Fyodor Dostoevsky

What can I say about Dostoevsky that hasn’t been said better, in dissertations and studies and monuments? Only this: he lives up to the hype; he changed my life.

I started with The Brothers Karamazov, went on to The House of the Dead, and then Crime and Punishment, and Notes from the Underground.

The Brothers was recommended by an older cousin. He was in college, and I was 13, but he was my hero, so… I finished it 5 years later. The second reading, a few years after that, only took a month. It’s one of those great novels designed to last through nine months of television-less winter, so it has it all: philosophy, religion, sex, murder, poverty, mental disorders, and courtroom drama. If big Russian novels scare you, you’d be better off starting with Anna Karenina.

I haven’t re-read The House of the Dead. It’s not bad-in fact, it’s probably as good as it gets in the genre of prison memoirs, topped only by Solzhenitsyn’s A Day in the Life of Ivan Illych. But how many times do you want to read a prison memoir?

If all of the monuments and dissertations were to somehow disappear, I can imagine scholars thousands of years from now arguing convincingly that Crime and Punishment and Notes from the Underground were written in the late 1900s instead of the mid-1800s. The word angst comes to mind, but it’s insufficient. We’re talking antiheroes with attitudes so bad they’d see the Fight Club guys as optimists.

Dostoevsky isn’t an author who will make you happy. His comedy scenes can bring a smile, but the smiles are tinged with tragedy. No, happiness isn’t his thing. Joy, on the other hand… maybe. As the ranting drunkard who pimps his daughter asks in Crime and Punishment, what if grace can reach even me?

Augustine

I can’t think of certain books apart from the place in which I read them. The City of God, an attempt to see the hand of God in the destruction of a Christianized Rome at what was thought to be nearly the end of history… I associate that with a gas station coffee shop in a Minnesotan prairie town.

My wife had been stationed there for a few months for her medical work, and I’d just returned from a stint abroad and had a few weeks off. The gas station was the town’s only coffee shop.

And the book was amazing.

Augustine’s wordy and cumbersome, but the ideas hit me as amazingly relevant, even there. The gas station attendant gossiped with a farmer about the rape of a girl in their church as I read Augustine’s consolation to men and boys who had been raped in the sacking of Rome.

A couple farmers and the owner of the egg-processing plant (the town’s only industry) met every Tuesday and Thursday to discuss the inevitable fall of the U.S. due to its godlessness as evidenced by Hollywood, while I read Augustine’s critique of the theater and the way in which God may have saved the Romans by destroying the Coliseum.

I found myself arguing with a lot of the book, but it seemed far more insightful an analysis of late-20^th-century society than any of the modern religious pundits.

I wouldn’t have said the same the first time I read The Confessions. It struck me as pretentious. But I’ve re-read it twice since reading The City of God, and I’ve liked it more each time.

Soren Kierkegaard

I knew Kierkegaard was a 19^th-century northern-European philosopher. I’d heard that he was a depressive and that his ideas started the movement from rationalism toward Nietzsche.

All of that is true.

Unfortunately, I drew the conclusion from this that I wouldn’t like him. The conclusion doesn’t follow.

It started when, a few weeks before moving away from the U.S., my wife gave me a copy of Provocations, a selected reader of his works. I usually prefer to see authors explain themselves; not just read over “best of” selections from other readers who happen to know publishers. In this case, though, the book left me stunned. It showed the Dane as witty, sarcastic, biting, devout, passionate, disconnected, and in all much more human and likeable than most writers I’d associated with words like “19^th-century northern-European philosopher”.

Before we left the U.S., I picked up Fear and Trembling, Sickness Unto Death, and Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing.

Fear and Trembling changed my life. It ranks among a handful of books that I’d recommend unhesitatingly to anyone asking… well, anyone who’d ask anything. I’d work it into more conversations, but saying the names of certain authors sounds snobby.

Sickness Unto Death convinced me that I’d found not only a favorite author, but a Master and mentor who understood things about me that I was only starting to discover.

Purity of Heart… Well, by the time I finished, I felt increasing confidence that I’d be willing to argue for his position as a founder of Christian Hedonism as much as for existentialism.

Either/Or came in a package several months later. It’s by far the most difficult of his works for me. I don’t think I understand half of it, and I’m not sure which half. It almost lost me. (A point of interest for those rare people who read Kierkegaard and John Piper: Either/Or contains an illustration of the precedence of joy over duty in determining ethics that is almost identical to Piper’s illustration of a man giving flowers to his beloved.)

But almost a year later, I found myself in an English-language book store again, and the used book shelf held This Present Age, Practice in Christianity, and Works of Love.

This Present Age was shorter, so I started there. It’s witty, but it’s the only one of his books that feels dated. My present age is not like his.

Practice in Christianity and Works of Love present the same basic ideas, but in very different styles. I’m glad I read them both, but if I were to do it again, I’d probably only choose one. The problem is, I’m not sure which one.

The Concept of Anxiety was the only book other than Either/Or that lost me. I could follow the general thread of his argument through the book, but I lost a lot along the way.

For Self-Examination, and Judge for Yourself are among his easiest to understand. They introduce many of the key concepts for his other works, and include some of his best parables. I wish I hadn’t read them last.

I’ve read several translations of some of these books now, and I’ll strongly recommend the Princeton editions—especially those edited and translated by Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. They run twice the price of some of the anthologies or popular versions of his more famous titles, but the notes and translation style are worth it.

He wrote a lot, and I’m looking forward to adding to this list. Or maybe just re-reading the ones already included. I know I have more to learn from him.

Alice McDermott

Charming Billy beat A Man in Full for the National Book Award, so I read Billy out of indignation. I’m happy to say that, by half-way through the introductory funeral meal, McDermott had won me over.

Not that I think it’s better than A Man in Full, but it’s beautifully written, and it wrestles gently with themes of faith and hope and reality in a way that leaves you feeling like you’ve met some wonderful, real, sad people.

Junot Diaz

I picked up Drowned from a library in a city where I lived for only a few days. I’m not sure why I took it from the shelves, but I’m glad I did.

It’s bleak—like a Charles Dickens novel with the sentimentality and adjectives removed, and sex added, condensed to a short story.

And then I had to catch a plane, and I didn’t get to finish it.

This is the only book I’ve ever not finished that I wanted to.

Larry Crabb

I found some notes I wrote after reading Inside Out years ago: “wonderfully refreshing in the lack of happy-go-lucky churchisms, one of the few honest books I’ve found on Christian living.” I read it twice; once with a group. I would still recommend it without hesitation to anyone who claims to know Jesus.

The same page of notes included a reference to Finding God. My notes say, “the only Christian-psychology book I’ve ever found worth recommending. sensitive, uncompromising, and truthful.”

I should have written that it also (along with Anna Karenina) helped pull me from a year of despair that almost ended in suicide.

Larry Crabb has written a lot that I haven’t read, but I think I can summarize the premise of these two books as follows: Jesus died to save you from hell, not to make you happy on earth. If you want to be with him, then trust him and thank him and stop whining.

OK, the “stop whining” line is completely my own—Dr. Crabb is much too sensitive to say such a thing. But it’s got some truth to it.

Where in the Bible does it say that being chosen by God or loved by God means not suffering? Couldn’t it be that pain and problems and discouragement are just what salvation feels like?

Shisaku Endo

Twenty pages into Silence, I knew I was in the presence of a Master.

I’ve tried for weeks to think of how to describe this historical novel about Portuguese Jesuits in 16^th-century Japan, and I can only come up with three words: terrifying and unforgettable and glorious.

The Samurai, another historical novel on a similar theme, was a little less dark (“bright” is not a word that describes Endo’s work), and was eerily applicable to my situation when I read it.

I can’t recommend him highly enough.

I can’t wait to read something else by him, or read those books again.

Saying more would spoil it.

C.S. Lewis

Edgar Rice Burroughs was the first author who hooked me on something.

Dickens converted me from that “something” to literature.

C.S. Lewis was my first Master.

Like most readers, I was introduced to Lewis through The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe when I was in elementary school. I didn’t really care for it. No one I knew had read it, so there was no one to talk to about the symbolism or magic, and it didn’t have the type of plot that excited my classmates as much as Tarzan eating the arm of a gorilla.

When I was introduced to it again a few years later, I had already discovered Tolkien, and Narnia doesn’t hold the mystery and depth of Middle Earth.

But my freshman roommate in college loved him, and I gave him another chance, and found myself breaking away from chemistry and calculus every chance I got to read fairy tales.

Far greater analyses than I can hope to produce have been written about the Chronicles of Narnia. All I can hope to add is the encouragement that you should read them in the order written, and read them for what they are: fairy tales, not allegories; original literature; not formulaic best-sellers.

The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is the greatest piece of children’s literature I’ve ever found, but I have yet to find a child who’s really enjoyed it it’s read in solitude.

Prince Caspian turned the excitement meter down a little, brought in some of Lewis’ beloved anti-imperialist themes, and didn’t really grab me. But its sequel, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader completely broke from the plot outline of the previous two books, introduced the valiant Reepicheep, and had the best salvation/healing story that’s ever appeared in a novel.

The Silver Chair had another great character and some memorable lines and images, but the story moved a little more slowly than The Dawn Treader, and the mystery was one of those un-solvable revealed-at-the-last-moment things along the lines of Scooby Doo or Harry Potter.

I doubt a modern publisher would allow a series’ author to break from form as much as Lewis did with The Magician’s Nephew and The Horse and His Boy. The first of these takes place before the fantasy world is created, and doesn’t even involve swordplay or a battle. The second doesn’t involve any magic crossing between worlds. They’re both more amazing as publishing masterpieces than as literature in their own right.

I’ve never met a child who’s enjoyed The Last Battle. But every adult I’ve met who’s read it as an adult has loved it.

Reading the whole series took less than a week. Then I was on to his space trilogy and The Abolition of Man.

The space trilogy is probably of little interest to those unfamiliar with science fiction, and, as all science fiction, it seems amazingly dated a generation later.

Out of the Silent Planet is, I’ve heard, the first piece of science fiction to ever posit that earthlings may be more evil than extraterrestrials. It’s clever for its human touches—like the earth team’s inability to categorize Martian “trees”—but the main themes, particularly the opposition to scientific arrogance and imperialism, may be necessary but no longer seem compelling.

Perelandra is the highest of the trilogy from an imaginative or literary perspective. The floating lands of Venus are as beautifully re-created as the battle of wits in the re-imagined Temptation in the Garden. Lewis’ humility as a writer shines through in the final sector of the book as he, thankfully, leaves the glimpses of heaven with brief allusions and returns the hero to earth.

Even though I will agree with anyone who says Perelandra is a better book, I liked That Hideous Strength more. It’s the darkest, the most satirical, and the funniest of Lewis’ books. I’ve read it several times since starting work in professional academia, and have appreciated it more after every nonsensical board meeting.

The Abolition of Man was the first of Lewis’ non-fiction works that I read. With that book, he became my teacher. I felt, for the first time, that I was reading a book someone had written about me. It prompted a spiritual conversion in me. On paper, it looked only like the request for a change of major, but my life has never been the same.

The Screwtape Letters came next, simply because it was famous. It should be more so. It is probably the most condensed exposure you can find to Lewis’ wit, wisdom, and satirical ability, especially if you get an edition that includes “Screwtape’s Toast”. I’ve read it four or five times, and always see new truths. Dozens of authors have ripped off his “letters from a demon” device in vain attempts to update it; all of them fall short.

His autobiography, Surprised by Joy, is the only book of its genre that I’ve truly enjoyed. That doesn’t mean it’s as good as his other books, but that it’s not bad for the type of thing he’s writing. It got me started on George MacDonald, though, so I’m grateful.

In Reflections on the Psalms, Lewis traded his imagination and fun for serious homilies and reflections. It’s a trade down. Again, his boring books are still better than most authors’ best attempts. But it didn’t change my life.

The Four Loves and Miracles have some quotable lines, but the anti-Freudian and anti-Mechanistic analyses make several sections seem unfortunately apologetic. Truth never seems dated, but apologetics do.

That reading list took me less than seven months of my sophomore year of college.

Then it became a little harder to find his books.

I came across The Case for Christianity in an old bookstore, and appreciated his argument for the existence of universal law even though I’d already found it presented in The Abolition of Man. If you can’t find The Case, you can find virtually everything in it repeated nearly verbatim in Mere Christianity.

None of Lewis’ books are praised more highly in Christian circles than Mere Christianity. It’s probably because they think they can use it to convince a non-believing friend. The problem is that it’s like a light bulb: it gives light to those who are already in the room, but castes darker shadows on those who haven’t yet entered.

The Weight of Glory and other addresses, and The Seeing Eye and other essays, The Grand Miracle and other essays, and God in the Dock and other essays area all uneven collections. Of the three, The Weight of Glory is by far the best. In fact, that single essay is probably the best thing he ever wrote. God in the Dock was also memorable, but a lot of the other essays began to run together for me, repeating themes and arguments that I’d already come across in other books.

In college, I read several hundred pages of literary criticism and analyses of medieval and romantic literature. None of it helped me as much as The Discarded Image. If I could, I wouldn’t let anyone read medieval literature without it. The Allegory of Love was also good, along the same theme, but it didn’t reach me as deeply.

An Experiment in Criticism, like The Discarded.. and The Allegory… won’t show up on many bookshelves, but it’s a great book on what it means to read and appreciate literature.

A Preface to ‘Paradise Lost’ combines themes form An Experiment…, The Discarded…, and The Allegory… I appreciated Paradise Lost, but I appreciated it more when I read his Preface, even though I read it afterward.

The Business of Heaven and The Visionary Christian are devotionals compiled from his other writings. If you have an attention span long enough to read this review, skip them and go for the real thing.

In A Grief Observed, Lewis shares reflections and journals from the months after his wife’s death from cancer. I’ve heard from friends who have lost loved ones that it’s helped. I read it not long after falling in love, so I was too happy to appreciate it.

Around this time (year two in my relationship with Lewis’ works), I came across The Dark Tower and other stories. Supposedly, it’s an anthology of manuscripts and unfinished works from Lewis, published posthumously. I’m not a literary scholar, but I can’t believe Lewis wrote them. They’re terrible.

The Problem of Pain was, correctly, played up as his weak spot in the pseudo-bio-pic “Shadowlands”. It’s his weakest popular work. Philip Yancey does the compassion better, and John Piper does the God-glorifying better. I think Lewis was trying too hard to find a middle ground.

Spirits in Bondage, a collection of his poetry, isn’t bad, but I didn’t memorize any of it. He has better lines in his other books.

I’m not big on collections of personal letters or unpublished journals from famous writers; I respect the right to destroy an early draft; but I liked Letters to Children, Letters to an American Lady, and Letters to Malcolm. I doubt I would have enjoyed them as much had I not already gained such a familiarity with the author that I really enjoyed hearing his opinions on everything from which of his books shouldn’t be read to children, to whether men and women can have non-sexual friendships, to creativity and masturbation. Like I said, he had become my Master, and I liked him.

Despite some of the references to the “allegorical” quality of the Chronicles and space trilogy, The Great Divorce and The Pilgrim’s Regress were his only true allegories. The Great Divorce remains the most compelling description of heaven I’ve found outside the Bible. The Pilgrim’s… requires a significant knowledge of 20^th-century philosophical trends, but it’s worth the work.

And all that’s left is the magnificently underrated ‘Til We Have Faces. Re-imagining the Book of Job in a mythic pre-Christian Greece, with a female protagonist would have been enough, but to introduce lesbian subtext and gender role discussions and the Psyche/Cupid stuff… If only publishers still believed Christian readers could handle stuff like that! Brilliant!

And then I came to the end.

Two and a half years of reading, and it was over. I discovered Lewis, and finished him in less time than it took to complete a medieval history/philosophy major. Every now and then I hear a quote from him that I don’t recognize, and I’m pretty sure there are essays and academic publications I haven’t read, but I think that might be it.

I graduated from college with the most complete Lewis library of anyone I knew, and no regrets for the time spent with him.

Kamala Markandaya

It’s about a nearly destitute woman, poor by Indian standards, whose children die or leave home, and whose husband cheats on her, and who eventually has to leave her home of rural poverty to enter the world of urban poverty.

So it’s not a beach book.

But it’s hauntingly beautiful.

Don’t read Nectar in a Seive while listening to The Cowboy Junkies, or you may cry yourself to sleep.

Philip Yancey and Paul Brand

 

Do you like smart, witty Christian apologists, but aren’t crazy about Brits? Well, the West side of the Atlantic hasn’t produced a great selection, but it does have Philip Yancey.

Where is God When it Hurts? and Disappointment With God both deal with the … well, the title topics, but in a compassion, humility, and grace that giants like Lewis and Chesterton don’t always convey. Possibly as a result, Yancey’s arguments seem somewhat inconclusive. I’m not sure how much they’d help someone who’s grieving, but they would probably help someone who’s preparing to grieve or preparing to help others who are grieving.

The Jesus I Never Knew comes from a different side of Yancey—still personal, respectful, and fun, but this time looking at the life the “pre-creed” Jesus, through devices such as “let’s watch 10 movie clips of the same scene from the gospels, and discuss”. It lacks the wit of Chesterton, but I liked it.

For Fearfully and Wonderfully Made, Yancey combined his writing talents with Paul Brand’s medical knowledge to result in a wonderful, wonder-filled meditation on the implications of the metaphor of the Church as the Body of Christ. The subject matter would probably attract fewer readers than some of his other titles, but it’s my favorite of his books.