The path of reading is one fraught with peril, and requires a guiding hand. Forgetting the knaves, the ignorant, the petty, the brutal, the uncouth, the lazy, and the impatient, the order of books to read must take a gradual path away from genre to literary. But this is not easy. Books are not pathways to self-improvement, they are not medicine, they are not consolation to the soul, they are not a way for a person to “level up” their attributes or sense of self.
For the dreamers and the young, Bolaño.
For the dystopic and the philosophic, Saramago.
For the romantic lover of irony, Flaubert.
For the historian, Tolstoy.
For the mad and insane and possessed and obsessed (so for everyone), Dostoevsky.
For the conflicted, Camus.
For the tormented, Hamsun.
For the person who laughs, Kundera.
For the modernist, Coetzee.
For the adventurer, Aira.
For the jigsaw lover, Perec.
For the ambitious, Proust.
For the American, Bellow.
* * *
The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.