How to choose a book - on lists and selecting

 

In two recent blogposts (here, and here) I gave an overview of some of the main principles that guide my selection of reading materials through any given year, namely a plethora of lists that provide a wide range of opportunities that can fit almost any mood. The logic behind having several lists rather than just one comes down to a personal quirk of mine: I struggle to stick to a reading plan over a longer period, and I get easily drawn in by items that feature on other lists, or on none of my lists. Since variety is an integral element of my lists, my choices can fit these lists without putting demands on myself that might go contrary to my reading mood on any particular day.  

As a self-diagnosed mercurial reader, I am often not entirely sure why I ended up reading what I have read at any given moment. While some books have been waiting in line for me to get in the right mood, and while some books have been delayed simply because I look forward to reading them so much that I want to enjoy the waiting a bit longer, there are other books that seem to simply just arrive in my hands. The latest book that I finished was precisely such a book, and this is what prompted me to write this blogpost.         

Earlier today, I read the last pages of François Mauriac’s Le Næud de vipères, the knot of vipers, translated into Norwegian as Slangeknuten (The snake knot) by Fride Friestad. Since beginning this novel sometime last week, I have been returning to the deceptively simple question of how I came to select this particular book, and I have still not found a satisfying answer. The more I think about it, the more it feels as if the book selected me and not the other way around. The reason I continue to have this sensation is that until last week, I did not know that Le Næud de vipères even existed. 

Slangeknuten, the Norwegian translation of Le Næud de vipères by François Mauriac
Translation by Fride Friestad

As I mentioned in one of my previous blogposts on reading by lists, one list is comprised of the Nobel laurates in literature. This is the list that I feel the least drawn to, probably because I have no influence on the elements in that list, and I am therefore at a greater risk of ending up with books that I have no real interest in reading, but whose sheer canonicity compels me to finish them. Several of these authors are figures whose works are obscure to me, and I cannot say with certainty that I know all their names, either. If this is an indictment, it is of me, however, and not the authors in question, and the point is merely that this is a list that does not guide me very strongly.      

Even so, despite my lukewarm attitude to the list of Nobel laureates in literature, last week I found myself looking for a Nobel laureate to read. I remember using the search engine of my university’s library, and I seem to recall a certain urgency that meant that my decision was, at least in part, based on what was available and what I could get hold of very quickly. For some reason, the name of François Mauriac popped into my head, and after having refreshed my memory and done a superficial amount of research about his novels and their availability in Norwegian – my preferred language for translations from any Romance language – I ended up with Le Næud de vipères.  

By a stroke of luck, the book got hold of me very quickly. Its deep psychological insights, its complex and, at times, disturbingly recognisable protagonist, its terse but evocative descriptions of early-twentieth-century France, and its beautiful language caused me to enjoy every single page, even the brilliantly nuanced descriptions of tortured relationships between people whose torture stems simply from an inability to see things from the perspective of others. As a Sunday treat for myself, I sought out a café whose menu was French inspired, and which I had eyed on my way to and from work for months already, and this combined wonderfully with the content of the book, meaning that the book and the café enhanced one another and me added delight when contemplating either of them.  

The question of how I came to choose this book rather than any of his other books remains unsolved. Neither can I explain why I decided on Mauriac rather than any of the numerous other French Nobel laureates whom I have not yet read – and I do think the French element played a crucial part in this process. Ultimately, I expect this to be of no great interest to anyone but myself, and perhaps not even myself once I have written this particular blogpost in full. But what this episode has reminded me of, however, is that even with a reading list whose content is not of your choosing – at least on the level of authors – there are potentially great rewards in following such a list anyway. While I do not need the praise of any committee as a reason for reading an author – I actually think such canonicity might just as easily make me averse to such an author – the lack of expectations that come with a list chosen by others can perhaps make the delightful surprises even more delightful. Naturally, the reverse can also be true, but I choose not to be too guided by that worry, perhaps because I am, despite everything, still an optimist.