Books to Bury Me with: Jeff Schneider

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

Alain On Happiness by Alain (aka Émile-Auguste Chartier) a rare French philosophy book that is a strong contributor to my belief system. Buy a copy if you can get one. Reserve, withdraw, and steal from a library if you cannot. It deserves lively discussion rather than rotting on a shelf unread in a dungeon.

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

The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. 

I was devastated by what happened to Aslan. I did not know the Christian links at the time of reading it (very young) but this book rocked my world. I was very emotional about it for weeks on end. 

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

Probably Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine. It lives in every punk house, every squat, every musician’s loft or apartment. This book, if you can step back and put it into historical context, is one of the most passionate, life-affirming, beautifully written, exciting books of all time. I went through it with this one, many times. 

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane: 

When I first read David Shield’s Reality Hunger I was left in a furor for sure. I’d never seriously understood nor considered collage and this book struck my brain like a storm. It stunned me with what it did and the vast possibilities of what writing can do. Very liberating book. 

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

Characters by Derek Maine. Derek seems to have decided to save his own life. I unfortunately am keeping on with the bullshit. I wish I could read this at some sort of AA meeting, read it aloud so everyone could enjoy it. But I am not in recovery and most likely never will be. This book is for the survivors and those who are capable of self-love. 

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

Oh, Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich’s Ruthless Little Things. Everyone, everyone, should read this book immediately, and that is a decree. 

The book that nearly drove me to madness: 

The Average American Male by Chad Kultgen. Infuriating times, this book almost made me give up (on literature), then things changed. People like him are extinct now. Make you crazy book. 

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

I am a super-fan of the author James Nulick. All of his books are great, I have read Valencia many times over. Lazy Eyes is one that sticks out for me, a mostly slept on book, it is definitely one to obsess over, as are most of James’ books. So much to digest and each pass you gain more insight into his world. 

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

Post Office by Charles Bukowski. Totally amazing book, one of my favs, yet few can talk about it without falling into feminist analysis (which I’d prefer to avoid), so in the closet it goes. 

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

Well, Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee, tragic, pathetic story. Made me feel weak and ill at some points: it lives up to the title 100%. 

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

Forrest Muelrath, his debut novel The Valeries has an obsessional rigor to it that certainly seems like torment. Just writing a book like this, the process it must have underwent, made me think that he must be picking at scars daily. This is why it is so fucking good. 

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

Eh, I can’t get no damn tattoos, but if I could, I’d probably go with something complex and weird like Fiskadoro by Denis Johnson. Off putting. Strange. Probably a tattoo artist could run with the idea and design something wild with it. 

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

Lol, um, Nicomachean Ethics – Aristotle??? I don’t know much. Probably anything from a Philosophy 101 syllabus would produce this effect. Wittgenstein, Kripke, Chalmers… 

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

Well hell, I’d loan anything out. I give books away all the time. But I get it, probably Tiny Love by Larry Brown. This is a very sweet and personal book. I feel connected to it. I would hesitate to loan it to a dumbfuck who wouldn’t read it properly and without care. It’s like that special swimming spot, don’t tell the lames where it is located. 

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

Cialis, Verdi, Gin, Jag by Adam Johnson. Adam is a dear friend and he wrote this novel before we ever knew of each other. I do think there is something directly correlated to things I highly relate to e.g. therapist stuff, insanity, trouble. 

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

Any of Tao Lin’s wastes of paper. I’d throw them at anyone, use any excuse to rid my environment of this matter. Perfect for a heated argument or assault (statutory of course).

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

I read The Hobbit when I was 10 years old. I took it out of the local library in my small home town. This was upon the suggestion of a little girl named Aimee. I read it to impress her, yet I found myself in love with the book. I was so fully engulfed I ignored her far past the return date. Probably lost love and some regret. 

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

I just tried to read A Hole in the Wall by Joe Nally (aka Pilleater). He probably has 20 IQ points on me. The book is very insightful. He seems to know what is up with so many things in 2024, where I am old and so much has blown over my head. I simple cannot keep up with the chronically online discourse and all its intricacies and implications for modern living. I admire this work very much, but it is obviously above me and my writing capabilities. I wish I could have written it, not as myself, but as someone more like Pilleater. 

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

Well, shit, Leaving Las Vegas by John O’Brien. The book is as tragic as the author’s life was. Alcohol is a bitch. I read this and feel conflicted because one of the main ideas is that alcoholics are married to the bottle and not even the most beautiful things life can offer, excitement, love to another human, can ever divorce that marriage. It is a sad, fucked up book. It does make me very vulnerable to binge drinking for sure. 

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

Rising Up and Rising Down by William T. Vollmann. One of the most ethical, moral, honest books ever written. It exposes and questions difficult things deeply. Another human looked at it, wrote it down, observed it. Knowing this in itself is part of the healing process. Vollmann bears witness.