Books to Bury Me With: George Gad Economou

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

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. To me, it’s not just a book about the crumbling American Dream or the death of the counterculture era. It’s an ode to man’s desire to live on his own goddamn terms, do whatever he wants, and tread across the Edge for as long as he can. Hunter S. Thompson did just that, he lived on his own terms and shuffled off this mortal coil when he felt the time was right. I’m doing my best to follow in his footsteps and I hope I can earn the right to hold his book in my arms when it’s my time to be lowered into a hole in the ground by living, and dying, on my terms.

 

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

That would have to be Edgar Allan Poe’s Completed Works. When I first read him, I was nineteen years old and was writing mostly horror and science fiction stories. But it wasn’t his stories, or his novel, that hit me hard; the poems did it for me, as he introduced the idea into my head that I could also write poetry. Soon thereafter, I started scribbling my first poems, and now, fifteen years later, I have more than four thousand poems sitting in a folder on my computer. So, whenever you read a poem of mine, you have Poe to blame.

 

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

I always make sure all my books are in pristine condition. I manage to avoid spilling anything on them even when I’m plastered when I read something. But, if we’re talking about tears and metaphorical stains, the book that’s seen a lot of those is John Keats’ Collected Poems. I read him for the first time during a very dark period of my life and whenever I reread him, I return to those black months—I never read Keats without a fresh bottle of bourbon next to me.

 

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane:

Journey to the End of the Night, by Louis-Ferdinand Céline. I know the author has become a bit of a controversial figure nowadays because of his questionable political views but the book itself is a masterpiece. The portrayal of life in the poor quarters of Paris, the misanthrope narrator, the author’s nihilism, pretty much everything about the book had a profound effect on me when I first read it.

 

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

I started punishing my liver when I was fifteen, drinking gin and tonics every Saturday in a small dive-esque bar with my best friend, and have never looked back. I can’t think of any book that would have a different effect on me if I’d first read it before I started drinking. I’ve thought about doing a Leaving Las Vegas before I ever read the book or watched the movie.

 

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

1984 and Animal Farm. If it has to be a single book, I’d print them out together in a single volume (I’m the king of the world, after all). I believe way more people should read them. Orwell criticized the Soviet Union and its communist regime in both of them but they remain as relevant as ever, even if the Soviet Union collapsed thirty-three years ago.

As king of the world, I’d also make people watch Idiocracy, even if I had to use contraptions like the one in A Clockwork Orange. You know why.

 

The book that nearly drove me to madness:

I embrace madness on my own, no books were required to do that. However, one of the books responsible for my madness-infused writing style is Joyce’s Ulysses. I’ve read it three times.

 

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

Confessions of an Opium Eater, by Thomas de Quincey. It is, essentially, the diary of an opium addict from 19th century England, where opium was the primary drug for a lot of people, unlike today where we rely on opiate derivatives that can often be of bad quality and/or lack the same punch as pure opium. In addition, it’s divided into two parts, one describing the good effects of opium and the other the bad effects. You can see it as a cautionary tale, a guide, or something in between.

 

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

I don’t hide books and I’m definitely not highbrow enough not to read something that sparks my interest. I don’t like romance novels or anything in the fantasy genre, so I don’t buy those books. Usually, I keep the books I don’t like on the bottom shelf of one of my bookcases. It’s not because I’m too highbrow for them, I just don’t want them to take space on the more visible and accessible shelves; on my bottom shelf of “shame” sit books from Thomas Mann, Joseph Conrad, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Maybe, I’m not highbrow enough.

 

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

I don’t think there’s ever been a book that left a scar that I wish to forget. Books that mentally scarred me (for good or bad) do exist but I don’t want to forget any of those. Flowers of Evil definitely left a scar on my mind. Same as Hunger, by Knut Hamsun. Ask the Dust, by John Fante, too. But I don’t wish to forget the impact these books had on me; instead, I relish the scars and wish there were more books that had such a deep impact on me.

 

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

Charles Bukowski. I mean, how can you not see someone who spent most of his life in pain? He came from an abusive home, getting beaten up regularly by his father, he was bullied at school, especially when he developed some monstrous boils, and then he ended up spending most of his life on Skid Row, working meaningless jobs that barely paid. He constantly wrote poems and short stories that almost no one wanted to publish. It explains why he was such a mean drunk, too, as he drank to escape the cruelty of life and then took his frustration out on everyone around him, be it other barflies or his wife. It also explains why a lot of his early works are brilliant; he poured out the pain and suffering onto the page.

 

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

I’m not a tattoo guy but if I was getting one with a book quote, it’d be from Finnegan’s Wake. It’d be fun to see how many people would look at it and think “there’s something seriously wrong with this dude”.

A lot of people get tattoos with Chinese symbols or some trite inspirational quote. Just picture a tattoo that said: “Aerials buzzed to coastal listeners of an oertax bror collector’s budget, fullybigs, sporran, tie, tuft, tabard, and bloody antichill cloak.”

 

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

Infinite Jest. Until I read it, I honestly thought a book had to be good to be published. 

 

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

I never loan books, not even to my close friends and family. I don’t care if it’s a masterpiece or terrible; if I own it, it stays in my apartment.

 

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

Honestly, my own books accompany me when things are dark; I don’t mean reading them. I mean that during my darkest nights (they’re not rare, either), I prefer sitting down in front of my keyboard to type out words instead of reading something.

 

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

My Animal Physiology textbook, one of a handful of books I’ve kept from my time as a biology undergrad. Almost a thousand A-4 pages. Propelled at someone with sufficient power, it could break a nose or, at the very least, chip a couple of teeth.

 

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

Junk, by William S. Burroughs. No explanation.

 

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

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72. I’ve always been interested in politics and I think what Thompson did in his coverage of the 1972 presidential campaign will never be repeated; sadly, it cannot be replicated because things have changed a lot. Just imagine a coked-up journalist carrying six-packs of Heineken and a fifth of Wild Turkey following a presidential candidate around; chaos would ensue, terrorism accusations would be thrown around, and the journalist would probably end up in some dark prison cell. I prefer honest writing and Fear and Loathing is definitely a book I could never write, simply because it would be impossible to do it today—not that I claim that my talent’s equal to Thompson’s but I’d love the opportunity to give it a shot.

 

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

Seriously? Currently, I’m reading The Master of Ballantrae by Robert Louis Stevenson and I still drink myself into oblivion—the book has nothing to do with it. At any rate, I do enjoy drinking while reading books by drunkard authors; it helps me connect with them on a different level, reaching a similar state of mind as they had when they wrote what I’m reading.

 

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

Any good book is a refuge from the world. I have a few books that I return to more often—Confessions of an Opium Eater, anything from Bukowski, Burroughs, and Thompson—but sitting down with almost any book and a cup of bourbon-enhanced coffee is enough to escape the world for a few hours.