When to Give Up & When to Delight

& three books I wholeheartedly endorse

On my tombstone?

I did my best, I guess.

I’m unsure a lot. I waffle. I read a book and like it and then read a review and decide I hate the book. I watch a movie and hate it and then have a conversation with a friend who loved it and am convinced I was wrong and it was a head-busting knockout. I can be convinced of most things, but depending on my mood I can also be skeptical of most things. So, I waffle. I flop like a fish on a boat deck. I have exactly three convictions: groceries should be free, tax the rich, lighten up and tell some jokes already, support local business whenever possible, gossip is boring, and please: be more specific. OK, that’s six. Today only: convictions are two-for-one!

Where am I going with this? And what does this have to do with books?

I’m tired. I’m getting older. I just want to enjoy things.

Are we enjoying ourselves? I keep asking myself this question. (Yes, I talk to myself as if talking to a crowd.) Recent emotional baggage has revealed that, perhaps due to the unremitting cycle of religious shame, sorrow, and penitence growing up (“Wretch Like Me,” etc.), I have a tendency to punish myself, and I’m trying to cast that off. Life is short…but it is also long! (See: waffling.) And because we have so much time, there are only so many joys to behold, and therefore many books to cast aside in the name of finding the ones that truly delight.

I started this newsletter with a different aim. I was originally going to bang out Five Hot Takes on Popular Novels, but it just felt, I don’t know, ick-worthy, dank, groupthink-y. Everyone has a hot take these days, and everyone is constantly sharing them. As my friend Michael says, “I resent that the internet has turned us into hot take machines.” I don’t want a hot take. I want a joyful take, a thoughtful take, a whacky, out-of-the-ballpark take. (That’s beyond left field…get it? Sports? Anyone?)

Without further ado, here are three books I’ve absolutely loved and did not consider for one second putting down.

Gone to the Wolves by John Wray. Black metal, three friends, death cults, road trips, small town Florida, the L.A. underground, winter in Norway, secret record stores, betrayal, kidnapping, coming of age in the ‘80s. I mean. I didn’t want this to end. A delicious, steadily-moving plot and, yes, lots and lots of metal.

Homeland Elegies by Ayad Akhtar. I don’t totally know what people mean by “hater” and I simply don’t care enough to look it up in Urban Dictionary (is that even still a thing?) but this novel feels like that: a haters novel. Part fiction, part memoir, part essay, Homeland Elegies is a polemic against the shallow constructions of what it means to be an American and the son of immigrants. Ayad Akhtar is a Pakistani-American playwright and novelist whose narrator is also the playwright and novelist Ayad Akhtar. One of the more energetic parts shows Akhtar arguing with his father about Trump—his father was once Trump’s doctor and subsequently voted for him. Mostly, Akhtar is concerned with the dissonance of Muslim American life. Though not necessarily plotted in the conventional sense, it rips along quickly like a high-octane rant. It might not sound like it, but it’s also very fun (lots of banter) and funny (see the chapter on syphilis) and there’s so much verve and intense linguistic energy. I loved it.

Western Lane by Chetna Maroo. This might be the opposite of Homeland Elegies in the sense that it’s a lovers’ book. Subtle, precise, single gestures that speak multitudes. The sentences are airtight. Young Gopi grieves the loss of her mother, and her father forces her and her two sisters into a rigorous squash routine. They play for hours a day, practicing and doing drills and not talking about their mother. I’ve never read a book that captures the enormities of what is left unsaid. What is spoken is tense, loaded, and so painfully sad and beautiful. Maroo gets bonus points for describing sport so well. If you’ve ever played a racket sport, you might want to read this just for the sculpted descriptions of the way a ball can echo.

What rules do you abide by, if any? How many pages do you give a book before you decide it’s not for you? 30? 40? 75? Or are you a completist? How’s that working out for you? I’d love to know.

Here’s America’s favorite librarian Nancy Pearl explaining her rule of 50.

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This month I’m donating all the paid-subscriber earnings to The Free Book Buggie, which is basically like an ice cream truck but with books. (Single tear.) They provide free books to children of all ages with a special focus on under-resourced communities.

Please spread the love to your local libraries, independent booksellers if you can, or shop online at Bookshop. Thanks, as always, for reading.