Like many recovering English majors before me, I have a longstanding infatuation with heavy Russian novels. So on one level, a new edition of Dead Souls seems like a no-brainer: an excuse to return to a story that has endured for nearly two centuries. Nikolai Gogol’s masterpiece centers on a con man named Chichikov who is literally buying dead souls -- or more accurately, serfs who have died but are still counted on official tax rolls. His journey sweeps through a swath of 19th-century Russian life, as he glides from landowner to landowner, trying to charm and flatter them in an effort to buy as many deceased serfs as possible. The book is smart and funny; it deftly unpacks the social structure of 19th-century Russian life. It says something profound about the dehumanizing effects of buying and selling everything. And it’s the first of the great Russian novels -- predating War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, and all the rest of those weighty tomes that pretentious undergraduates lug around to coffee houses. And that gives it mystique. But as I sat down to read Donald Rayfield’s new translation of the book, I felt a sensation I didn’t expect -- guilt. I got to thinking about my reading over the past few months, as I’ve hopped from The Radetzky March to Jude the Obscure to Demons to Chekhov’s plays. All of them brilliant, and all of them properly vetted by the relevant authorities. And I realized I don’t want to get in the habit of “checklist reading” -- paging through an old book for no other reason than to say I’ve read it. Ultimately, we live in a consumer society, and it is really easy to let the habits of consumption, the habits of a collector, seep into everything. Even our reading choices. As Dwight Macdonald pointed out decades ago in his (now ironically canonical) essay “Masscult and Midcult,” “The chief negative aspect is that so far our Renaissance, unlike the original one, has been passive, a matter of consuming rather than creating, a catching up on our reading on a continental scale… We have, in short, become skilled at consuming High Culture when it has been stamped by the proper authorities.” And that’s why I can’t manage to love the classics without reservation. I am afraid that it is far too easy to read them passively -- to get so caught up in their mystique that the words don’t matter. And I fear it would be very easy to get stuck in the books of the past, and miss out on newer ones that might relate more directly to the world as I experience the rest of the day. For example, David Shields’s Reality Hunger, while nowhere near as brilliant as Dead Souls, made a profound impact on how I think about contemporary media. Shields’s book-length essay, which came out about two years ago, is downright dismissive of the traditional novel, announcing, “To write only according to the rules laid down by masterpieces signifies that one is not a master but a pupil.” But, more importantly, it backs up its iconoclasm with a fragmentary style that genuinely captures something about the way people read today. A literary collage that collects fragments (mostly) taken from preexisting works by other writers and then weaves them into a single “manifesto,” it is a genuinely unique work, one that captures something very real about our -- or at least my -- current reading habits. Engaging with Reality Hunger's bits of text made me more attuned to the way much of my reading -- on Twitter, or just surfing online -- consists of gliding between small bursts of words. Instead of presenting a clean, straightforward argument, Shields makes his case for collage-style writing through accumulation. His fragments build and build, until the reader is able to piece together the argument is his or her own mind. I do the same thing online every day. I read tweets and status updates and blog posts one after another, and eventually, I piece them together in my head to form a coherent view of the world. Shields’s book finally made me aware of something I had done unconsciously for years. This is what literature is supposed to do -- call our attention to the way society or technology or history has shaped us. Reading matters because of its relationship to thinking. What I love most about books is the way they force the reader to get involved. Unlike other leisure activities, a reader needs to actually participate in the experience. You don’t just turn a book on and enjoy it -- you need to actively engage with the material, not only sorting out the words, but imagining what they describe. The scenes, the characters, the voices: all of it needs to be created inside the reader’s mind. In that way, reading itself is an imaginative act. I’ve always seen a minor parallel between a reader and a concert musician -- a pianist for example -- just in the sense that both are taking notations written by someone else and bringing them to life. In both cases, the work of art as it exists on paper is mediated by someone else. A reader may follow the cues of the author, she may give every word her full attention, her emotions may stir in exactly the way they were intended to -- but the images and voice she creates in her mind are hers. But they are not only hers -- they are a collaboration between her and the writer. Alone among the arts, reading/writing involves mingling the thoughts of the artist and the audience. In a way, reading is itself a performance. When a critic like B.R. Myers sniffs at contemporary writing by declaring, “Every new book we read in our brief and busy lives means that a classic is left unread,” I immediately worry that an entire reading life spent rehashing books approved by the proper authorities risks turning a reader (like me) into a perpetual student, someone who treats literature as a way to check off titles on an imaginary syllabus. Someone passive. I worry those images in my head will be subsumed by what I think they’re supposed to be; what a well-known Gogol critic like Vladimir Nabokov thinks they should look like. I worry Dead Souls belongs to so many people, it might never belong to me the way a book really need to. I worry my performance as a reader will borrow to heavy on the performances of others. And yet I want Gogol’s novel in my head. It remains a profoundly inventive book, with a narrator who comments on the story as it goes along, even to the point of upbraiding the audience: I apologize. It would seem that a phrase picked up on the streets has slipped from our hero’s lips. What can one do? That’s the situation a writer in Russia finds himself in. Though, if a street word finds its way into a book, it’s not the writer’s fault, it’s the readers’, above all readers in high society: they’re the last people you will hear a decent Russian word from… Harold Bloom has used the term “canonical strangeness,” and it is precisely an inherent weirdness that makes Dead Souls so hard to give up. Think of a symphony, where a certain movement may repeat in a slightly different key -- the subtle repetitions built into Gogol’s text help build the absurdity, the humor, and the emotional force of his tale. It isn’t very realistic -- life is not so well constructed -- but that’s okay. It gives us an opportunity -- if only an opportunity -- to stand outside our regular way of looking at the world, and perhaps notice something we have been taking for granted. The strangeness of Dead Souls, its alien subject matter and its realistic-but-not-lifelike narrative structure actually aid a reader’s performance precisely because, when taken on their own terms, they draw attention away from the process of reading the book. They demand so much energy to really follow, to navigate on their own terms, that the reader’s performance becomes, if not unconscious, at least less self-conscious. As soon as I realized that, my guilt about spending so much time immersed in old books began to melt away. The way to avoid passive reading is to pay attention to what is on the page and engage it as best you can. This matters because reading offers us something quite rare -- a quiet, solitary activity that allows us to clear a little space in our minds. This feels especially true in the context of my own daily habits, which involve spending an extraordinary amount of time online, a decidedly noisy, un-solitary environment that encourages the reader to respond -- through retweeting, commenting, or “liking” -- as opposed to reflecting. Reality Hunger sticks with me because it made me more sensitive to the noisy media landscape I inhabit almost continuously. The book forced me to read actively by calling attention to just how I was looking at text. Its fragments made the fragments in my head all too obvious. Dead Souls does the opposite. It is quiet and strange and in some respects inaccessible; it uses a plot that doesn’t dwell too much on the rambling pointlessness of daily life; it is set in a past I don’t understand as much as I pretend to. It is the opposite of the tailored, easy-to-digest world of social media. With the right attitude, the right approach, its contrast with today’s fragmentary reading environment can be every bit as valuable as Shields’s effort to engage it. The key is to take both together -- to avoid getting trapped only reading classics, like Macdonald’s “catch-up” reader, or only reading fragments or bits of text online. The point is not to set up a dichotomy between old and new -- and certainly not between “good” and “bad” approaches to writing or reading. What both Shields, with his contempt for traditional narratives, and Myers, in his contempt for everything else, both miss is that each kind of text -- those grounded in the technology of the present and those insulated from it -- is equally valuable, because it offers the reader a chance to perform (to think) in very different ways. Both matter because a good performer -- good reader -- is one with a lot of range, and the only way to develop that range is to perform as many different kinds of stories as possible. In conversation, I’m fond of telling people that the difference between a work of art and a mere product is that art ultimately aspires to contemplation, while a product aspires only to consumption. I suppose my anxiety about turning the classics into a checklist stems from my realization that “art” exists only through collaboration between the artist/creator/writer and an audience; that it’s not the work that should aspire to contemplation, but myself. And that, as a reader, that means I need to be willing to work hard. To approach the performance of reading with every bit as much seriousness and effort as I expect the writer to approach the performance of writing. Art can’t exist without an audience to take it seriously. The wonder of a book like Dead Souls comes from its silence, the way it offers us a calm place to think. But that place is only as valuable as the reader makes it. A calm place to think is only worthwhile if the reader seizes the opportunity to do some thinking. Perhaps it’s not really guilt I fell about the classics but trepidation -- because at the end of the day the classics need to earned. So now, it’s up to me to put in the effort to earn them.
When it comes to adapting serious fiction for the screen, John Huston has few peers. But the English director Michael Winterbottom continues to burnish his reputation as a master of this maddeningly slippery art at this year's Tribeca Film Festival, which is featuring the American premiere of Trishna, Winterbottom's daring re-imagining of the Thomas Hardy novel Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Today, by way of exploring the difficulty of transporting stories from page to screen, we'll look at three Winterbottom adaptations of three very different novels from three different centuries. Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles Trishna is not Winterbottom's first foray into Hardy's fiction, nor the first time he has lifted Hardy's characters from fictional Wessex and plunked them down in a faraway place. Winterbottom adapted Hardy's most controversial novel, Jude the Obscure, in 1996, and followed it four years later with The Claim, a retelling of The Mayor of Casterbridge set in California's Sierra Nevada mountains during the gold rush. But Trishna, set in contemporary India, is by far Winterbottom's most daring – and successful – adaptation of Hardy. The conventional reading of Hardy is that he was a forward-thinker who railed against the two most confining straitjackets of life in Victorian England: the pressure to conform to social conventions and the stark boundaries imposed by class and gender. Winterbottom offers a much subtler reading. As he told The Guardian recently by way of explaining his decision to set Trishna (and, he might have added, The Claim) far from England: "Hardy's novels are often about modernity and speed and energy. But it's hard to get that sense of a dynamically changing world if you set one in this country [England]. Here the problems are more to do with a lack of mobility rather than an excess of it." That's smart, but it carries a risk. While contemporary India offers an abundance of photogenic modernity, speed, and energy, it is also a gargantuan cliche: the gaudy colors, the cows, the slums and traffic and noise and dirt, those nearly visible smells. It's worth remembering that two of the biggest international hits to come out of India recently, Slumdog Millionaire and Darjeeling Limited, were avalanches of these very cliches. Winterbottom, who also wrote the screenplay, avoids this trap by streamlining Hardy's story and using the frenzied urbanization and changing class structure of contemporary India as tools to tell his story, never as mere eye candy. The title character is played by Freida Pinto (who had her breakout in Slumdog Millionaire), a poor girl in the rural northwestern state of Rajasthan who catches the eye of a wealthy hotel owner named Jay (Riz Ahmed) when he passes through her town with a freewheeling gang of rich tourists. Smitten, Jay offers Trishna a job at his hotel in the capital city of Jaipur, which her family pushes her to accept. Inevitably, a romance will bloom. A composite of the novel's two love interests, Alec d'Urberville and Angel Clare, Jay spirals from seduction to genuine love to fatal cruelty after the lovers move to Mumbai. There are other deft echoes of the novel. Instead of giving birth to her illegitimate child and losing it to illness, as happened to Tess, Trishna deals with an unwanted pregnancy by having an abortion. And in a moment of extreme need, Trishna goes to work in a dehumanizing food-packaging factory, just as Tess was nearly crushed by a ravenous new invention called the threshing machine. Hardy's fiction, as Winterbottom noted, was suffused with the tension in an urbanizing society – the seduction of modern inventions even as they brutally obliterate old ways. A rural English train depot perfectly captures this tension. It is, Hardy writes, a place where "a fitful white streak of steam at intervals upon the dark-green background denoted intermittent moments of contact between their secluded world and modern life. Modern life stretched out its steam feeler to this point three or four times a day, touched the native existences, and quickly withdrew its feeler again, as if what it touched had been uncongenial." By bringing this tension to life in contemporary India, Winterbottom has captured the spirit of Hardy's novel without being slavish to its letter. As a result, the movie manages the difficult trick of being both faithful and new, less a reproduction than a rich act of re-imagining. Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy If ever a work of literature deserved to be called "unfilmable," The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman is surely it. Laurence Sterne's great bawdy romp of a novel – a man named Tristram Shandy is talking to the reader about the story of his life he is trying to write as he writes it – is so disheveled, so plotless, so self-referential, so sprawling and messy and repetitive and hilarious that it almost dares a filmmaker to take a whack at it. For his 2005 adaptation, which he called Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story, Winterbottom worked from a screenplay by Frank Cottrell Boyce, who also wrote the scripts for Winterbottom's The Claim, 24 Hour Party People, and Code 46. This time out, Boyce cleverly solves the conundrum of the source material by turning it on its head: if Sterne wrote a book about writing a book, then let's make a movie about making a movie about that book. The cast is led by two more Winterbottom regulars – Steve Coogan playing himself playing Tristram Shandy and Rob Brydon playing himself playing Tristram's uncle Toby. The movie they're fitfully making is at times surprisingly faithful to Sterne's novel. We get Tristram's botched conception, his botched birth, his botched nose, his botched, nearly disastrous circumcision. Also, as in the novel, we get countless throwaway lines, such as when Coogan tries to gently fend off the advances of a horny crew member with this left-handed compliment: "Your knowledge of German cinema is second to none." There are snide swipes at Kevin Costner's interpretation of Robin Hood and a moment when Coogan looks at a copy of Sterne's novel and marvels, "Can you believe that a book as thick as that doesn't have an index?" But the best of the lot is when Coogan, who knows how movie stars act and who obviously hasn't read the novel, describes it to an interviewer as "a post-modern classic written way before there was any modern to be 'post' about." Sterne surely would have approved. After all, he offers this defense of his tendency to digress, to talk to the reader, to leave pages blank, to write chapters out of chronological order and otherwise break every rule of conventional novel-writing: "All I wish is, that it may be a lesson to the world, 'to let people tell their stories their own way.'" While spoken in jest, Coogan's remark about "post-modern classic" backs up my beliefs that this 18th-century novel is indeed one of the earliest exercises in post-modernism, that Don Quixote was the first, and that Flann O'Brien, not Joyce or Beckett, was the 20th century's first practitioner of the form. In other words, the novelist's willingness to expose the creative process, play structural tricks and be shamelessly self-aware was not an invention of the 20th century. Virginia Woolf believed Sterne "is singularly of our own age" and "the forerunner of the moderns," while Italo Calvino anointed Tristram Shandy as "undoubtedly the progenitor of all avant-garde novels of our century." Along with the David Cronenberg's adaptation of Naked Lunch and Terry Gilliam's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I say Winterbottom's brilliant Tristram Shandy is final proof that the overused word "unfilmable" should be banished from the lexicon. Jim Thompson's The Killer Inside Me Jim Thompson's noir novels and stories have been turned into more than a dozen movies. Most filmmakers have latched onto the obvious cinematic allures of Thompson's fiction – the intricate plots, the stunning double-crosses, the lavish violence – while shying away from what goes on in the dark recesses of the human mind, which is where Thompson did his real work. Maybe this is to be expected since fiction has an unfair advantage over film in this regard. It isn't forced to rely so heavily on images; it's freer to explore interiority; it is, in a word, more psychological. Just the sort of material for a filmmaker as smart and literary as Michael Winterbottom. And yet, this time he stumbles. In 2010 Winterbottom directed a second version of Thompson's breakthrough 1952 novel, The Killer Inside Me. The first version, a half-baked disaster directed by Burt Kennedy and starring Stacey Keach, came out in 1976. While Kennedy and his screenwriters, Edward Mann and Robert Chamblee, blithely butchered Thompson's novel, Winterbottom and his screenwriter, John Curran, remain almost slavishly faithful to the text. It's a lesser sin, but still a sin and not at all characteristic of Winterbottom, as we have seen. It's hard to tell if he was suffering from a surfeit of reverence or a rare failure of imagination and will. But what's on the screen is far too literal – more transcript than interpretation, more homage than distinctive work of art. As a result, the movie feels frozen in amber, oddly lifeless considering what the characters are doing to each other on the screen. As the story unfolds, we learn that a small-town Texas deputy sheriff named Lou Ford is fighting not to have a relapse of "the sickness," an adolescent sexual fascination with little girls that morphed into a scandalous, violent liaison with a much older woman. Lou's step-brother took the fall for Lou years ago and ended up getting murdered for it. Lou has waited six years to get back at the killer, the construction tycoon Chester Conway, because he understands that revenge is a dish best served cold. He'll exact his by murdering his prostitute lover, then luring Conway's son to the scene and shooting him, making the mess look like a double murder between illicit lovers. The Conway family name will be ruined. We're deep in Jim Thompson country here: the novel is less a straight crime yarn than an unflinching tour of a sick mind. Lou Ford himself serves as tour guide, speaking in the first person to the reader in a voice that gives new meaning to the word unreliable. Sometimes he stands in for Thompson, who enjoyed his first big success with this novel but never apologized for his lack of highbrow aspirations. Here's Lou Ford delivering a very Thompson-esque piece of literary theory: In a lot of books I read, the writer seems to go haywire every time he reaches a high point. He'll start leaving out punctuation and running his words together and babble about stars flashing and sinking into a deep dreamless sea. And you can't figure out whether the hero's laying his girl or a cornerstone. I guess that kind of crap is supposed to be pretty deep stuff – a lot of book reviewers eat it up, I notice. But the way I see it, the writer is just too goddam lazy to do his job. And I'm not lazy, whatever else I am. I'll tell you everything. Atmosphere is critical in any noir, and Winterbottom tries to capture the novel's moral aridity through verbatim dialog and voice-overs from the novel, but it never quite gels. Much more successful at capturing atmosphere is the movie's cinematography – those bleached colors, stark stretches of desert, and brooding mountains. It's an extreme place where extreme things seem almost destined to happen. Another strong point is a killer soundtrack that includes works ranging from Enrico Caruso and Gustav Mahler to Hank Williams, Charlie Feathers, and the Western swing fiddler Spade Cooley. (Cooley, in an apt twist for these surroundings, was convicted of beating his wife to death in 1961.) Best of all is the cast. Elias Koteas, who always looks like he was just dipped in dirty motor oil, plays a deliciously smarmy union boss. Ned Beatty is serviceable as the porcine tycoon. Bill Pullman has a nice little cameo as an unhinged defense attorney. Jessica Alba as the doomed hooker and Kate Hudson as Lou's doomed fiancee both do fine jobs of living hot and dying (or appearing to die) hard. But the key gear in the works is Casey Affleck's deadpan portrayal of Lou Ford. His smooth cheeks, lidded eyes, monotone drawl. and correct manners are a mask, his way of convincing the world he's decent and a little slow, no threat to anyone. Affleck is not capturing the banality of evil; he's uncovering the evil that can hide behind blandness. He did the same thing in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. This is true creepiness, and true art. So creepy that Lou is capable of beating two women to death with his bare hands while murmuring, "I'm real sorry...I love you...goodbye." Many viewers and critics had a hard time watching this graphic violence, which begs the question: Is domestic violence supposed to look pretty? Only if you're in the fetishistically stylized world of a Guy Ritchie or Quentin Tarantino movie, where getting your head blown off can look so cool. Thompson – and Winterbottom – are making the point that such violence is both horrible and horrible to look at, and, what's way worse and way more important, there's a bit of Lou Ford inside every one of us. The only person who doesn't get this is Lou Ford. He believes, rightly, that he's sick, but he also believes, wrongly, that this sets him apart from the rest of humanity, that he's one of the evil "us" who live in the midst of the sane and good "them." As Lou puts it, "If the Good Lord made a mistake in us people it was in making us want to live when we've got the least excuse for it." Later he adds, "Our kind. Us people. All of us that started the game with a crooked cue, that wanted so much and got so little, that meant so good and did so bad." Winterbottom's portrayals of violence in this movie have been called everything from "misogynistic" to "feminist." They're neither. They're valid artistic representations of an abiding fact of human life, especially when the humans are damaged goods. Thompson and Winterbottom never exalt Lou Ford or other monstrous characters, the way, say, Oliver Stone did in the execrable Natural Born Killers. I watched The Killer Inside Me with a friend who is a staunch opponent of the Guantanamo Bay prison and the death penalty. Unable to watch Lou Ford beat a second woman's face into hamburger, my friend muttered, "I'd like to torture that sonofabitch to a slow death." Then she stormed out, halfway through the movie. I took her revulsion to be a barometer of Thompson's and Winterbottom's success. They loosed my friend's monstrous yearning to torture and kill the monstrous Lou Ford. In doing so they proved that there is, indeed, a bit of Lou Ford in all of us. It wasn't until I'd re-read all three novels and watched Winterbottom's adaptations that I came to understand what ties these three movies together and what sets them apart. First, of course, they were all directed by a man with a high literary sensibility who is a master at casting actors and drawing quality performances out of them. Production values are uniformly high. Marcel Zyskind served as cinematographer on all three films, giving each a look appropriate to the story's mood and message. Then came the realization why these movies are so uneven: each had a different screenwriter. In Trishna, Winterbottom's script shrewdly updates a story about a rural society's traumatic urbanization; Boyce's script of Tristram Shandy perfectly captures the antic, self-referential spirit of its source material; and The Killer Inside Me falls flat because Curran's script treats Thompson's novel as a blueprint rather than a springboard. In other words, the hardware of a movie – its direction, acting, cinematography, editing, makeup, music. and wardrobe – can carry it only so far. It turns out that in movies just as much as in books, the writing is, always and forever, the thing.
Jude the Obscure will stay with me longer than any book I read this year. Its opening scenes, in which the poor country boy becomes obsessed with the fictional city of Christminster, shimmering in the distance, promising the elevations of knowledge, are as engraved in my mind as the harrowing final ones. Tragedy is what the reader sees waiting in the distance for Jude, yet the route there is unpredictable, and so compelling. The plot is full, especially near the end, of excessive twists, absurd coincidences, and an occasional staginess. It doesn’t matter. Jude is a page-turner that made me think harder about the conventions of marriage, the meaning of morality, and the permutations of faith than any recent contemporary novel. It’s a story – a fable, almost – of passion and ideas, and both figure in the ill-fated relationship between the cousins Jude and Sue. Jude is doomed as much by his best qualities – his desire to find something admirable (a university, a woman) to anchor himself to; his noble aspirations, so discordant with his class; his refusal to conform; an overly tender heart – as by his ostensible worst, said to be his love of drink and women. Sue, mystifying, mercurial, and modern until she isn’t, manages to be convincing as both Jude’s soul-mate and his ruin. It’s awe-inspiring to think how bold Thomas Hardy was for his time. More from A Year in Reading 2011 Don't miss: A Year in Reading 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 The good stuff: The Millions' Notable articles The motherlode: The Millions' Books and Reviews Like what you see? Learn about 5 insanely easy ways to Support The Millions, The Millions on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr.
One of my favorite aspects of working in a bookstore was recommending stock to customers. Since I've kept a tight grip on my "to read" list my entire literate life, I was always puzzled and delighted by these strangers in need of book advice. What great power a bookseller has! It's incredibly gratifying to watch a customer purchase a novel or biography because you convinced them to do so; it's even better when they return to thank you for the recommendation.I've recently become obsessed with the book choosing rituals of those around me. Are you the type to buy a book recommended by the cashier at your local bookstore? Or maybe you're like my friend Lisa, who falls down the Amazon rabbit hole, one recommendation begetting another. My friend Allison decides on books based on their last word. Seriously. Trusted Millions leader Max has an intense book choosing system known as The Reading Queue. Max's process is impressive, but the lack of choice would feel burdensome to me. I only buy one book at a time because I can't handle the expectation and pressure of so many unread books in my apartment, crying out: Pick me! Pick me! When I purchase something, I read it soon after - I scratch that reading itch.Three years ago, Patrick wrote two posts (here and here) about his gender equalizing reading experiment, in which he alternated between reading books by men and books by women. The results were positive: the project broadened his reading habits, and he now reads authors of both genders pretty evenly. I haven't done anything so regimented, but his experiment did encourage me to shake up my own reading practices. I now keep statistics of what I've read, so that I can keep an eye on my tendencies, and go against them if I need to.For instance, I've read 12 books since January 1st, 5 by women and 5 by men, the remaining two being anthologies. On the male-to-female ratio, I'd say things are looking good. So far, I've only read 2 books of nonfiction, but for me, that's an improvement. Last year, my 3 books of nonfiction were all about food or food production, so this year I'm branching out to other topics; in 2008 I've read Bill Buford's Heat (food, again), and Adrian Nicole LeBlanc's Random Family (not food), and was incredibly moved by the latter. I always read a large number of short story collections, but this year those numbers will decrease because I want to read more novels (to help with writing one). Four months into the year, I've failed on my dead authors quota. So far, I've read only half of Jude the Obscure. Patrick has offered to assassinate Joshua Ferris for me, whose novel Then We Came to the End I'm currently reading, but I think that's a little extreme. I hope to dip into Flaubert and Wharton this summer to make up for this deficiency.My latest 2008 reading goal is to read more books in translation, something I rarely do. Good thing The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano is waiting in the wings. What are you reading this year, and why?