The best books that deliver big imagination and a huge creative punch

I love story collections where a writer has nothing to lose. The writer tries out ideas, and when imagination goes off the rails, we all go for a ride. This book has a central voice, Victor, who takes us to the carnival. There is Thomas, the storyteller whose imagination destabilizes like an LSD trip, but when Victor, Thomas, and their friends all take hallucinogens, everyone’s a Thomas.

As the stories unfold, somebody’s waiting for Crazy Horse, Jesus, Qualchan, or Coyote, and maybe they come, and maybe they don’t. It all boils down to “Survival = Anger x Imagination. Imagination is the Only Weapon on the Reservation” (150), an equation worth the price of admission.

Maybe you’ve read this book, but maybe you haven’t. The kids like me who used to carry the 95¢ Dell paperbacks are now dead or thinking about it.

The author, Kurt Vonnegut, was an American prisoner of war and spent 24 hours underground in a meat locker during the Allied firebombing of Dresden, Germany. He said of his experience the bombing “killed 250,000 people in 24 hours and destroyed all of Dresden—possibly the world’s most beautiful city. But not me.” It’s fair to say that this book was his imagination’s way of dealing with the war. “One” acts as a preface, so the novel really begins with “Two,” “Listen:/Billy Pilgrim is unstuck in time,” and then imagination fights its way out.

I saw my first raven near Mount Rainier. The bird looked me in the eye, hopped to the left, sized me up, and continued his business. The advancing Russian army drove Bernd Heinrich and his family into the forest near Hahnheide, Germany, where they lived in a small hut for five years.

There, he began his lifelong quest to connect with insects (especially bees), owls, trees, antelope (he runs ultramarathons), geese...and ravens. The mind of the Raven is a deep, scientific meditation on the intersection between being human and raven. It concludes that “ultimately [our differences are] less a matter of consciousness than of culture” (342).

I wonder how culture has dulled my imagination, a struggle Heinrich clearly has fought more successfully than I have.

I repost art that catches my eye. I click when I see a piece of Egon Schiele on social media. It’s impossible to look away, which is saying something, considering the variety and audacity of modern art. Born in Tulln, Austria, in 1890, Schiele died of the Spanish Flu in 1918 at only 27.

A student of Gustav Klimt, Schiele’s art is expressionistic, graphic, and transformative. His imagination is a slap in the face, a Munch “Scream” of a crime scene photograph. Steiner has done a great service in producing this art book, in which all of Schiele’s work is reproduced in color. His commentary is, at the same time, chronological and thematic. Schiele survived derisive criticism and prison, and although his life was short, his imaginative punches still landed.

I was fourteen when I was introduced to my next pick. Our teacher read aloud The Kool-Aid Wino and The Cleveland Wrecking Yard, and I was lucky enough to find a copy at the mall as I read, bang! Trout Fishing in America Terrorists, bang! The Hunchback Trout, and bang! Sandbox Minus John Dillinger Equals What?

Brautigan grew up neglected and received involuntary electroshock treatments because he was hungry and threw a rock through a police station window. He never went to college but taught college classes. His imagination gave him a reason to live. It gave me one, too.