straight forward after you get over the language/word barrier. I do enjoy that. Other authors like Faulkner and Joyce struck me as the barrier being more on the stream of consciousness style of writing - more like watching a Lynch movie or Tree of Life. I would hazard a guess that some of the authors it is style + a little of the the language they use, so it would be whoever the foreign equivalent of Lynch would be.

I would bet that a lot of fans of the works will say that it is just a matter of getting used to the way they write, and I am sure that is the case.

I think Shakespeare is easier to follow plot wise than something like Joyce. But I think Shakespeare is more difficult to "get" at times. There are so many allusions and unfamiliar words that I end up spending more time researching than I do reading which takes away from the poetry and the emotion of it. Ofcourse, all of this could be positively and/or negatively influenced by the fact that we all encounter Shakespeare in high school and have a teacher walking us through 2 or 3 of his plays. If we are relating movies to novels, I might relate Ulysses (which I have only read parts of, might finish someday) to Memento. The plot is actually pretty straight forward. However, the artistic presentation is an attempt to place the viewer/reader into the head of the character(s) so that you think how they think and experience the events as they would experience it. (Joyce jumps around to many characters while Memento stays on one character). There is no explanation of the structure, the viewew/reader has to find it themself.

 

[Jeff Vader]

I find the experience of unraveling these things very enjoyable.

Hello, exactly. Also it enriches your life, your appreciation for the wild diversity of life, etc.

 

[Jedi Knight]

Shogun- James Clavell

Debt of Honor- Tom Clancy

The Stand- Stephen King

The Talisman- Stephen King

Book of Swords (Series)- Fred Saberhagen

A Time to Kill- John Grisham

Harry Potter Series (Although, if I had to choose one- it would be Goblet of Fire)

 

[skol asylum]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

Now imagine Yoda reading that aloud.

 

[pantagrapher]

Here's one of my favorite passages from Ulysses: Leopold Bloom sitting in a bar, knowing his wife, Molly, will sleep with Blazes Boylan later that day, and reminiscing about their first roll in the grass...

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

Now imagine Yoda reading that aloud.

I pretty much read the entire book that way.

 

[pantagrapher]

Nice piece on Virginia Woolf's evolving views on Ulysses.

 

[B-Deep]

Flowers for Algernon

Game of Thrones series

Lord of the Rings series

To Kill A Mockingbird

Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

Interview with the vampire

The Stand

 

[B-Deep]

honorable mention to the first 2 Dragonlance trilogies

 

[Dr. Octopus]

Catch 22

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

Slaughterhouse Five

The Catcher in the Rye

To Kill a Mocking Bird

Mother Night

Repairman Jack Series: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Repairman_Jack_(series)

 

[Jeff Vader]

honorable mention to the first 2 Dragonlance trilogies

Raistlin is one my favorite characters, partly because of him, partly because of when I read him - in prepubescence.

 

[B-Deep]

honorable mention to the first 2 Dragonlance trilogies

Raistlin is one my favorite characters, partly because of him, partly because of when I read him - in prepubescence.

agree on all counts. Those first 6 books were just great to read at the time i read them. I have no idea how they hold up now.

 

[Ilov80s]

Not much of a reader but here goes:

Immortality - Milan Kundera

All Families are Psychotic - Douglass Coupland

Thus Spoke Zarathustra - Nietzsche

Animal Farm - Orwell

Girlfriend in a Coma - Coupland again

Unbearable Lightness of Being - Kundera again

Flatland - Edwin Abbott

Kundera is an absolute genius.

Agree, big fan. My List:Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera

Immortality - Milan Kundera

The Stand - Stephen King

The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

The Last Light of the Sun - Guy Gavriel Kay

The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway

Shogun - James Clavell

If you're a Kundera fan, don't sleep on The Farewell Party either.

I first read Kundera in college. Actually followed my reading Nietzsche. I read Nietzsche and became scared and confused with a dash of despondent before Kundera brought joy back to life.

No one has had more of an effect on my world view, even to this day. Time I read immortality again.

Re-reading it right now. It's so good. It's flawless how he goes from,"saw this old lady make this gesture at the pool" to "oh and here is her life story because she is the main character in my book now." Also the concept of the "watcher" or "looks" draining us of life and the concern for the increase in people and cameras is even more relevant today than it was when Kundera wrote this.

 

[Gr00vus]

Lord Of The Rings (also Silmarillion and Unfinished Tales)

Shogun

The Three Musketeers

The Count Of Monte Christo

Song Of Ice & Fire series (Storm of Swords if I had to choose just 1 book)

Masters Of Rome series (not sure which one if I had to choose just 1 book)

Day Of The Jackal

 

[joseph80]

Pale Fire

Lolita

JR

Dead Souls

The Metamorphosis

Ulysses

Satantango

 

[El Floppo]

Pale Fire

Lolita

JR

Dead Souls

The Metamorphosis

Ulysses

Satantango

This is some strange schtick.

 

[timschochet]

Pale Fire

Lolita

JR

Dead Souls

The Metamorphosis

Ulysses

Satantango

So your political ramblings weren't pretentious enough?

 

[Ilov80s]

Not much of a reader but here goes:

Immortality - Milan Kundera

All Families are Psychotic - Douglass Coupland

Thus Spoke Zarathustra - Nietzsche

Animal Farm - Orwell

Girlfriend in a Coma - Coupland again

Unbearable Lightness of Being - Kundera again

Flatland - Edwin Abbott

Kundera is an absolute genius.

Agree, big fan. My List:Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera

Immortality - Milan Kundera

The Stand - Stephen King

The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

The Last Light of the Sun - Guy Gavriel Kay

The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway

Shogun - James Clavell

If you're a Kundera fan, don't sleep on The Farewell Party either.

I first read Kundera in college. Actually followed my reading Nietzsche.

I read Nietzsche and became scared and confused with a dash of despondent before Kundera brought joy back to life.

No one has had more of an effect on my world view, even to this day. Time I read immortality again.

This is a confession, I picked up Unbearable Lightness of Being in the book store because I thought it looked very literary and intellectual and that was the image I was trying to rock at that time. Turned out to be about the best thing I'd ever read and I devoured everything of his I could find.

Kundera's writing is alternately wise, sad, funny and despite being true literary fiction, it's never obtuse or pretentious. I've never read anything like it.

Have you read The Elegance of the Hedgehog? If you like Kundera, I think you would really like it. I'm about half way through and am devouring it as well.