Archive for ‘personal’

February 21, 2013

South Asian Women Writers Challenge

Some of you will remember that I wasn’t very impressed with my reading stats from last year. I did read more women writers than men, but only a tenth of the things I read were by writers who weren’t white, and I have a worrying suspicion that the number of romance novels and school stories I reread made the gender balance look more impressive than it really was.

So I’d planned to fix that this year, and I like to think I’ve already made a good start. And then a couple of days ago my friend Aishwarya G (with whom I am proud to share a first name) suggested a writing challenge along the lines of the Australian Women Writers Challenge.

So we spent some time trying to work out how many books people read per year on average, arguing over whether we wanted to focus on Indian writers or not, and finally came up with what seem like a comfortingly liberal set of guidelines. An introductory post is here; there’s a twitter account here, there’ll probably  be a facebook page soon (Aishwarya has done most of the work so far). Join in, read things.


For my own challenges: I will not be counting books I am asked to review professionally as part of the challenge, but I will count books I choose to review for my column. I don’t want to commit to a number (though I hope it will be more than 10 at least) but I will review at least half of the books by South Asian women that I read.

January 7, 2013


In school in Delhi in the mid/late 1990s it was a commonly done thing, when boys asked girls out, for the girl to explain that she had no time for a relationship, that she was “busy with her studies”. I didn’t do this; for one thing, no one would have believed it (exhibit A: my maths, physics and chemistry marks). But then, I can’t imagine anyone believed that was the real reason anyway, even when someone smart and quiet and capable of good grades said it. If I thought about it at all (I didn’t, much) I assume I thought it was a way to let someone down kindly; it’s not you, it’s me. Now I wonder if letting people down kindly was the problem. To turn down one teenaged boy you had to make an excuse that left you unavailable to all teenage boys, you couldn’t reject a relationship with this boy without rejecting relationships, full stop.

Perhaps we should have stuck with that other classic form of Indian maidenly rejection- the adoption of the rakhi brother* that at least acknowledged the individuals in this relationship/non-relationship, rather than reducing us all to our component genitals. (We were, of course, working on the assumption that everyone was heterosexual and cisgender, even as some of us were learning that we weren’t).

This is possibly reading too much into teenaged girls’ perfectly kindly impulse to spare people pain. But I think of it when rape culture suggests that a woman who has consented to a relationship with one man is therefore available to all men. I think of it when Delhi police, in last year’s horrifying Tehelka piece, explain that a woman who was going to have sex with her boyfriend anyway is hardly justified in crying rape when a bunch of his friends join in. I think of it when we still haven’t gotten rid of the “two-finger” test, in which someone can shove a couple of fingers into you, decide that you are “habituated” to sex, and therefore cannot have been raped- because all men, and all sexual encounters, are the same thing really. I think of it when Anurag Kashyap thinks it reasonable and natural that “the lament of a boy who has been rejected by a girl and is expressing his feelings musically” should take the form of the generalised violent hatred of women displayed by Honey Singh’s “Choot”.

And I suppose I think of it to a far less serious extent when family members and friends of family members treat marriage as a goal in itself, independent of who the person one marries is (assuming of course, that he’s a he, and not of the wrong caste or social background. Or at least not muslim or black – or, my grandfather insists, american). This not wanting to get married is just a phase, insists a cousin (my age!) when I tell her I don’t have plans to do so in the near future, you’ll be lonely if you’re not married to someone. An unspecified someone, whose only attributes are broadly generalised negatives- not the wrong gender, not the wrong caste, not the wrong degrees from the wrong colleges, not cruel, not ugly, not fat, not shorter than you — and if you have found this man why are you complaining? My parents still sigh over the end of my last relationship with someone who was for many reasons exactly what good Indian parents are supposed to want; but those reasons weren’t why I loved him. The (tragically) recently shut down “Nice Guys of OK Cupid” mocked the stereotype of the Nice Guy™ who believes himself to be entitled to sex from the women he’s attracted to because he’s a nice guy; he’s not like those other guys who stupid women inexplicably choose over him. He’s been so kind for so long, when is he going to get the sex he’s owed? The only way any of this makes sense is if women as a whole are fundamentally flawed, and foolish enough not to want him. As if nothing about individual men mattered except that they not be violent or openly horrible.

I suppose what I’m trying to get at is that when the patriarchy (or the kyriarchy, generally) makes it hard for us to believe that women are human beings with individual subjectivities, it also in a wayturns men into an amorphous blob — to me, this is the natural conclusion of the “if him, why not me?” logic. And this isn’t a “What About The Mens?/The Patriarchy Hurts Men Too!” conclusion because while this logic may be demeaning to men, it’s proving to be life-threatening to women.

And I’m not sure what any of this means; I certainly don’t mean to suggest that this “why not me?” attitude to women doesn’t come from a place of the grossest entitlement, and I don’t think my family wanting me comfortably “settled” is necessarily propping up the patriarchy. I don’t know if gendered violence (or indeed racist violence, or classist violence or or or) is going to just magically vanish if we all take the radical step of treating individual people as if that is what they were, but then the sheer amount of structural change something as simple-sounding as this would require is terrifying.

I’m lucky in my immediate family, in that they’re far less invested in my adherence to the trappings of ordinary adult life than many I know. If I can scrape together funding I’ll be starting a PhD later this year, and at the back (and occasionally the forefront) of many of my conversations with them has been the terrible fact that this means I’ll be in my thirties before they can reasonably bring up the marriage thing again. Finally, a good decade-and-a-half later, I’m using the “busy with studies” excuse to opt out of heteropatriarchal relationships.

Except if there’s one thing the last three weeks in Delhi have reminded us (as if we needed a reminder beyond mere existence in this city or any other) it’s that opting out isn’t an option. And I think it’s amazing that my entire country is coming out and having this conversation, and that we can finally hope for things like police reform and better laws (and please, please make marital rape illegal) but beyond all of that there’s the thing where we need to initiate the personal and structural reforms that allow us to conceive of people first and I’m not sure how to even begin.



*Yesterday “spiritual leader” Asaram Bapu suggested that the victim of the recent gang rape in Delhi was to blame for not calling her attackers her brothers. Such is the power of the Rakhi, it seems.

December 26, 2012

Dylan Thomas, A Child’s Christmas in Wales

This afternoon I Christmas lunched with my parents and friends of the family and someone complained about an uncle and I said “there are always uncles at Christmas” and everyone seemed very confused.

A Child’s Christmas in Wales is out of copyright in Australia and is therefore available on Gutenberg AU. Though that way you miss out on the lovely illustrations that are in my edition.

Thanks to Alex(-who-no-longer-has-a-blog) this year I also discovered this.



As an atheist child with a Hindu surname in England, Christmas was probably my favourite festival. Diwali involved visits to relatives and amazing food, but I loved winter, and Christmas was all around me, and because it wasn’t ‘our’ festival I didn’t have to adhere to any particular social activities. My Christmases are quiet and personal, and over time they have acquired their own rituals.

Among the more recent of these is a reading of Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales. Thomas was a Welsh poet who was perhaps best known for his radio play Under Milk Wood. It was through Under Milk Wood that a friend and I (the friend who would later gift me my first copy of A Child’s Christmas in Wales) discovered him in school; and it was clear from the beginning that this work was meant to be heard, rather than seen. I could not read it without reading it aloud.

A Child’s Christmas in Wales is made up of two separate pieces. The first, “Memories of Christmas”, was broadcast on BBC radio in 1945. It tells the story of one particular Christmas, when the kitchen caught fire in the house of the narrator’s friend, Jim Prothero. The boys throw the snowballs they had planned to use on the neighbourhood cats into the fire; the firemen come; Christmas is saved, if somewhat damp. As with Under Milk Wood, it’s immediately clear that this was made for radio. Thomas’ prose was meant to be read out loud: “Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, [the cats] would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes”. And the piece ends on a lovely, bizarre note when Jim’s aunt walks into the room, sees the firemen, and asks them if they would like something to read.

The second part, “Conversation About Christmas” was written for the magazine Picture Post in 1947. As the title implies, this is a conversation with a much younger child about the narrator’s memories of Christmas. This part, made for print, is scarcely less lyrical than the earlier section, and like it is also touching, and strange, and funny. Here we have Thomas’ account of postmen bearing useful and useless presents, who “with sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully”, of uncles who fall asleep in armchairs after lunch and aunts who get tipsy and sing, and of the time the narrator and his friends went carolling outside a strange house and ran away in terror when a thin, old voice from within joined in “Good King Wenceslas”. The whole thing is suffused by the warmth of nostalgia, a haziness of detail but sharp recollection of feelings. Thomas’ narrator may not be able to remember “whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six”, but the fires, the sound of a whistle, the music and the “close and holy darkness” he seems able to experience still.

A Child’s Christmas in Wales was first published as a book in 1954. My edition of Thomas’ gorgeous memoir was published in 2004, when the book was half a century old. It has bright, muddled illustrations by Chris Raschka that almost make up for the disadvantage of having to read and not hear these words. Not that this (or a winter sore throat) has the power to stop me happily croaking and squeaking my way through a dramatic reading of my own. Probably not the best reading of Thomas that I’ll ever hear, but it wouldn’t be a proper Christmas without it.


April 16, 2012

From the reading while brown chronicles

Gail Carriger’s Timeless has, early on, a werewolf smelling someone unusual. “Something spicy and exotic and – he paused, trying to think – sandy”.

The character he smells speaks Arabic and is implied to be Egyptian. This is not a spoiler – the Sphinx and some pyramids are on the book’s cover.

There is a tradition of having exotic Eastern characters be associated with the smell of spices.

Sometimes Eastern writers do this to themselves.

Werewolves have an acute sense of smell so probably can smell the difference in someone used to a different cuisine.

Perhaps Egyptian werewolves think English people smell of tea. We don’t meet any Egyptian (or otherwise non-European) werewolves in the series, so it’s hard to be sure.

Sometimes I smell of cloves. That’s because of my anti-acne gel, so if you notice it it’s probably because my skin is having a bad week. It’s politest not to point it out.

I mentioned the werewolf thing on Twitter. I said “You know, I’d prefer it if the Egyptian character didn’t smell “sandy” and “spicy” to a werewolf…”. I rolled my eyes. I went on with the book.

I enjoyed Timeless. I have enjoyed all the Parasol Protectorate books. I especially like Professor Lyall. In my head he looks like Paul Bettany. No one agrees with me about this, though I have many long casting discussions about these books.

Some people who saw my twitter update said they were less interested in reading the series if this was the sort of thing they could expect. I said no, no it’s really good.

I thought – what a pity if such a small thing should turn someone off reading a book entirely.

English is the only language I am really comfortable reading. Most things I read growing up had moments that threw me out of the text.

Perhaps being able to dismiss a book for alienating you thus (because you always assume that you’ll find something else that doesn’t treat you as other) is easier if you belong to a group of people for whom books generally are more likely to be written.

Perhaps my willingness to overlook the spicy, sandy Egyptian and go on with the book is unhelpful and unlikely to lead to change.

Perhaps I can shrug off occasional, throwaway orientalism in a book because it’s easier on me.

I think the racism in, say, Rider Haggard is quite funny.

I have a strange, antagonistic relationship with the books I read growing up. I love them and I also like to tear them to bits. I think it’s made me a better reader. If it was a relationship it would be very dysfunctional.

I argue for greater diversity of characters and settings in genre fiction. I think genre fiction (and all fiction, but genre still feels like mine in some way) would be better for this.

I feel uncomfortable when well-meaning allies argue for greater diversity on behalf of the poor Brown/Queer/ThirdWorld child who grows up reading English language fiction and never sees herself reflected in any of this.

Do they see me as fundamentally broken as a reader because I grew up that way? I don’t ask.

I think there’s lots wrong with me as a reader (insufficiently critical; sometimes dismissive; too lazy; not smart enough; too lazy) but I don’t think I’m broken.

If I had sufficient critical rigour there would probably be a Homi Bhabha quote here.


April 11, 2012

A signal boost (with some added self-promotion)

Fabio Fernandes and The Future Fire have started a Peerbackers project to finance a collection of colonialism-themed SFF from outside the first world perspective.

Much widely distributed science fiction and fantasy is written by American and other Anglophone authors, and treats subjects close to the hearts of straight, white, English-speaking men. There’s nothing wrong with this sci-fi itself—we love lots of it—but there’s clearly something missing. Having white Anglo cis/hetero/males as (the only) role models is not an option any more. We aim to redress this balance, not only by publishing speculative stories by people with different viewpoints and addressing concerns from outside of the usual area (seeWorld SF), but also by explicitly including fiction that addresses the profound socio-political issues around colonisation and colonialism (see Race in SF). We want to see political stories: not partisan-political, but writing that recognizes the implications for real people and cultures of the events and actions that make up science fictional or fantastic histories, as well as our own history.

This looks like being an exciting project, and Fabio and Djibril are Good People. You can donate to the anthology here (where they also explain how much they hope to raise and how they plan to spend it). Hopefully some of you will also consider submitting work for consideration.


As for non-first-world sf that already exists, Zubaan’s Breaking the Bow, now has a cover which you can see here. This collection has been a long time coming – I’ve been suppressing my excitement about it for over a year now. It’s an anthology of speculative fiction based on the Ramayana and contains stories by Kuzhali Manickavel, Manjula Padmanabhan, Lavie Tidhar, Tabish Khair and Tori Truslow, among others, and is edited by Anil Menon and Vandana Singh (who also has a story in the anthology). There’s also a story by me; please do not read it though you may admire my name in the table of contents.

I’m still not sure when this is due out, except that it’s “soon”; but I get to share this because now that it has a cover it is a thing that exists.

Edit: I knew I’d forget something. The cover is by Pinaki De, who has been responsible for some of my favourite covers in Indian publishing over the last few years. 

January 25, 2012

People from literature

I’ve been at the Jaipur Literature Festival this week. I won’t be doing any sort of comprehensive piece on it, and my twitter followers are probably sick of my #JLF updates. But I think I’ll be using it as the starting point for a few other pieces, beginning with this one.

I attended two particularly good sessions on the Monday. The first was a discussion about adaptation, featuring Tom Stoppard, Richard Flanagan, Vishal Bharadwaj and Lionel Shriver, and moderated by Girish Karnad.

At the end of the panel when the floor was opened to questions, a woman stood up and addressed Vishal Bharadwaj. Bharadwaj had been speaking about his experiences with adapting Shakespeare to Bollywood (Macbeth and Othello to Maqbool and Omkara) – this woman said that “as a person from literature” she had disapproved of his adaptation of Macbeth and felt that it should not have been allowed.

Naturally I quoted this on twitter; Prayaag Akbar used it as the starting point for this humourous take on the festival and Angad Chowdhry suggested that “person from literature” (and subsequently  “person from the Internet” and other variations) be turned into a t-shirt. Prayaag and a couple of my other twitter followers suggested jokingly that “person from literature” might well mean a rogue character from a book roaming through the festival, trolling the panels. There’s a short story in there.

The second panel, “The Afropolitans”, featured Teju Cole and Ben Okri and was moderated by Taiye Selasi. “The Afropolitans” took its name from an essay on identity by Selasi – naturally the question “where are you from?” was discussed at some length during the session. Selasi suggested at some point that when so many of us have trouble answering that question (I’m a St Lucian-born, various-parts-of-England-bred Delhiite at the moment), perhaps we should stop asking it. Teju Cole said that he was from “a short story in the middle of Dubliners”; “Araby”. It only occurred to me a couple of days later that Cole was saying that he was a person from literature as well; if “where are you from?” is a question about identity, for many of us particular books (and movies, and other cultural products) are as valid an answer as countries and languages.

So I was born, I suppose, in Bashful the Clumsy Bear by Pat Posner, the first book I learnt how to read, or in a book whose title my family no longer remembers about dogs named Tippy and Trinket.I spent some of my teenage years with Antonia Forest, struggling through just how much of selfhood is performance, and my first crush that ended in heartbreak was The Owl Service. I opened Gormenghast in a school library and it was “oh. Oh”, and that was a coming home of sorts.  I cannot read Derek Walcott without crying and that ties into the geographical version of my identity too, and the birthplace I left before I could remember it.

All of this requires at least as long an answer as the purely cartographical version, and I can’t imagine Teju Cole would ever be satisfied with just “Araby”. And it clearly isn’t what the woman in the audience meant, but if someone were to make those t-shirts next year I think I would get one.

December 30, 2011


I did not keep a record of what I read in 2011 – a decision that arose mostly out of laziness. I regret this now. I’d decided at the beginning of the year that I would Read the Russians, and in the event utterly failed to do so. I’m choosing not to see this as a personal failure because my reading habits opted of their own accord to make books about readers the theme for the year. It meant some great books, so I’m in no position to complain.

I did set myself more minor goals: to read/reread my way through Mervyn Peake and Flann O’Brien’s works because it was their birth centenary. I managed this, though in both cases I failed to blog about most of it. I also set myself to reading Samuel Delany’s The Jewel-Hinged Jaw, and again failed to blog about it. I began a series of posts on Antonia Forest’s Marlow series, and am about four books in. This will continue into the new year.

In 2012 I plan to finish my Antonia Forest reread. I’ll also (since his new book is rumoured to be coming out this year) be rereading my way through the works of Alan Garner with these fine people. I’m also planning to read my way through Gramsci’s prison notebooks. I’ve only read exerpts before, and those were excellent.

By now it is probably clear that I’m not doing a best books of 2011 list. But I’ve been thinking about it, and am reasonably sure that were I to write such a list, Karen Russell’s Swamplandia! would top it.

August 13, 2011

The Jewel-Hinged Jaw Notes (Chapter 1)


Note: unstructured notes and things ahead. Not a real post or a review. 




I’m (along with some other people) reading my way through Samuel Delany’s collection of essays The Jewel-Hinged Jaw. Putting my short notes here seems a convenient way to do this (and you get to mock me for things I hilariously misunderstand) so here is most of what I wrote while reading the first essay in this edition (the 2009 one, with an introduction by Matthew Cheney), “About 5,570 Words”.


“About 5,570 Words”

Delany starts with the meaninglessness of style vs content arguments: “Is there such a thing as verbal information apart from the words used to inform?” I get the feeling this is something he will be referring back to a lot in subsequent essays, and it’s close enough to my own position (if I have one) that I’m willing to accept it as a premise.

Chapter one seems to be all about the relationship between words in a text -> a word as a sound-picture, and each subsequent word modifying that picture: thus a 60,000 word novel is a picture corrected 59,000 times. (This is where the title of the chapter begins to make sense to me).

He moves on to subjunctivity, which is something I’ve never been entirely clear on (I have only a year of lit theory classes and scraps I’ve read to fall back on here). Delany defines it as “the tension on the thread of meaning that runs between (to borrow Saussure’s term for ‘word’) sound-image and sound-image. The example he gives  if this- something is presented to us as reportage, thus “[a] blanket tension (or mood) informs the whole series: this happened. Which is to do with context, but also, I think, why I’ve been wanting to study rasa theory in connection with genre for some time now.

Delany then discusses the subjunctivity of various genres – naturalistic fiction, fantasy, before elaborating on SF.

SF (events that have not happened) as distinct from events that could have happened (most naturalistic fiction)* or events that could not have happened (fantasy).

‘Events that have not happened’ can include ‘haven’t happened yet’, ‘will not happen’, ‘have happened in the past’ (alt-hist).

Thus there are both a huge degree of subjunctive freedom and a strong corrective process at work here because even as a startling image is presented to the reader, between it and the next words hover a number of possible explanations, and so SF must provide not only the imagery but some sort of explanation for how we got there.


*Though he (also in a footnote) makes a case for most fiction to be a form of unverifiable alt-history, and therefore SF.

July 30, 2011

On the many perfections of Jack Langdon

I’ve been recuperating from illness with the help of tea and romance novels. During the course of my treatment I have discovered that the most restorative romance novel in the world is The Devil’s Delilah by Loretta Chase.

In part this is because it is a Loretta Chase book. I don’t always love Chase – there have been books of hers that I never finished (Captives of the Night), and others that I finished but was disappointed by (The Sandalwood Princess). Yet she’s one of the first romance writers I recommend to people who ask because when she’s good (Lord of Scoundrels) she’s so very good. The Devil’s Delilah is her under-appreciated masterpiece, and this (the masterpiece part, not the under-appreciated part) is mostly because of Jack Langdon.

Langdon is the Regency version of a geek. He really, really likes books and learning and the like – it seems completely normal to those around him that he should be reading about (or babbling enthusiastically on the subject of) the difference in skull shape of different ancient civilisations, or horticulture in Greece. He’s less good at real life; he’s unhappy and anxious in social situations, and he’s particularly awkward around women. He’s also vague and (when his valet isn’t around) very scruffy.

Langdon appears in two of Chase’s books – Viscount Vagabond and The Devil’s Delilah. He’s a minor character in Viscount Vagabond, where he still gets some of the best moments.


The probability of finding Jack Langdon in a boxing saloon was approximately equivalent to that of encountering the Archbishop of Canterbury at Granny Grendle’s—though the odds were rather in favour of the Archbishop.
“What the devil brings you here?” the viscount enquired of his friend.
Mr. Langdon stood for a moment looking absently about him as though in search of something he’d forgotten. “Not the most pleasantly fragrant place, is it, Max?” he noted in some wonder. “Odd. Very odd. I count three viscounts, one earl, a handful of military chaps and—good God—is that Argoyne?”
“Yes. One duke.”
“All come, it seems, for the express purpose of letting some huge, muscular fellow hit them repeatedly.”
“So what’s your purpose?”
“I suppose,” Mr. Langdon answered rather forlornly, “I’ve come to be hit.”


In The Devil’s Delilah  Jack falls in love with and is fallen-in-love-with and it is all very wonderful. Here are some of the reasons for Jack’s amazingness.

1. He’s genuinely nice. He’s not a ‘reformed’ rake, he doesn’t need to learn over the course of the book to treat other people with respect. He just goes through the book being fundamentally decent.

2. When he protects women he does so geekily. How would you stop someone from making snide remarks about your beloved at a party?

Before Lady Jane had time to counterattack, Jack leapt into the fray.

“Really, it is most gratifying to hear the ladies speak so knowledgeably of Benthamite philosophy,” he said hurriedly. “In order to be good, according to them, the object examined must be useful. The object, of course, refers to the matter under discussion, whether it be an abstract quality or a physical fact.”

Apparently oblivious to the bafflement of most of his audience, Jack soared into the empyrean realms of the most abstruse philosophy, citing Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine and others with no regard whatsoever to relevance or coherence, and with a great deal of Greek and Latin thrown in for good measure. He continued in this vein for at least a quarter hour, at the end of which time most of the company had withdrawn from the battlefield to less mystifying conversations.


3. When he does lapse and do something Regency-hero-ish, like kiss the heroine without her permission, he is very penitent. That this is remarkable says a lot about the genre, but it’s nice to have a hero who at least theoretically believes consent is a necessary thing.

4. He can write. Without giving the plot away, it requires him to display considerable literary skills. He also has considerable intelligence

5. We’re told that he’s awkward around women, but that seems to be to do with social situations rather than women as a gender. He has genuine, mutual-respect-and-understanding friendships with some women, while characters who we’re told are good with women seem not to know how to do anything but seduce them.

6. I just like scruffy, vague, gentle, geeky men. And in a genre that spends most of its time depicting them as powerful, suave, etc., Jack is unique.


There are plenty of reasons to love this book other than its hero. The fact that the heroine is allowed to kiss other men and enjoy it; that Jack’s rival is allowed genuine feelings; that Delilah’s father is a bit like a less snobbish version of Justin Alastair. But it is the greatest of modern regencies, and its recuperative powers rank right up with Georgette Heyer.

March 30, 2011

About books about books

I planned to read more Russians this year, and I’m still hoping it will happen. But a number of other factors (including a larger project that I seem to have let myself in for) have coincided to make sure that my reading thus far has had a different theme – that of books about books. I’m not counting literary criticism here (since that is necessarily about books) but I’m thinking of characters in books who read and think about what they read. So far this year these books have included Jo Walton’s Among Others, Diana Wynne Jones’ Fire and Hemlock, Rebecca Stead’s When You Reach Me, and Francis Spufford’s The Child That Books Built. I’ve also read the most recent Karen Joy Fowler collection and Charles Yu’s How To Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, both of which engage with other works of fiction though not as directly. I’ll certainly soon be rereading Junot Diaz’ The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and Antonia Forest’s The Ready-Made Family. I might even reread Northanger Abbey, since I haven’t visited it in a few years.

But: what next? What am I missing that has a protagonist’s reading as a major part of its plot? I need recommendations, internet.