committed to paper. Falls, rises, salvation and damnation, Oedipal conflicts, the search for self, all
the things that make novels of childhood and adolescence so rewarding.
Franz Kafka, “The Metamorphosis” (1915), “A Hunger Artist” (1924), The Trial (1925). In the
strange world of Kafka, characters are subjected to unreal occurrences that come to define and
ultimately destroy them. It’s much funnier than that sounds, though.
Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees (1988), Pigs in Heaven (1993), The Poisonwood Bible
(1998). Her novels resonate with the strength of primal patterns. Taylor Greer takes one of the great
road trips into a new life in the first of these novels.
D. H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers (1913), Women in Love (1920), “The Horse Dealer’s Daughter”
(1922), “The Fox” (1923), Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928), The Virgin and the Gypsy (1930), “The
Rocking-Horse Winner” (1932). The king of symbolic thinking.
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte Darthur (late fifteenth century). Very old language, but writers and
filmmakers continue to borrow from him. A great story.
Yann Martel, Life of Pi (2001). A boy, a tiger, a lifeboat—what more do you need? One of the
more unusual versions of the hero’s journey, compellingly told.
Colum McCann, This Side of Brightness (1998), Let the Great World Spin (2009). One low (the
men who dug the subway tunnels under New York), one high (a disparate group of New Yorkers on
the day Philippe Petit walked a high wire between the twin towers), two brilliant examples of
storytelling by a master of English prose.
Iris Murdoch, A Severed Head (1961), The Unicorn (1963), The Sea, the Sea (1978), The Green
Knight (1992). Murdoch’s novels follow familiar literary patterns, as the title of The Green Knight
would suggest. Her imagination is symbolic, her logic ruthlessly rational (she was a trained
philosopher, after all).
Sena Jeter Naslund, Ahab’s Wife (1999). Ever wonder what happens to those left behind by “great
men”? We can debate how terrific Ahab is in Moby-Dick, but in one of the major feminist
reenvisionings of literary works and figures, Naslund looks into the experience of the woman the
crazed captain—and his creator—doesn’t even grace with a name.
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (1958). Yes, that one. No, it isn’t a porn novel. But it is about things we
might wish didn’t exist, and it does have one of literature’s creepier main characters. Who thinks he’s
normal.
Tim O’Brien, Going After Cacciato (1978), The Things They Carried (1990). Besides being
perhaps the two finest novels to come out of the Vietnam War, O’Brien’s books give us lots of fodder
for thought. A road trip of some eight thousand statute miles, to Paris no less, site of the peace talks.
A beautiful native guide leading our white hero west. Alice in Wonderland parallels. Hemingway
parallels. Symbolic implications enough to keep you busy for a month at your in-laws’.
Edgar Allan Poe, “The Fall of the House of Usher” (1839), “The Mystery of the Rue Morgue”
(1841), “The Pit and the Pendulum” (1842), “The Tell-Tale Heart” (1843), “The Raven” (1845),
“The Cask of Amontillado” (1846). Poe gives us one of the first really free plays of the subconscious
in fiction. His stories (and poems, for that matter) have the logic of our nightmares, the terror of
thoughts we can’t suppress or control, half a century and more before Sigmund Freud. He also gives
us the first real detective story (“Rue Morgue”), becoming the model for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and all who came after.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49 (1965). My students sometimes struggle with this short
novel, but they’re usually too serious. If you go into it knowing it’s cartoonish and very much from the
sixties, you’ll have a great time.
Theodore Roethke, “In Praise of Prairie” (1941), The Far Field (1964). A great poet from—and of
—the American heartland.
William Shakespeare (1564–1616). Take your pick. Here’s mine: Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet,
Julius Caesar, Macbeth, King Lear, Henry V, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Much Ado About
Nothing, The Tempest, A Winter’s Tale, As You Like It, Twelfth Night . And then there are the
sonnets. Read all of them you can. Hey, they’re only fourteen lines long. I particularly like sonnet 73,
but there are lots of wonderful sonnets in there.
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818). The monster isn’t simply monstrous. He says something about
his creator and about the society in which Victor Frankenstein lives.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (late fourteenth century). Not for beginners, I think. At least it
wasn’t for me when I was a beginner. Still, I learned to really enjoy young Gawain and his adventure.
You might, too.
Sophocles, Oedipus Rex, Oedipus at Colonus, Antigone (fifth century
b
.
c
.). These plays constitute
a trilogy dealing with a doomed family. The first (which is the first really great detective story in
Western literature) is about blindness and vision, the second about traveling on the road and the place
where all roads end, and the third a meditation on power, loyalty to the state, and personal morality.
These plays, now over twenty-four hundred years old, never go out of style.
Sir Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen (1596). Spenser may take some work and a fair bit of
patience. But you’ll come to love the Redcrosse Knight.
Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island (1883), The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
(1886), The Master of Ballantrae (1889). Stevenson does fascinating things with the possibilities of
the divided self (the one with a good and an evil side), which was a subject of fascination in the
nineteenth century.
Bram Stoker, Dracula (1897). What, you need a reason?
Dylan Thomas, “Fern Hill” (1946). A beautiful evocation of childhood/summer/life and everything
that lives and dies.
Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885). Poor Huck has come under attack in
recent decades, and yes, it does have that racist word in it (not surprising in a work depicting a racist
society), but Huck Finn also has more sheer humanity than any three books I can think of. And it’s one
of the great road/buddy stories of all time, even if the road is soggy.
Anne Tyler, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (1982). Tyler has a number of wonderful novels,
including The Accidental Tourist (1985), but this one really works for my money.
John Updike, “A&P” (1962). I don’t really use his story when I create my quest to the grocery, but
his is a great little story.
Derek Walcott, Omeros (1990). The exploits of a Caribbean fishing community, paralleling events
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