100 books like Narrow Road to the Interior

When I was ten years old, I listened to a shortened version of this astonishing narrative while at school. I would wish the whole week away to hear the next installment! It’s the allegory of the main character, Christian, who leaves the City of Destruction for the Celestial City. His parents remain in Dark-Land.

When I wrote my memoir, I called it Dark-Land in homage to Bunyan, as a way of thinking about London in the years of post-war austerity when I was growing up, and as a way of making sense of how my parents kept me in the dark about all sorts of things in the family. Only when I started to write my memoir did I finally find out the family secrets. 

I can’t possibly remember how many times I have read this wonderful journal and all the ones that follow it. No one captures conversation better than Boswell, and hardly anyone preserves the sense of a place or a character better than he does.

Boswell is searingly honest about himself, including his many shortcomings. Although he may not intend to be hilarious, he surely is. I sometimes feel I know Boswell better than I know anyone living.

When I first visited Paris in 1977, I found a second-hand copy of Yves Bonnefoy’s dreamlike meditation on his life, his passion for the visual arts, his lyrical evocations of landscape, and his temptations to eschew the sensual world.

I was transported when I read it in French and thrilled to see it appear in English. Years after I read it, I received a warm letter from Bonnefoy, who had been reading my poems.

We met; we became friends, and I am thankful to this book for introducing him to me, and for the many happy hours we spent talking together about poetry.

"Dockery and Son" is one of the most moving poems of the last century. Returning to Oxford reminds Larkin of his undergraduate years, and he meditates on how his life differs from that of someone he vaguely knew there.

It turns out that Dockery had a child as an undergraduate while Larkin himself never married. This prompts a poignant meditation on the divergent paths people take in life and how each of us enriches or dilutes his or her “I.” 

I’ve always been a sucker for haiku. No one did it better than Matsuo Bashō, and none of his anthologies were better written than this book. Ten years ago, I went to Japan to experience his poem-pillow places.

The result was my own travelogue, Samurai Road, a vision quest perhaps not quite as spiritual or erudite as that of the master but no less inspired. Days and months are travelers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. 

Matsuo Bashō is considered the most influential figure in the history of hokku (or haiku) poems and this book brings them to life with excellent English translations and commentary. I particularly enjoy Bashō because he was a traveller. He didn’t just sit and write poems in comfy surroundings. He hit the road and wrote about his experiences, be they good or bad. In many ways, they are the humorous, spontaneous, gritty writings of a fatigued experiencer of life. One of my favourites - “My summer robe, there are still some lice, I have not caught”. Ueda’s book is brilliant and allows English speakers to glimpse Bashō’s true thoughts as he rambled about the countryside in 17th century Japan.

You’d probably be forgiven if when you think of poetry you think of love, natural beauty, or at worst, melancholic sadness. But with just 17 syllables, the author manages to bring all the grit, gore, and mayhem of the zombie apocalypse into pleasant verse. Haiku is a popular, easily approachable form of poetry (i.e. not pretentious), which makes this book a fun, light read despite its blood-spattered pages.

I love that this book incorporates riddles and haiku!

Kids can turn the pages and travel through the seasons (spring through winter) in an illustrated playful guessing game. “I am a wind bird/ sky skipper, diamond dipper,/ dancing on your string.” If you guessed a kite, you are right! A clever combination of art, riddles, and poetry wrapped up in a beautiful picture book package.

Spoiler Alert: Lion of the Sky is a firework!  Wow! 

I suspect that I was led to take The Malady of Death from my shelf by a subconscious directive. I admit that I am afraid of this book, its relentless probing, afraid I will never understand it however much I struggle. Confounded by it twenty-five years ago, I put it aside until my consciousness could mature. (Ha!) The fault must be mine, since her style, language, and structure are as limpid as Ernaux’s or Davis’s, although Duras’s prose carries a poetical charge deliberately absent in the other two writers. I begin to think that the trouble lies in my sex, that as a man, an Other to women, I can’t possibly know what Duras’s narrator is being made to gradually reveal not with the leer of a striptease artist but with the solemnity of a priestess presiding over ancient feminine mysteries.

Would feminists accuse me of being obtuse and,… show more.

With Imperial Bedrooms, Bret Easton Ellis channels many of his career-long obsessions into a nihilistic work of Hollywood noir, written in a minimalist prose style that evokes both Raymond Chandler’s staccato brutalism and Joan Didion’s haunting lyricism. Imperial Bedrooms takes a razor to Hollywood’s beautiful surfaces while drawing the reader deeper and deeper into protagonist Clay’s misanthropic paranoia. The writing is masterful, existential horror frozen into sentences so spare and focused they often resemble haiku. It features what might be my favorite closing line in fiction: “The fades, the dissolves, the rewritten scenes, all the things you wipe away—I now want to explain all these things to her but I know I never will, the most important one being: I never liked anyone and I’m afraid of people.”