xx

Lonesome Dove is one of the most memorable books I’ve ever read, especially since I’ve traveled through Texas and lived in the American West for a few years. It’s definitely a slow burn, but absolutely worth it.

In the late 1870s, Captains Woodrow Call and Augustus “Gus” McCrae, two well-known retired Texas Rangers, run the Hat Creek Cattle Company and Livery in the small border town of Lonesome Dove, Texas. When a former Ranger describes the open lands of Montana, Call becomes determined to gather a herd and drive it north, aiming to establish the first cattle ranch beyond the Yellowstone River. Gus is initially hesitant, but changes his mind when reminded that his former love, Clara, lives along the Platte River near Ogallala, Nebraska — directly along the route. The Hat Creek crew rounds up thousands of cattle from across the Mexican border and hires local cowhands to prepare for the long journey. The rest of the novel follows their treacherous drive north, where the crew faces bandits, storms, deaths, and moral dilemmas galore on the frontier.

McMurtry’s storytelling is epic. It’s much more than a traditional Western, mixing adventure, humor, tragedy, and everything in between. This isn’t just a “cowboy story,” but an exploration of aging, loss, and purpose. The tone can quickly shift from funny and exciting to heartbreaking, and the differing perspectives let you hear the inner thoughts of dozens of characters as the story crosses the country from Arkansas and Texas to Nebraska and Montana.

The book is considered a landmark work, redefining the genre by not glorifying the Old West. It portrays it as dangerous, harsh, and often lonely, which makes the setting feel realistic. Some scenes involving women, Native Americans, and settlers can be troubling by modern standards, but they reflect the realities of the time. It really drives home the historical importance of this era and location in American history.

The writing is very detailed and deliberate. For example, McMurtry spends several pages describing the history of the sign out front of the farm. I found it amusing, but also a heads-up for the kind of slow, immersive storytelling you’re in for. By page 150, you might be wondering if anything is actually going to happen, but that’s a common concern. At over 800 pages, this is more reflective and tragic than a straight romance or action story, and if you stick with it, you’ll see why it won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.

The real accomplishment of Lonesome Dove is the characters. Gus and Call are some of the most memorable figures in American fiction, and their friendships feel authentic. The cast isn’t huge, but every character is so richly drawn it feels like they could be standing right in front of you. You’ll learn a side character’s irrational fear of drowning or their quirky cooking habits — and that’s part of the fun. You could have full book club discussions just analyzing how Call’s obsession with duty shapes his relationships or how Gus’s humor affects everyone around him.

I’ll always remember Lonesome Dove; by now, it feels like a real place you could visit in Texas. Whether it’s the characters, the setting, or the story, everything in this novel is fire.

River Town is one of the most thoughtful travel books I’ve read. It balances observation of daily life with deeper reflections on culture, history, and society without feeling performative. After finishing it, I immediately bought another of Hessler’s books and read several of his long-form pieces for The New Yorker.

The book follows Hessler’s two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in Fuling, a city along the Yangtze River in China. He taught English at a teachers’ college and was likely the first American many residents had seen in over fifty years due to China’s long period of isolation after 1949. The first half sets the scene of daily life: misunderstandings with students, run-ins with local bureaucracy, and small exchanges with people around the city. By the second half, Hessler is more at ease, exploring deeper layers of Chinese history and culture.

Despite the local authorities’ cautious attitude toward outside influence, Hessler is given surprising freedom in how he teaches. His role as an English and American literature teacher turns out to be especially important — ironic considering it’s the one area packed with social and political commentary. He includes many of his students’ free-writing exercises, which reveal their underlying thoughts on a range of subjects and how differently they approach ideas we might consider “normal” in America. This ended up being one of my favorite parts of the book.

Hessler is a skilled writer; his goal was to become a narrative nonfiction writer and he’s been publishing in The New Yorker ever since. You can tell he’s dedicated to his craft, carrying a notebook and writing daily. An example passage:

“One river is all about origin; the other, destination: this is what defines the contrast in their personalities. The Yangtze in its size and majesty seems to be going somewhere important, while the Wu in its narrow swiftness seems to have come from someplace wild and mysterious; and the faint forms of its distant hills suggest that the river will keep its secrets.”

At the same time, Hessler is analytical, noting subtle cultural details and reflecting on their broader significance. For example:

“It was a vague place — even time was uncertain here. All of China is on one time zone, which meant that in Xinjiang the sun didn’t rise until eight or nine o’clock and it set after ten at night. Most of the people followed a more practical schedule, based on a mythical local time zone that was two hours later than the one in Beijing, but all of the government offices and state-run transportation followed the official standard time. It was the perfect symbol of the divide between the government and the governed, both of them living in the same place but going about their separate routines a full two hours apart.”

I appreciate the balance between storytelling and reflection. With travel books, it often feels like you have to choose between description and narrative; too much description can get dry, and too many anecdotes can feel shallow. A few chapters drag a bit, particularly the section on the river and Three Gorges Dam, but given how monumental that project is, it makes sense that he couldn’t skip it.

Hessler writes honestly; he’s warm and empathetic towards Fuling, its people, and Chinese culture, but he doesn’t shy away from criticism of political or social norms. Unlike some travel writers, whose biases seep through the page, you can tell Hessler is genuinely trying to understand the society he’s in. He is upfront that this book captures a specific time and that China’s future could look very different.

River Town is longer and more dense than lighter, humorous travel books like The Sex Lives of Cannibals or In a Sunburned Country. I also hadn’t read many travel books set in China, so it was cool to travel vicariously in a place with such a long and layered history.

Hessler wrote three other books drawing on the ten-plus years he spent in China. I picked up Oracle Bones and am excited. From what I’ve heard, River Town focuses more on Hessler’s personal experiences, while Oracle Bones takes a broader view, tracing Chinese history and society. I’m looking forward to reading it and seeing how the two books compare.

Piranesi was a comfort read for me. It was a fall weekend night, and I’d been really busy, so I wanted a good book without feeling mentally drained by a huge world-builder. Piranesi seemed on the shorter side and has good reviews (plus a cool cover), so I jumped in.

Piranesi lives in an endless, statue-filled House, with clouds on the floors above and a vast ocean on the floors below. He carefully records the tides and his daily life in journals, believing that only fifteen people have ever existed in this world, most long dead. Twice a week, he meets the Other, a refined man who brings supplies from outside and urges him to search for a mysterious “Great and Secret Knowledge.”

At first, Piranesi seems genuinely content, marveling at the unique statues and exploring the different Halls. But his world begins to shift when he notices that his journals have been tampered with and they may not be alone…

Piranesi’s story is often compared to Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, since he inhabits a world of statues without realizing they reflect a greater reality beyond his perception. In Plato’s tale, a prisoner sees only shadows on the cave wall, unaware of the real world outside. The novel also echoes themes from Jorge Luis Borges, especially works like The Library of Babel and The House of Asterion, which Clarke has mentioned as influences.

The world is fascinating. For a novel just over 200 pages, it struck a perfect balance of complexity — you can’t build a Dune-level universe, but it also isn’t overly simplistic. The House itself is intriguing, and the fact that every statue is unique adds another layer. For instance, one statue he records is a faun “standing in a snowy forest and speaking to a female child,” likely nodding to when Lucy meets Mr. Tumnus at the start of The Chronicles of Narnia.

I really appreciate Clark’s approach with this book. It’s the result of decades of ideas, but she didn’t try to do too much or stretch it into a longer novel than it needed to be. It has the feel of a skilled author experimenting with an imaginative world. Even though it’s a short read, you can tell it’s carefully crafted and not just a quick novel released for a paycheck.

Piranesi isn’t the book to pick up if you’re looking for answers to all the world’s problems and I will say the ending wraps up faster than the pacing of the rest of the book, but Clark handles it well. As I mentioned earlier, I’d much rather have a story end cleanly than drag out something that doesn’t need to be.

At the end of the day, I chose to feature it on the homepage of this blog, so take that as you will. Nothing life changing but genuinely enjoyable.

On Writing is part memoir, part guide to the craft. As someone who admires Stephen King’s influence and wants to write myself, it’s only natural to see what one of the greatest of all time has to say about the process.

King splits the book into two halves. The first is a brief autobiography, highlighting key moments from his youth and early adulthood. He also discusses his battles with addiction and the moment that sparked the idea for Carrie.

To give a snapshot: King has been writing his entire life. He had a nail on his wall where he’d stick rejection letters – eventually upgrading to a bigger spike when the pile got too large. In high school, he and a friend ran a newspaper out of his backpack mocking his teachers until the faculty found out who it was.

After marrying his wife Tabitha at a young age and starting a family, money was tight. They lived in a double-wide trailer, and King worked as a high school English teacher for $6,000 a year. In the evenings, he’d sit in the laundry space of the trailer, using his daughter’s toy desk across his knees to write.

One day, he started writing a few pages from the perspective of a high school girl but didn’t like it and threw it away. The next day, his wife had dug the pages out of the trash, brushed off the cigarette ash, and told him, “I like this. You’re going to keep writing.” King protested, saying he didn’t know anything about high school girls. She replied, “I’ll help you with those parts when you need.” Flash forward, he received a $400,000 check for his first published book, Carrie, and never again had to work a day job to support his writing.

The rest of On Writing, aside from a brief postscript about the 1999 accident where he was hit by a van, focuses on the craft of writing itself.

One of my favorite parts is the brief interlude called What Writing Is, which comes between the autobiography section and the main “On Writing” portion:

What Writing Is: Telepathy, of course. It’s amusing when you stop to think about it – for years people have argued about whether or not such a thing exists, folks like J. B. Rhine have busted their brains trying to create a valid testing process to isolate it, and all the time it’s been right there, lying out in the open like Mr. Poe’s Purloined Letter. All the arts depend upon telepathy to some degree, but I believe that writing offers the purest distillation. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but even if I am, we may as well stick with writing, since it’s what we came here to think and talk about.

Look – here’s a table covered with red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8. The most interesting thing here isn’t even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It’s an eight. This is what we’re looking at, and we all see it. I didn’t tell you. You didn’t ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We’re not even in the same year together, let alone the same room… except we are together. We are close. We’re having a meeting of the minds. We’ve engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy.

I think On Writing is a worthwhile read for anyone, even if you’re not a literature fan, because it gives you a window into the mind of a professional at the top of his craft. It’s not just what he says about writing – it’s how he talks about it. He shows a level of expertise and understanding that I think is admirable for any discipline.

Another often-overlooked aspect of any craft is the sheer work. King describes his process, and it’s clear that many authors don’t just sit down and spit out perfect prose. It’s like music: singers usually don’t create number-one hits in five minutes; I’ve seen artists spend dozens of hours mixing a three-minute song.

There’s a common rule that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. King has spent that many times over on writing – it’s inseparable from who he is.

A friend came to stay for the weekend and put on a Japanese show with English subtitles. I don’t usually watch much TV, but it held my attention and I realized I’d come across Shōgun many times while researching books. So I decided to read it — and it turned out to be exactly what I was hoping for.

​​Shōgun tells the story of John Blackthorne, the first Englishman to arrive in Japan in 1600. By this time, the Portuguese had been in Japan for many years, but their influence was tightly controlled by the authorities: European trade was confined to Nagasaki, and Japan remained an isolated and feudal society.

Blackthorne is the pilot of a Dutch ship sent to challenge Portuguese dominance of trade routes to Asia. When the ship is caught in a storm, nearly the entire crew is lost, and only two dozen men survive to wash ashore in a Japanese port.

Separated from his surviving crew, Blackthorne is drawn into the power struggles between competing factions as Japan moves toward civil war; his knowledge of navigation, warfare, and European politics makes him a valuable tool. As he rises in status, Blackthorne must balance his desire to return home with his growing involvement in Japanese politics, all while navigating betrayal, shifting loyalties, and the threat of Portuguese interests.

Clavell, who returned from World War II as a Japanese prisoner of war, wrote an entire series of historical novels set in Asia. Shōgun is the best place to start; it’s his most acclaimed novel and the first chronologically in the Asian Saga. It’s long and usually split into two parts, but a combined edition is available; mine runs over 1,000 pages. I’ve read two others so far, King Rat and Tai-Pan, and enjoyed both.

At its core, the story is about two cultures colliding, and through Blackthorne’s eyes we see the differences between medieval Europe and Japan. Europeans avoided bathing and practiced bloodletting, while the Japanese bathed daily, ate cleaner, and used more advanced medicines. Blackthorne’s opinions shift over time — he starts disgusted but gradually comes to admire Japanese life. I really enjoy these contrasts; it’s rare for historical fiction to explore societal dynamics this deeply but still have an engaging plot. To some readers, this makes the story drag in the middle, but I appreciated the depth. 

The historical settings are very developed, including food, clothing, architecture, rituals, and everyday customs. By necessity, most of Clavell’s novels are written in third-person omniscient; there is too much intricate political and social maneuvering to be understood from a single viewpoint. 

Despite the detail, his writing isn’t flowery — much of the worldbuilding comes through dialogue and characters’ inner thoughts. It’s a unique feel; depth usually comes with longer, heavier sentences but Clavell keeps it short and engaging. It makes sense that he described his books like several shorter novels woven into one. 

Some critics argue that Clavell simplifies the cultures he writes about. There are minor historical inaccuracies – like the use of carrier pigeons – but they don’t undermine the story’s central themes. Clavell himself described the novel as “passionately pro-Japanese,” and a Middle Eastern ruler once offered him a full oil tanker for a novel that would do for his country what Shōgun did for Japan.

Shōgun inspired me to explore more historical fiction that is longer and uses that length to fully immerse you in the societies they depict. I’ve read King Rat and Tai-Pan, but I’m also excited to read ones by other authors such as Aztec, The Pillars of the Earth, and Musashi.

If you’re anything like me, you probably feel as though you haven’t been getting enough quality sleep. Many books I enjoy, like Essentialism, touch on sleep as a fundamental part of a healthy life, but it’s often overshadowed by diet or exercise. Walker argues that it shouldn’t be:

AMAZING BREAKTHROUGH!

Scientists have discovered a revolutionary new treatment that makes you live longer. It enhances your memory and makes you more creative. It makes you look more attractive. It keeps you slim and lowers food cravings. It protects you from cancer and dementia. It wards off colds and the flu. It lowers your risk of heart attacks and stroke, not to mention diabetes. You’ll even feel happier, less depressed, and less anxious. Are you interested?

It may sound exaggerated, but studies show that almost every system in your body suffers when sleep is cut short. After just ten days of sleeping seven hours a night, your brain functions as if you’d pulled an all-nighter. Three nights of “recovery sleep” aren’t enough to fully bounce back. And after nineteen hours awake, your cognitive performance is on par with someone who is legally drunk.

The consequences extend beyond personal health. Drowsy drivers cause more accidents than drunk drivers; sleep-deprived doctors are more prone to mistakes in surgery; even vaccinations are less effective without a full night’s rest.

Much of this may feel familiar — kids acting out after a poor night’s sleep, or noticing how caffeine and alcohol affect rest — but Walker provides the science behind these observations. He explains circadian rhythms, “sleep pressure,” REM and NREM cycles, and how our brain consolidates memories.

The book is divided into four parts: how sleep works, its benefits, the purpose of dreams, and societal sleep issues. While you could read it out of order, I recommend starting from the beginning. Grasping the mechanics of sleep early makes the later sections more compelling.

Walker makes the science accessible. He references many studies — necessary for a research book — but explains them in clear language. It’s not a quick read, you do need to focus, but there’s little overly technical jargon. Compared to other foundational works, like Daniel Goleman’s Emotional Intelligence, which can be dense, Why We Sleep is much easier to engage with.

I will say that some of Walker’s claims feel overstated. At times, he presents findings as conclusive even when the research is still emerging — like the links between sleep and psychiatric disorders. While it’s true that no major psychiatric condition occurs without disrupted sleep (including depression, anxiety, PTSD, schizophrenia, and bipolar disorder), correlation does not equal causation.

Regardless, the book makes one thing very clear: sleep is crucial for our health. I’ll leave you with 12 tips for healthy sleep:

1. Stick to a sleep schedule
2. Exercise is great, but not too late in the day
3. Avoid caffeine and nicotine
4. Avoid alcoholic drinks before bed
5. Avoid large meals and beverages late at night 
6. If possible, avoid medicines that disrupt sleep
7. Don’t take naps after 3pm
8. Relax before bed
9. Take a hot bath before bed
10. Dark bedroom, cool bedroom, gadget-free bedroom
11. Have the right sunlight exposure 
12. Don’t lie in bed awake

Hermann Hesse was one of my favorite authors in high school and early college. He lived a difficult life, which you can read about here, and that struggle shows up again and again in his work. Many of his novels revolve around self-realization and inner conflict, and Siddhartha is no exception.

Siddhartha is trained in ritual, meditation, and intellectual discipline. He’s admired by all and shares a close bond with his loyal friend Govinda. Despite his success, he feels inwardly dissatisfied, noticing that even respected Brahmin elders haven’t attained true spiritual fulfillment. Believing that traditional teachings can no longer guide him, Siddhartha decides to leave home to find enlightenment on his own terms. His father reluctantly agrees, and Govinda chooses to come along.

From there, the novel follows Siddhartha’s lifelong journey as he explores different ways of living, including asceticism, Buddhism, and a material, worldly existence. He learns from many teachers — the Brahmins, a merchant, a courtesan, a ferryman, and even a river — but through it all, he tries to remember what matters most: “I can wait, I can think, I can fast.”

At its core, Siddhartha argues growth is an inward journey that requires self-discovery rather than prescribed paths or doctrines. You might understand the teaching, but you won’t grasp the essence unless you have experienced it yourself, a distinction some people describe as the difference between knowledge and wisdom. 

Other books I’ve reviewed on this site, such as Range and The Art of Spending Money, similarly emphasize the benefits of self-exploration. Whether the goal is spiritual enlightenment or financial success, research shows that people who take time to experiment often end up ahead in both happiness and material outcomes. In one epiphany, Siddhartha realizes he’s been chasing external goals without truly knowing himself. If happiness comes from within, and he doesn’t know himself, how could he ever be truly happy?

Many of the book’s themes feel even more relevant in our fast-paced world — mindfulness, listening, and patience — reminding us that the journey is inseparable from the destination. Eastern concepts run throughout the novel, likely inspired by Hesse’s personal crisis and trip to Asia. Siddhartha is metaphorically “reborn” multiple times throughout his journey, finally arriving at a state of understanding — similar to karmic rebirth and the attainment of Nirvana.

The book reads more like a philosophical parable than a traditional novel. It’s a quick, easy read at around 100 pages but at the same time, the writing isn’t simplistic; it perfectly matches the contemplative feel of the story. I think it could be a great audiobook; I’ve never listened to one but the writing has a lyrical, almost poetic rhythm that I enjoy. I’d describe it as “searching,” with lots of commas and repeated phrases that mirror Siddhartha’s own cycles of searching for self-realization. It’s interesting how the sentence structure mirrors the story’s structure itself.

The setting is straightforward, enough to frame the story but not overly detailed. Some people criticize the book for simplifying Eastern religions, but adding too much depth would undermine its purpose as a parable about self-discovery.

I love Siddhartha for both its themes and its style. The prose and message are calm, the short length keeps it low-stakes, and the simple arc makes it a comfort read for me. It’s the kind of book I enjoy in the same way I enjoy The Little Prince and The Alchemist.

I vividly remember finishing Les Miserables; it was the only book I brought with me on a five-week trip living with a host family in Peru. I went through a “classics” reading phase in high school, but this was the first one I’d read in a while and it definitely made up for it.

The novel follows Jean Valjean, a former convict who breaks parole and spends years rebuilding his life under a new identity. After rescuing the orphaned Cosette from her abusive guardians, he raises her while constantly evading Inspector Javert, whose unwavering belief in the law makes him relentless in his pursuit.

The story weaves together the lives and struggles of these characters, all intersecting in a turbulent Paris. As Cosette grows up, she falls in love with the young revolutionary Marius against the backdrop of rising political unrest. The 1832 June Rebellion erupts, drawing several characters into the barricades.

A recurring theme is how acts of kindness and personal growth can push back against rigid systems of law and punishment. The novel shows the weight of poverty and social inequality, illustrating how circumstances can shape a life as much as individual choices. Through it all, Hugo keeps returning to fundamental human needs – dignity, hope, and connection – in a world that can often be relentlessly harsh. It reminds me of a quote from El olvido que seremos by Héctor Abad Faciolince:

“My grandfather sometimes commented about me: ‘This child needs a firm hand.’ But my father would answer: ‘If he needs it, life will provide it – life itself is harsh enough, and I won’t help.’”

Hugo drew heavily from his own observations for Les Miserables: witnessing petty arrests and street poverty, visiting the Toulon prison, and living during political uprisings in Paris. Many details in the novel come directly from scenes he recorded in his notebooks. For Hugo, the setting was modern-day reality; for us, it’s nearly 200 years ago – but the human element is relevant across time. The pitch for the novel in his own words: 

“I don’t know whether it will be read by everyone, but it is meant for everyone. It addresses England as well as Spain, Italy as well as France, Germany as well as Ireland. Social problems go beyond frontiers. Humankind’s wounds do not stop at the blue and red lines drawn on maps. Wherever men go in ignorance or despair, wherever women sell themselves for bread, wherever children lack a book to learn from or a warm hearth, Les Miserables knocks at the door and says: ‘open up, I am here for you.’”

It’s a long book. Hugo organizes the narrative into five volumes, each broken into books and then into chapters – 48 books and 365 chapters in total. He also includes many “digressions;” roughly a quarter of the text consists of reflective essays that don’t advance the plot at all, covering topics like monastic life, the sewer system, and Paris’s street children. If you’d rather skip those parts, abridged versions trim the text while keeping the main ideas intact. Even these versions are more than 700 pages, so you’re still getting plenty of the original story.

I enjoy the winding structure of Les Misérables, but its length definitely requires a commitment. Maybe save it for a trip like I did to give yourself the time to dive in. The novel is a perfect example of why I think reading is so important: it shows perspectives we might never encounter in our own lives and teaches us to be better people by revealing both the good and the bad in humanity. It’s one of my personal favorites among all the classics I’ve read.

I knew as soon as I started The Lions of Al-Rassan that I wanted to include it on Learning from Literature — there’s just too much to ignore. The cover appears a few times on the site, and I was reading it with our foster cat on my lap, so if you see that picture around, that’s why.

The story takes place in a fictionalized version of medieval Spain, home to three main religious groups. The Jaddites and Asharites are the largest, while the Kindath are a smaller, often oppressed minority with little land of their own. The region, called Al-Rassan, was formerly known as Esperaña before splitting into multiple kingdoms. Fifteen years before the main events, Ammar ibn Khairan assassinated the last Caliph of Esperaña — an event whose repercussions ripple through the story.

The novel follows three central characters whose lives intertwine amid the political and religious tension. Rodrigo Belmonte, known as the Lion of Valledo, is a famed soldier caught between duty and his personal code of honor. Jehane bet Ishak, a physician and scholar, navigates the difficult loyalties of her profession while witnessing the horrors of human conflict. And Ammar ibn Khairan, a poet and statesman, balances his love of culture and diplomacy with the violent realities of power. Their paths cross as the rival nations clash, cities are besieged, and personal relationships strained.

The Lions of Al-Rassan resists being put into a box. Some might call it historical fantasy, though Kay himself has spoken against the term and urged readers not to overanalyze — just enjoy the story. Shifting perspectives allow you to see a lot of the world, exploring different regions as well as the characters themselves.

The world-building strikes a great balance between immersive and concise. The cities feel lived-in, from bustling markets to shadowed palace corridors, and the societal tensions are very present. The interplay of the three cultures — Kindath (analogous to Jews), Asharites (Muslims), and Jaddites (Christians) — is fascinating. At the same time, the setting never overshadows the story; it always supports the plot rather than taking away from it.

Like Lonesome Dove, what truly elevates the novel are the characters. Rodrigo, Jehane, and Ammar are unforgettable. The moral ambiguity — where sometimes there are no clear “good guys” — can be challenging (we all want someone to blindly root for, like Darrow in Red Rising), but it makes the story more rewarding. They feel fully realized and human, not just symbols of a culture or ideology.

The writing leans poetic, especially in Ammar’s sections. Some passages linger on philosophy, but that’s part of developing multiple cultures and perspectives in limited page space. If you prefer nonstop drama, this might feel slower at times, but it mirrors real life and gives the world depth.

At about 500 pages, it’s a satisfying standalone — long enough to really get immersed, but not so long that it feels daunting like some 800-plus-page bricks. There’s a lot there to dig into, but it never feels overwhelming.

I really enjoyed The Lions of Al-Rassan. It sits nicely between a page-turner and something with more depth, with solid world-building, memorable characters, and an engaging plot. None of those things are groundbreaking on their own, but together they make the book really work.

I first read The Things They Carried for a high school class, and it became one of my favorite required readings. Because my dad served in the Marines, I had been drawn to military-themed books from a young age but O’Brien strips away the romanticized image of war that many people hold, earning a Pulitzer Prize nomination along the way.

The novel opens in the jungles of Vietnam, introducing a platoon of American soldiers. Each character is described through the items they carry, from weapons and gear to personal mementos, giving insight into their personalities and what matters to them. The narrator, a fictionalized version of O’Brien himself, describes moments of fear, confusion, boredom, and occasional playfulness among the soldiers.

Rather than following a strict timeline, the novel jumps between missions, memories, and moments before and after the war. What slowly comes together is a picture of the heavy psychological weight soldiers carry, long after the physical war ends.

O’Brien also highlights how different the Vietnam War was from earlier conflicts like World War II, which many viewed as morally justified. In Vietnam, soldiers faced vague goals, brutal conditions, and widespread opposition to the war back home. Most were drafted teenagers — the average age was around 19 — sent halfway across the world into an unfamiliar jungle. Drug use and reckless behavior often became coping mechanisms for stress, fear, and monotony.

Ultimately, the “things they carry” aren’t just physical. They’re guilt, grief, shame, and memory. Many soldiers struggle with what they did — or didn’t do — and those experiences permanently alter their sense of innocence and identity.

The novel has a unique but intentional style. Its episodic, almost fragmented structure mirrors the disorientation of combat, showing how traumatic events can make you question your own memories. While some readers may struggle with its lack of a traditional narrative, the writing fits the theme. The chapters stand well on their own, almost short-story-like, so it’s not a long or difficult read.

I’ve reread The Things They Carried twice since that first assignment. Like All Quiet on the Western Front and Catch-22, it reminds readers that war isn’t just strategy or statistics. It’s human, and its consequences follow people long after the fighting stops.

What can I say about The Little Prince that hasn’t already been said? It’s one of the best-selling books in history, with an estimated 200 million copies sold. It’s been translated into over 500 languages and dialects, making it one of the most translated books ever. It’s required reading in schools from France and Argentina to Mexico and the United States. The Little Prince himself appears on postal stamps, coins, and has his own museum in Japan. Quotes, like “One sees clearly only with the heart,” are among the most cited lines in all of literature.

I read The Little Prince for the first time a few years ago; I had packed it for a trip, but ended up finishing it that night before I even left (whoops). Since then, I’ve recommended it multiple times and reread it before writing this review.

The unnamed narrator begins by reflecting on the perplexing nature of adults and their seeming inability to recognize what truly matters. To test them, he shows a drawing of a boa constrictor swallowing an elephant, but adults always mistake it for a hat. Frustrated, he knows to limit his conversations with them to “reasonable” topics like the stock market and the weather.

Years later, the narrator, now a pilot, crashes in the Sahara Desert. While working to repair his plane, a golden-haired boy appears and introduces himself as the “little prince,” a traveler from another world seeking wisdom. The narrator decides to share his drawing, and the little prince is the first to interpret it correctly. The story unfolds over the next eight days, as the narrator slowly runs out of water and the prince recounts his travels.

Despite being a short and simple read — my copy is 84 pages — The Little Prince is deep. The prince has visited six other planets, each inhabited by a single, narrow-minded adult. Saint-Exupéry uses these characters to critique common societal flaws, from materialism to vanity. People from Picasso to Bezos have spoken about the value of a childlike imagination, and this book reminds us of that.

During my reread, it felt a bit more childish than I remembered — no surprise, since it is a children’s book — but I still really enjoyed it. It’s a simple but engaging story with timeless themes, similar in feel to The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I think it would be a great book to read with kids, since both the adults and children could get something out of it. On your own, it’s a read that most people could finish in two hours-ish, not a huge commitment so definitely worth giving it a shot.

A fun fact: much of Saint-Exupéry’s writing closely resembles his own life. In the 1930s, he survived a solo plane crash in the Sahara Desert. Stranded for days, he walked miles in the heat while hallucinating before being rescued by a passing Bedouin. Tragically, in 1944, Saint-Exupéry disappeared during a WWII reconnaissance flight over Europe, and his wrecked plane wasn’t discovered until more than 60 years later.

I’ve recommended The Poisonwood Bible to multiple people. It explores a variety of themes, both personal and political, that remain relevant today and likely always will because they’re rooted in human nature.

The novel opens with the Price family setting off for the African Congo, planning to spread Christianity. Upon arrival, they quickly confront the reality of the harsh environment, which clashes with their prior expectations. Nathan, a devout and zealous evangelical, is determined to convert the locals, but his rigid beliefs and cultural ignorance create tension with the villagers. Meanwhile, Orleanna begins to question their mission and the toll it’s taking on her family. As political unrest escalates, the family faces both internal and external struggles, and each daughter embarks on her own journey of personal growth while navigating the new environment.

The Poisonwood Bible is grounded in accurate historical context. In the late 1800s, King Leopold II of Belgium enslaved the local population to extract rubber and ivory. The country gained independence in 1960, but fearing the spread of communism, the United States supported an assassination of the prime minister and helped install a dictator, who appears in the novel. It’s into this complex environment that the Price family enters. 

Kingsolver uses the family to explore themes like freedom, imperialism, and religion. Many characters — both the Price women and the Congolese people — have limitations that prevent growth imposed on them by controlling, tyrannical entities. The family’s struggles highlight the inherent arrogance in assuming we know what others need, evident from the first pages when carefully packed supplies prove useless in their new environment.

Kingsolver’s writing is known for its rich, descriptive language, blending stories with social commentary. Her prose can be dense but it gives a thoughtful, reflective feel which matches the type of story she normally writes. Over 540 pages, The Poisonwood Bible is long enough to dive into the family’s experiences with plenty of space for Kingsolver to fill the story with vivid imagery of the Congo. I would not call it an “easy” read — between the length, the depth, and her sometimes complex language, it demands your attention — but it’s rewarding.

I really enjoyed The Poisonwood Bible and would rank it among my favorite historical fiction reads. I’m excited to explore more of Kingsolver’s work; I have Demon Copperhead on my shelf and am waiting for the right time to read it.

I’ve always been a fan of sci-fi so I had to read the OG, Robert Heinlein. I’ve also read Starship Troopers and A Stranger in a Strange Land, both of which I enjoyed, but this is my favorite out of the three. The novel won the Hugo Award, the most prestigious honor in science fiction, and was nominated for the Nebula Award.

In 2075, the Moon (called Luna) serves as a penal colony for Earth, home to three million former criminals, political exiles, and their descendants. The population is skewed male, with roughly two men for every woman. The Moon’s low gravity causes permanent physical changes, making a return to Earth impossible. Earth’s main role is to ensure vital wheat shipments are delivered on time, without sufficient compensation to the workers.

Mannie, a computer technician, discovers that the Lunar Authority’s master computer is self-aware and has named itself “Mike.” Together, they uncover the extent of Earth’s resource exploitation and the serious consequences if things don’t change. As injustices grow, the stage is set for a revolt against oppressive rule.

I love the world-building in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Luna is largely anarchist, highly decentralized, and self-regulated. Heinlein crafted a distinct culture for its inhabitants, even creating a new dialect to reflect the colonists’ diverse origins. He builds on the fictionalized history of Luna as a penal colony, giving the society a gritty, lived-in feel.

The culture is fiercely individualistic and self-reliant, shaped by the harsh environment. Social order comes not from formal laws, but through reputation, mutual agreements, and informal contracts. Yet despite minimal governance, the society fosters a strong sense of community and shared values.

The new Luna allows Heinlein to explore big themes like freedom, law, and reliance on technology. He poses a powerful question: what is true freedom? Can we really claim liberty if the government dictates how much of our income we must give in taxes? Are we free if we cannot marry whom we choose? Heinlein contrasts rules — explicit guidelines set by authority — with order, which emerges organically from collective actions. Luna has almost no formal rules, yet maintains strict order through cultural norms.

Like Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, this book very much feels like a product of its time. The characters are enjoyable, but the writing leans more toward ideas and concepts than many modern novels, which tend to prioritize deep emotional attachment. In some ways, it reminds me of video games; in a world full of competing distractions, stories nowadays need a strong emotional hook to keep us engaged. Even so, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress is inventive and a book I still find myself thinking about regularly.

I really enjoyed the societal dynamics of the lunar colony. It’s fascinating to watch how a group of people, isolated in a new environment for an extended period, gradually develop their own culture, values, and belief system. It’s similar to what happened between Britain and its American colonies — and both stories ultimately ended in revolution.

Definitely give it a read if you enjoy sci-fi that explores political and systemic ideas, like The Dispossessed or Brave New World. Science fiction can be one of the best mirrors to our own world; it explores the same issues, but because it’s set in a made-up universe, people are less likely to let biases get in the way.

We read The Nickel Boys in high school, less than a year after it was released. Whitehead was already a well-known author after his widely-acclaimed The Underground Railroad but he followed it up nicely: The Nickel Boys won the Pulitzer Prize, arguably the most prestigious award in American literature.

The novel opens with news reporting the horrors of the Nickel Academy in Florida. Elwood Curtis, now an African-American business owner in New York City, is forced to confront his traumatic memories from the institution.

The story jumps back five decades, revealing Elwood’s past as a dedicated high school student inspired by Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights movement. Despite earning a spot at university, his aspirations are destroyed when he is unjustly convicted of a crime and sent to the Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory in Florida. There, Elwood faces a reality far from his idealistic visions: inadequate education, forced labor, beatings, and terrifying trips “out back,” where some boys never return.

Sadly, The Nickel Boys is based on a true story. The Dozier School for Boys was established in 1900 as a state-run institution and became the largest juvenile reform facility in the U.S.. Reports of abuse surfaced, but despite numerous “investigations,” the school continued to disproportionately target Black youths with severe beatings, whippings, and unexplained disappearances. The institution wasn’t closed until 2011. A year later, forensic examinations uncovered unmarked graves on the grounds, revealing over 100 deaths concealed by authorities. Widespread calls for justice followed, though the state of Florida refused to exhume the graves until a court injunction forced action.

The Nickel Boys is a perfect example of why I think fiction can teach more than nonfiction. You become emotionally invested in the characters, whereas nonfiction rarely draws you in the same way; it might make you aware of an issue, but living the experience hits differently. Historical fiction is unique; the real-world settings help readers easily connect the themes to reality.

Whitehead highlights the lasting impact of a deeply racist past in America, showing that even after laws condemning such, pervasive racism continues more than a century after slavery was abolished. Why was The Dozier School for Boys not closed until 2011 and why did the state of Florida resist further investigation?

Elwood embraces Martin Luther King Jr.’s message of standing up for your rights, showing that it’s possible to maintain self-worth even in the face of extreme adversity. The abuse of power and corruption of authorities lies in stark contrast, highlighting the consequences when those in positions of power betray their responsibilities.

In terms of style, The Nickel Boys is far more accessible and engaging than many books typically found on school reading lists. Take Heart of Darkness, for example — it has highly relevant themes, but being published over 125 years ago in a very different cultural context makes it harder to relate. Whitehead’s setting in contemporary America, along with his clear, modern style, makes the story much easier to connect with.

I’d definitely recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical or contemporary fiction with strong social justice themes. Just be prepared to feel a lot of emotions during and after reading — some of the truths it confronts are still denied today.