25 influential books

This is going around facebook but I don’t think I could stick it to just ten so I’m going to give myself this larger but equally arbitrary number for my list. These are books that stayed with me/changed me/on and on. There’s no specific order beyond the first two.

1. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky – This may not be Dostoevsky’s best, but it’s my favorite, and it’s the first one I read. It literally changed my life. It changed every bit of me. It changed the way I saw the world, the way the world felt, the way I thought and still think. I think it’s the novel that caused me to give up my anger. It taught me how to live. It taught me everything I know about life. It broke my heart over and over and I wept into the pages. Not cried, but wept big alligator tears as my heart sort of fractured and disintegrated in Russia so long ago. It tore me apart and broke me to pieces for so long and then it rebuilt me slowly. Raskolnikov is so deep inside me, so fused to my life that I think Dostoevsky’s still building me, still trying to get me right. I read it twice the first week I held it in my hands. I read it four times by the end of that year, and I’m afraid to even pick it up. I have a few different translations of it but can never make it past the first couple pages. Not because I don’t like it anymore, but because I’m afraid of what’ll happen.

2. A Season in Hell / Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud – You’re only sixteen once and so you only get to discover the perfect books for you at that age once. This, along with Crime and Punishment defined my sixteenth year, and just about every year after that. This is when I still thought I was a poet, or at least when I was desperately trying to write the perfect line, and then Rimbaud disemboweled language for me. Everything I thought I knew about what words could do and what they could be shifted radically, and, still, every year I reread these, discovering more each time it drains into my brain. It invigorates me and it’s one of those cures for when I get absurdly depressed about the world I exist in.

3. The Waves by Virginia Woolf – Like Rimbaud, this just radically changed what I understood language to be and what it could do. It transformed narrative for me, and I still consider it maybe one of the only perfect novels I’ve ever read. It’s sublime and untouchable and she writes so beautifully that it makes you want to quit, but it’s also endlessly inspiring, pushing me harder and deeper.

4. The Magus by John Fowles – This is the novel that taught me that language needn’t be difficult or overpowering for a novel to be absolutely brilliant. It transformed what I understood about narrative once more, and it broke my heart. It’s beautiful and nearly perfect. And it begins so quietly, so unassumingly. The first 100 pages took me about a week to read and the next 600 took me about two days. It’s like falling into a kaleidoscope and hoping to never find your way back out, and even when the novel ends, you’re still trapped in the whirlwind, just hurting, just loving. And then the world shines, but from a new light. One you didn’t know could exist.

5. Moby Dick by Herman Melville – I don’t even really have words for this novel. It’s unstoppable. It’s one of the few perfect novels ever written and I could live in that language, in that world forever. It taught me so much about what a novel can be. Forget narrative and character and the language. It taught me that a novel can be so much more than just words or even just an experience. A novel can be this grand neverending world that exists nowhere but feels realer than the world around you.

6. A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin – Like many people in love with literary fiction and its genre constraints, I rarely read any genre fiction, which is a huge oversight in my reading that I began correcting a few years ago. That’s when I fell into this. Read the first five novels, all 5,000 pages, in about three months. If you want to see what plot can do, just pick one of these up. The writing’s not perfect, but he creates a world so profoundly complex and large and characters so real they drip off the page. But the greatest achievement, I think, even beyond all the mythos and legends and so on, is the unrelenting pacing of these novels.

7. Parallel Stories by Peter Nadas – I’ve been talking about this novel so much for the last two years it’s strange to think that I might have even more to say. But it’s perfect. It’s perfect in every way, even in the ways it fails. And Nadas does so many things that shouldn’t work. He takes a moment, literally a single moment, and stretches it over fifty or one hundred pages, and it’s somehow never boring. It’s invigorating. I generally dislike sex scenes in fiction because I think they’re pretty boring, but he writes these enormous scenes centered around just a minute of sex and cast over so many pages, and it’s the greatest writing I’ve ever read. Nadas is a master. Maybe the only one at his level living, and his enormous crumbling cathedral of a novel is absolutely sublime.

8. Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian – Imagine a Chinese Milan Kundera, and imagine him doing what Kundera does, but somehow better. Honestly, I used to always say that no writer writes like Kundera because no one could possibly pull off what he does, and then I fell into Soul Mountain. Part memoir, part ethnography, part history of the Cultural Revolution and Maoist China, part political treatise, part ecological report, part mythology, part noir, part travelogue, part mythology, part metaphysical exploration of the self and nation. It’s enormous and so beautiful, so readable, so perfect.

9. Our Ecstatic Days by Steve Erickson – Ever since I’ve read Erickson, I’ve been preaching his name to whoever will listen. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the greatest living american author, and my favorite writer maybe ever. He changed me in ways that haven’t happened since Dostoevsky, and so maybe this should be at the beginning of this list too. And, really, I could put any of his novels here. People had been telling me about Erickson forever, telling me how much I’d love his work, but I always just sort of wandered off to some other book. And then I discovered his first novel, Days Between Stations, at a secondhand shop in Dublin. Everything’s been different since then. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without him. I wouldn’t have ever been able to write a novel without him. His writing taught me that I could be the writer I wanted to be. I didn’t need to fit into a niche or some other well-trodden path of literature. I could carve my own way, write the stories I wanted to read and live in. I read most of his books twice the first year I found him, and I think this is his best. But it also only works at this level if you’ve read all the novels published previous to this one. It’s a gargantuan achievement, how he ties all of his novels together into a single world constantly in flux. Steve Erickson is a giant and we’re lucky to have him and you should read him now.

10. Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu – If Crime and Punishment taught me how to live, then Lao Tzu taught me how to be human.

11. The Stranger by Albert Camus – Along with the Tao Te Ching, this novel taught me how to be human. Its influence is still felt today, and, outside of that, it’s just a great novel. It’s another book I discovered at the right time that led me to read everything he ever wrote. I think The Fall is probably a better novel and maybe even taught me more about what it means to be ydde, but I’m sticking with The Stranger because of what it opened up to me.

12. Factotum by Charles Bukowski – I actually don’t think Bukowski is very good anymore, bu he was extremely important to me when I was younger. Back when I was hating the world, drinking way too much, so angry and depressed about existence, he was the one who sort of tempered my anger and pushed me towards creation. I wouldn’t be the same person without Bukowski but I find him one of the hardest writers to return to.

13. The Dispossessed by Ursula K Le Guin – This is a brilliant novel by one of the greatest novelists around. Read this while I was simultaneously seriously studying anarchism and it sort of opened up the world to me. Not only that, but it opened up the ability in me to dramatise politics in a way I never thought possible before. From here, I’ve read a great number of her books, though there are still many more to read. That’s one of the delights of discovering a prolific master.

14. Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata – Taught me what beauty really is. It fell so perfectly into my head and my constructs of reality that, rather than shift who and what I was, it crystallised aspects of me. And ever since reading this, I’ve chased after his delicate beauty, that brilliance. It’s not my favorite of his books or even his best, but I think it captures this aesthetic best.

15. Bird is Gone: A Manifesto by Stephen Graham Jones – This isn’t Stephen’s best or even my favorite, but it’s the one that does things I can still barely wrap my head around. It’s a novel I didn’t even begin to understand until I read it the second time, and every read becomes better, fuller, more rich. It taught me the importance of rereadability, and how important that is to a novel. Ever since reading this, I’ve always sought to get that subtlety and shifting quality that he captures here. And I could put so many of Stephen’s books here. Especially Ledfeather. Always and forever. My whole life caught in that little book, which also has the unique quality of being unputdownable. If I read that first page, I’ll be reading the last page in a few hours. I’ve read it four times, all of them in one sitting, the last three times accidentally, usually way too late at night.

16. Collected Stories by Amy Hempel – I don’t think you can read Hempel and return to writing the same way. I read this around the same time as I read Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson and Thom Jones’ short stories, and while I think all of these are pretty similar, I think Hempel does it best. Her aesthetic is so strong and so near perfect. If you want to learn how to write a sentence so full it’s nearly bursting, pick up anything by Hempel.

17. Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link -Read this at a time when I forgot how great short stories could be. Such a unique and brilliant imagination, and just unstoppably great. Link is definitely one of the best around. Should probably put Yiyun Li here, too, since I read it around the same time, and though it’s unbelievably different, it captures that same kind of brilliance. Yoko Ogawa, too.

18. Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card – This was the first novel to make me cry. I read it when I was, like, eleven, or something, and I just started bawling. I’d tell you at which part, but that might ruin things. I didn’t know books could do that to me. I didn’t know words could effect me like that. It changed everything I knew about art [which, at that point, was not very much] and I’ve read this book several times, always loving it, always learning from it. Card may be a reprehensible person, but he wrote a near perfect book about 25 years ago.

19. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez – I don’t even know what to say about this novel. It does so much and so perfectly. I still think about it quite often and there are scenes here that will never leave me. It influenced a great deal of my writing without me every really even realising it. Especially, maybe, my obsessions with circles.

20. The Female Man by Joanna Russ – Just brilliant and visceral. Should probably include Kathy Acker’s Empire of the Senseless and Samuel R Delany’s Nerveryon here, since they’re all so related in my head. They talk about gender and identity in ways that I never really thought about before, but that also fit so perfect and right in my head, in the way I had always looked at the world. It wasn’t so much as a revelation like having your eyes opened but more like someone turning on the light and realising you’re not alone in the dark with all these thoughts. And they’re all just brilliant books, too.

21. Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa – Just read these stories and discover how great short stories can be. Each one is so different and so perfect.

22. Nightwood by Djuna Barnes – Just unbelievable. Right when I was getting past how perfect language could be, I fell into this and sort of wanted to live there forever. Djuna Barnes writes like she’s on fire and the apocalypse is everywhere, but it’s also hilarious.

23. Girl with Oars and Man Dying by JA Tyler – I don’t understand why more people haven’t read this novel. It’s a fairytale and it’s beautiful and heartbreaking, and maybe my favorite JA Tyler novel, which is really saying quite a lot. It’s perfect, in every way, and it gave me that open eyed awe sensation that art’s meant to give you, but that I had almost forgotten about.

24. The Tempest by William Shakespeare – This, of all Shakespeare’s plays, influences me the most on a day to day basis. I think about it more than I can really explain. It’s so full of ideas and wonder. It’s literally bursting with awesome, and I still just want to live in it. It does everything so well, and it’s probably his best play for its versatility and depth.

25. The White Hotel by DM Thomas – Like Erickson, discovered this in a halfpriced bookstore after hearing about Thomas for a long time. It’s absolutely brilliant and on fire. It captures life in brutal and hallucinogenic tones and shades and hues. I’ve read several of his novels and this is still the best, I think, and also the most unique and perfectly realised.

So that’s the list as it stands today. It’s surprisingly western. I think if I had made this list last year or even the year before, you’d see a lot more asian and latin american writers on there, but I guess that’s why I’m allowed to make lists whenever I want. There are also few women on here, but that’s just the way the list happened. All kinds of people I forgot to make room for, too, but I’m sticking with my list and I’ll defend it to THE DEATH!

Maybe I’ll make one every year just to see what happens. Dostoevsky and Rimbaud are so fused to me that they’ll always be on here. Same with Woolf and Erickson, but a lot of the rest is probably up for grabs.

All right. Off to do other things.

Oh, also, wanted to mention my indigogo campaign again.

It’s insane what we’ve raised already, but there’s still a long way to go. Lots of great rewards still available and my eternal gratitude, always. And thank you to everyone who’s donated and contributed. I’ll be saying this many times over the coming weeks, but I’ll always mean it just as much.

a year in stories::forty nine

So this is for Michael and Kyle and for metal.

Long Arms and No Beard

The first time I heard the Sex Pistols I shaved my head and eyebrows. I thought it was important I stop looking like other people. I also threw my guitar away. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from hearing how awful those guys could make instruments sound. I was thirteen and music was ruined for me.

Metal. All I needed was metal. I stole a mixing board and tore out all the guitar of all the albums I ever listened to. Bass blasting beats into me, drums rattling my soul. No guitar.

There’s something about guitar I hate. I hate the way it whines. I hate strings. I hate strings and the way they weep. I need music to be brutal. To rattle and shake my soul. My heart. I want to hear my blood vessels disintegrate and hold on as my veins splinter and leak through my body. My lungs corrode and I explode.

When I grew a beard I shaved that too. I shaved every inch of my body. My brothers look like gorillas but I turned my skin to ink and shaved everything away, eradicating all the follicles. Fifteen and I was bald from toe to skull. No one would tattoo my skin so I stole lighters and pens and carved the words and images I wanted to live with forever into my own skin. It hurt like hell but now I have all my teenage heart etched seven layers deep.

After that I fled life. Picked up and ran away. My parents were cool about it, didn’t even file a report or look for me.

I went underground and took all the metal with me. I turned brutal and lean, fighting alligators for sport deep in the sewers and bowels of the city. I made an axe and cut the demons apart to a soundtrack of my own bloodbeats and it will forever on be known as metal. As the only metal that matters.

When I emerged, eighteen and brutal and hairless and inked so deep, I killed all the other bands claiming metal for their genre. I stole their souls and ate their necks. And then I murdered guitars. I murdered every last guitar on earth with my  brutal growl and then I ate the strings of every instrument still balls enough to have them. Gone were orchestras and anything made of wood. I needed metal and I surrounded myself with drums.

But it wasn’t enough to have five drums pentagrammed around me. I needed to look still stranger, brutaler, metaler. I grew my arms longer. They stretched on and on until they passed my knees. And then my fingers grazed the ground and I knew I was ready.

I set the world on fire with my metal. My arms too long and the world burnt to fire with my metal. Every word I spoke and growled and yelled and sang was brutal. Reverberating through the air, splintering the sky, and shattering souls. I tore music apart and left only a mountain of metal.

A metal tempered by rage and my unending love of all that is brutal and dangerous.

I spit out snakes and drink fires. I swallowed the sky and pissed out the oceans now acidic and horrifying. You can smell the rot ot marine life as the blastbeats of my heart of my five drums always double pedalling, always raging, breaks all that is and was. I am music.

I am all that will ever be remembered.

I murdered the music of the past and ensured a stillborn future of song.

No one can stop me and my too long arms ripping sonic landscapes from the sky and future and past and replacing them with my metal mountain, brutal and jagged.

One day I’ll grow a beard and live on that mountain whittling guitars back into existence. When I’m ready I’ll accept Death and give you music back.

the last two films to make me cry

Because I didn’t post anything for the entire month of November, I never talked about these two great films I saw quite a while ago. Blue is the Warmest Color and 12 Years A Slave. Both are brilliant. Both made me cry. More than once.

Blue is the Warmest Color is a phenomenal film, but it’s also one of those films I wouldn’t recommend to anyone, mostly because most people don’t like the kind of films I like, and especially not films like this. It’s three hours long and very little happens. Like, seriously. It’s three hours of watching people live their life, beginning in high school. If that sounds boring to you, I’d like to say there’s more to it. And though there’s nothing more to it, there’s also so much more to it. It’s beautiful and perfect and just like life.

It follows Adele, a high school girl trying to discover love and what it means. We see her relationship with a boy, which becomes sexual but doesn’t last. Most of the reason is because Adele is a lesbian.

I don’t know. There’s so much to talk about with this film. It’s truly heartbreaking and beautiful and horrifying and completely reckless. It reminded me very much of life, and what love has been like for me, what life has been like for me.It’s garnered a great deal of controversy over its extended sex scenes. They didn’t seem odd to me at the time. For the many minutes the sex went on, I never thought it was strange for the scenes to be there, or for them to be so graphic. And they are graphic. Extremely so, and they’re apparently not authentic for sex between two women, but I guess I don’t care about that. I don’t care when heteronormative sex is depicted unrealistically. So, I mean, while so much of the film feels so real and authentic, this didn’t bother me. Though, I mean, I’m not a lesbian and so I don’t really know what authentic lesbian sex looks like.

But I know what love looks like. I know what love feels like. And this film captures it perfectly.

But it’s also brutal. It’s a brutal and horrifying love. It’s a perfect love that destroys you and it hurts everything inside you. It’s tragic, and then it just ends, with Adele walking away, full of so much pain and regret.

Expertly acted and brilliantly shot, I can’t think of a better film I saw this year.

But 12 Years A Slave might be up there. It’s brutal. LIke, in a hard to watch way. There were parts of Blue is the Warmest Color made me squirm in my seat and break my heart, but it’s very different. This is an existential horror and pain. Terrifying things happen in this film.

It’s Steve MxQueen so it’s brilliant, and the cast is just so perfect and they’re all such great actors, so it’s definitely a film you need to see. The thing about this, though, is that it’s quite different from Shame and Hunger. The style’s way pulled back here and while it’s just as unflinchingly brutal and intense, it’s definitely more marketable. If arthouse cinema had bestsellers, this would be McQueen’s mainstream breakout hit.

It’s a very straightforward film with a mostly linear narrative that’s very easy to follow and understand. But it makes you feel the pain and horror of slavery. The dehumanisation and brutality.

I don’t know. It’s perfect but it’s not easy to watch, but you need to watch it.

I suppose I could say a lot more. I should’ve written a real film review of each of these, but whatever.

Go see these films. They’re important and they’re absolutely brilliant.