50 Books In 2014 Year-End Recap

Today is December 29, and I am approximately one-third of the way through my thirty-first book of the year, and I probably won't finish by Wednesday. I have read a grand total of 30 books for the year 2014. Of course, my goal was 50, and I would be disappointed, but someone tweeted me this yesterday:

When I started this reading challenge, I knew that 50 books in one year was a lofty goal. Fifty was always kind of an arbitrary number. I knew it wouldn't bother me very much if I didn't finish, as long as I stuck with it throughout the entire year—and that I did. Even though some months passed in which I finished only one or two books, I never went anywhere without a paperback in my purse or a digital copy of something on iBooks. I seriously read a lot of great books this year, and it has been my most fruitful New Year's resolution to date by far.

My biggest realization is that to truly enjoy a book, you've got to take your time, and you've got to read it more than once. I didn't do either one of these things this year, in the interest of completing my goal. Even though 2014 is ending, the challenge isn't (especially since my friend/blogger maven Tyece so graciously included me in her list of 50 Blogs To Take Into 2015—check it out!). 50 Books In 2014 will remain a space where I document and review all the fantastic literature I consume, and hopefully inspire others to read some of the same titles (or any titles, really). Here are some graphs.

Weren't those cute? Special shout outs to: Paolo Coelho for writing the best book I read all year (The Alchemist); Kevin Kunitake for lending me several of these books and being a great literary conversationalist; Amazon for making it possible for me to order books for as low as $0.01 plus S&H; Tyece Wilkins for reading and supporting the blog via Twenties Unscripted; my online pal Courtney for appreciating the blog and being a fellow bookworm; and to everyone who supports my reading habit in one way or another. See you next year!

Book 30: Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller

Title: Tropic of Cancer
Author: Henry Miller
Length: 318 pages
Year Written: 1934
Why I chose this book: A tattered, almost obliterated copy of this book was lent to me by my friend Kevin. I took it, but bought a copy on iBooks for ease of reading.

This was not a bad book, but it was a bad choice. As you can see, it has been a MONTH since I last finished a book, and it's December. This means that I have less than a month to read 20 more books. Fortunately for me, this is one of those challenges that you can still feel good about regardless of the outcome (kind of like running a marathon for charity or something like that). Plus, some people won't read 30 books in 30 years. Hmm. Anyway, I say this book was a bad choice because it certainly would be more enjoyable sans a hovering timeline. It is a book that provides profoundly meaningful tidbits, about life and the human condition, but not necessarily a quick and easily digested storyline.

Tropic of Cancer is one of those books I've always known of (perhaps initially through an episode of Seinfeld) but had no clue about its content. The only thing I knew, just prior to starting, was that it was initially banned, which is not a concept my modern mind can necessarily grasp. It turns out that Tropic of Cancer is a surly, kind of depressing, half-fiction account of author Henry Miller's nomadic life in Paris as a struggling writer. The novel is chock-full of dirt, both sexually and hygienically. Life for Henry Miller between 1930 and 1934 was apparently laden with lice, starvation, and whores. I later learned that he based many of his characters on people he knew in real life, including beastly poetic writer Anais Nin (who I read earlier this year, and now realize was probably writing about cheating on her husband with Miller). They apparently had quite the passionate affair that many speculate to have crystallized in his character "Tania":

"I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces..."

More than the actual novel itself, I am fascinated with the circumstances that led to the novel's creation. I am blown away by the inspiration that two awesomely nasty writers shone onto one another in the nude and then onto paper. I'm also fascinated with the feeling of being a fly on the wall of some unintentional bigot's dilapidated Parisian quarters in the 1930s. The novel can be quite graphic, but honestly contains nothing more offensive than life itself. It has been heralded as the literary work that paved the way for our current freedom of expression in fiction. For that, especially, I am grateful.

Rating: 8.3/10