(1850), Bleak House (1853), Great Expectations (1861). Dickens is the most humane writer you’ll
ever read. He believes in people, even with all their faults, and he slings a great story, with the most
memorable characters you’ll meet anywhere.
E. L. Doctorow, Ragtime (1975). Race relations and the clash of historical forces, all in a
deceptively simple, almost cartoonish narrative.
Emma Donoghue, Room (2010). A captivity narrative told by the product of that kidnapping. Five-
year-old Jack frequently doesn’t understand the things he tells us about; most important, he doesn’t
understand that living locked inside a tiny, soundproofed room is not the norm. He also doesn’t have
mastery of the definite article, so the room is Room; the bed, Bed—because they are the only ones, to
his knowledge, that exist. A tour de force of the use of point of view.
Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet ( Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, Clea ) (1957–60). A
brilliant realization of passion, intrigue, friendship, espionage, comedy, and pathos, in some of the
most seductive prose in modern fiction. What happens when Europeans go to Egypt.
T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1917), The Waste Land (1922). Eliot more
than any other person changed the face of modern poetry. Formal experimentation, spiritual searching,
social commentary.
Louise Erdrich, Love Medicine (1986). The first of a number of novels set on a North Dakota
Chippewa reservation, told as a series of linked short stories. Passion, pain, despair, hope, and
courage run through all her books.
William Faulkner, The Sound and The Fury (1929), As I Lay Dying (1930), Absalom, Absalom!
(1936). Difficult but rewarding books that mix social history, modern psychology, and classical myths
in narrative styles that can come from no one else.
Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones’s Diary (1999). A comic tale of modern womanhood, replete with
dieting, dating, angst, and self-help—and an intertextual companion to Jane Austen’s Pride and
Prejudice (1813).
Henry Fielding, Tom Jones (1741). The original Fielding/Jones comic novel. Any book about
growing up that can still be funny after more than 250 years is doing something right.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1925), “Babylon Revisited” (1931). If modern American
literature consisted of only one novel, and if that novel were Gatsby, it might be enough. What does
the green light mean? What does Gatsby’s dream represent? And what about the ash heaps and the
eyes on the billboard?
Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (1915). The greatest novel about heart trouble ever written.
E. M. Forster, A Room with a View (1908), Howards End (1910), A Passage to India (1924).
Questions of geography, north and south, west and east, the caves of consciousness.
John Fowles, The Magus (1966), The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969). Literature can be play,
a game, and in Fowles it often is. In the first of these, a young egoist seems to be the audience for a
series of private performances aimed at improving him. In the second, a man must choose between
two women, but really between two ways of living his life. That’s Fowles: always multiple levels
going on. He also writes the most wonderful, evocative, seductive prose anywhere.
Robert Frost, “After Apple Picking,” “The Woodpile,” “Out, Out—” “Mowing” (1913–16). Read
all of him. I can’t imagine poetry without him.
William H. Gass, “The Pedersen Kid,” “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” (both 1968).
These stories make clever use of landscape and weather and are wildly inventive—have you ever
thought of high school basketball as a religious experience?
Henry Green, Blindness (1926), Living (1929), Party Going (1939), Loving (1945). The first of
these really does deal with blindness in its metaphorical as well as literal meanings, and Party Going
has travelers stranded in fog, so that’s kind of like blindness. Loving is a kind of reworked fairy tale,
beginning with “Once upon” and ending with “ever after”; who could resist. Living, aside from being
a fabulous novel about all the classes involved with a British factory, is the only book I know in
which “a,” “an,” and “the” hardly ever appear. It’s a bizarre and wonderful stylistic experiment.
Almost no one has read or even heard of Green, and that’s too bad.
Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon (1929). The first truly mythic American detective novel.
And don’t miss the film version.
Thomas Hardy, “The Three Strangers” (1883), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), Tess of the
D’Urbervilles (1891). You’ll believe landscape and weather are characters after reading Hardy.
You’ll certainly believe that the universe is not indifferent to our suffering but takes an active hand in
it.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, “Young Goodman Brown” (1835), “The Man of Adamant” (1837), The
Scarlet Letter (1850), The House of the Seven Gables (1851). Hawthorne is perhaps the best
American writer at exploring our symbolic consciousness, at finding the ways we displace suspicion
and loneliness and envy. He just happens to use the Puritans to do it, but it’s never really about
Puritans.
Seamus Heaney, “Bogland” (1969), “Clearances” (1986), North (1975). One of our truly great
poets, powerful on history and politics.
Ernest Hemingway, the stories from In Our Time (1925), especially “Big Two-Hearted River,”
“Indian Camp,” and “The Battler,” The Sun Also Rises (1926), “Hills Like White Elephants” (1927),
A Farewell to Arms (1929), “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” (1936), The Old Man and the Sea (1952).
Homer, The Iliad, The Odyssey (ca. eighth century
b
.
c
.). The second of these is probably more
accessible to modern readers, but they’re both great. Every time I teach The Iliad I have students say,
I had no idea this was such a great story.
Henry James, The Turn of the Screw (1898). Scary, scary. Is it demonic possession or madness,
and if the latter, on whose part? In any case, it’s about the way humans consume each other, as is, in a
very different way, his “Daisy Miller” (1878).
James Joyce, Dubliners (1914), Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). First, the stories in
Dubliners, of which I’ve made liberal use of two. “Araby” has so much going on in it in just a few
pages: initiation, experience of the Fall, sight and blindness imagery, quest, sexual desire,
generational hostility. “The Dead” is just about the most complete experience it’s possible to have
with a short story. Small wonder Joyce left stories behind after he wrote it: what could he do after
that? As for Portrait, it’s a great story of growth and development. Plus it has a child take a dunk in a
cesspool (a “square ditch” in the parlance of the novel) and one of the most harrowing sermons ever
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