Reading List

On the 28th September 2008, Dan decided that so far in his life he had not read enough. He vowed that from this day forth he would continually read classic fiction. The original intention of this was in the hope that it could help him to become a more balanced and enlightened individual. This page will document some of the realisations and revelations that he comes to throughout this project.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz L. Frank Baum 1900

When I started this project I had originally intended to read just children’s fiction. I read this book on a holiday, the highlight of which was reading this book. The last page moved me a great deal for some reason.

Treasure Island Robert Louis Stevenson 1883

I have a fond memory of reading this on a train with a dog that was in my care. A dictionary was essential in order to understand shipping terms. The intention of the project shifted to just covering Victorian children’s books, which I had previously considered this to be. This felt complex and challenging.

The Importance of Being Earnest Oscar Wilde 1895

Read this in bed, as well as stood up on a bus to work. Although it is foolish to read a play, I felt ignorant for having not experienced it properly before. I still have not experienced it properly, as I have only read, and not seen it.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Conan Doyle 1892

As ‘Treasure Island’ had been harder than I anticipated, I decided that the limitation should just be books written around the Victorian era. Sherlock was a spur of the moment choice. But these stories were everything I wanted them to be and more. The unspoken love that Holmes and Watson share together is charming. I found that Watson’s narration clouded and, in effect, elucidated this relationship.

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde Robert Louis Stevenson 1886

This was the first book that I read because I was told that I should do. This is a great book. However, the plot's ruination by references to the story being adopted into general conversation does effect its impact. This highlighted to me how blessed I am by my literary ignorance, which is still making the completion of each book feel rewarding.

The Picture of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde 1891

I started this book at a bus stop. I had been crying heavily on and off all day, then when I had got that out of my system, I became totally absorbed. This is the most perfect thing I have ever read. It pacified me while I settled into my new home.

Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte 1847

I wanted to read something ‘difficult’. This, along with the bitter, violent romance did a lot for me. I avoided hearing the Kate Bush song throughout the reading of this book, but finishing it gave me more than that silly song ever could.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Lewis Carroll 1865

I had recognised a pride developing in me that had started to evolve into vanity. I read this to see how I got along with a children’s book with my newly developed literary comprehension skills. The illustrations and memories of cinematic interpretations clouded my own judgement, meaning that I enjoyed this less than I could have. Surely I can’t criticise something that is regarded as a classic?

Great Expectations Charles Dickens 1861

Around this time I was beginning to recognise my faults as a reader. This one felt more like an effort than it should have, as important plot twists had been prematurely divulged to me. I had got through two chapters of this when I had got kicked out of school in 1997, so completing this in order to exorcise that demon, was a chore. This, being a big book, accompanied me a number of places, my parents’ home in Gloucester, Bristol and London. It steadied, me, but deep down I was breaking. Surely the only hindrance to me enjoying literature is my own ignorance and stupidity?

Frankenstein Mary Shelley 1818

This book made me feel better. Too many people had advised me to read this, so I read it in order to combat the inferiority that I felt to those people. An interest in the amount of book shelf that I had covered since September had established itself as an important part of this project.

Moby Dick Herman Melville 1851

I read those famous first words on a Sunday, when my blood sugar had sunk so low that I had begun to make a public spectacle of myself. I had asked the man in the bookshop to find me a book that would fit in my pocket. When I saw a different man at the counter, thinking it was the same man, I said to him ‘We meet again’. I was sat in a pub garden when the vivid hallucinations subsided. This book is a commitment, and in describing it as thus perhaps I am acknowledging a subtle compulsion in carrying out this reading project. This made me focus on obsessive behaviour that I am confronted by in my own life.

Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe 1719

Well, this is supposedly the ‘first novel ever’, so having finished this on the 28th of December, 3 months after starting this project, Providence, as Defoe would say, is guiding me to re-evaluate what I am trying to do here. I said at the start of the project that I was trying to better myself by reading more. I feel that I have started talking about what I have read in an almost boastful manner. Is this highlighting a flaw in my character? Also, some people have criticised the way that I am reading almost as a mission, and so they dispute the fact that I am actually reading for pleasure. However, I feel that I am getting a lot of enjoyment from the reading of these books, and it is only in talking about what I have read , and in documenting it in the way that I am doing here that aspects of my own identity are being exposed in order to potentially be criticised. In a similar way as we can criticise the behaviour of Robinson Crusoe as being unconsciously cruel by contemporary standards, making this list myself could seem self indulgent to those who read it. But I feel as though this project echoes the human desire to write a novel, maybe no one will read it, maybe everyone else will think its stupid, but it’s inside me, and I feel the need to do it.
I have been stranded on this island for 3 months, and I feel that I have made a lot of progress towards continuing to sustain myself and this page, indefinitely.

The Hound of the Baskervilles Arthur Conan Doyle 1902

I was glad to be back in the company of Holmes and Watson in the familiar Devon countryside. During this book I realised that I was carrying out this project within the shadow of folk boffin Art Garfunkel, whose list of everything he has read in the last forty years can be found at http://www.artgarfunkel.com/library.html. I don’t think I could compete with his list, but considering his list next to mine is evoking the subconscious wrestle with my insatiable urge to approach what I am doing in this project as a demonstration of my intellectual superiority to those who have not experienced these works. Maybe this trophy case mentality is what turns this kind of thing into a competition. Perhaps the only weapon that I feel I can ever successfully inflict in a dominant manner on to people is my intelligence. I see Garfunkel as a threat. He is making me feel small. No Dan, you are making yourself feel small by comparing yourself to other more experienced readers. You should look at Garfunkel as an ally who you can take inspiration from.

The History of Mr Polly H G Wells 1910

I think I found this very hard to read, first of all because the language requires effort to understand. Secondly, I am currently not happy in life, and in literature, escapes from dreary day to day misery always involve risk, faking one’s death and a great deal of mass destruction, which can be humorous to read about, but can’t transmit to reality. I want to escape and I want adventure, the same as Mr Polly. ‘If the world does not please you, you can change it’ is the outlandish maxim that this book preaches. I will continue to stagnate the way that I am until I am out of debt, then I will escape, and change things, and hopefully providence will be on my side.

The Count of Monte Cristo Alexandre Dumas 1844

This book accompanied me through a latent misery, which developed into full blown melancholia, as my difficult relationship with the obligation to work was annihilating my aspirations towards something better.
Notions of well earned self righteousness would have served as a great comfort to me, had the convenient closure of inflicted vengeance cast down from good against evil occurred quicker than Dumas allows it to here. Don’t get me wrong, this is a beautiful adventure, and being a slightly over sentimental chap, the unjust downfall of this man of uncorrupted morals has been a good companion. I only wish I could have committed myself to this book in happier times, or on holiday or in love or something.
At the time I finished this I had hit rock bottom and was totally broken. Finishing it perked me up a bit actually! I’ve also been introducing myself to classic Greek plays and philosophy, as well as reading a lot of English poetry. Now I feel that having committed myself to slaying a leviathan of this size, and having achieved that, hell, I can read anything. I’m smarter than I was in September. One thing that concerns me is that the smarter I get, the more alienated I feel. I’m sure these two things must be unconnected…

Jude the Obscure Thomas Hardy 1895

This is just what I needed. Nothing could have perked me up out of the spiralling black hole of misery that I had fallen into, so by allowing Hardy to confirm that it is not abnormal for this world to treat good men very badly, I felt less hard done by.
Since the credit crunch, my ability to charm my way into any job has faded, my lack of genuine experience having become a legitimate reason not to employ me even for the shittest and easiest of jobs.
At least Jude Fawley had a career as a stone mason. I don’t even have that, and, as with him, this world sees my self taught genius as being totally irrelevant. But Hardy spoke to me well; I loved the pace of this book, finding that it held my attention far better than Dickens. The tragedy is relentless, but I didn’t find it depressing, I found it poetic, heartfelt and truthful.

Turn of The Screw Henry James 1898

I'm hitting a wall. I think I got something out of reading this, but nowhere near as much as I felt that I should have. I feel like I am becoming increasingly reluctant to adapt my character in order to comfortably fit in with situations, and unfortunately this has started to hinder my ability to get carried away by a story and properly feel involved with a narrative. It was a bad choice for me to read something that requires as much engagement on my part with the characters as this book does. I really need to re-evaluate what I am doing with this project. There is still so much that I feel I should be experimenting with, I have never read a classic Russian book for example, and so many people keep trying to recommend Dostoevsky and Tolstoy to me. But maybe what I am doing here is unnatural? Maybe I have been following other people's recommendations because I feel inferior to them for having not experienced the same things. This crisis I am going through is based on the concerns I was having about reading for the wrong reasons. I have found out that I like Hardy, maybe I should stick with Hardy for a bit? Thing is I have already started 'Heart of Darkness'. But surely I can get that out of the way fast enough? This is all for the wrong reasons.

Heart of Darkness Joseph Conrad 1902

By the time I had got to this phase in the reading project, I was getting to a stage where over thinking, obsessing maybe, about things in the real world, particularly my perceived incompatibility with this place, was hindering my ability to focus on reading fiction.
Although it’s a short book, I felt intimidated by the long chapters and just felt stuck. I conquered it, but I knew that the party was over, and I was incapable of continuing with this project.

The Story of Art 16th Edition E H Gombrich 1989

I remember telling myself once that I should read this book once a year, in order to keep myself sharp about art. This was born from a feeling of sadness that I was studying art, and no one else seemed to understand the importance of acknowledging those who had gone before us. Maybe the only reason that this was important to me was because I felt that I too was potentially a master, who could be used as an example in the future. And surely if you love art, you must love researching its past? I felt that researching art history was a necessity to me. One bad result of this necessity is my work becoming less of a practice and more of a subject. The world is just as indifferent to my work as it has always been, but I have started to bore myself. I hate it when boring cunts try to dazzle me with their knowledge of art history. Why can’t someone try to dazzle me with something interesting like an impressive ability to make good artwork? Because I don’t know anyone else in this city other than myself who is capable of producing good artwork!
Because of my bad attitude towards prematurely doing a fine art Masters course the way some of my ‘contemporaries’ have, there came a time when I considered studying an art history masters. Luckily, I took a step back and realised that the reason why I had inflicted this knowledge about art history upon myself was to help me to understand and enjoy going to art galleries, and to feel less ignorant. Mission accomplished.
Fuck learning art history Dan, just focus on the art.

The Lives of the Great Composers 3rd Edition Harold C Shonberg 1997

The whole intention behind this reading project was to make myself feel less inferior to other people who had experienced more literature than I had. This has worked fine, as I can now communicate with people about literature and not feel out of my depth.
But the crisis that I started to go through was that whenever someone told me that they had read something that I hadn’t read, I would want to read it myself. This started to make me consider that my feelings of inferiority were a heavier cross to bear than I had previously realised.
Soon, people started buying me books, unaware of the obligation I was feeling to defeat my own stupidity and ignorance. I recently began to realise that my brain can’t take much more, and I am not feeling as positive about reading as I did in September. Since March 14th, I have been teaching myself about classical music.
It has made me very happy, to finally understand something about Mozart, Beethoven and the difference between a symphony and a piano concerto.
By finding out about the composers and their personalities, I can find out all that I need to know about the music. It’s the same with me and painting. I can only be interested in an artists work if I am interested in the mythology of the artist.
So here I am, an amateur, teaching myself all about another thing that I preciously felt ashamed of being so ignorant about. And I think that is all I want to learn from life really. How to be less ignorant. I don’t want to dazzle people with my knowledge, as I know that my knowledge is unimpressive, because it was not learned from living. It was learned from reading. Reading is for academics. Academics can quote from what they have read in order to make up for their lack of talent. That is at least what most of the artists in this city do. Fuck the academics. And fuck reading. I’m fucking bored of reading. I have read enough.