Plato said, so somebody once told me, “a house that has a library in it has a soul.” Oh, I remember now, a real estate agent trying to sell me a house. “I have too many books to move.” I said that.
I read forty-eight books in 2015, the first year of my no-residence, home-schooled self-monitored MFA studies in creative writing. Did not cheat, none of that reading many slim volumes. Hell, if I had skipped Ted Hughes: The Unauthorized Life by Jonathan Bates, would’ve read sixty books last year easy.
Best I ever did was in the early Nineties in a little cabin on the Siuslaw River in the Coast Range of Oregon. We were living in a small two-bedroom cabin at sea level, a short walk one way from a national forest, the other from the river. Basically isolated, twenty-one miles to the nearest grocery or laundromat. Winter there, it rained a great deal, but, so I’m told, never snowed. We paid $350 monthly, water and garbage included. Surrounded by woods, you could just open the door and let the dogs out. They were good dogs. Yes, we had two dogs, of course, one for each of us. Our rent was really $370 because we paid ten dollars extra per month per canine family member .
Money was a two-year-old sheepdog, basically a Muppet who thought he was a gnarly watchdog. We were both impecunious writers and she thought it was funny to stand at the back door and call, “Here Money! Come, Money, come!” Andy, a collie-mix, was twelve, and I have often said he was one of the greatest living creatures, dog or human, I have ever encountered. Certainly less trouble than a child, better behaved than most relatives. Andy was the kind of animal who convinces non-dog owners to change their ways. When he finally passed away, his obituary appeared in the local paper. A crowd gathered at ocean’s edge to pay their respects.
No television, no newspaper. And that lady and I weren’t exactly having long amiable conversations by then. Plenty of time to read. Think I read seventy-eight books. Do not mention this to brag. Don’t even know if it’s brag worthy. Today I watch a lot of television, many movies, subscribe to numerous magazines. Read the paper and the internet, too. Really just talking to myself here, but I am not going to be ashamed if I only read forty-eight books last year. In 2014, twenty-three percent of Americans did not read a book. All year. Not one.
Maybe some shame should accrue to my choices. No. No, I don’t think so. I am studying poetry and memoir and writers particularly enjoyed in the past. Some newcomers, too. Started late with graphic novels. Comic books for adults, which brings me full circle, literature-wise.
These “Best Books” are simply those found the most enjoyable to me personally. I slogged through some long deadly tomes and finished them all. You can learn from bad books, too. Especially the endings. Must admit, seriously thinking about skipping the middle of those books from now on.
Wild Dog’s Best Books Of 2015*
Black Like Me – John Howard Griffin
Read this decades ago. Amazed me then and now again. Imagine climbing into somebody else’s skin.
Charles Bukowski: Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life – Howard Sones
I am a student of Hank Bukowski. He’s easier to read than listen to or watch.
Charles Bukowski: Sunlight Here I Am (Interviews & Encounters 1963-1993) – David Stephen Calonne
Really can relate to Bukowski except I am handsome and fit. And he is prolific and famous and really good.
My Reading Life – Pat Conroy
Simply an outstanding tale about great books and the mother, teachers, friends who believed in the power of books to shape a life.
Just Kids – Patti Smith
Wild young artists in love.
Conversations With Jim Harrison – Robert DeMott
I am a bigger fan of Harrison than I am – sadly – an admirer of his works. Should be noted, I just ordered his latest The Ancient Minstrel. Old crazy writer living large sounds like something to check out.
Conversations With Richard Ford – Huey Guagliardo
There’s a series of these Conversations With Writers collections. Am currently reading John Cheever’s interviews. Other favorites for 2015 include Conversations With Raymond Carver, Conversations With David Foster Wallace, Conversations With Tom McGuane and Conversations With Larry Brown. Another favorite book this past year was Larry Brown: A Writer’s Life. Brown was a fire department captain in a small Southern town who decided to teach himself how to be a writer. Drank too much and died too young. But he did teach himself and wrote nine excellent books in sixteen years. Getting Naked With Harry Crews – Erik Bledsoe.
Making Nice – Matt Sumell
A series of vignettes told in a stream-of-consciousness style by a conflicted foul-mouthed psycho male protagonist. Right in my wheelhouse.
Personal – Lee Child
Just another super Jack Reacher read. Child writes better than I remember. Five hundred pages can go by fast with the right author. Then I read his most recent Make Me. A weaker effort, but still a page turner.
Fante Bukowski – Noah Van Seiver
A graphic novel. Bukowski was a fan of John Fante and I am a fan of both. Story of a young struggling writer who doesn’t want to remain poor and unknown.
The Unknown Henry Miller: A Seeker In Big Sur – Arthur Hoyle
Miller’s life and work was his way of seeking spirituality. I visited his house in Big Sur many. many years ago, seeking something.
A Mysterious Something In The Light: The Life of Raymond Chandler – Tom Williams
A failed poet and a drunk who wrote some of the greatest crime novels. Started in middle age. A troubled man.
In conclusion, I would like to thank my credit card company and Amazon Prime for bringing me so much enjoyment and education. – JDW
