Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner

I first encountered Freakonomics in a Wall Street Journal book review. It sounded quite enticing, and I was overjoyed when I discovered my roommate at camp had a copy of it. The book completely held up to my expectations, and I learned so much. If only every book were like that.

Basically, Freakonomics is a slightly random compilation of socioeconomic studies conducted by the two authors. They run the gamut from real estate to abortions, from cheating teachers to trends in baby names. I'm a bit nomenclatural, in that I love to name things, and so given names have always fascinated me. The study detailed in the book explained how names for new babies start at the top of the socioeconomic ladder and work their way down, until even the poorest parents discard them as too low-sounding. The authors presented a list of the names mothers with the most years of schooling gave their children recently- Linden, Finnegan, Emma, Maeve, Marie-Claire, Sophie, Aidan, Bennett, and Harper, to name a few. They postulated that these will be rampant amongst all income brackets and educational levels by 2015.

It is encouraging to see skills taught in school actually put to practical use. The authors have been described as being what every kid majoring in economics aspires to be. I hope a few more pop up. I can't get enough of this sort of information. All math should be like this- practical, and entertaining.

War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells

Aliens crash-land in England and wreak havoc on the countryside, leaving the citizens scurrying for their lives, until a common virus sabotages the aliens' immune system and obliterates them.

War of the Worlds was not incredible. The narrative was rather detached, and lacking in scope. I did not get the impression the aliens attacked anything outside of England, so it was not really a "world" war. Even though the story was told in the first person, it felt entirely impersonal. I was frustrated. The Time Machine was enjoyable, original, and thought-provoking, but War of the Worlds just seemed like a prolonged drama with a convenient little plot twist at the end.

Overall, I was quite bored with the whole thing. It took some stamina for me to get through it. Wells should have embellished the story, fleshed it out into something more substantial. As it is, it was a great concept, but a disappointing execution.

Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini

Scaramouche sat on my floor for a long time before I picked it up. I contemplated taking the book back to the library a few times, but something told me to give it a try. I am actually glad I did, and that I stuck with it until the end.

The novel involves a lot of political history, and French political history at that, but I learned a lot despite the dryness. The main character, Andre-Louis, or Scaramouche as he is later called, incites some mobs to action and help to tip off the French Revolution. Then he has to flee for his life, so he takes refuge in a band of traveling actors. Unfortunately, he causes another riot, so he has to flee again, this time resurfacing as a fencing instructor. There are threads of romance, revenge, chivalry, and politics woven throughout, with enough plot twists to keep things interesting.

The characters are engaging, despite being French. I take issue with the French. I think they're success-challenged. History backs me up on this. But it was a good story nonetheless.

The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis

I want to write like C.S. Lewis. The Great Divorce as a whole is masterful, but Lewis' profundity continues down to the elemental aspects of his prose, the individual paragraphs and sentences. He makes an overarching point, but within the narrative he weaves independent statements and concepts that carry their own weight. Most of all, he makes me think.

The book was short, but engaging all the same. The narrator takes a trip through hell and heaven, and learns all about life after death. Lewis includes a disclaimer at the beginning stating that the story is a metaphorical fable, for no one could actually presume to know any concrete details regarding the real attributes of these places.

It is a book that needs to be read to be appreciated. Lewis has a knack for making the nonsensical make sense. And he is just so quotable: "This moment contains all moments." Beautiful.

Our Town by Thornton Wilder

Small title, small town, small book. That is about it. Our Town is a play about a New Hampshire town, and it follows a couple from childhood, to marriage, to an untimely death, while making a commentary on life in general. It was tepid, minimally insightful, and ultimately boring.

The play's main detractor was its theology. In the final act, the characters who have died are presented as existing in a sort of no-man's-land. It is said perhaps they are waiting for something eternal. But that is it. No God, no heaven or hell. The dead just sit in the cemetery, reminiscing about their lives and sadly observing the living, who are apparently walking about in a cloud of ignorance.

I really should avoid reading plays. They are so dead on the printed page.

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

I was expecting a lot more than I got. Adams' humor, extolled throughout the Internet, just did not do it for me.

The problem is probably that I was too late to be in on the joke. Pop references to this book gave away all the funny parts to me. The evolutionary worldview was too much for me to laugh at. The blase treatment of God was not my cup of tea.

It was creative; I'll cede that. Adams insists the Earth was built in hopes that someone there would discover the question that prompts the answer to the meaning of life. That, of course, is 42, as a supercomputer revealed to the aliens ruling the universe. But just when a girl actually comes up with the answer, the Earth is bulldozed by the galactic highway construction crew, who builds a space road where the planet used to be.

That the answer to the meaning of life question could be a quantified amount, and that it requires a question to uncloak its ramifications, is inhererntly absurd, and therefore funny. But altogether, I could not get into the story and accept its premises. It just was not for me.

Closing Time by Joseph Heller

Yet another trip into Joseph Heller's inane, Wayside-School-for-adults world. I don't know why I bother. This was the sequel to Catch-22, and precisely like it in many respects, from the mistrust and dislike of authority, to the contradictory dialogue and sentence structure, to the excessive sexual content, and the absence of purpose for existence.

I just plodded through this, alternately bored, shocked, or disgusted. I would have quit halfway through, but I am not a quitter. That's right. The story picks up with the main characters from the first book and follows them through many improbable and largely pointless events. Once again, authority is incompetent to the point of imbecility, but this time it is the president who is lambasted. The syntax is in line with Heller's previous style. There is so much discussion of sex it is unbelievable. Nihilism and atheism are the religions du jour, with the entire world ending at the conclusion of the book.

Heller just seems like a disillusioned old man. He wrote himself and Kurt Vonnegut into the story at times, and they both have that tragic post-modern neo-Darwinist outlook. Sad, sad, sad.

The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett

So that is where all of those stereotypes come from. You know, the P.I. sits in his office as a beautiful girl comes in with a case for him to solve. He calls her "sweetheart." That sort of thing.

I enjoyed The Maltese Falcon. I truly did. I enjoy most any book that can be knocked out in an afternoon. Especially one with intelligent 20th-century prose, a mildly involving plot, and fascinating characters- really a fairly simple recipe. It's a wonder more authors don't follow it.

Hammett was gracious enough to eschew describing his characters' affair. He opted rather for a "fade to black" setup. Thank goodness. I've had enough of that, thank you. He never let the reader know too much. P.I. Sam Spade's motives and loyalties were not revealed until the end. Hammett's descriptions were memorable, like the opening scene in which he rendered his protagonist a blond satan with a faceful of v shapes.

Interestingly, almost every woman in the story was a redhead. I thought that singular, considering the haircolor ratio of the general populace. Anyways, the story was pleasant and mysterious. The Maltese Falcon was a nice little trip to the '20s.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

A young boy named Stephen grows into a man and begins to question everything he has been taught to believe in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Joyce's style was, briefly, different. He apparently had an aversion to quotation marks, identifying speakers, and alerting the reader to a change in space and time. He could have at least skipped a line when weeks had gone by in the story.

I am sure Joyce made deep, profound, multilayered philosophical points in this book, but all that really impressed upon me was his minor details. The way little noises grated on Stephen's nerves when he tried to pray, the way Stephen disciplined himself by denying the urge to clasp his hands behind his back and instead kept them firmly at his sides, and his thoughts and feelings regarding groups and friends all intrigued me.

I think that was all the merit the book had for me. Joyce's prose was just so obscure. He required the reader to infer too much. I am still not sure if Stephen had a girlfriend, or if she was just the object of his admiration. She never even had a name, and references to her were vague and confusing.

I suppose I don't have the intellectual capability to appreciate the profundity of Joyce. I think if a style hinders the meaning that is trying to be conveyed, the style should come second to clarity. At any rate, my high school English teacher dismissed the book, saying, "I don't think I accept that one intellectually," which gratified me. If he can disregard a revered piece of literature, so can I.

The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

The Things They Carried is a collection of the author's memories of the time he spent serving in the Vietnam War. I thought it was excellently written, but, as with other war novels, I don't feel that I can adequately pass judgment, for I've never been in combat. But, from my limited point of view, it was vulnerable, real, captivating, and sincere. It also led me to a realization on a related subject.

Video games make me intensely uncomfortable, especially war-themed ones. I've heard all kinds of justification for them- that boys are competitive and need an outlet; "Those are just pixels on the screen, not people"; "I just play to relax and have fun"; and the like. But after reading this book, I've decided the reason these video games bother me is their desensitizing properties. War is not a game, and reducing it to such is trivializing it to the point of ridicule. Playing war games is murder without consequences, without the complex emotions and psychological effects that go with it.

Video games basically mock the concept of war. The main problem, perhaps, is the "game over, play again?" feature. A true simulation of war would shut down permanently after the first time one is "killed." War, after all, is not sitting on a couch pressing buttons, and it should be treated as such. War is hell, not entertainment.

The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde

I watched the excellent movie with Colin Firth first and read the book second, but I don't think that hampered my enjoyment. Rather, I think that enhanced it. I found the movie hilarious, and I know seeing the lines acted out made the text of the play come alive when I perused it afterwards. This play was truly funny, completely ridiculous and sardonic, with bits of wit interspersed in the craziness.

Jack leads a double life, posing as wild "Ernest" in the city, while continuing his sober life as "Jack" in the country. His friend Algy catches on, and jumps into his country life as Ernest himself. Algy, as Ernest, woos Jack's ward Cecily, while the woman Jack wooed as Ernest comes to find him. Hilarities ensue. Wilde was an incredibly funny man.

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O'Connor

I think I only checked out this book because of the author's cool name. For future reference, that really isn't a good reason to read anything.

A Good Man is Hard to Find is basically a collection of short stories depicting various characters in the American South during the mid-20th century. A religious vein runs through it all. From what I understand, O'Connor was a Catholic, so it makes sense. What I didn't understand was the subversive, mocking undertone that pervades the entirety of her work. Each story was sardonic, ironic, and fraught with flawed, dissatisfied people whose frustration with life was palpable. Needless to say, I did not enjoy it.

I am less than enamored with the South. I wonder if O'Connor felt the same way I do, for she mocks Southerners mercilessly. Her stories are taut flashes of Southern life, written with an undeniable skillfulness, but with a tragic disdain. I totally understand such a stance, but cannot delight in a book of such sentiments.

Lieutenant Hornblower by C.S. Forester

I watched the excellent A&E series of movies before cracking this book open, so I was a bit disappointed. The movies were embellished, and it was a better story because of it. The book tells the story through the eyes of Lieutenant Bush, a secondary character in the film, and makes no mention of Archie Kennedy, a key player in the movie. Still, the book had its merits.

Forester did his psychological motives routine, but it was all centered around Bush, whose motives are not nearly as much fun to analyze as Horatio's. I suppose he meant to juxtapose Hornblower and Bush a la Doyle's format with Watson and Holmes.

The book included a lot of naval terminology that I know went over my head, perhaps lessening my understanding of the extent of Forester's narrative. Nevertheless, the story was there, though perhaps in a less dramatic form than I had expected because of the movies.

The ending encompassed more time than the movie's did, and it shed new light on the character of Horatio. It was an enjoyable foray into his personal life, with a slightly bittersweet conclusion hinting at the lackluster marriage that follows in the later novels.

When the narrative moves away from Lieutenant Bush, Forester crafts infinitely better stories. For Bush was quite dull, and Forester said so himself.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

Well, to sum up Catch-22 in three words: sex, sarcasm, and satire. That was about the entire book. It was the story of a WWII pilot and his experiences, plus those of many of his comrades. Another anti-war novel, I found it comparable to Slaughterhouse Five in many respects. The irreverency, the denial of the brave American soldier stereotype, and the proliferation of sex were present in both, but more so in Catch-22, if only because of its length.

Frankly, I was shocked at the number of sexual encounters depicted in this book, and the blase way in which they were treated. The rampant infidelity disconcerted me. But, I suppose, it is just another consequence of war.

Despite the flagrant explicitness, I found myself enjoying Heller's prose. His catch-22 was present even within his semantics. He got his point across very efficiently.

Of the entire book, though, perhaps the most shocking was the happy ending. So many 20th century authors gave their depressing novels equally depressing conclusions, but not Heller. The main character, Yossarian, discovers his friend is alive, and he takes off to join him. Remarque killed off his protagonist in All Quiet on the Western Front, Vonnegut's guy is stuck in the continual reliving of his life, but Heller sends Yossarian off with a beam of hope.

Gruesome violence, explicit sex, and incompetent leadership were eye-opening, but the basically happy ending was quite a different sort of shock.

The African Queen by C.S. Forester

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Forester started The African Queen right off with action, killing the potentially boring character and not giving any backstory. His plot was innovative and different, a romantic adventure carried by only two characters for the bulk of the novel. These characters were peculiar and unlikely, homely and average, and yet engaging and perfectly suited to the story.

Forester's treatment of the slightly explicit romance did not even rile me. It was chaste enough, convincing enough, and un-extraordinary enough to render it essential to the story. Not material for the youngest readers, perhaps, but after all I've read, modest in comparison.

Forester presented, on the whole, a healthy view of God. His missionay female lead frees herself from the rather legalistic beliefs her deceased brother had imposed upon her, and she repents her exploits wholeheartedly toward the end.

The prose was pretty and not too long-winded, reminiscent of The Scarlet Pimpernel in its fast-paced, 20th-century sensibility. Forester's ruminations over his characters' motives, psychological makeups, and thought processes were insightful and well-put, much as they were in the Horatio Hornblower series.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Yet another futuristic dystopia, a la 1984 and Brave New World. But this one had good things to say. Burgess' crowning jewel was his fervent belief in free choice and free will. His main character temporarily loses the ability to do anything wrong against society in general. This drives him to an unsuccessful attempt at suicide. His autonomy is eventually restored to him and he reverts back to his former, extremely depraved, self.

However, Burgess ends with a provocative chapter that was apparently left out of the orginal American version of the book. In the true ending, the main character reaches the age of eighteen, and he begins to lose the desire to indulge in antisocial behavior. He runs into a newly married acquaintance and discovers he wants the same for himself. He reflects, and realizes his would-be son would follow in his footsteps as an inevitable part of youth. The end.

Of course, that perhaps lends itself to the interpretation that depravity is merely a childhood attribute that one eventually grows out of. Obviously, that does not hold true. Still, Burgess' commentary on free will is important. Free will, the choice to do what ones wants, is imperative in a functioning society. Otherwise, citizens would be robots subject to the whims of the governing authorities. And that would not be a good thing.

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather

Some authors take interesting stuff and keep it interesting. Some authors take interesting stuff and make it boring. Still other authors take boring stuff and make it interesting. It is the rare author who can take boring stuff and make it even more boring. And yet, that is the enigma that is Willa Cather.

As if My Antonia's meandering, pointless descriptions of Nebraska and terrible narrative point of view (I cannot stand women writing from a male perspective, especially in the first person- what incredible presumption!) weren't enough, Cather follows up with a tedious chronicle of some priest's endeavors to convert the American southwest to Catholicism.

Cather is completely obsessed with landscapes. She just rambles on and on with metaphors and personification indefatiguably. Superfluous, flowery language does not a classic piece of literature make.

And the Catholicism. Leagalism to the point of nausea. Why don't they let the poor priests marry? The illicit scandals the book describes, and the ones still going on today, do nothing for the church.

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

For some reason, I was satisfied with this book. Yes, it bore an uncanny resemblance to 1984, in all its detailed sordidness, but it had some advantages. After all, Brave New World was written 15 years before, rendering Huxley more prophetical than Orwell. And Huxley actually allowed for God. One character, wrapped up in the government system as he was, even said he believed there is a God, albeit one revealed through a pluralistic worldview involving all the gods mixed together.

Secondarily, Brave New World was just written more skillfully. Huxley employed a concise, fast-paced prose style, and his characters and world were better-looking than Orwell's, at least in my imagination. Orwell meandered and spent scores of pages soliloquizing on boring details of his futuristic government; Huxley neglected to do so.

I was disappointed with the end of Brave New World, which involves a key character reverting to asceticism before suicide, but Huxley's worldview, while including some spirituality, was by no means exclusively Christian.

One last reason for my enthusiam for this novel would have to be that the author was, I am almost ashamed to say it, surprisingly good-looking. No, really. If you just remove his dorky inch-thick glasses, you have something there.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Heart of Darkness is a meandering account of a seaman sent to the depths of the African jungle to retrieve an ill ivory agent who is revered throughout the area for his diplomatic and oratorical abilities. This thin plot is buried beneath layers of symbolism and indiscernible language. Conrad's ultimate conclusion involves the depravity of the human heart, although whether he effectively made his point I cannot determine.

Everything is sketched out so lightly the story is hard to own. Kurtz is the amazing agent who has commandeered the ivory trade in colonial Africa, but his engaging personality is told to the reader rather than shown, and his corrupted nature is barely hinted at. I suppose I am a product of an overstimulated culture that reiterates points over and over to the point of ridiculousness, and I just am not subtle enough to pick up on the genius of Conrad. Oh well. My loss, I'm sure.

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

Good old Jane Austen. She never fails to entertain. Sense and Sensibility was sufficiently pleasant, suitably suspenseful, and ultimately satisfying. The story proceeded at a constant, steady pace. The main characters, two sisters, provided interesting contrasts. Of course, it was all consummately Austen—single girls with little income and therefore little chance of marrying well, end up marrying well. But it is a charming plot device even the third or fourth time around.

Extensive immersion in 19th-century literature has conditioned me to the point where I can sense the feelings that were trying to be conveyed by these authors. I have familiarized myself with the language and its conventions through a glut of books and movies, and now I can understand almost everything that is said, and I can knock out a book like this in a few days.

At the gym once, I was watching daytime television, and a woman was promoting her newly released novel. She mentioned that romances are not just an emerging trend, for, after all, "what was Jane Austen writing two hundred years ago, but highbrow chick lit?" That made me laugh so much.

But how true. Austen's stuff is, fundamentally, just romance. But the chasteness, the propriety, the verbal sparring, the defiance of class, the delightful plot twists, the extensive vocabularies, the inherent reverence- it all makes her work something more.