Books to Bury Me With: HLR

The book I’d want to take with me to the grave:

The Book of Disquiet by Pessoa — the 1991 Serpent’s Tail edition, edited by Maria José de Lancastre (the ultimate arrangement of the fragments; I am willing to fight people on this).

The first book that hit me like a ton of bricks:

Steppenwolf by Hesse altered the trajectory of my existence by a) saving my life and b) fucking me up immeasurably. All these years later, it continues to do both.

The book that’s seen more of my tears, coffee stains, and cigarette burns:

I feel like these are different vibes… Tears: A Little Life by Yanagihara. Coffee stains: Água Viva by Lispector. Cigarette burns: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Kundera.

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane:

So many books do this to me; I feel this is the point, what I demand of reading any book. But most recently Hyena! by Fran Lock, which completely revolutionised how I think of poetry (others’ and my own).

The book I wish I’d discovered when my liver was still intact:

Oi, my liver is actually fighting fit, thank you very much! But Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. I’d have lived a much freer, richer, happier, more feral and authentic life had I discovered this book earlier.

The book I’d shove into everyone’s hands if I were king of the world:

History of Present Complaint by HLR because she fears she’ll never write anything as raw/real/free as that again and she really needs the royalty money. After the Flood Comes the Apologies by Naoise Gale: an 11/10 banger.

The book that nearly drove me to madness:

The Norwegian lads who write 800-pagers are good at doing my head in, so Knausgaard’s The Morning Star Trilogy or Fosse’s Septology which is currently driving me bonkers. Ellmann’s Ducks, Newburyport also, for the sheer scope and unhinged ambition of it. But Lispector always comes in clutch if you want to feel insane; The Passion According to G.H. sent me batshit the first time I read it.

The book I can’t keep my hands off of, no matter how many times I’ve read it:

Perfume by Süskind (fiction), The Waste Land by Eliot (poetry), and Anam Cara by O’Donohue (non-fiction). Comfort reads, all-timers, ones I find something new in each time.

 

The book I’d hide in the back of my closet, pretending I’m too highbrow for it:

Just last week I hid MANIFEST by Roxie Nafousi in my sock drawer.

 

The book that left a scar I wish I could forget:

A Child Called ‘It’ by Dave Pelzer. I was far too young when I read this.

The author who made me think, "Now that’s a soul in torment":

I am saving my Basic Bitch Answer for a later question, so I won’t say Kafka... Instead I will say Sarrazin.

The book I’d get a tattoo of if I had the nerve:

If I didn’t think most butterfly tattoos look trashy (says the girl with the trashiest rose tattoo you’ve ever seen), I’d get one inspired by Nabokov’s Pale Fire as a reminder to ‘do what only a true artist can do — pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation.’

The book that made me question everything I thought I knew:

Sartre’s Being and Nothingness for sure. JPS, Nietzsche and Kierkegaard are the GOATs of addling and expanding stoned teenaged brains.

The book that’s so damn good I’d never loan it out:

I live to press books upon anyone and everyone, so I’m very generous with my library. But probably my French copy of La Nausée which I found in a pile of books a beautiful Romani witch was selling on the side of the motorway outside of Marseille. She refused my money ‘because I know in my soul that this book has always belonged to you and I have simply been waiting for you to collect it.’ That book is imbued with a very strange and very personal energy, one that feels so powerful I won’t let anyone touch it. But I have three English copies of Nausea — that’s how much I love it, and is also testament to how much of a loan-er (pun fully intended) of books I am.

 

The book that’s been my companion through the darkest nights:

Tove Ditlevsen’s The Copenhagen Trilogy. One I read every year, a major influence on me.

 

The book I’d throw in someone’s face during a heated argument:

Clark’s Red Comet, straight up. Then I’d lovingly stitch your split eyebrow back together.

 

The book that reminds me of a lost love or regret:

Hmmmm this is tricky… Bad Behaviour by Mary Gaitskill.

The book I wish I could have written, but know I never could:

Hard to narrow it down because there are loads. So I am using the one (1) Basic Bitch Answer I have allotted myself: House of Leaves by Danielewski. Like. How on god’s green earth did he write that. I am still baffled by that book, and I read it over a decade ago.

 

The book that makes me want to drink myself into oblivion:

Good Morning, Midnight, of course. You bring the booze, I’ll bring the barbs.

 

The book that’s been my refuge from the world’s cruelty:

Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter. I’m going to re-read this now actually.