Summer is well underway and I want some light reading. I’ve been reading some challenging, violent fiction in the last couple of months—Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love and Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian—and the rest of my spring reading has generally been film history and assorted nonfiction. Those books have been a pleasure to read in their way, but I’m about ready for shorter chapters and easier laughs.
I assemble a summer reading list almost every June, but I hardly ever end up reading most of the books on my list. I come up with ten or more things I think I’d like to read, pile them all on my nightstand, and then read a total of six or seven books all summer, including maybe two from my actual planned reading list. Last year I set a personal record by reading a whopping four books from my list. I’m easily distractable in my book habits, not naturally inclined to follow a set schedule of reading: it’s hard to tell, here in July, what I’m going to be in the mood to read for the next few months. Which is fine, but then why bother with a list at all?
I dunno. It’s fun just to make one each year, whether I get to any of the designated books or not. Plus, I can go back years later and see which of the books on my previous lists I ever read at all, and how many of them I’m still interested in reading.
So here’s an armful of books I’ve been meaning to read that I may get around to in the next few months. I seriously doubt I’ll read most of them, but each of them is, in various ways, the sort of book I like to have in front of me this time of year.
Very Good, Jeeves, P.G. Wodehouse
Wodehouse wrote better light comedy than any writer I know of. I mean, look, here’s one sentence from the first page of Very Good, Jeeves, in which our narrator, Bertie Wooster, wakes up feeling discontent just before breakfast: “He uncovered the fragrant eggs and b., and I pronged a moody forkful.” Isn’t that beautiful? I grin every time I read it. As hilarious and engaging as Wodehouse is, it’s easy to overlook that he’s also just a great writer, skilled at sketching characters in a sense or two and setting dense, involved plots in motion. Doesn’t matter that it’s always roughly the same plot: he makes endlessly inventive variations on his one silly theme.
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
I’ve read and seen allusions to Raymond Chandler’s work for years, and the movie version of The Big Sleep is one of my favorites, but I’ve never read Chandler himself. I have heard that his writing is slightly more florid and romantic than the efficient, flinty work of my favorite crime writer, Dashiell Hammett. Crime is one of the few genres of fiction I find inherently entertaining, and it’s long past time for me to try out its other single most influential writer.
Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton
This is the only book in my summer pile that I’ve read before. I first read it the summer the movie came out, in fact, and I recall that it made for great summer reading. Crichton’s dead now, and I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. I’d love to spend a week or so back in 1993.
The Trumpet of the Swan, E.B. White
Part of my reading life is a slow, ongoing project to catch up with books I should have read as a kid. Count up White’s contributions to great writing: they’re best represented by Charlotte’s Web, the second edition of The Elements of Style, and his essays, including the lovely, understated “Death of a Pig,” which is a fitting, if heartbreaking, companion to Charlotte. He’s been one of my favorite writers since I could read, but I somehow haven’t ever gotten around to Trumpet of the Swan. My girlfriend found this out last year, to her horror, so she did me the favor of giving me a copy.
Giving Good Weight, John McPhee
A gift, many years back, from a good friend. I’ve started it more than once, read and loved the title essay, and then become distracted and fickle and started something else. Aside from E.B. White, I can’t think of an essayist I respect more than McPhee; hopefully this is the year I read a whole book of his.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon
I’ve been hearing about it and meaning to read it since it was published. Friends have told me for years that it’s perfect summer reading. It sounds just right for my nerdy mind, too: historical fiction reimagining the 1930s and ’40s golden age of comic books. I already know Chabon is a great writer (check out The Yiddish Policemen’s Union and Maps and Legends if you haven’t yet), so there’s no excuse for putting off his epic Pulitzer winner any longer.
Other books piled on the same stack as the above:
And Be a Villain, Rex Stout
Devil in a Blue Dress, by Walter Moseley
The Laughing Corpse, Laurell K. Hamilton
The BFG, Roald Dahl
I assemble a summer reading list almost every June, but I hardly ever end up reading most of the books on my list. I come up with ten or more things I think I’d like to read, pile them all on my nightstand, and then read a total of six or seven books all summer, including maybe two from my actual planned reading list. Last year I set a personal record by reading a whopping four books from my list. I’m easily distractable in my book habits, not naturally inclined to follow a set schedule of reading: it’s hard to tell, here in July, what I’m going to be in the mood to read for the next few months. Which is fine, but then why bother with a list at all?
I dunno. It’s fun just to make one each year, whether I get to any of the designated books or not. Plus, I can go back years later and see which of the books on my previous lists I ever read at all, and how many of them I’m still interested in reading.
So here’s an armful of books I’ve been meaning to read that I may get around to in the next few months. I seriously doubt I’ll read most of them, but each of them is, in various ways, the sort of book I like to have in front of me this time of year.
Very Good, Jeeves, P.G. Wodehouse
Wodehouse wrote better light comedy than any writer I know of. I mean, look, here’s one sentence from the first page of Very Good, Jeeves, in which our narrator, Bertie Wooster, wakes up feeling discontent just before breakfast: “He uncovered the fragrant eggs and b., and I pronged a moody forkful.” Isn’t that beautiful? I grin every time I read it. As hilarious and engaging as Wodehouse is, it’s easy to overlook that he’s also just a great writer, skilled at sketching characters in a sense or two and setting dense, involved plots in motion. Doesn’t matter that it’s always roughly the same plot: he makes endlessly inventive variations on his one silly theme.
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
I’ve read and seen allusions to Raymond Chandler’s work for years, and the movie version of The Big Sleep is one of my favorites, but I’ve never read Chandler himself. I have heard that his writing is slightly more florid and romantic than the efficient, flinty work of my favorite crime writer, Dashiell Hammett. Crime is one of the few genres of fiction I find inherently entertaining, and it’s long past time for me to try out its other single most influential writer.
Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton
This is the only book in my summer pile that I’ve read before. I first read it the summer the movie came out, in fact, and I recall that it made for great summer reading. Crichton’s dead now, and I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. I’d love to spend a week or so back in 1993.
The Trumpet of the Swan, E.B. White
Part of my reading life is a slow, ongoing project to catch up with books I should have read as a kid. Count up White’s contributions to great writing: they’re best represented by Charlotte’s Web, the second edition of The Elements of Style, and his essays, including the lovely, understated “Death of a Pig,” which is a fitting, if heartbreaking, companion to Charlotte. He’s been one of my favorite writers since I could read, but I somehow haven’t ever gotten around to Trumpet of the Swan. My girlfriend found this out last year, to her horror, so she did me the favor of giving me a copy.
Giving Good Weight, John McPhee
A gift, many years back, from a good friend. I’ve started it more than once, read and loved the title essay, and then become distracted and fickle and started something else. Aside from E.B. White, I can’t think of an essayist I respect more than McPhee; hopefully this is the year I read a whole book of his.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon
I’ve been hearing about it and meaning to read it since it was published. Friends have told me for years that it’s perfect summer reading. It sounds just right for my nerdy mind, too: historical fiction reimagining the 1930s and ’40s golden age of comic books. I already know Chabon is a great writer (check out The Yiddish Policemen’s Union and Maps and Legends if you haven’t yet), so there’s no excuse for putting off his epic Pulitzer winner any longer.
Other books piled on the same stack as the above:
And Be a Villain, Rex Stout
Devil in a Blue Dress, by Walter Moseley
The Laughing Corpse, Laurell K. Hamilton
The BFG, Roald Dahl
