Books to Bury Me With: Mallory Smart

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

Les Misérables. More out of sentiment than anything. I first read it middle school but got way more into it when I was a sophomore in high school and our English teacher did a unit on French literature. I was hyped because I was one of the only people in class who had already read it. When my mom saw how excited I was, she went out and got me a really old copy that she somehow knew I’d love. I don’t come from a book loving family so it was one of the first times when someone in it seemed to be paying attention and went out of their way to buy me one. She eventually indulged the book love more, but that’s the one that opened the door for the rest.

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

I am torn between one that messed me up as a little kid or one that hit harder in a more existential way. I’m leaning towards existential and saying Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit. Yes, it’s technically a play but so is most of Shakespeare’s works and we don’t get annoying about mediums there. So, No Exit. It hits hard because it turns hell into something simple which is terrifying. Its being stuck with other people forever. No torture, just the constant feeling of being seen, judged, and unable to escape how others define you.

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

Big Sur. I read it obsessively before legit trying to become a writer. I carried it everywhere. I’d be reading it in the parking lot of a 24hr diner or on abandoned train tracks in a small town by myself or on the trunk of my car in the middle of the night. It’s a cliché for a writer to like Kerouac, but I do. Originally like most people it was On the Road, but like with Kerouac the high of it died down for me. I did my little road trip, came back and had a very “what now” moment. It’s a hangover to the party, raw, and reveals the bitter feeling that being a writer doesn’t make you special. I bring it out anytime I feel insignificant or feel the creep of imposter syndrome.

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane:

Can we go non-fiction? If so, I’m picking Das Kapital. If we’re sticking with literary fiction: The Jungle by Upton Sinclaire. As a Chicagoan, I read that pretty early on and of course it was with the expectation that the story would be a gross depiction of the meat packing industry. Instead, it became the first book that forced me to resent capitalism and the system that chews people up and spits them out. It’s one of those books that makes you realize how much of life is shaped by forces way beyond your control.

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

Pretty sure my liver is still intact, but Blindness by José Saramago. It’s intense, claustrophobic, and something I wish I had read a long time ago. It goes beyond critiquing the government or capitalism. It shows what happens when all structure falls apart and it isn’t pretty. I read it during the pandemic and it hit hard then. But I keep hating the fact that it took me so long to discover it.

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

Ecotopia by Ernest Callenbach. It takes the classic dystopian vs. utopian debate and makes it feel weirdly plausible (which is insanely important to think of these days). It feels disturbingly relevant which is funny because I first read it more than 10 years ago.  The premise is simple. The Pacific Northwest secedes from the U.S. and builds a sustainable, ecologically balanced society. It forces you to question what kind of progress humans are actually capable of and whether our country would be better off if we just broke apart instead of trying to force a very divided population to exist under one banner.

The book that nearly drove me to madness:

The Trial by Franz Kafka. It’s like being trapped in an escape room where the clues are written in a dead language, the exit keeps shifting dimensions, and people just smirk and mutter something cryptic when you ask for help. It’s maddening, surreal, and darkly hilarious. It’s a fun kind of nightmare logic that turns frustration into an existential scavenger hunt.

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

Dork here. It’s going to either be sci-fi or horror or fantasy. For the sake of mixing things up, I’ll go with sci-fi. I love reading Dune. It never gets old. It’s full of political backstabbing and imperialism and the dangers of religion and full of weird mysticism with no hand holding. I like books that lay it out and don’t feel the need to over explain or get too pretentious. Because of that, there are always more layers to love and appreciate every time you read it.

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

Pure dork here and am kind of unashamed of the books that are seen as too mainstream or not “highbrow” enough for this lit world. For instance, I have the entire Harry Potter set proudly front and center on my bookshelf. The dorkiest one that I don’t hype as much and is kind of tucked away though is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

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

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. It messes with your sense of meaning by arguing that life is totally random, nothing repeats, and every choice you make is weightless yet final. It’s the kind of book that makes you stare at the ceiling and question whether anything actually matters.

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

Roberto Bolaño. His books feel like a never-ending existential crisis. The Savage Detectives is basically a chaotic road trip through failure and regret. The characters keep chasing poetry, meaning, or some mythical lost poet, but the only thing they ever really find is disappointment. It’s all doom and desperation. They start out young and idealistic, but by the end, they're scattered across the world, broke, bitter, or dead. Bolaño writes like someone who knows the universe doesn’t give a shit, and his characters are just figuring that out the hard way.

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

I actually have several tattoos but it never really occurred to me to get a book related one. The closest I ever came was getting “One must imagine Sisyphus happy” from The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus on my left wrist. It was almost going to be my first tattoo but then I ended up getting a hammer and sickle. A compass with arrows are on the left wrist that the quote was going to go. I made a hard rule that I’d only get one tattoo per appendage and have hit that mark but realized that I could technically do the other side of my ankles. I’ve been considering getting the Eye of Horus and a 666 tattoo like from The Omen. Both are unlikely, but would be cool to get at some point.

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

Crime and Punishment. I’d expand on this if I thought I had to. Most people have read it and know the plot drags you into the mind of a man who tries to justify murder and then unravels. It’s full of all the fun themes of guilt, free will, and morality to think of. And of course my favorite, leaves you questioning what is evil and if evil is a real thing.

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

I dare someone to try and take my copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide. Any time I’m bored or just need a good laugh, I go for that. Can’t risk it not being on hand. Such a weird and whimsical classic that lives rent-free in my mind. Will never give it up. I should say that I am also very annoying when it comes to loaning out books because I’ve had annoying experiences where I never got the copy back or they returned a book looking like it's been to hell and back. I loaned an ex my copy of Savage Detectives. I’m assuming I’m never getting that one back…

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

Tends to be poetry. One specific book that will remain unnamed because it was written by someone in our lit world and it feels weird to say it.

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

Not the answer you’re hoping for, but Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I did get into an insanely heated argument and threw it at someone. I missed and now there’s a hole in my childhood bedroom closet. Clearly, the book is heavy enough to do some damage, so that's the book I would throw.

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

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro.

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

Call me basic, but The First Bad Man by Miranda July. It’s one of those books that feels completely unhinged but also weirdly profound. It’s awkward, funny, and deeply human in a way that sneaks up on you. Miranda July has this ability to make the absurd feel inevitable, like of course that’s how the story had to go. I wish I could have written it, but I’m just not abstract or whimsical enough to pull off those vibes.

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

Infinite Jest. It’s dense, brilliant, and so aggressively self-aware that it feels like the book itself is mocking you for trying to read it. It unpacks addiction, depression, and the way entertainment slowly rots your brain, all while drowning you in footnotes and acronyms. By the time you hit page 500 and realize there are still 500 more to go, drinking yourself into oblivion starts to feel like a reasonable response.

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

The Exorcist. It’s no secret that I’ve started getting into horror a lot lately. I even have a podcast devoted to horror. But is nothing compared to writers like Stephen King, David Seltzer, and William Peter Blatty. I’ve decided that The Exorcist is the best horror novel. It feels the most “real” and it is probably full of more creeping dread than any of the horror novels I’ve gotten into. Just pure cosmic evil that lingers. I’ve read it maybe 10 times in the last 4 years. It’s been on rooftops in Istanbul, road trips, and in Egyptian deserts. Those aren’t humble brags, but proof that I legit take it with me everywhere. It’s next to me right now. I am consistently blown by how tight it is and how it forces someone to question the idea of evil and what’s real and what isn’t. I connected to it most when I was in Egypt and went through severe heat stroke at a Bedouin camp. Spent the entire day hiding from sunlight and reading The Exorcist to pass the time. I was so out of it that I started to question what was real and what wasn’t. It was so unsettling. Only thing that helped me stay grounded was a chill af German Shepherd and that equally unsettling book that questions reality. I now always associate it with that feeling and carry it with me everywhere. If I ever want to force myself into feeling that way to write, I pull out The Exorcist and the emotions start pouring out.