Memetics: The EW Book List

I am a sucker for lists; I have been since I was a kid. Anytime a magazine spits out a listicle I am inclined to read it and see how many of the the albums/books/movies on the list I have seen/read.

So when Marjorie pointed me at the Entertainment Weekly list of the 100 Best Books Since 1983 (part of their New Classics series -- I'll blog the other lists later as well), I had to see how I did. The answer is: not very well. Here's the list, with the Books I've read in bold:

1. The Road, Cormac McCarthy (2006)
2. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling (2000)
3. Beloved, Toni Morrison (1987)
4. The Liars' Club, Mary Karr (1995)
5. American Pastoral, Philip Roth (1997)
6. Mystic River, Dennis Lehane (2001)
7. Maus, Art Spiegelman (1986/1991)
8. Selected Stories, Alice Munro (1996)
9. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier (1997)
10. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (1997)
11. Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer (1997)
12. Blindness, José Saramago (1998)
13. Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (1986-87)
14. Black Water, Joyce Carol Oates (1992)
15. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (2000)
16. The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood (1986)
17. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez (1988)
18. Rabbit at Rest, John Updike (1990)
19. On Beauty, Zadie Smith (2005)
20. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding (1998)
21. On Writing, Stephen King (2000)
22. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Díaz (2007)
23. The Ghost Road, Pat Barker (1996)
24. Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry (1985)
25. The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan (1989)
26. Neuromancer, William Gibson (1984)
27. Possession, A.S. Byatt (1990)
28. Naked, David Sedaris (1997)
29. Bel Canto, Anne Patchett (2001)
30. Case Histories, Kate Atkinson (2004)
31. The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien (1990)
32. Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch (1988)
33. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion (2005)
34. The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold (2002)
35. The Line of Beauty, Alan Hollinghurst (2004)
36. Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt (1996)
37. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi (2003)
38. Birds of America, Lorrie Moore (1998)
39. Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri (2000)
40. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman (1995-2000)
41. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros (1984)
42. LaBrava, Elmore Leonard (1983)
43. Borrowed Time, Paul Monette (1988)
44. Praying for Sheetrock, Melissa Fay Greene (1991)
45. Eva Luna, Isabel Allende (1988)
46. Sandman, Neil Gaiman (1988-1996)
47. World's Fair, E.L. Doctorow (1985)
48. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver (1998)
49. Clockers, Richard Price (1992)
50. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen (2001)
51. The Journalist and the Murderer, Janet Malcom (1990)
52. Waiting to Exhale, Terry McMillan (1992)
53. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon (2000)
54. Jimmy Corrigan, Chris Ware (2000)
55. The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls (2006)
56. The Night Manager, John le Carré (1993)
57. The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe (1987)
58. Drop City, TC Boyle (2003)
59. Krik? Krak! Edwidge Danticat (1995)
60. Nickel & Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)
61. Money, Martin Amis (1985)
62. Last Train To Memphis, Peter Guralnick (1994)
63. Pastoralia, George Saunders (2000)
64. Underworld, Don DeLillo (1997)
65. The Giver, Lois Lowry (1993)
66. A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, David Foster Wallace (1997)
67. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (2003)
68. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel (2006)
69. Secret History, Donna Tartt (1992)
70. Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell (2004)
71. The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, Ann Fadiman (1997)
72. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon (2003)
73. A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (1989)
74. Friday Night Lights, H.G. Bissinger (1990)
75. Cathedral, Raymond Carver (1983)
76. A Sight for Sore Eyes, Ruth Rendell (1998)
77. The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro (1989)
78. Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert (2006)
79. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell (2000)
80. Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney (1984)
81. Backlash, Susan Faludi (1991)
82. Atonement, Ian McEwan (2002)
83. The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields (1994)
84. Holes, Louis Sachar (1998)
85. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (2004)
86. And the Band Played On, Randy Shilts (1987)
87. The Ruins, Scott Smith (2006)
88. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby (1995)
89. Close Range, Annie Proulx (1999)
90. Comfort Me With Apples, Ruth Reichl (2001)
91. Random Family, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (2003)
92. Presumed Innocent, Scott Turow (1987)
93. A Thousand Acres, Jane Smiley (1991)
94. Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser (2001)
95. Kaaterskill Falls, Allegra Goodman (1998)
96. The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown (2003)
97. Jesus’ Son, Denis Johnson (1992)
98. The Predators' Ball, Connie Bruck (1988)
99. Practical Magic, Alice Hoffman (1995)
100. America (the Book), Jon Stewart/Daily Show (2004)

That's 33, which is not very good. But here's what's even worse:

There are 58 books written by men on that list; I've read 31.
There are 42 books written by women on that list; I've read 2.

I am: ashamed. A few of these books (Lovely Bones, Birds of America, Fun Home, Comfort Me With Apples) I remember bringing home from the library for Daryl to read; another bunch (Secret History, Lovely Bones, Kite Runner, Liar's Club, Joy Luck Club, Poisonwood Bible) are books that either Daryl or my mom have been telling me to read for years. I guess I really should read them.

Marjorie tells me I shouldn't be ashamed, that we read what we are drawn to, but still. Call it male guilt, but I feel like plenty of these books are books I should have read by now. Not all of them -- I'll probably never read Bridget Jones' Diary or The Stone Diaries, for (diametrically opposed) example -- but some of them, like Possession, A Thousand Acres, Gilead, and some of the non-fiction (Eat Pray Love, Nickle & Dimed) are going on my ever-growing book list.

Oprah Picks Next Book; Crisis Counselors On Standby

The guys at Freakonomics blog (I call them Dubner & Levitt, even though I don't know them) ran a little contest over the last few days where they called on their readers to predict what Oprah's next book club book would be. Amazingly, one of their readers chose the correct book, which is The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.

This is sort of an amazing choice. I read a lot of books. I tend to concentrate on non-fiction, but I read my share of fiction, too, and when I do I try to alternate between "serious" fiction and "not-so-serious" fiction (like the book I just finished). I read The Road about three months ago, and I have to tell you, I haven't gone back to "serious" fiction yet. Images from that book literally continue to haunt me to this day.


It was like this, but bleaker. And they ate the dog.

I wrote a review of it back in December, but since no one was reading this blog then (unlike now, when I get literally dozens of hits a day), I will re-print my review in its entirety:

Jesus God, what a book. The blurb on the back cover says it is destined to become known as McCarthy's masterpiece, and I have to agree. I read 'All the Pretty Horses' when it came out but haven't read any McCarthy since. I knew he wrote spare, haunting, brutal books, but even knowing that I wasn't prepared for 'The Road.'

This is a brilliant novel, possibly one of the best I've ever read. It tells the story of a nameless father and son, trying to survive in the aftermath of what I assume is a nuclear holocaust. The two spend the book on the verge of death, one mistake away from fading away like, the reader assumes, just about everyone else in the world. As they scramble for food and shelter and try to avoid roving gangs of cannibals, the father reflects on life both before and after the conflagration, and what it means to live in a world where none of the trappings of civilization or culture exist anymore.

The writing is spare and the dialect McCarthy writes in echoes both the Old West and the Old Testament. But what I thought at first was a sort of forced was simplicity turned out to feel more like the narrator's failed attempts to describe the world around him. When the modern world has ceased to exit, it may be that modern language is no longer adequate or necessary. There are, after all, only so many ways to say that the entire world -- sky, land, and water -- is gray, there are no animals besides a handful of humans, and looking beyond tomorrow is folly.

I'm pretty tough when it comes to reading. Violence and gore don't bother me (the last two fiction books I read before this one were Scott Smith's 'The Ruins' and Don Winslow's 'Power Of The Dog') but I almost couldn't finish this book -- I was reading it before bed every night and had to stop for a while and then read the last 100 pages in one burst so I could process and start getting it out of my head. Not because it's particularly violent or gory, but because McCarthy does such an amazing job of describing a situation void of hope. This is not the apocalyptic punk of George Miller's 'Mad Max' or the fantastic post-eco-collapse of Miyazaki's 'Nausicaä.' This is a world where people survive by killing human babies, gutting them, roasting them on a spit, and eating them. It makes 'Huis Clos' feel like Club Med. It left me feeling hopeless, helpless, and crushed.

It's also, as I mentioned, brilliant. It has instantly found its way to the top of a list of "loved it but never want to see/read it again" movies and books, nestled squarely between 'A Simple Plan' and Stephen R. Donaldson's Thomas Covenant books. Go get it, read it, and revel in McCarthy's virtuosity. But don't say I didn't warn you.

"Hopeless, helpless, and crushed." Hmmm. Looking back, I might have understated things a bit. The blurb on Oprah's site calls it "awesome in the totality of its vision...an unflinching meditation on the worst and the best that we are capable of: ultimate destructiveness, desperate tenacity, and the tenderness that keeps two people alive in the face of total devastation," which is true, but makes the book feel cheerier than it actually is.

I applaud Oprah for choosing such a difficult book (and it's not the first time; after all, Elie Wiesel's 'Night' is hardly a breeze), and I sit here sort of amazed to think that millions of people are going to have the opportunity to be moved (and more than a little freaked out) the way I was by this book.

Book: Cormac McCarthy, 'The Road'

Jesus God, what a book. The blurb on the back cover says it is destined to become known as McCarthy's masterpiece, and I have to agree. I read 'All the Pretty Horses' when it came out but haven't read any McCarthy since. I knew he wrote spare, haunting, brutal books, but even knowing that I wasn't prepared for 'The Road.'

This is a brilliant novel, possibly one of the best I've ever read. It tells the story of a nameless father and son, trying to survive in the aftermath of what I assume is a nuclear holocaust. The two spend the book on the verge of death, one mistake away from fading away like, the reader assumes, just about everyone else in the world. As they scramble for food and shelter and try to avoid roving gangs of cannibals, the father reflects on life both before and after the conflagration, and what it means to live in a world where none of the trappings of civilization or culture exist anymore.

The writing is spare and the dialect McCarthy writes in echoes both the Old West and the Old Testament. But what I thought at first was a sort of forced was simplicity turned out to feel more like the narrator's failed attempts to describe the world around him. When the modern world has ceased to exit, it may be that modern language is no longer adequate or necessary. There are, after all, only so many ways to say that the entire world -- sky, land, and water -- is gray, there are no animals besides a handful of humans, and looking beyond tomorrow is folly.

I'm pretty tough when it comes to reading. Violence and gore don't bother me (the last two fiction books I read before this one were Scott Smith's 'The Ruins' and Don Winslow's 'Power Of The Dog') but I almost couldn't finish this book -- I was reading it before bed every night and had to stop for a while and then read the last 100 pages in one burst so I could process and start getting it out of my head. Not because it's particularly violent or gory, but because McCarthy does such an amzaing job of describing a situation void of hope. This is not the apocalyptic punk of George Miller's 'Mad Max' or the fantastic post-eco-collapse of Miyazaki's 'Nausicaä.' This is a world where people survive by killing human babies, gutting them, roasting them on a spit, and eating them. It makes 'Huis Clos' feel like Club Med. It left me feeling hopeless, helpless, and crushed.

It's also, as I mentioned, brilliant. It has instantly found its way to the top of a list of "loved it but never want to see/read it again" movies and books, neslted squarely between 'A Simple Plan' and Stephen R. Donaldson's Thomas Covenant books. Go get it, read it, and revel in McCarthy's virtuosity. But don't say I didn't warn you.